he he he!

And my character hasn't even met the sirens! I can't wait to see what happens when Edward waltzes into that little farmhouse!

Oh, and that list of retribution was great! I laughed so hard at it Poor Mom's bird! Poor cat!

SPEW !!! BWAAAHAAA!!!!!! KA...KA OW! My stomach ... SPEW !!! ROFL !!! BWAAAHAAA!!! Piss off !!! SPEW !!!!!

SQUAWK-AWK-AWK !!!!




Wilbur .... [choke...choke...gasp !! ] BWAAAHAAA!!!!! OW!!! My stomach ... oooga ... BWAAHAAA !!!!

** mALX's stomach burst from laughing so hard...she croaked.





GAAAAAH !!!! THE LIST !!!!!! WOOOOOOOOT !!!!

** mALX miraculously revived !!!






GAAAAAH !!!! SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!




URK !!! Why don't I remember Edward firing the Valet? BWAAAHAAA!!! Oh wait, is this where the valet has to come rescue him in prison? GAAAAH !!! Now I have to go over to the BGSF and read the original .... and I don't have time !!! BWAAA...snork...snork ...

@haute ecole rider: haha, glad you enjoyed it! As far as Edward and the sirens, "waltzes" might be too kind a way to describe his entrance. Thanks for commenting!
@mALX: haha, have you been playing Final Fantasy VII lately? LOL. (My sister loves that series, and I love how often Sephiroth undies...but I digress ). Glad you enjoyed the previous chapters -- that actually was in the first one, so you don't need to dig that up if you don't want, lol. Most of these recent changes have been with making it progress naturally from the new ones. Thanks for posting!!


Birds singing and twittering all day,
Life goes along its merry way.
Fools causing havoc where ever they stray
Life goes along its merry way.
-- The Song of Edward, verse 1

Chapter Ninety-Three

Edward spent the remainder of the afternoon in a very mature manner: getting utterly sloshed at his inn, the Count's Arms, and plotting revenge on his former valet. The business of revenge did not meet with terrible success, as Edward feared that his valet knew too much about his tactics for any attack to work; but the business of getting sloshed went off without a hitch.

When, at last, evening rolled around, a very drunk Edward stumbled out of the inn. Despite a handful of unfortunate run-ins with a few lamposts, a tree, and the town gate, Edward was able to make it outside of Anvil in one piece, and not seriously injured.

He'd found out earlier how to get to Gweden farm, and now he stumbled along the lane in that general direction. The night air was slightly chilly, but it seemed invigorating to him. The urge to sing suddenly came over him, and he found himself wailing boisterously and adding an occasional dance step to his walk, which generally resulted in a near tumble and last minute save barely preventing his face from coming into contact with the road. Yet he kept with it, tripping and screaming all the way down the road.

Finally, he managed to drag himself up a hillside and up to a little farmhouse thereon. Knocking loudly, he sang out boisterously, "I'm here, my beauty! Your Edward has come!"

The door opened, and he stumbled inside. His foot caught on a rug and sent him forward headlong, past the girl he'd met in the tavern and into the floor. He laughed at his own clumsiness, demanding in slurred tones, "Who put the rug there, eh, my beauty?"

The girl rolled her eyes, and said under her breath -- but loud enough for Edward to hear -- "Oh gods, this job gets harder every day..."

Edward picked himself up to a sitting position and nodded drunkenly, although whether he was agreeing or doing a chicken impersonation was less clear than he might have liked. "Farm work can be hell," he said. "And a delicate girl of a flower like you, all by yourself?"

She smiled maliciously at these words. "Not quite alone," she replied.

"Ohhh, that's right!" Edward shouted. The girl grimaced at his tone. "You've got a friend!"

"Yes," she answered with a half smile. "Two of them in fact."

"Well, you picked the right man, then!" Edward declared, laughing very giddily. He tried to push himself onto his feet, but collapsed to the floor again.

"We sure did," the girl answered with a smirk. "Faustina! Tsarrina!" All at once, two other women, one an Imperial and the other a Khajiit, appeared.

Edward smiled stupidly but had a hard time forming a response. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he felt very light-headed.

The dark haired Imperial glanced at Edward, and then turned to the woman who had admitted him. "Signy, he's totally sloshed!"

The lighter haired woman, Signy, shrugged. "Yeah, but who cares?"

"How are we gonna get him the hell out of here when we're done?"

"Oh," Signy responded, seeming crestfallen. "Good point."

Edward blinked, his attention slowing with every passing moment. By now, he had no idea what they were talking about, and was concentrating on a strange phenomenon that he'd just noticed. "Pretty circles," he said. "Where'd they come from?"

The three women stared at him, but he was too busy looking out for the peculiar swirls of light that kept appearing, and vanishing just as he turned to them.

"See?" the dark haired woman asked. "He's totally out of it."

It was then that the light-headedness transitioned into full-blown unconsciousness, and Edward slumped to the floor.

His friends go about their daily business,
They cringe and scurry away,
Ducking and dodging he who is witless
As he goes about his day.
-- The Song of Edward, verse Two

Chapter Ninety-Four

Edward stirred groggily. He was only vaguely aware of a pounding headache, and a strong draft. He blinked, but shut his eyes quickly. "Ye gods!" he thought, "My head! What happened?" His mind presented no answer immediately. "Did I get in a fight?" he wondered. "Have to rush to the rescue of some beautiful damsel in distress or..." He paused, mid-thought, suddenly remembering. "No, I got sloshed." Then more memories assailed his mind, and he asked aloud, "And, speaking of damsels, where is that girl?"

Simply moving his jaws flooded his senses with pain. "Good gods!" he thought. "I didn't drink that much, did I?" After a few moments of contemplation, he acknowledged, "I guess I did...but still...this is unbearable!" It seemed like every tiny sound, the quiet chirping of a beetle, the creaking of his mattress as he shuddered in pain, the creeping feet of an insect scurrying across the floor -- they all stood out like thunder to his sensitive ears.

Then, all of a sudden, a wave of agony swept him as somewhere overhead a tremendous crashing of wood sounded. At the same time, the noise startled him so much that he jumped and opened his eyes. Light washed over him like a tide of bitter agony, and he crashed downwards whimpering in pain. But the noise upstairs did not subside.

"Anvil Guard! You're under arrest!" someone shouted. The words were lost on Edward, but the unbearably loud tone was certainly not. He wrapped his arms around his head and just groaned. The voice upstairs, accompanied by a clashing of weapons and armor, continued, "Put down your weapons!"

More feet continued to thump overhead, and a high voice, that of a woman, called out, "It's no use, girls. They've got us surrounded...give up so they don't kill you!" In response, a terrible clash of weapons dropping on wood, feet stamping, and shrill curses sounded, all together in a grand cacophony of noise.

By this point, Edward was attempting to smother himself with his pillow. He continued with this endeavor as a pair of heavily armored feet stomped their way down the stairs, jingled the handle to the room that Edward was in, and then, as it didn't respond, kicked it open.

"And what have we here, eh?" a booming voice asked. "Well, my lads, looks like we've caught the ringleader!"

Edward remained in his bed, writhing in agony and not even caring what they were talking about -- just that someone was talking.

"Really?" a different, but equally, terribly loud voice asked.

"Yes indeed," the first responded. "I told you this gang had to have a ringleader!"

Then the stomping of boots resumed, tramping closer and closer to Edward. The Imperial was groaning in pain, wondering why he hadn't seen anyone else in the room in the brief glances he'd had. "It doesn't matter," he thought, "as long as they just get him and get out!"

"Alright my pretty," the loud voice sounded mockingly, so close to Edward that he opened his eyes for a third time. Along with a fresh wave of pain, a wave of surprise swept Edward. There were two guards standing around his bed, on either side of him.

"What's going on?" he asked, his bewilderment getting the better of his pain.

"You're under arrest, that's what!" one guard seemed to bellow. Edward stared at him, stunned. "You didn't think you'd get away with this, did you? Being a pseudo-pimp, a gang leader, here in Anvil? I don't think so!" This said, both men seized him with gauntlet clad hands.

It was then that Edward understood the source of the draft he'd noticed earlier: he had, somehow, been stripped down to his loincloth. What was more, the cold gauntlets made his skin crawl in a strange, ticklish way.

The guards hoisted him to his feet, and prodding him forward with a push, said, "Alright, get moving."

Edward senses were swimming with all the movement, but the cold metal on his bare back was the most prevalent sensation. "Don't do that!" he said, laughing. "I'm ticklish!"

"Move!" the officers prodded again.

Edward, still laughing, pushed back, saying, "Go away, I haven't done anything!" He realized that laughing did nothing for his case, but he couldn't help it...he really was ridiculously ticklish.

Thinking that he is a hero,
Whilst he annoys everyone he knows;
Thinking everyone else is a zero
While his own ineptitude shows.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Three
Chapter Ninety-Five

Anvil was abuzz with the latest news. Most everyone had seen the three sirens taken to the castle in cuffs, but the real talk of the town was the nearly naked man who had been dragged through the streets toward the dungeon, giggling hysterically.

"He was wearing just a loin cloth, and crying and laughing, all at the same time!" one person said.

"And he had the stupidest laugh," another added.

"Oh yes! Such a ridiculous, high pitched, squealing giggle of a laugh!"

"I thought he was crying," one voice commented. "I saw tears running down his face."

"Yes, and he kept trying to shield his eyes from the sun."

"No, he was just in a stupor of laughter."

"Are you sure? He looked hung over to me."

"No, and anyway, the guard said he was the mastermind behind the gang, sending them out to pick up guys like a pimp, but then him and the women would rob them when they arrived."

A solitary figure listened to this gossip from a distance, looking in turns surprised, worried, and then deeply thoughtful. At last he left the crowd of gossips, and headed for his home. He frowned as he walked. "Could it be Edward?" he wondered aloud. "No, not even he would be stupid enough to get himself in a fix like that..." Then the frown reappeared. "Alright, but how could the guards think that he was the mastermind of anything nefarious, much less a successful gang?!"

Certainly, it was a conundrum for our friend, who was, of course, none other than Edward's trusty valet. On the one hand, it seemed like the sort of fix that Edward would get himself into; and on the other, it seemed impossible that the guards would be foolish enough to assume he was a criminal mastermind -- a mastermind of any sort, for that matter. The valet entered his new home, sitting down to stare into the fire for a few minutes and think.

Meanwhile, Edward had been dragged, shrieking with both laughter at being ticklish and protestations of his innocence, all at the same time, to the castle, and promptly thrown into a dungeon. All at once, his laughter had subsided, and his headache and fears been allowed to dominate his mind. "Oh gods," he thought, shivering as the cold, musty dungeon air assailed his body, and his terror assailed his mind. "What am I going to do? Those damn guards didn't even give me any clothes!" He glanced about the cell, his arms pressed close against him to keep warm. He hated just standing barefooted on the floor, afraid to even think what his bare skin might be in contact with; and he absolutely refused to consider sitting or lying down on the dirty old bedroll on the cell floor. For the moment, the only thing he could think of to do was stand there hunched forward, his arms crossed and pressed tight against his chest, alternating standing on first one foot and then the next, his teeth chattering.

"Oh Oblivion," he thought, "This is just ridiculous...how do I get myself into fixes like these? And to think that honoured user of a valet was right...they were setting me up." Shivering, standing on one foot, and miserable, Edward felt an overwhelming urge to cry come over him. "They're probably going to string me up!" he whimpered. "And I'll never be able to do all the things I wanted to do...get rich, buy a nice, comfortable castle, marry a beautiful girl, keep a few hot mistresses on the side, raise a few kids..." He stopped to frown. He'd always hated kids...why in heaven's name did they come to mind now? "Well, forget the kids...I'll raise horses...lots of beautiful, sleek horses...be able to afford to do some real gambling...exploit the peasant tenants on my land..." His eyes were glistening now as images of the fun he might have had filled his mind. "And, when I died, I could have left my fortune to my children, my own, dear beloved horses, so that I could be assured that they'd live happily after I was gone..." His eyes cleared, and he frowned again. "Scratch that, I would have just spent it all while I was alive, living it up to the max...oh, what a great man I might have been! I might have been a somebody -- and, instead, I'm going to die here, like a poor hunted animal, caged and trapped, naked and shivering, frightened and abused, terrorized and mishandled, ill-used and..."

At that moment, he heard the outer door grate open, and his thoughts were interrupted. He started shaking violently, not from cold, but rather fear. They were coming for him...this was it...his final moments on earth! "And what disgusting, undignified moments they are," he thought tearfully. "Alone in a cold dungeon, no clothes, about to be strung up for a crime I didn't even commit! Of all the ways to go...damn guards couldn't even string me up for something I've done, something great and glorious and truly evil and diabolical...instead, they have to kill me for something I didn't do!"

The tramping of feet recalled him to the present, and he glanced toward the door. Two Anvil guards were visible, and a third man behind them. “Now you sure this scum is innocent?” a gruff voice – that of the first guard – demanded.

“Quite sure,” answered a familiar voice.

Edward couldn't make out the speaker in the dimness, but he knew at once who it was. His valet had come for him! “Thank the gods!” he thought.

“You'll vouch for him?” the second guard asked. They had stopped outside his cell, and Edward could see all three men clearly. “You're sure that this bilge rat is a victim?”

“Quite sure,” the valet repeated.

The first guard sighed. “I don't know...” he thought aloud.

“Look at 'em, Francis...he's pathetic...a sniveling, shivering, whimpering rat...he couldn't head up anything, much less a criminal operation!” the second guard countered.

“Hmm...” Francis mused, his grizzled face twisting in concentration. “You're probably right...and I suppose he'd be the sort that was stupid enough to fall for their tricks.”

“Exactly.”

“And,” the valet interjected – and none too soon, as Edward was about to erupt in indignant protestations, “he is a material witness.”

Francis grimaced in thought, offering up a second thoughtful, “Hmm...”

“I suppose that's true,” the other man agreed.

“Alright then,” Francis declared, “I guess we'll drop the charges. But we'll need his testimony to press charges against them.”

Edward could hardly believe his ears. They were going to set him free! Moments earlier, he had been ready for death...and now he was about to be set free! His first instinct was to shout in sheer joy, but the reality that he was still standing practically naked in a dirty cell restrained him. “Ummm...can I have some clothes?” he asked instead.

Heroes risk their own necks -
And no thanks do they get -
To save him from his own wrecks.
For, surely, he is a git.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Four

Chapter Ninety-Six

His request for clothes having been granted, Edward was now seated in an office giving his testimony to a guard. That is, he was supposed to be giving his testimony to the guard. As it was, he had decided upon release that he was in no way prepared to cooperate with the authorities after his miserable treatment, and the fact that his property had been confiscated as material evidence. Even when they had told him that he was not leaving the castle until he did so, he was unmoved. So, he was currently seated across from an officer of the law, his nose tilted at an angle nearer perpendicular to the floor than not.

“Permit me to reiterate,” he told the guard, quite condescendingly, “for I've not the slightest compunction in asserting yet again that I have nothing further to declare. This requires no greater elucidation on my part, only cooperation on yours. Release me precipitously, and return my falsely appropriated goods expeditiously.”

The guard stared at him. “What?” he asked finally.

Edward sighed an extremely haughty sigh. “My obtuse compatriot,” he spoke, “my prolonged and unprovoked imprisonment in this hellish enclosure has convinced me of the necessity of removing myself from the abominable premises without further delay, lest I am unwittingly subjected to repeated abuses at the hands of the nefarious reprobates who reside in this less than charming castle.”

The other man just stared at him.

By this time, Edward had had enough. His thin patience had worn away, and even the satisfaction of befuddling this guard proved insufficient at the moment. “Let me go!” he shouted. “Just let me go, you bloody idiot!” This said, he added with a sniff, “Pardon me, that I should use words of such a minor caliber as those that have so bypassed your comprehension. I should have known your cerebral capacity would be insufficient to accommodate an intelligence as inane as mine.”

The guard stared at him, an eyebrow raised. “Inane?”

Edward's cheeks flushed. “Innate!” he snapped. “I said innate...you just...misheard.”

“Oh...I see...well, forgive me sir. However, as you know, I have orders keep you here until you give me your statement.” Edward was clearly about to enter into another tirade, and the guard just as clearly wanted to save himself the pain of wading through vocabulary that was beyond his grasp. “And, there is a reward, as you know for information on these women. So, you would qualify for the reward if you give us your statement.”

This revelation caused Edward to pause. He had been intent on ignoring any and all demands for information...but how could he turn down a reward, after all? “Well,” he said hesitantly, “I suppose I might, for the good of the empire, and all that junk. But on one condition: that I get all of my property back!”

“Fine, fine,” the guard agreed hastily. It was apparent that this man would be willing to do much if it meant getting Edward out of his office.

“Including the amulet,” Edward emphasized.

The other man stared at him quizzically. “Amulet? What amulet?”

Edward glared at him. “You know damned well what amulet, you honoured user!” he practically roared. “My amulet, the one those women took from me!”

Blinking at his fury, the guard seemed genuinely perplexed. “Sir, we didn't recover any amulets though.”

Edward stared in silent astonishment, and then groaned. He wanted to disbelieve this man, but he couldn't. His perplexity, his expression, even his simple, artless air of stupidity, spoke of truthfulness. And that meant only one thing...his amulet was gone, where he knew not, but gone all the same.

Are we done yet?

I loved this latest installment of Edward's adventures! The drunken dance stroll traipsing up to Gweden Farm, Edward's pratfalls and the befuddlement of the three women, their arrest and Edward's Deadland-sized hangover, his ticklish body . . .

Shall I go on?

This sums up Edward so concisely:


The guard's incomprehension of Edward's elevated vocabulary was priceless!

The Amulet of Kings ... lost at ... a cat house !!!! SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!! Edward ... can't get lucky even in ... BWAAAHAAA - in like 300 chapters the closest he's come is when a necromancer thought he looked dead - SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!!

haute ecole rider and mALX: thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed these ones! As for Edward's hangover, he spent pretty much the entire day drowning his sorrows and self pity...he must have been a sight indeed for the sirens, lol. And, of course, he would take his "retirement" on his *ahem* date, lol.

Gang of Sirens Apprehended!
Today our news comes all the way from the distant port of Anvil , where our correspondent informs us that a notorious gang of sirens was apprehended. While there had been some misunderstanding regarding a certain vagabond male who was initially taken to be the orchestrator of the gang, our correspondent reveals that he was in fact a victim of the women. The guard with whom our correspondent spoke revealed this man’s name to be either Edgar or Edmund, but could not remember which.
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Having been utterly defeated by the enormity of such terrible news, Edward had willingly cooperated with the guard. After giving his testimony, the other man – keeping his end of the bargain – had retrieved Edward's goods. All of them, that is, except for the amulet. That was, as he'd said, not there.

Edward, swamped in despair, had trudged out of the castle, to find his loyal retainer waiting for him in the courtyard. "Sir!" he greeted. "I'm glad to see you out. I was afraid the interrogation had turned...unpleasant."

Edward stared at him. "What?"

"Well, you were gone for so long," the other man explained.

Edward only grunted a sad, miserable grunt in response.

"Sir? Is everything alright?" the valet asked.

"Alright?" Edward repeated, marveling over the use of the word. "My world has been destroyed, and you ask if everything is alright?"

The other man cleared his throat tactfully. "Well, sir, I wouldn't say that...I mean, those women fooled a good number of citizens. From what I hear, most of the men in town. I wouldn't feel too humiliated, if I were you."

Edward glared at him. "Well thank you for reminding me of that," he snapped. "I hadn't even been thinking of how I was utterly humiliated, made to look a fool before the world. But you would remind me of that, of course."

"Well, sir, I thought..." the valet began, clearly confused. "If you weren't talking about that, then what?"

"My retirement!" the Imperial bemoaned. "My retirement...those women, they stole it!"

His companion stared at him, clearly amazed. His expression seemed to say, "I knew you were capable of all sorts of stupidity, but I never imagined you'd be dumb enough to bring your retirement with you when visiting a remote cabin to see women you had only just met! Especially not after the purse incident in the Imperial City..." Aloud, however, he only said, "You mean, sir...that you took your retirement money with you?"

Edward, having caught the fleeting expression of amazement, stared icily at him. "It wasn't money. It was..." Then he broke off, remembering just in time that he'd lied to his valet about his encounter with the Emperor. As far as the valet knew, he'd never had the amulet. "Well, you see," he said, "I can't tell you about it...it was something that...well, that the Emperor entrusted to me."

The valet's eyes opened wide. "The Amulet of Kings!" he gasped. "I knew you had it!"

Edward stared at him in annoyance. "No, not that one. Another amulet. My retirement." He wanted to add, "The honoured user tricked me out of taking the Amulet of Kings," but decided against it. It wouldn't aid his claim that he was the Emperor's son, after all, to go around insulting his "father".

His companion shook his head. "This isn't the time to lie to me, sir. I knew you had it. I understand that you couldn't trust your secret to me, but we've got a serious crisis on our hands. You have to trust me now!"

Meeting these words with a blank stare, Edward declared, "I have no idea what you're talking about." This was, in fact, absolutely true.

"Sir, I'm serious. We need to retrieve that amulet! The fate of the entire empire rests on it!"

"I agree that we need to retrieve it," Edward answered, his anger and apathy fading a bit, "but I'm telling you, it's not the Amulet of Kings. It's just my retirement."

His valet sighed. "Sir, I admit, I had my doubts about you...but if you had really just been planning to pawn it off, you'd have let your greed get the better of you by now. So, I can only come to the conclusion that you've been waiting for the right moment to deliver the amulet to safety. Where is it supposed to go? Who are you supposed to bring it to?"

Edward stared at him blankly. What was his mad servant ranting about now? What part of the truth did the man not comprehend?

"Friar Jauffre!" the valet exclaimed excitedly. "He was the king's secret confidante. You have to take it there, don't you?"

Edward blinked in astonishment. That's what that guard, the bodyguard who'd been escorting the Emperor the day he died, had said, wasn't it?

His change of expression had clearly been enough for his valet, who exclaimed, "Aha! I knew it! Now, sir, come -- you must trust me! If the Emperor trusted you, you must be the right man for the job. But, since the amulet is lost, let me help you retrieve it. As you know, my skills in that department -- shall we say, retrieval of property -- are...well, tuned to a finer extent than yours. So, let me put them to use for you, and the empire."

Edward stared daggers at the other man, and was about to launch into a tirade about the faulty comparison of their thieving skills, when he stopped short. Though he would never admit, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that his valet's abilities as a thief were by far better than his; and here he was, offering him assistance in retrieving the amulet. "Alright," he thought, "since he's determined to believe that I have that Amulet of Kings or whatever, I might as well let him do the dirty work of retrieving my retirement source." Aloud, however, he replied, "Well, perhaps I might trust you this once...for the good of the empire and all that."

The valet positively beamed. "Thank you sir! Have no fear, you will not regret your faith in me!" Edward resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Now, let's see...you say those women took it from you?"

"Well, they must have," Edward shrugged. "They took everything else. And how else could it have disappeared?"

The other man pursed his lips in thought. "They might have taken it, sir, but I doubt they knew its significance." Edward frowned at him, so he hastened to explain. "Riffraff of their breeding could never estimate the true import of such a jewel. They would just think it was some expensive ruby to be pawned off, or something of that ilk." Edward's frown deepened, but the other man was too lost in his own train of thought to take note. "So, they probably put it with their other valuables. Which means..." Here his expression brightened, and his eyes positively gleamed. "One of the guards took it!"

Edward stared at him. How his servant had drawn that conclusion was beyond him. In fact, it seemed downright silly. "What? Why?"

"Because they retrieved all the stolen property in their bust...which means one of the soldiers must have seen it during the raid, recognized that it was very valuable, and so pocketed it when no one was looking."

Edward frowned. "I suppose it might have happened that way."

"I'm sure it did," the other man continued excitedly. "In fact, I got a glimpse of the soldiers who came back from the raid...let me do a little reconnaissance, sir. I'll have your amulet back in a jiffy."

Edward's frown deepened. "And what do I do while you're off reconnoitering?"

"Well, sir, you can make yourself comfortable at Benirus Manor -- my new home -- and wait for me."

‘Ineptitude’ should be his middle name,
And for his first ‘shame’.
‘Fool’ should be his family name,
For they must be the same.
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Five

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Edward sighed, settling into the sheets of his warm bed. His valet still hadn't returned, and he was tired and greatly annoyed -- so he had no intention whatever of waiting up for the man. Despite the rather rundown appearance of the house, it seemed warm and pest-free, so he figured he'd be safe enough sleeping there; plus, his servant's cursory repairs and organization had done much to improve the charm of the residence since his first visit, so his mind was easy about settling in for repose.

Sleep came quickly, and Edward soon embarked upon one of his favorite dreams -- where, traipsing merrily through the forest, he happens upon a chest full of priceless gold and gems. He had just reached the point in his dream where, much to his delight, he discovers the chest's peculiar property -- whatever is taken out of it is magically replenished in like kind -- when a strange noise interrupted the serenity of his fanciful, sleep-induced reverie. It was low, sullen, ghoulish and altogether unpleasant.

In his dream, Edward frowned. This had never happened before, and he'd had this same dream many times. "Go away," he told whatever it was as he glanced about the forest. "It's mine!" He shivered as the golden sunlight seemed to vanish, and a cold, dark fear settled upon the forest. The green grass and foliage was now a strange grayish black, and the peaceful woodland critters had morphed into terrible shadows and ghoulish apparitions. "No!" Edward called, throwing himself onto the treasure chest. "It's not supposed to be like this! Go away, all of you!" At that moment, a cold hand seized him, sending a spike of icy pain through his body.

Jerking to consciousness with a scream, Edward opened his eyes. To his horror, he found that the ghoulish noises, the terrible pain, and the fearful apparitions were all very much real; the only part of his dream that was not was the lovely, self-replenishing treasure chest. He was at that very moment surrounded on all sides by a small host of glowing, growling ethereal bodies, and he didn't even have unlimited wealth to show for it.

The unfairness of his predicament hit him hard, and he cursed aloud. He'd be willing to face a few ghosts for unlimited treasure, but this...this was just unacceptable. "Go away!" he shouted at the menacing figures, his voice sounding high and whiny to his ears.

Something like a low, rumbling laugh issued forth from the floating specters, and they continued to advance. Edward yelped in fear, and for the first time the peril of his situation weighed more heavily on his mind than the injustice of it. Scrambling as fast as his legs could carry him, he leaped out of bed and toward the door. The ghouls, not having to sidestep the bed as he had to do, floated in front of him to block the door. Edward shrieked again.

By now Edward's screeching had hit a frenzied pitch. He was trapped in a room, unarmed, with a group of terrible, ghostly creatures who clearly meant him harm. "I'm gonna die!" he shrieked. "Oh gods, oh oblivion, I'm gonna die!" There was no escape for him, he could see. There were ghosts to the sides of him, ghosts in front of him, and nothing whatever with which to defend himself -- not that he even had an inkling of how to fight these ghouls anyway. "I'm gonna die," he whined a second time.

The apparitions laughed their grotesque laugh and advanced in response. At the same time, Edward heard a familiar voice. "Hang on, sir!" it called.

Of all the times that he'd been glad to hear from his valet, this time he was gladdest. "I'm in here, in the bedroom! Hurry!" he screamed, even as a ghost lurched forward at him, its ethereal arm sweeping toward his head. Edward ducked beneath the ghoul's arm, painfully aware of every second that it took the other man to race up the stairs to his rescue.

The ghosts apparently paid no mind to the advancing valet, for they continued their onslaught. Edward, ducking, dodging, and screaming all the while, was only just able to avoid being pummeled to death by time his rescuer at last appeared. The other man's brown hair seem to stand on end as he burst into the room and beheld the spectral beings, but otherwise he took the random appearance of ghosts in his home in stride. Instantly seizing hold of the silver dagger at his belt, he lunged forward at the nearest ghost.

Edward heard a hellish groan, and then another as the valet struck again; with the second attack, the specter seemed to disintegrate into a slow falling rain of ethereal dust, that collected into a pool on the floor. Neither man spent very long analyzing the creature's demise, however, as Edward was scrambling for the opening the ghost's death had made, and his valet was leaping forward to do battle with the remaining ghouls.

Not bothering to glance behind him, Edward bolted through the open door, nearly toppling his valet in the process, and down the stairs. Bursting through the closed parlor door, still shrieking as he went, his only thought was to exit the premises as quickly as possible. He didn't notice, therefore, the disarrayed furniture until it was too late; and, before he knew what had happened, he found his foot catching on a tipped cabinet, and himself flying through the air.

Here Lies a Peasant. ‘Nuff said.
-- Graveyard Memorial in the Serf’s Graveyard of Lord Udicio’s Manor

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Edward woke with a groan. His head was throbbing, again, and he was having a bit of difficulty remembering what had happened last. He wondered if he could be drunk again. Surely not...surely he learned his lesson from the day before?

"Sir?" a concerned voice asked.

Suddenly, his recollections flooded over him, and he bolted upright, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Sir, it's alright! They're dead!" his valet tried to yell over him.

But Edward continued his shrieking, thrashing his arms about wildly in a vain attempt to get up and escape. He was, however, too paralyzed by fright to do more than flail about, screaming.

"Sir!" the valet persisted, grabbing hold of Edward to shake him. "Sir, they're dead!"

These words broke through, and Edward paused. "Dead? You killed them?"

"Yes sir." Then the valet frowned. "But...were you just going to run away and let me fight them by myself?"

Edward blinked. Of course he'd been going to do that. Why was this crazy man even asking him that?

"Or were you coming down here to get your weapons?"

Edward blinked again. Clearly, if one was to judge by the other's tone, the idea that he'd been thinking of -- nay, in the process of -- abandoning him offended the valet’s peculiar sensibilities. While it was the truth, and a darned sensible one too, it might, Edward reasoned, be wiser to lie. After all, if the valet wasn't smart enough to figure it out for himself, there was no sense in him knowing that Edward would abandon him in a heartbeat when danger presented itself, was there? "Of course," he replied. "I was -- as you saw -- completely unarmed."

The valet nodded. "I figured as much," he said, his tone expressing a sense of relief. "That's why you didn't just take care of them yourself."

"Umm...exactly," Edward lied. If his retainer wanted to believe that he was willing to jump into the fray with any ghastly apparition at a moment's notice, or return to it to help a friend, who was he to convince him otherwise?

The matter apparently settled to his satisfaction, the valet nodded and said, "Well sir, the bad news is this: I think my house is haunted."

Edward rolled his eyes. "Oh, you don't say?"

"I do...which explains why Velwyn Benirus was in such a hurry to get out of town after I bought it," the other man mused. Then, brushing his reflections aside, he continued, "However, I'm sure I can track him down in the Imperial City and talk to him about it. But, enough about that...time for the good news: I found your amulet. Well, the Emperor's amulet."

"You did?" Edward asked, his eyes wide with joy. He'd all but given up on his retirement plan, and suddenly it seemed as if his sense of desolation may have been premature. "You're sure it's the same amulet? Where did you find it?"

The other man nodded, grinning broadly. "I followed my little hunch, and asked around a bit," he replied. "Sure enough, one of the fellows who participated in the raid -- Maridus -- had a bit of a reputation for taking advantage of his position, sometimes skimming things recovered in busts and all that." Here, he shrugged self-deprecatingly. "The rest was easy...just a matter of trailing him, breaking into his residence when he slept, and lifting the amulet."

Edward felt his jaws clenching. "He's doing it again," he thought. "That pretending-to-be-humble bragging thing..." Speaking aloud, however, he was all good cheer. This was his meal-ticket, after all, and he wanted it back. "Fantastic! I knew I could count on you, my friend!"

The valet smiled what seemed to Edward -- though he was annoyed to admit it -- a genuine smile. "Thank you sir, but I was only doing my part for the empire."

"Yes, well, why don't you hand it to me?"

The valet hesitated. "I don't know about that, sir."

Edward's expression froze. "What?"

"Well," the valet explained, "once Maridus realizes that it's gone missing, he's naturally going to suspect you -- since it was your amulet. Well, he thought it was. So he's going to try to find us -- you."

"Then we can get out of here, right away," Edward argued. "Just hand it over."

Still, the other man shook his head. "Don't you see, sir? He'll never suspect me. He doesn't know who I am. I think it would be much safer if I held on to it, at least until we got to Weynon Priory."

Edward blinked in frustration. "You mean...you hold onto it?"

The valet nodded. "Right...just until we get to the priory, anyway, where we'll know it's safe."

Edward's jaw tightened. "But...it's mine!"

"It's the empire's, sir!" his valet countered in astonishment.

"Curse him!" Edward thought. "He's convinced this is the Amulet of Kings, isn't he? And he's going to be all patriotic and heroic and whatever about seeing that it gets delivered to that stupid monk." Sighing in frustration, Edward realized that he was going to have to at least play along. "Yes, yes," he said, "I know that. I meant that it was my...task! My task."

"Your task, sir?" the valet asked, and, again, his expression conveyed relief.

"Yes," Edward lied. "Personally, from the Emperor in fact!" The other man's eyes seemed to glisten with admiration. "So, you see, you have to give it to me."

Here, the valet hesitated again. "Well, sir, I'll be the perfect courier for you, to make sure that your task goes off without a hitch."

This persistence was too much for Edward. Was it possible that his valet, even if he would not admit it to himself, harbored some faint inkling of Edward's real intent? "It's not the bloody Amulet of Kings!" he snapped. "It's just a stupid jewel that I...got from him for safekeeping."

The valet sighed and shook his head. "Sir, how many times must I tell you that you don't have to lie to me?"

The hands of fate could not slow,
And so the witless messenger continued.
But little did the fool know
The import of the task he'd undertaken.
-- From the Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter One Hundred

Utterly ignoring Edward's repeated entreaties, curses and threats, the valet had gathered up some supplies for them, straightened out the few things that had been knocked over, and been preparing for their departure when he'd stumbled across a strange skeletal hand and note. Not having the opportunity to evaluate either, due to Edward's rantings, he'd stashed them in his pack, and set out, the furious Imperial hard on his heels.

They'd made their way to the stables in much the same manner as they'd left the house: the valet leading, and Edward following, screaming at him all the way. During their journey, they'd twice been stopped by the Anvil Guard to see that all was well, and once threatened with arrest for disturbing the peace. Edward hadn't dared to share his woes with the police, fearing that they would once again seize his precious amulet, but, each time that they were out of hearing, he'd re-launched his verbal assault.

Finally, riding along the road toward Chorrol, the valet turned to Edward. "Sir," he said, "I'm sorry, but you know what I'm saying makes sense. Suppose he pursues us, and we are ambushed. You'll be the one they'll kill. So it doesn't make sense that you should be the one wearing the amulet!"

Edward stared at the other man, as aghast as he was furious.

"No offense, sir," the valet hastened to apologize. "I mean, you and I both hope that that doesn't happen. But we know that it might. So it's much wiser for me to carry it." He shrugged. "And, furthermore, I know the reason you don't want me to carry it."

Edward blinked. "You do?" Up until now, he'd flattered himself that he'd disguised his greedy ambitions rather well. Was it possible that his annoying servant had really deduced his motives?

"Yes sir. You're afraid that I will in someway mess up, and endanger the mission, maybe lose the amulet. But you've just got to learn to put a little faith in me once in awhile! I am not that clueless, sir!"

Edward growled under his breath. This was not going to be an easy journey, and, unfortunately, it seemed as though it would be a journey that he'd have to take. He knew well enough that there was no way that he'd be able to wrest possession of the amulet from his foolhardy valet; nor, apparently, would he be able to convince him either that the amulet was not the Amulet of Kings or that he should have control of it. So he'd have to wait this one out until they got Weynon Priory. "Then he'll hand it over to me, and that idiot monk will tell him that it's not the Amulet of Kings, and he'll leave me the Oblivion alone..." he mused. "And then I'll have my retirement back." As annoyed as he was, he supposed this wasn't as bad as things could get. "Like if the jewel really was the Amulet of Kings, and this moron servant of mine insisted on returning it...now that would be something to be upset about!" he consoled himself.

His annoyance thus assuaged, Edward allowed himself to enjoy the ride. It was a beautiful day, free of the rain that had plagued his trip to Anvil. Plus, they were heading toward the midlands, and, to his mind, there was no place so wonderful as the midlands. That was the land of the Imperials, the home of the sophisticated, refined people, and as free of barbarians as one could hope a place to be.

"You know, sir, seeing as how we're going to be right outside of it, we should take the opportunity of visiting Chorrol," the valet spoke at length.

Edward frowned. "Why?"

"Well, it's a beautiful little town, sir. The people are quite congenial, and the architecture is remarkably distinct from that in the Imperial City ."

Edward scoffed. "I've no desire to see a bunch of peasant's hovels, thank you very much," he declared superciliously.

The other man grimaced imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, "Oh no sir, no hovels. Very unique, but charming, architecture. I'm sure you'd approve." Edward scoffed again. "And the people really are very nice. As a matter of fact, I've been meaning to get in touch with a friend -- Seed-Neeus -- for some time now, and just haven't had the chance yet."

Edward sighed. His servant always had a bizarre reason for wanting to go to these strange, primitive little towns...to see his fence, to meet a strange stranger, to find an Argonian...but for him? Well, it always seemed that visiting a new town resulted in an unsolicited tour of the dungeons. Even in Bravil, where he hadn't even set foot in the town, he still almost ended up in prison. "I'd rather skip," he declared. "After all, the Emperor's business cannot be delayed."

"Hmm...true enough, sir," the valet agreed, his tone conveying some disappointment.

"We'll have to make sure to go some other time, though," Edward lied.

The valet smiled and nodded. "Yes, thank you sir."

Third time in a week?? What'd ya do, write up a bunch of chapters and hoard 'em?

Ah, but never mind, I've been enjoying the further adventures of Edward and Norvayne. I'm glad Anvil survived their visit largely intact. I'm sure those sirens won't be missed. Much.

'Tis clear, Norvayne's a far better person that I am!

Gee, I wonder why?



Oh, Edward, Edward, Edward - *shakes head slowly*

The matter apparently settled to his satisfaction, the valet nodded and said, "Well sir, the bad news is this: I think my house is haunted."

I was rolling!!

The image of the two of them processing across Anvil one after the other, priceless!

And then Edward's dream - SPEW !!! ROFL !!!




OMG, how did I ever miss that on the first read - through ??? ROFL !!!!




BWAAAHAAAA !!!! Edward ... choke, gasp ... in ...SPEW !!! ... Hackdirt !!!! BWAAA ... choke, gasp ... URK ...

** mALX died laughing in anticipation **

lol, sort of, although not deliberately hoarding them. I actually have over 150 (unposted) chapters written, many that were posted at Bethesda, but some that weren't, waiting to be edited and posted. I'm sort of editing and continuing to write simultaneously...which is nice, because I can pick up any loose ends that I left the last time around and make sure I get it all right this time. This consistent posting spree is actually thanks to my having caught the most horrendous cold...I've been out of work sick for 3 days now...and there's only so much tv one can see, so I've been working on this.
Glad you enjoyed the chapters -- I appreciate the comments.

Grits: lol, I love the valet's outlook on the world -- thanks for posting, and glad you enjoyed the new chapters!


mALX: I think lines like sort of exemplify Edward's outlook on his fellow mortals...any time he feels a twinge of conscience, or the recognition that someone else might be (gasp) better than him at something...he lets it eat him up, imagining that they're as obsessed as he is, lol. Glad you liked these chapters -- thanks for posting!!

History was to be made,
By the strangest of all creatures.
And the world to be saved
By the oddest of coincidental accidents.
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued



Chapter One Hundred and One

Riding for several days straight, only breaking to make camp and eat dried food, Edward's enthusiasm for travel had waned, and then disappeared. His back and neck ached from sleeping on the hard earth, and his bones were thoroughly jarred from the constant riding. He was ravenous for "real food" -- anything other than foraged berries and dried meat -- and he was furious that his servant had still not relinquished possession of the amulet to him. His only consolation was that they had, at last, reached Weynon Priory.

He'd held his peace with his valet up until now, knowing that he could not alienate the man carrying his retirement, but was now eagerly awaiting the moment when, Friar Jauffre dismissing the silly notion that this was anything more than a deliciously expensive ruby, he was free to dispose of his treasure as he saw fit -- and, directly after that, his wayward servant.

Slowing their horses to a steady clomp-clomp along the cobblestone road, Edward and his servant entered the Priory grounds. "Here we are, sir," the valet declared cheerily.

Edward glared at him silently. No matter how sore, aggravated or tired Edward found himself, it seemed that his fool of a servant was, unfortunately, never affected.

His valet seemed not to notice his glare, however, for he continued speaking as though nothing was amiss. "There's the Priory House," he told his master, pointing to a large, elegant building, that seemed a cross between a manor house and a church. "You'll likely find Friar Jauffre in there."

Edward frowned at the other man, assuming a condescending air. "Don't be absurd," he told him. "He's a monk or preacher or bishop or whatever. He'll be in that building." Here, he pointed to the chapel. The other man seemed about to disagree, but Edward cut him off shortly. "Don't argue," he told him. "Just give me the amulet, and take care of the horses."

"Of course, sir," the valet returned. Retrieving the amulet from a pocket inside his jacket, he handed it to Edward. "I do believe, though, sir, that, if I remember correctly..."

Exhaling a loud, vexed sigh, Edward interrupted, "Who spoke to the Emperor? Who was given this quest?"

"You, of course, sir," the other man answered. "I just meant that..."

"Then stop trying to tell me how to do it!" Edward snapped. With this, he slipped out of his saddle in an attempt to imitate the suave, easy dismounting that he'd seen the Imperial Legionnaires do. Instead of landing effortlessly as they did, he fell heavily to the cobblestones and twisted his ankle as he landed. It was only his horse's presence that prevented him from collapsing headlong, and, even so, he found it difficult to stand on his injured ankle. Nonetheless, he was determined to make a brave effort, for he had no intention of diluting the strong, commanding, arrogant front he'd just established with his servant by injuring himself so clumsily in a foolhardy attempt to impress.

As valiant as his efforts were, however, he was unable to change the fact that his progress was slow, and awkwardly reminiscent of an inebriated duck's waddling. Nonetheless, he maintained his courage in the face of his trials, and, at last, reached the chapel. Pushing the doors open with difficulty, he limped inside. No sooner than had he shut the doors did his demeanor change, and all at once he was wailing and cursing in agony.

A rather shocked monk at the far end of the chapel looked up at him. "My good man!" he reproached. "Please, moderate your language. You are in a Chapel of Talos, after all!"

Edward glanced up at him, staring daggers at the man. "Talos be hanged!" he exclaimed. "I'm in pain!"

The monk's eyes widened in shock. "Sir, please!" he spoke. "Take care not to offend the gods, and not here, in our chapel to them!"

Edward's expression darkened, and he shot back, "The gods can go to Mehrunes Dagon for all that I care! And you can go with them, you stuffy little twit." Then, an idea coming to him, his expression froze. "You're not...Friar Jauffre, are you?"

The affronted little monk shook his head. "No, he is in the Priory house. I am Brother Piner. However, if it will cause you to curb your language, I can heal your injury for you."

Edward hesitated. He was in no mood to be courteous to an annoying monk -- and had been just about to tell him off but good, so soon as he'd found out that he wasn't the monk he'd been looking for. But, by the same token, his foot really did hurt...and, he didn't have the skill to heal it. "Alright, fine," he snapped. "Just get on with it."

The monk nodded, and began to chant what seemed to be a ritual prayer. Edward sighed in disgust. If his experience was anything to go by, the gods couldn't possibly exist. "If they did," he thought, "my servant would be fish food at the bottom of the sea right now, and I'd be the richest man in Tamriel." All at once, he felt a strange, cool surge through his ankle. "Ahh!" he screamed, breaking quickly from his reverie and leaping backwards in sheer surprise. "What in Oblivion...?" But, as he landed, he was suddenly aware that he experienced no pain in his injured leg whatsoever. His eyes widened. "You mean...it really worked?" he asked wonderingly.

The monk smiled. "Of course...an easy spell, really. Just asking the right blessing from the gods, you know."

Edward shivered, suddenly feeling not at all comfortable. "Umm...sorry about that, Talons, or Tables or whatever your name is. I didn't mean any of that hanging stuff...and, of course I knew you existed. I, uhhm, well, ahh, thanks."

His shaking continued until he was out of the chapel, and Edward breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the afternoon air. It was bad enough to insult the gods, but to insult them in a chapel? "That," he reasoned, "probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done." This realization come to, however, he promptly dismissed it in favor of other matters. "Now, that stupid valet was right...he is in the priory house...how the oblivion does that man know things like that?"

Passing the valet without so much glancing at him, Edward marched straight for the house. He might have been right, but Edward had no intention of acknowledging the fact. Reaching the manor, he stepped inside. It was a simply furnished affair, with practical but not terribly fine furniture, and little in the way of finery adorning the walls. "How can these people live like that?" Edward wondered in disgust. "No finery? No riches? Just hewn wooden furniture, and so many books?" He shuddered again, and glanced about quickly. This place made him almost as uncomfortable as the chapel, so the sooner he was out of it, the better.

Seeing no one about, Edward headed upstairs. "Hello?" he asked of no one in particular. "Father Jauffre?"

"I am Friar Jauffre," a strong voice called.

Edward jumped. He had still not seen anyone, and so was unsure of where the voice was coming from. "Where...where are you?"

"Over here, nitwit," the voice answered. This time, Edward followed the direction from where it came, and traveled toward it.

"Ahh," he sighed, rounding a corner and coming across a little enclave that he'd missed before. He was not, then, speaking with some sort of specter.

The Friar, an elderly but burly man seated at a wooden table strewn with books and manuscripts, glanced up at him as he entered, seeming almost annoyed by his presence. "Yes? And how can I help you?"

Edward drew himself up tall, and, assuming his most supercilious tones, declared, "I am Edward, who was hand chosen by the Emperor himself to deliver a message to you."

The Friar's eyebrows rose, and he stared at Edward, as though studying him. Then a light lit his eye. "Oooohhhhhh, you mean the escaped prisoner?"

Edward frowned. "Released, actually," he told the Friar, "by the Emperor himself. And wrongly and most unjustly imprisoned, although what business of yours that is I cannot say."

Friar Jauffre blinked, then apologized, "Well now, I meant no offense. I was just...trying to place you."

"Well," Edward sniffed, taking the amulet out of his pocket, "as I said, the Emperor gave me an amulet --"

He'd not even finished his sentence when Jauffre had leapt from his seat, sprung forward, grabbed the amulet, and returned to his chair, declaring tearfully, "The Amulet of Kings! It's safe at last!"

Edward blinked. The Friar was surprisingly nimble for a man of his age. "Ummm...what are you doing with that?" he asked.

"The Amulet of Kings?" Jauffre answered. "Didn't the Emperor tell you?"

"Umm...not really...you see, the assassin interrupted..."

"Oh, of course," the Friar said, nodding comprehension as Edward's lies trailed off. "Well, he wanted you to bring this to me so that I could find the lost heir and give it to him."

"The lost heir?" Edward asked. "I thought all the king's sons were dead?"

"Well, that's true, but not true."

Edward stared at him. "Monks, politicians and philosophers," he thought. "Only they can simultaneously make two contradictory statements with a straight face." Aloud, however, he said, "Yes, well, is it 'true' as in they are dead, or is it 'not true' as in they are not dead?"

Jauffre shrugged in an explanatory gesture. "Both."

Worlds of doom stirred outside mankind’s door,
So in whose feeble hands did the gods
Place the fate of the world evermore?
In those of one of history’s greatest frauds.
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued




Chapter One Hundred and Two


"You see," the Friar continued, "all of the king's legitimate sons are dead, but there is one...Martin, his illegitimate son."

Edward blinked. "You mean, the Emperor had another son?"

"Exactly. He used to be a monk, under my guidance. As a young man, he grew eager to learn the secrets of the gods, as did many of his fellow acolytes. They threw themselves into study. They hungered to please the divines. Knowledge and servitude were their gods. You can guess the rest. They got in over their heads...too much studying, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. People died. His friends died. He put those days behind him, but the bitter experience drove him from our ranks forever."

Edward stared at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Anyway," Jauffre continued with a sigh, "he was weak. Disappointingly weak. He has since disappeared. We've had no word from him, no sightings of him. For all we know, he could be dead. But now...now we must find him." He sighed again. "And I suppose we must make the weak honoured user king."

Edward blinked. "Wait...you mean the empire's only heir is missing, maybe dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And that really is the Amulet of Kings?"

"Of course."

"Then why don't I...safeguard it while you search for the missing heir?"

Friar Jauffre stared at him incredulously. "Don't be preposterous," he declared, assuming an almost bellicose air. "You are but one man, whereas I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. We Blades will protect it with our lives, guard it with our souls. Nothing, living, dead or otherwise will so much as lay a putrid finger on it!"

"Hmph," Edward snorted. "Weren't you the idiots who were guarding the Emperor when he got bludgeoned to death? If his brains could be spilled all over the floor while in your hands, I dare say..."

Friar Jauffre's eyes bulged as Edward began speaking, and he instinctively reached for a drawer. In a flash, he'd drawn a nasty silver dagger, and was in the process of rising, when he froze. "Oh," he said, clearing his throat abashedly as Edward trailed off in horror. "Forgive me...habit, you know."

His arrogance melted into fear, Edward decided it would be best to leave this place as quickly as his legs could take him. It was bad enough to be surrounded by potentially hostile gods, but there was no need to add deranged soldier-monks to the list. "Yes, quite alright. Perfectly understandable," he said, trying hard not to roll his eyes or bolt from the spot. "So, I'll just take my leave." Then, an idea struck him, and he added, "If there's no reward for me to collect or anything."

"Yes, you may as well go," Jauffre was saying. "I don't suppose you'd be much help in locating the heir."

Edward frowned. "All this aggravation, and no reward," he thought to himself. "I hope the damn priory burns down while they're all abed." Aloud, however, he said in his most congenial tones, "True. Well, I'll be off now." This said, he took to his heels and practically ran out of the priory house, leaving Friar Jauffre lost in meditation, still toying with his dagger.

Once he was outside, the depressing reality of his situation hit him full force. His retirement was gone, he had not a penny to show for it, and he, Edward, had unknowingly held the Amulet of Kings in his own hands, and had missed the opportunity to make for himself a fortune like no other. And, to top it all off, his servant had been right about everything -- where Friar Jauffre was, what the Amulet was...everything.

It was unbelievable, tragic, and utterly depressing. So, Edward trudged toward the stables, where he assumed his valet would be, with an excessively heavy heart. "At least," he consoled himself, "the gods haven't done anything awful to me, even after I damned them all."

Nearing the stable, he broke from his melancholy reflection and slowed to a halt as he saw his valet and another man -- the stable-hand, no doubt -- gathered about a collapsed equine body. Recognizing the body as that of his horse, he ran forward. "My horse! What happened?" he demanded.

The valet looked up. "I don't know, sir...I can't explain it. The poor thing just suddenly dropped dead, out of nowhere."

Edward stared, open-mouthed. "How?" he demanded. "Horses don't just die out of nowhere! Something must have happened!"

"Well," the third man offered, "I did see...well, not to sound silly or anything...but I could have sworn that I saw...well, a bolt of lightning shoot out of the sky and hit him."

"Come now," the valet scoffed, "it's a beautiful clear day, not a bit of thunder. How could lightning strike this poor horse?"

But to Edward's mind, there was no mystery whatsoever. He began to shake violently. "Quick!" he told his valet. "We need to get out of here!"

Mehrunes Dagon is a pest,
Mehrunes Dagon is our bane.
Y'all better put him to rest
Before he goes all insane.
-- Music for the Legionnaires, sung by a trio of traveling entertainers from the western provinces

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Edward groaned. The gods weren't just revengeful, they were sadistic. They had not just killed a perfectly obedient and likable horse, but they'd done so in order to saddle him with the first horse he'd ever ridden...that nasty, disagreeable nag he'd stolen from Snak gra-Bura so long ago. The Priory, it turned out, had made an arrangement with Snak gra-Bura whereby she would bring her old horses, and they would send them out to pasture and care for them for what was left of their lives. Having none of the Priory's regular horses to spare for Edward, the stable-hand had given him this one.

So, trudging along slowly, at an unalterable pace determined by his horse, he and his valet had headed toward the Imperial City . The other man had attempted to convince him to visit Chorrol, but Edward was steadfast in his refusal. He was sick of the barbarians and barbarian outposts. He needed to return to the beloved stone walls of his Imperial City, the one civilized place in Tamriel. Plus, he still had a contract on Valen Dreth, and Dreth hadn't been released yet. "I can't wait until we get there," he thought, "so I sojourn once more amongst civilized people...and so I can kill that damned elf."

"So, sir," the valet spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "What did Friar Jauffre say?"

Edward glared at him. While it would never to do acknowledge the actual reason for his anger -- the fact that the valet had insisted on returning the amulet of kings, rather than allowing Edward to use it to enrich himself at the empire's expense -- he was nonetheless furious. "Stuff," he answered.

The valet frowned. "I really am sorry about your horse, sir," he said at length, "but there was nothing I could do...it happened so quickly."

Edward sighed. It was a futile effort to hold a grudge against his wayward servant -- the man was an idiot, with all the perceptive powers of a dead cow. "He said that he needs to find the remaining heir."

The other man's face brightened. "Then there really is another heir?"

"Of course," Edward retorted. "I told you all about me being the king's son."

The valet frowned at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying, sir, that Friar Jauffre is...searching for you?"

"No," Edward snapped. "The old fool is looking for some twit who used to study under him or something like that, but disappeared a long time ago after a bunch of students died in some warped studying accident." Edward hissed his disgust, taking no note of his valet's expression.

"Indeed, sir?" the other man asked. "Did he give a name?"

Edward frowned, in part in concentration, and in part in aggravation. "He might have...I don't remember it though. And, anyway, what do you care?"

"I might know him, sir," the valet answered. "Are you sure you don't remember?"

Edward's frown deepened. "Quite sure...and don't be pompous...it's very unbecoming."

"Pompous, sir?" the other man asked, taken aback by the accusation.

"Yes, pompous! To pretend that you might know a king or a king's son..." Edward hissed in disgust, but hurried to add, "Other than me, I mean."

Jauffre - the madman killer - SPEW !!!! - I have something I wrote about his character in your story somewhere - have to find it and post it as soon as I get the free time to find it - I LOVE what you did to Jauffre !!!!!!


The horse ... I had forgotten about the horse - BWAAAHAAA !!!! ROFL !!!!!

mALX: lol, thanks...I think Jauffre is my favorite character...or, at least, the difference between him and the original is my favorite change in the story. Can't wait until we get to the later chapters with him.


Where blood is let and lives are ended
Where wagers are made and lost
Where many aspire and few succeed,
The Arena!
-- Song of the Arena


Chapter One Hundred and Four

Edward was overjoyed to finally be within the walls of his beloved Imperial City , safe from the barbarian hordes and their fledgling outposts and primitive towns. So glad was he that he forgot aggravation with his valet, the terrible loss of his retirement, or any of the other myriad things that plagued his mind. "Now," he said to his valet as they strolled through the Market District, "We've just got to go hunt Valen Dreth down. Well, I've got to."

"Yes sir," the valet replied nodding. "But, before you do, do you mind if I run into this shop?" Here, he pointed to Jensine's "Good as New" Merchandise.

Edward frowned, feeling somewhat annoyed. "Why? Have some hot merchandise to unload?"

"No sir. Jensine isn't a fence. I heard a rumor about a warblade, however, and I wanted to check it out..."

Edward sighed in aggravation. "Oh hurry up, if you must!" he snapped. His return home had put him in too good a mood to quarrel. Nodding his thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward, still annoyed, hopped onto a wooden barrel near the shop to wait for his valet to return.

His aggravation soon ebbed, however, as he gazed about the city. He was, he told himself, a great adventurer, like those of old, who had endured trials and tribulations in far-distant corners of the world, suffering at the hands of barbarians and fiends...but now the hero had returned home to his beloved city. He sighed contentedly.

So lost in thoughts was he that he didn't notice the cracking sound underneath him. All at once, however, the wooden top of his barrel seat collapsed, and he found himself rudely jerked into reality as he plunged downwards. Before he knew what had happened, Edward found himself half inside and half outside of his barrel, his head, hands and lower legs protruding, while his torso and upper legs were securely, and most uncomfortably, wedged inside the barrel. Feeling a thousand painful sensations at once, Edward tried to scream; but his compressed lungs had had most of the air squeezed out of them. Instead of a shout, he managed a pitiful squeak.

Powerless to move, and having extreme difficulty even breathing, Edward felt panic rising in him. Circulation in his extremities protruding outside of the barrel seemed to be cut off, and the rest of him, stuffed into a small space without regard to the proper working of his spine and body structure, seemed alive with pain.

Suddenly, just as unexpectedly as the fall had been, he felt the barrel tip, and could only watch as it came crashing down. "You there? Are you alright?" he heard someone ask. He couldn't see the speaker, nor could he even respond as the limited air in his lungs had been knocked out of him a second time in the crash. "Hold on a second! I'll get you out!" the voice continued.

Gurgling in fright, Edward was powerless to do anything except watch as the barrel rose into the air, and tipped upside down. For a moment he stared at the cobblestones underneath him. Then, all at once, he felt the barrel fly upwards sharply. He gurgled again, just as the barrel came downwards. He flew downwards in a flash, sure that -- he knew not how -- he was being propelled face first into the cobblestones. Instead, however, just as suddenly as he'd gone down, he went up again.

Feeling his brain bouncing up and down in his skull in a most frightening manner, he was still somehow able to make limited sense of what was happening. Something -- surely it couldn't be a someone -- was shaking the barrel up and down in an attempt to oust him. This something had apparently not taken into account what he, Edward, could see only too clearly -- that, should he be shaken out, he would be propelled face-first into the cobblestones below. Each shake of the barrel knocking whatever breath he was able to gather out of him, however, he was unable to scream out for his would-be rescuer to desist.

It was no surprise, therefore, to him when the inevitable happened: after one particularly brain-jarring shake, he felt his body wrench free from its confinement and fly downward.

The next thing he was aware of was opening his eyes painfully, staring up into the blue sky overhead, the greenish face of an orc and the small, wedge-like face of a Bosmer. "Oh, great heavens," the Bosmer declared, "I thought Grul had killed you for sure!"

The orc flinched at the words. "Sorry about that," he said to Edward, shrugging apologetically. "You just looked like you needed help."

Edward blinked at them, slowly processing what had happened. "Who are you?" he asked at length.

The Bosmer gestured toward the orc. "This is Grul; Grul gro-Barak," he answered. "He's my servant. We were walking through town looking for...well, it doesn't matter. We were walking through town, and happened to see you fall into the barrel. Grul here tried to shake you out. Then you landed on your face and seemed to get a bit woozy. But now you're coming around."

Edward nodded slowly, wincing as the motion seemed to jiggle his already shaken-about brain painfully. In a warped way, things made sense to him now. "Who are you?" he asked the Bosmer.

"Name's Hundolin," the little man with bright hair answered. "I work at the arena." All of a sudden, staring at Edward, his eyes lit up. "I say, I think you're the one!"

Edward blinked. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't all there yet after all...how else could he explain what this little fellow was babbling about?

"I was going through town looking for...well, someone to fight in the arena."

"A champion," Grul enjoined.

"Yes, yes, a champion!" Hundolin agreed. "You see, we have a fight scheduled at the arena, but we ran out of-"

"Champions," the orc interjected hastily. "Great champions."

"Yes, exactly!"

Edward blinked again. He understood what the Bosmer was saying, but he failed to see how it related to him. "And?"

"And you're the one! The champion I was looking for!"

"I am?" Edward asked, feeling by now quite baffled.

"Of course! Look at that...that physique!" the Bosmer answered.

Edward glanced down at his still crumpled and cringing form.

"And the...the strength, the determination, the courage that just radiates from you!" the elf continued eagerly.

Edward blinked again. Did his inner character, his courage, his magnificence really shine forth so brightly, even when he was injured and weak, that this little Bosmer could recognize it so clearly, he wondered? He shrugged a little, as if embarrassed. "Well, I'm sure you're exaggerating," he replied, attempting modesty. His flattered, glowing tone, however, gave away the insincerity of his words.

The Bosmer exchanged a fleeting smile with the orc. "Not at all!" he hastily assured Edward, sounding only slightly more genuine in his praise than the Imperial had moments earlier.

"Indeed," the orc agreed. "Look at the way you handled falling into a barrel, with only your head and arms and feet sticking out!"

The Bosmer shot the orc a glaring glance of disapproval, but Edward didn't notice it. "The courage!" Hundolin hurriedly explained. "The steadfastness! Not a sound! Not a peep did you utter!"

"Not even when your face smashed into the cobblestone!" the orc agreed, earning himself a second glare.

But Edward was too lost in musing the Bosmer's words to notice. "Hmm," he said at length, "I suppose you're right...I do have that air of a champion, a warrior."

"A god amongst men!" Hundolin assured him.

Edward smiled. "I say, you're quite the intuitive chap!" he told the elf.

"Not at all," the other man assured him. "I only recognize greatness when I see it!" Edward's smile broadened, and he attempted to nay-say this praise in a most pompous manner. The elf ignored this, and pressed his advantage quickly. "So you will fight in the arena then?"

The vagabonds set on fame,
The fools who know not their own inabilities;
The criminal who lusts for blood,
These are the snared who are lured to the Arena.
-- From Arena & Contestants, Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Edward blinked anew, this time in surprise. "The arena?" he asked incredulously. All this praise was one thing, but actually fighting?

"Of course!" Hundolin exclaimed in most animated tones. "I can see it now -- the new Grand Champion of the arena! You'll be a star! The city will cheer you, love you, adore you!" He paused, glancing at the orc, who was standing about in a terribly uninterested manner. "Can't you, Grul?"

"Oh, umm, yeah, definitely," the orc answered in a tone that conveyed at least as much boredom as his expression.

The Bosmer seemed annoyed, but hurried on with his tale of the grandeur that awaited Edward. "Imagine it! You will be the star of the Empire! You'll have fans following you non-stop, at your beck and call, worshiping you, doing your every bidding!"

Edward hesitated. This sounded very pleasant, after all...and maybe this elf knew what he was talking about. Maybe Edward had that Champion blood in him, born to greatness that had just, somehow, eluded him up until now, and disguised itself in embarrassing incidents like the barrel episode of moments earlier. "Well..." he mused. "Would there be any money in it for me?"

"Money?" the Bosmer repeated, scoffing as though the answer was obvious. "Of course! More money than you could use in a hundred life-times! Why, a Champion of your caliber would end up richer than...than the Emperor himself!"

Ignoring the fact that the Emperor was dead and buried, Edward thought about these words for a few moments. "Well, it does sound rather tempting," he said at length. "I mean, I know I have what it takes..."

"Of course!" Hundolin assured him. "And this -- this is the perfect time for you to make your entrance!"

"Why?"

"Well, because...because there are so many people who have already bet on this match, and our other pit dog-"

"Champion!" the orc interrupted.

"Yes, Champion...pit dog is...well, arena speak for Champion, you understand?" the elf explained.

Edward nodded.

"Anyway, our other Champion had a terrible accident and died."

Edward flinched. As appealing as this all sounded, he still didn't relish the possibility of accidents and death. "Died?"

"Yes, but it was a silly accident," Hundolin hurriedly explained. "He...he..."

"Jumped into a pit of minotaur lords!" Grul interjected.

"Yes, exactly," Hundolin agreed.

Edward grimaced. "Why would he do something like that?" he wondered.

"He was...drunk!"

"Ohhh, I see," Edward nodded.

"Anyway, as long as you don't get drunk and go jumping into the minotaur cages, you'll be just fine!" the elf continued. "And, since we have this match all set up -"

"And stand to lose a lot of money," the orc muttered, which earned him yet another furious glare from Hundolin.

"This would be the perfect time to make your debut," the Bosmer finished. "You see?"

Edward nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes I do!"

"Excellent!" Hundolin exclaimed. "Then we'll see you at the arena in...oh, about half an hour?"

Edward nodded again. "Yes indeed! I've just got to collect my valet, and we'll be right over!"

The elf and orc nodded and made their farewells, assuring Edward yet again that he was destined for greatness, fame and wealth. Then they turned and headed toward the arena, talking quietly amongst themselves. Edward, in his excitement, heard little of what they said, although he did catch Hundolin's voice saying, "There's one born every minute."

Edward, for his part, hoped that this was not true. "How will my greatness stand out if Champions are born all the time?" he wondered.

Where fools become kings,
And the worst are the greatest
Heroes of which the bard sings,
Come, but only if you're a sadist.
-- Song of the Arena, continued

Chapter One Hundred and Six

Edward had excitedly dragged his astonished valet to the arena, explaining in rambling, self-congratulatory platitudes what had happened. Incredulous, the other man had questioned the veracity of Edward's story, pointing to his bruised features and wondering if, perhaps, the event had been a product of injury-induced hallucinations. This theory had been met with great disdain and annoyance by Edward, but, hurrying to his certain fame and glory, he'd had little time to set the miscreant servant straight.

Arriving at last at the arena, he was greeted by none other than the little Bosmer. "Ahh, the Champion approaches!" Hundolin exclaimed.

The valet stared at him open mouthed, but Edward took no notice. "Indeed, one Champion, as promised!"

"Excellent, excellent!" the elf returned. "They are waiting for you below!"

Edward nodded, and hurriedly headed in the direction the Bosmer had indicated. His valet trailed behind him, a confused expression on his face.

Edward's step was light, though he was still sore from his misadventures earlier. Suddenly, the world seemed very bright to him -- even if he was traversing a blood stained stone hall, that reeked in a most offensive manner. He would soon be a Champion, wealthy, respected and admired.

"Ahh, the new pit dog!" a burly Redguard greeted him as soon as he emerged into the dark, stuffy chamber below.

Nodding proudly, Edward declared, "You better believe it!"

The Redguard stared at him strangely, and then turned to an older Imperial woman. "It's illegal for us to send mentally challenged guys up there, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Well, whose to say we knew? Hundolin sent him here, anyhow."

The Redguard grunted acquiescence, and then turned back to Edward. "Alright, pit dog, suit up." This said, he tossed him a suit of armor. A very heavy suit of armor.

Edward caught it, but, not expecting something so weighty, fell forward with it. Picking himself up gingerly, and laughing abashedly at his own clumsiness, he said, "Well, umm...that's a bit heavy, isn't it?"

"We're out of light armor," the Redguard sneered. "So you'll have to make due. Not that it's gonna matter anyway...you'll be dead soon enough."

Edward blinked at these words. "Dead?" he asked.

"What do you think?" the Redguard laughed.

"Wait, you mean...people die in these fights?"

The old woman and the Redguard exchanged glances again. "Maybe this is too cruel," she commented ponderingly.

"We've got a lot of money riding on this fight though," the man pointed out.

"True..." she mused.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Edward interrupted. "Nobody said anything about people dying!"

The two turned to him. "It's an arena!" the woman snapped. "Fights to the death!"

Edward balked. "To the...death?"

"Of course!"

"But...but I thought it was just...you know, until somebody surrendered."

The Reguard and the Imperial woman turned to each other again, bursting out in laughter simultaneously. "Surrender?" the Redguard managed to repeat through his laughter. "Nobody surrenders in these fights...you die, or you kill. Nothing more, and nothing less!"

Edward, meanwhile, had turned a chalky white. At this point, his valet interjected, "Look here, I believe my friend was misinformed about this arrangement. As he understood it, he was coming here to -"

"Don't figure it matters what he understood or didn't," the woman interrupted. "He's here, we've got a lot of money riding on this show, and we need a warm body up there."

Edward began to shake. "But they didn't say anything about dying!" he protested.

"That's right," the valet agreed.

The two Arena keepers shrugged. "So?"

"Well, my friend was lured down here under false pretenses, that's what!" the valet answered.

The Redguard laughed. "Look here," he said, "I don't give a sewer rat's tail about how he was or wasn't lured down here. After that last idiot got his brains pummeled fighting with the Yellow Team, we need someone in the show. So, unless you're volunteering to take his place, he'd better get up there -- and you'd better shut up!"

Edward's shaking renewed. "I won't go!"

"You'll go," the woman told him, rising and lifting a menacing looking sword.

"Or you'll die right here and right now," the Redguard finished, drawing a sword of his own.

Taste the fear,
Fear the steel,
Steal the lives,
Live after the fight!
-- In the Arena!


Chapter One Hundred and Seven

The valet grimaced. He couldn't believe it. Not only had his master been foolish enough to get himself into a fix like this, but now he had to save his neck...again. At least, he thought, the arena keepers -- Owyn the Redguard and Ysabel Andronicus the Imperial -- had let them go as a team. Indeed, the suggestion had been met with surprised pleasure by the two, who had easily been able to convince the Yellow Team -- which, apparently, they were about to fight -- to throw another pit dog into the arena.

Half wondering if it wouldn't have been easier just to take on Owyn and Ysabel, he sighed. Even if they had fought the two battle hardened former gladiators, no one would have taken their word that they were being kept prisoner in the arena bloodworks. "Oh well," he thought, "this is the only way to do it I guess."

Meanwhile, Edward was shaking so forcefully that his armor was rattling in a sound reminiscent of chimes in a fierce wind. "We're going to die..." he was whimpering.

The valet sighed. "Of course we're not, sir. All we've got to do is win this fight, and then we'll be free to go."

Edwad shot him a disparaging look. "Well, in that case..." he mocked. Then, whining again, "We're going to die!"

"Only if we have attitudes like that, sir!" the valet cheerily returned. "I know this head-on combat thing isn't your forte, but all you've got to do is your best. There's only going to be two or three of them, and they're just pit dogs!"

"Just pit dogs!" Edward gasped. He still hadn't realized that pit dog was not, in fact, a compliment.

"That's right. So, we've just got to work together, and all will be well."

Edward felt faint and queasy. But there was no time to argue. All at once, a booming voice declared, "Good people of the Imperial City! Welcome to the arena! Today our entertainment is provided by two packs of pit dogs: on the Yellow Team, a Bosmer, an Imperial and an Argonian. And on the Blue Team, two Imperials. Can these two Imperials hope to stand against so many? We shall see! Let the games begin!" With that, the iron grate came down.

Edward stood, shaking, watching the Yellow Team combatants enter the arena. "Come on, sir," his valet whispered. "We can take them!" With these words the other man ran forward, his blade flashing.

Edward was too frightened to move. He could only watch as his valet charged valiantly into combat, ducking the fists of the Argonian and the blade of the Imperial. He saw him charge up to the Bosmer, who had loosed two arrows -- loosed, and missed both times -- and was fiddling with a third. He watched as his servant brushed aside the bow, and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the Bosmer's head with a heavy crash. Then he watched as the little elf collapsed to the ground, not dead -- so it seemed, at least -- but unconscious.

By now the Argonian and Imperial had advanced upon his valet, and Edward cringed as a heavy, scaled fist impacted with his teammate's side. The valet went down, but only in order to sweep the legs out from under his attacker. Somehow, this scene roused Edward from his indolence, and he found himself charging into battle. It might have been the fact that the Yellow Team had their backs to him, or it might have been some rare shred of courage or loyalty that prompted him to advance. Either way, advance he did, and before he knew it, he was in the thick of battle.

He was amazed to see that his valet was not fighting the Argonian, who relentlessly pursued him, but rather dodging his blows. Likewise, he was not attempting to kill the Imperial swordsman, but rather to disarm him. Scoffing, Edward readied his sword, and charged forward. He was not above killing these men, even if his foolish servant was willing to risk his life.

The Argonian, however, must have sensed his presence, because -- just as Edward was readying to plunge his sword into the other man's back -- he swung about, planting a hard fist into Edward's jaw. Edward's senses reeled, and then he went down.

First you enter Edward the bumbling fool into the Dark Brotherhood!

Then you send him to Nenalata! With Cadlew Priory as icing!

Then you sic him on the Sirens!

Now you ship him off to the Arena??? I think this is worse than Maxical! At least she had Fathis to pay for her damages!

ROFL !!!!





I'm picturing a white doughy substance for Edwards skin, ROFL !!!





I nearly choked on this !!! ROFL !!!





GAAAAAH !!! Edward never fails to surprise me !!!


AWESOME !!! And what is most exciting of all .... I know Docada is coming soon into the story !!!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!!!


*

@haute ecole rider: haha, that's a good point. And, although Edward can always rely on the valet to bail him out if he finds himself in too tight a scrape, Maxical can actually fight and defend herself. She is accident prone, but Edward is utterly inept, lol.

@malx: lol, quite true...to Edward's eternal mortification, Docada is coming soon. As far as the white, doughy substance, I think you're spot on there as well...he may be an Imperial, but I picture him with a nobleman's pallid, sun-starved complexion...even when he's out adventuring, only his face/hands would be exposed to the sun.


Fight, like you’ve never fought before.
Fight, if you want to fight some more.
Fight, because they’ll laugh if you die.
Fight, and don’t dare pause to ask why.
-- The Gladiator’s Song

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

When Edward awoke, he was back in the bloodworks. The Battle Matron was leaned over him, apparently tending a wound on his head. "Ahh!" Edward screamed at the sight of her. His only memories of the woman, after all, were her sending him to his death.

"Relax, pit dog," she was saying. "After what your friend did up there, I guess you've earned our respect."

"Friend? What?" Edward wondered. The last thing he remembered was a scaly fist impacting sharply with his jaw.

"Your friend...the one who spared the Yellow Team combatants. After that fight, half the team chickened out of their contracts and left the arena," she answered.

From somewhere to the side, he heard the Redguard laugh. "It will take them weeks to recover from that," he said.

Edward blinked uncomprehendingly. "Left? Why?"

"Because they saw how easy it was for a real fighter to kick their lily-livered behinds -- without even killing them," the matron answered. "Now, for the love of Talos, stay still! How am I supposed to clean your cuts out, if you don't?"

Edward groaned. He still wasn't sure of what had happened, but he'd got the general idea. But where was his valet now?

"And don't worry about him," she continued, "He made it out fine. He's talking with The Gray Prince now."

This was quite true, for, at that very moment, Edward's valet and the Arena Grand Champion, an orc known as 'The Gray Prince', were deep in conversation. "I have to say," the orc was saying, "I was quite impressed with you up there...risking your own neck to save those guys, instead of just taking them down when you had them at your mercy..."

The valet shrugged. "Well, I never intended to be an Arena fighter, you know. I didn't want to kill anyone or anything. Just to win the match and get out."

The Gray Prince nodded, watching the Imperial for a few minutes. "I say," he said, "you seem to be a good sort of person. Can I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Of course," the valet nodded.

"How would you like to fight me?"

"Fight you?" the Imperial repeated in surprise.

"Yes, fight me," the orc answered. "Not really...I mean, just go into the Arena, and pretend to kill me."

"Pretend to kill you?" the valet asked, his brow creasing perplexedly. "But...why?"

Agronak's eyes darted about quickly, as if he was afraid of being overheard, and he answered in a low, ponderous tone, as though he was choosing his words carefully. "I'm tired of...the fame. You know...media, screaming fans...all of that. I want to start my life over, in private. If the Gray Prince dies, Agronak gro-Malog can be reborn...a simple orc, living his life in private and quiet."

The Imperial frowned. "I see what you're saying," he said. "But won't they -- the fans and whatnot -- follow me instead?"

The Gray Prince shook his head. "No, no," he answered. "They follow me because I've spent years building my reputation as the Grand Champion. You'll just be a lucky lug who happened to get a good strike in."

The valet continued to frown in concentration. "Alright," he said at last, "I can't see any harm in doing it."

The Gray Prince positively beamed, and grabbed the other man's hand to shake it vigorously. "Thank you!" he declared. "Thank you very much!"

Meanwhile, lying still as a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds, Edward sighed inwardly. "Why," he wondered, "am I such a caring guy? Why do I always have to put my own life on the line for inept idiots like that servant of mine? When will I ever learn to ignore the peons in order to keep myself out of scrapes like this?!"

Fame, oh joy and bane of man
Desired when not possessed
But despised when had
Fame, ye treacherous beast.
-- Song of the Champions

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

Edward was seated on a table in the bloodworks, glowering. His valet and The Gray Prince had just left to fight one another in the Arena, and -- having missed their conversation -- he was furious. "Who does that SOB think he is," he wondered, "running off and getting himself killed instead of being my servant?!" In Edward's mind, there was no doubt whatsoever that his valet would die in this match.

"Well, he better not look to me to take care of him if he comes out of there mutilated or half-dead," he decided. "He can go to Oblivion for all that I care, after turning his back on his sacred duty to serve me in order to fight for vain glory." It was for that reason that Edward had not gone into the Arena with the other spectators -- that, and that he'd have to bet on the championship to get in...and, while he wouldn't have minded making a quick buck betting on his friend's certain death, he'd somehow run out of money...again.

And yet, if only for the satisfaction of seeing his valet dragged, a bloody mess, back into the bloodworks, he'd decided to wait until after the fight to leave. He could hear the shouting, cheering and jeering overhead, and the booming voice of the announcer above all that. "Good people of the Imperial City ," it called, "today our match is epic! A pit dog -- that's right, ladies and gentlemen, a pit dog! -- has challenged The Gray Prince himself!" Uproarious laughter, more cheers and more jeers followed. Then the announcer continued. "This will be almost painful to watch...but, in his benevolence, our Grand Champion has obliged the suicidal pit dog. So, without further ado...let the match begin!"

Edward heard the grating of iron as the gates were lowered, but the rest was lost in the tidal wave of excited fans’ cheering. Edward sighed. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was actually worried about his servant? Was it possible that that was the reason that he was waiting?

Dismissing the idea with a scoff, Edward's glare intensified. He, Edward, did not worry about servants. Indeed, he had himself wanted to kill his valet on many occasions. So why then was this annoying fear gnawing at his stomach?

It was far beneath a man of his dignity to care what befell his servant, so these apprehensions -- even if he wouldn't acknowledge them -- were downright embarrassing to Edward. His glare and ill humor intensified with every bit of compassion and fear that he felt, so soon he outmatched even the dour Battle Matron and Blademaster with his excessive petulance.

It was impossible to tell over the cacophony of noise above what was happening, so Edward sat in ill-humored silence for several moments. Then, all at once, everything fell silent; and suddenly a collective gasp -- audible even to those in the bloodworks -- rose from the crowd of spectators.

Edward's expression grew darker yet. It was done, then, he assumed. His valet was dead.

And then, as suddenly as the silence had descended, an uproar of cheers and chanting filled the air. "Dragonheart! Dragonheart! Dragonheart!" the crowd seemed to be calling in unison.

Edward's frown shifted, but remained. "Dragonheart?" he wondered. "Who the oblivion is Dragonheart? What about that stupid Gray Prince, and my jackass servant?"

Then, almost in answer to his pondering, the announcer's voice declared, "Citizens...I am amazed! We are amazed! This upstart, the pit dog, has defeated The Gray Prince!" Edward leaped to his feet in sheer astonishment; but the announcer continued. "This has to be...well, the most spectacular fight I have ever seen, and the most unorthodox path a Grand Champion has ever followed...but...it is my pleasure to announce our City's new Grand Champion: Dragonheart!"

A New Grand Champion Declared: Dragonheart!

With heavy heart for he who is passed, and eager admiration for he who has replaced him, it is our duty to report an unusual – nay, astonishing! – day at the Imperial Arena. The Gray Prince, whom we have all so long loved as Grand Champion, answered the challenge of a newcomer, a mere Pit Dog! These two met in the Arena this very afternoon, and, in a stupendous clash of daring and virility, the Grand Champion was felled, and the Pit Dog declared the winner – and our new Champion. Dragonheart – our Champion’s name – was seen leaving the Arena in the company of many adoring fans. Your correspondent was unable to speak with him, but will continue to attempt to do so in order that the public may ever remain abreast of the goings-on of our glorious city!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Edward was greatly annoyed as he and his valet left the Arena. Not only had he wasted his time -- not to mention, soiled his dignity -- worrying about a lowly servant, but the lowly servant hadn't even had the decency to die so that his sacrifice might be worthwhile! Instead, the lowly servant had somehow won the match, and become the new Grand Champion.

"Come on, sir," the valet was saying, "I know it was longer than you wanted to stay. But I had to do that!"

Edward shot him a disparaging look, but stepped aside so that his servant could open the door for him. The valet did so, and Edward stepped outside into the crisp early afternoon air, his head held high despite the internal sting of wounded pride.

To his horror, he found that he'd emerged into a swarm of buzzing, chirping, twittering fans, all screaming for their idol, the new Grand Champion. Edward's lip curled in disgust, and he sneered most disdainfully, "Be gone, vile insects!"

The vile insects, however, had no intention of complying. Instead, they shoved Edward aside and swarmed about his valet. His valet stood heads above the crowd, which seemed to be composed mostly of short Bosmer youth with brightly colored hair and odd hair styles. He, as Edward had been, was somewhat taken aback by the swarm. "Why, umm, thank you," he said as they shouted their salutations.

"Oh, by Azura, by Azura, by Azura!" one voice, higher than all the rest, called, "I can't believe it! It's the Grand Champion! Standing here, next to me!"

Edward, rising haughtily and glaring furiously at the backs of the brightly colored-heads -- which were, at this point, all that was really visible to him -- spoke. "Go away, you filthy children! Go pester someone else!" Still shouting their praises of his servant, the fans ignored Edward entirely. This was particularly horrifying to the Imperial, as he'd not only, most brusquely, been shoved aside in order that these monsters might worship his servant -- his servant! -- but now they completely ignored him, as if he did not even exist!

One voice in particular continued with fervent admiration. "Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion, I'm going to follow you and watch you and worship the ground you walk on!"

Edward pinpointed this voice to a short elf wearing a peculiar, poofy twist of bright yellow hair atop his head. "You! Ice-cream-head!" Edward called, poking the little fellow. "Get! You and your buddies!"

The Bosmer turned about fiercely at this nudge, shoving Edward away savagely. "Stay away from my god!" he snarled.

Edward recoiled a step, surprised by the vehemence of this strange, style-challenged elf. "He may be your god," he snapped, "but he's my servant -- and you're interfering with his duties!"

The Bosmer seemed to ignore his words as an inspired gleam lit his eyes. Spinning about quickly, he declared fervently, "Oh, Grand Champion, let me be your servant! Your slave! I will follow you everywhere, do whatever you require done, and worship you -- always worship you!"

GAAAAAAAAH !!!! SHRIEK !!!! SQUEEEEEEEEEEEAL !!!!!! It's DOCADA !!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT !!!!!!

O Mama O Mama
Docada, Docada
goes Ga-Ga O ga-ga
Hey Ha-Ha Ho Ha Ha!

Well, I can't write poetry, that's for sure.

But I echo the Fox here. Docada is a welcome addition to this hilarious story! And I think this version is much better than the last.

Yet I wonder - did the Gray Prince want to fake his death to get rid of all of his fans, or just one certain Annoying Fan?

@malx: one style challenged nerd, as promised.
@foxy: glad to see you're still reading this, Foxy!!
@haute ecole rider: thanks, I've tried to rework some of the dialog (mostly just rewording things here and there) to make it flow more smoothly. As for the Gray Prince...Docada would be the main motivation for flight, lol.



No ingrate so vile as the servant,
Who values not his master’s benevolence
And who respects not his years of service
Who forgets all he owes his gracious master.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

Edward was trying hard, and failing miserably, to remain calm. It had been difficult, but he and his valet had managed to shake the eccentric crowd of fan boys and girls -- all but one. This one, the strange, yellow haired fan, had not relented in his pursuit. Both men, weary by running, dodging and ducking from their pursuers, had eventually given up attempting to shake him, figuring he'd eventually tire of his tedious endeavor.

So far, however, he'd done no such thing. Instead, he had prattled on nonstop about his joy at being near, so near, to his god, the Grand Champion. "Oh, I can't believe this!" he was telling Edward's valet. "You're the best, do you know that? The absolute best! What other Grand Champion would allow me -- me! -- to travel with him? Not that Gray Prince, I'll tell you that much. Oh no, he would chase me off, and threaten me, and he even accidentally pushed me off of a few cliffs...but even then, I never tired of being his happy fan! The Grand Champion needs a loyal subject, an eager, abject slave. And now that you're the Grand Champion, I'm so happy -- because you'll be more careful, won't you? I barely escaped that last accident, you know." Here, the fan broke off to take a deep gasping breath; but, the next moment, he'd continued his monologue.

The valet, however, ignored him as he prattled on, lost in thoughts of his own. "Hmmm..." he said aloud. "I wonder if he's the reason the Gray Prince asked me to fight..."

Edward stared at the other man. "I thought you challenged him?"

The valet glanced behind him discreetly, saw that the adoring fan was still prattling on excitedly and paying no mind to their conversation, and then shook his head. "No sir. He said he wanted to stage his own death...something about needing a break from the fame, and to get away from the fans...do you think it might have been...?"

"The annoying twit with the ice-cream twist hair-do?" Edward spit out. "No, you think so?"

His valet frowned. "I think you could be right, sir. But then he must have known that he'd start following me." Edward glared at him. "I wonder that he was so dishonest with me!"

Edward hissed in disgust. "What is with you?" he demanded. "Why must you always think that people are nice? Don't you get it? People are looking for the saps, the suckers, the morons -- morons like you, that they can bamboozle without difficulty!" His servant stared at him, but he continued, his tone laced with contempt for both his servant and people in general. "You don't look at life realistically. You see people as these nice creatures, out to do right by everybody. You don't see people for what they really are!"

"And what is that, sir?" the valet ventured.

"Disgusting, grimy, conniving, sticky-fingered, mealy-mouthed filth!" Edward spat out. "Always looking to make a buck at the cost of their fellow man, to advance themselves at the cost of another, to damn the world if it benefits themselves!" The fact that he might have been painting a self-portrait -- albeit a none-too-flattering one -- seemed to escape Edward, who continued in disgust, "They aren't to be trusted! You have to stop thinking that people mean what they say! They don't!"

The valet sighed. "Well, you might be right sir, in some respect anyway. Sometimes I do put too much faith in other people."

"That's an understatement!" Edward hissed. "It's a veritable disease with you!"

"Well, I don't know about that, sir..."

"It is!" Edward insisted. "It's a sickness! There's something wrong with you! You don't have those protective instincts, that natural intuition to mistrust and loathe your fellow man!"

The valet frowned. "Well, I don't think that's necessary, sir."

"Which is exactly why you end up in fixes like this," Edward declared haughtily, as if he had, in that single statement, won the argument.

The valet's frown intensified. "Well, sir, you end up in fixes too, sometimes."

Edward gaped at him. "Me? End up in fixes? When?!"

"Well, sir, this whole arena thing, for starters," the valet pointed out.

Edward glared at him. "I was lied to!"

"Well yes sir, I know that," the other man agreed. "But, still, you believed someone when they were lying to you."

Edward's glare intensified. "But I wasn't the one who wanted to stay around and play Mr. Hero with that filthy orc, was I?" he demanded. "And, anyway, everyone's bound to slip up once in awhile...but, unlike you, I don't make a habit of it!"

The valet frowned again. "Well, sir, actually, I think you've been in more fixes than I have."

Edward positively gaped at his insolent servant. "How dare you?!" he wondered at the man's impertinence. "How dare you lie to my face like that?"

"It's not a lie, sir," the valet answered. "In fact, I think, if you were to count the times, you'd agree that you've found yourself in trouble more often than I have."

Edward stared daggers at his companion. "I think not, Mr. Champion. Mr. Champion who owns a haunted manor, I might add!"

"Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but let's not forget about those three women in Anvil..."

Edward's eyes bulged in horror. "Bringing that up is just...just fighting dirty!" he hissed. "Let's not forget that this is coming from the idiot who believed me all that time when I said that I didn't have the Amulet of Kings!"

The valet shrugged. "Not all the time, sir...I did have my doubts. And let's not forget that time..."

So it was that the trio passed through Green Emperor Way, Edward and his valet arguing heatedly about who was more prone to find himself in a fix, and the adoring fan babbling on with his praise as though they were actually listening to him.

Over things large and small, disputes arise among us all,
Friend or foe, we are not immune.
The civilized employ words, in order to resolve their issues
And the uncivilized, they resort to violence.
-- Treatise on Quarrels, Father Agrid

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

Edward and his valet’s disagreement had descended into a heated, shouted monologue – from Edward. At the moment, he was screaming profanities at his servant, and at the same time demanding an apology. Meanwhile, the adoring fan was furiously defending the Grand Champion, cursing Edward at least as well as Edward cursed the valet.

The only party of the trio not screaming was Edward’s valet, who was making efforts to silence them both. “Please!” he implored. “The Guard will come arrest us all for this racket!”

Edward shouted something at him, and then turned his attention to the fan. “You can take a flying leap off the White Gold Tower,” he yelled, his face a shade of deep crimson rage. “I’ll talk to my servant anyway I please, you disgusting elf. Go get a haircut, why don’t you?”

Even as the fan launched into a furious tirade at this remark, the valet – earning his title, Dragonheart, yet again for his courage in doing so – attempted once more to intervene.

“Sir, please,” he spoke, “I’m sorry. Please, just let it go!”

Edward was too engaged in his war of words with the Bosmer youth, however, to take note. He was screaming breathlessly, spittle flying from his mouth in a rather deranged fashion, as he exchanged profanities and threats of every sort with the yellow-haired elf.

Touching both men on the shoulder to draw their attention, the valet again implored reason. “Please, let’s just forget this whole unpleasant business!” he pleaded.

The fan, in a cringing, acquiescent manner, desisted immediately, and began to implore the Grand Champion that he might defend his honor; Edward, however, furiously slapped his servant’s hand away, declaring, “Don’t touch me, servant!”

This was too much for the fan, who began to shriek in a furious and affronted way, pointing at Edward as he did so, “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion! This man struck the Grand Champion!”

A crowd quickly gathered as the little Bosmer continued screaming. The valet attempted to silence the fan, but the fan was too fervently engaged in defending his god’s honor to listen to what his god actually had to say at the moment. “Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion!!”

Edward, furious at the fuss made over so simple a thing, began once more arguing with the Bosmer. “Assault?” he asked. “That wasn’t assault! This would be assault!” He herewith slapped the valet, and hard. “Now there’s assault for you!”

All at once a collective gasp rose from the crowd of onlookers, and a cacophony of mingled voices began to join the fan’s. “Assault! He assaulted the Grand Champion!”

At that moment, a burly Imperial Guard pushed through the assembled crowd. “Who assaulted the Grand Champion?” he demanded furiously.

The crowd responded in unison, pointing at Edward. “He did!”

“It was no big deal,” the valet protested. “That's what I've been telling them, it was-”

“Nevermind that, my Champion!” the Guard declared reverently. “I’ll take care of it. You-” He pointed to Edward, and his tone took on an aspect of disgust and loathing. “Scum – you’re under arrest. We’ll see how much you like assaulting the Champion after some time in the Imperial Prison.”

Edward turned open-mouthed to his servant. “Tell him to piss off!” he demanded.

But a strange look had lighted the valet’s eye. “No…no indeed, I will not. The perfect place for you is prison!” A collective cheer rose from the crowd, and the Guard nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the pleased faces about him. The valet, meanwhile, shot Edward a quick nod and wink, and mouthed “Valen Dreth!” to him.

Edward, however, saw none of this…his senses were too clouded by sheer rage for him to see straight, much less think straight. He lunged for his servant, his fists flying and his tongue lashing out with every curse and oath known to mankind. So great was his fury that it took half the crowd to actually pull him off of the Grand Champion before he was hauled away to prison.

Assault on the Grand Champion!

No sooner than had our mighty, beneficent Grand Champion won his title and exited the Arena, on the very day of his victory, a fiend of the lowest and vilest order attacked him. To his credit, Dragonheart did not do what so many – including the horde of eager fans who had surrounded him, and your own correspondent – wished had been done – beat the miscreant low-life to within an inch of his miserable life for daring to lay a hand on our esteemed Champion. Instead, he handed the vile attacker over to the Imperial Guard, who swiftly carried out justice against the ingrate – who is now rotting in a dungeon, where scum of his ilk belong. Long live our illustrious Champion, and despair of the worst sort to those would dare to lay a finger on our magnificent fighter!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

Edward screamed out a final barrage of the worst profanities he could think of as the heavy prison door scraped shut. Then he kicked his cell bars, wincing in agony as his foot impacted with the metal.

“Ohhhh, it’s you again?” a high voice asked.

Edward glanced behind him, still wincing in pain. He started as he saw the speaker. It was the snotty Dunmer who’d been stationed across from him during his first incarceration, so long ago. It was Valen Dreth, the very man he’d come to kill.

“And I see you recognize me as well.”

“Of course I recognize you,” Edward snapped. “Which is just another reason that this is one of the worst days of my life!”

“Ohh, poor little Imperial,” Valen laughed. “How’s it feel to be thrown into prison by your own kinsmen? You’re an embarrassment to them, you see…an embarrassment to the empire. And we know what happens to embarrassments to the empire, don’t we?” He laughed again.

Edward glared at him. He had heard all of this tripe the first time he’d been in prison. “Damned gods!” he cursed. “Not bad enough to be betrayed by my own servant – slimy ingrate that he is...but now to be the cell mate of this tedious elven beast? How dare they do this to me?”

Valen clucked his tongue mockingly. “Now, now,” he said, “if you’re so annoyed with the gods, it might just be that you’re praying to the wrong ones!”

Edward’s glare intensified. “What do you mean, ‘the wrong ones’?” he asked. “I’ve prayed to all of them! Talons, Macintosh, Julianna, Isabella, Maria, and…” he paused, frowning and counting mentally. “Well, all of them,” he repeated.

Valen shook his head, more amused than anything else. “Yes, well, aside from the slight confusion as to their names-” Here he coughed significantly. “ It’s possible that ‘Talons’, ‘Macintosh’ and the rest just aren’t the right gods for what you’re praying for.” Edward frowned at him, still not following. “Maybe you need to pray to a god…somewhat more diabolical.”

Edward’s expression lightened at this suggestion. “I say!” he exclaimed, suddenly considerably more cheerful, “that’s a very good idea! I should be praying to…” Here, he paused and frowned. “…you know the fellow, the one with lots of arms, who, well, hates humans…Marooned Dragon?”

“Mehrunes Dagon?” Valen suggested, sighing.

“Yes, yes!” Edward exclaimed. “He’s the one.”

Valen shook his head imperceptibly, but only said, “Well, I would not pray to Mehrunes Dagon unless I was serious about…” Then he paused, and a slight smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. “But then, what do I know? He is a Daedric Prince known for his benevolence to all of his followers, even the less than committed ones who don’t know how to pronounce his name.”

Edward nodded excitedly. “Excellent!” he declared. “Now, how exactly does one go about becoming a follower of this Marooned Dragon fellow?”

There are many who serve the gods;
Some for fame, some for fortune;
Some for glory, and some for vengeance.
But few indeed are they who serve with sincerity.
-- Of the Followers of the Gods, Edition the Third




Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Edward knelt in front of a crescent of lit candles. The candles he’d acquired from Valen Dreth, whom he was currently disposed to think very well of. Dreth, it turned out, was in fact a worshiper of the Daedric prince of doom and despair, and was gladly giving him instruction in how to likewise become a follower.

Edward bowed low before the candles, chanting, “Oh great Prince, Marooned Dragon, hear my pleas, your humble slave awaits your favor. Let me serve you, oh Great One, that I may partake of your noble rewards.”

Valen Dreth, unseen by Edward, was shaking his head at this prayer; but the Imperial kept with it, repeating his supplications over and over. Finally, though, he turned to Dreth. “It’s not working!”

“What’s not working?”

“Well, he hasn’t answered!”

The elf raised an eyebrow. “Well, gods don’t generally just answer us.”

“Then how do we know they’re doing what we want?”

“Well, we see the results of their handiwork in our lives.”

Edward nodded. “So, then, I should experience great fortune soon?”

“Umm, yes, probably,” Dreth answered. To a more perceptive person than Edward, it would have seemed that the Dunmer was just waiting this one out, simply for the amusement of seeing what would befall his cell mate. Edward, however, not being so perceptive, nodded gleefully, and set about chanting a new prayer.

“Oh great Prince,” he prayed, prostrating himself before the flames, “please give me vengeance against my wayward servant! Please, let him suffer! Let him come to untold harm and agony and misery!”

Dreth shook his head, commenting under his breath, “Isn't it redundant to wish horrible suffering on someone who serves you?"

“Please, my mighty god, do for me what those disgusting, paltry gods would not. Let that servant suffer, please! Kill him for me – but not until after he has been made to pay for his insolence!”

Dreth cleared his throat. “Wow, you’re really upset at this servant, aren’t you?”

Edward’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what he’s done to me!” he answered. “For months he has treated me with insolence and disdain. Then he tricked me into feeling sorry for him – him, a servant! – because he was going to die, and then he didn’t even die! But worse yet, he had me arrested, and thrown into prison!”

Dreth’s eyebrows rose at the telling, even as Edward’s complexion darkened into a fearful mask of anger and loathing. “And for that you want him to die?”

“Not just die,” Edward breathed maliciously, as if savoring the very thought, “but die terribly!”

Valen Dreth cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I totally get that.” Edward was about to return to his supplications, but the Dunmer, no doubt tiring of the sing-song repetition of his chanting, interrupted, “What is this servant’s name, anyway?”

Edward frowned at this question. “Hmm…” he said, thinking hard. “I don’t know, but I suppose he must have one. I never bothered to ask, but I'm sure he mentioned it once or twice.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, what with him just being a servant and all.”

Dreth shook his head, and Edward returned to chanting. The Imperial's prayers continued for several minutes, but then a door overhead scraped open.

“Quick!” Dreth instructed. “The guards are coming! Hide the candles!”

Edward, eager to comply as to not risk further enraging the guards – insulting them, their gods, the dead emperor, their mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, priests, and family pets seemed as far as he should go, to his mind – gathered the candles quickly. Not bothering to extinguish them, he threw them under Valen’s bed, even as the tramping of armored feet grew nearer and nearer.

“You’re supposed to put the candles out!” Valen whispered angrily. But neither man could move now, as the Guards were in sight, and would see them with their contraband if they moved for them.

“Who cares,” Edward hissed back, “they’ll just run out of air and extinguish themselves!”

Valen glared at Edward, but said nothing. The guards, meanwhile, marched slowly down the hall, apparently inspecting the cells. Edward attempted to appear nonchalant as the men passed his cell. He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when one guard paused, his nose twitching. “What’s that?” he asked.

Valen and Edward exchanged worried glances. “What?” they asked.

The guard turned to them and seemed about to speak, but froze suddenly, a look of horror coming into his eyes. Edward stared back, puzzled, noticing with only fleeting interest the peculiar red hue of light that reflected on his armor. The guard, his eyes still transfixed on Edward’s cell, tapped a fellow guard, who likewise turned.

The second guard’s eyes bulged as the first’s had, but he seemed to find his voice. “Fire!” he screamed. “Quick, get those two prisoners out of there before they burn to death!”

Edward glanced down the hall, thinking with a feeling of excitement how interesting this all was. Who was it, he wondered, that had a fire in their cell? And how? He frowned as he glanced down the hall, cursing his misfortune that he was not at a proper angle to see the flames from his cell. That, at least, would have made his day a little more interesting.

He noticed only vaguely that the guards seemed to be headed in the direction of his cell, and that Valen Dreth was tugging incessantly at his sleeve. “What is it?” he snapped, spinning about to face his cell mate. “Can’t you see that I’m trying to find the…” He trailed off, a mask of fear covering his face. “Fire!!” he screamed, flailing his arms wildly. “Fire!!” Indeed it was, for the flames he sought were coming from his cell, and Valen’s bed.

Oh boy, this is great!

First Docada, the big prattler. Ah, that's why the Grey Prince wanted to get out!



And it ends with fire! Marooned Dragon probably can't decide whether to laugh or cringe! He's probably thinking this s'wit will never find his hidden shrine. Riiight!

This episode had me dying laughing - and remembering Valen's fate in a later chapter!!! WOO HOO !!! I love this story !!!!!!

haute ecole rider and malx: thanks for the comments, glad you enjoyed these chapters!!

From a little fire,
Big flames can grow.
And from a fool’s fire,
Well, who can know?
-- Song of Flame

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

The guards had, rather brusquely, pulled Edward and Dreth out of their cells, and shoved them aside. “Quick!” one guard was calling, “Get buckets of water!” Another was hastening to comply. Edward glanced about wildly, trying hard to master the panic that flared in him at the sight of the raging flames.

“There, on the table near the lanterns!” His eyes spotted a bucket of water, and his senses seemed to calm. He could help, after all. “Here,” he called, racing for the bucket. In a moment, he had taken hold of it and was racing back toward the flaming bed. “Stand aside!” he declared.

He heard Valen shout, “No!” but took no heed of him. The Dunmer, he thought, might be too frightened to take action, but he, Edward the Imperial, was not. The elf continued to shout, but Edward concentrated on his task.

So it was that he heard Valen shout, “It’s not water – it’s oil for the lamps!” But he didn’t process the meaning of the words until after he’d chucked the bucket’s contents onto the flames.

Two and half seconds too late, he gasped as the import of Dreth’s warning sunk in, and paused. For a moment, it seemed as if the bucket full of oil had managed to smother the flames. In the next, however, flames shot up anew, spreading across the floor and climbing the walls and ceiling – everywhere that Edward had splashed with oil. The wooden supports that lined the stone were already catching flame, and the fuel-covered stone was already alight.

Edward’s horror turned into full blown panic, and he began screaming wildly in the face of the flames. He could feel the intense heat of the fire from where he stood, several feet away, but he was too panicked even to move from the spot. He could only scream and flail his arms about madly.

He felt a hand pull him away, and he heard voices shouting for the prisoners to be released; for the building to be cleared; and for more water to be brought, as quickly as legs could go. But he was too lost in unthinking, unreasoning fear to do anything beyond scream.

It was only when a hard slap impacted with his face did he rouse himself from the blind horror. All at once, he realized that he was no longer in his cell, but an oddly familiar underground passage of some sort. He paused in his screaming to glance about him.

Valen Dreth was at his side, glaring at him. “You moron!” he said, “Are you trying to get us caught?!”

Edward blinked at him, trying to piece together what had happened during the lapse of his reasoning. The last thing he could remember was throwing a large bucket of oil onto the fire in their cell. Now, here he was in the underground passages leading from the prison, where he and the Emperor had traversed so long ago. He gasped out loud. “That’s it!” he said. “This is where we are, in the passage leading from that cell!”

Valen continued to glare at him. “Of course it is! Why do you think I dragged you down here? So we could escape!”

“Really?” Edward asked, somewhat taken aback. Here he had been sent to kill this elf, and the man was helping him to escape.

“Yes. You know how to get out of here,” Valen explained. “And I don’t want to go exploring on my own.”

“Oh, I see,” Edward nodded. Not as kind of him, then…but they still got out, at least.

“I was able to pull you out without the guards noticing, since they were so busy putting the fire out and getting the other prisoners away before they burnt to death. Of course, your screaming like a little girl didn’t help me any…”

Edward shifted in place, shrugging apologetically. “Well, sometimes I just…panic,” he explained.

The elf’s expression of disgust unchanged, he sighed but said, “Alright, let’s gets going. You lead.”

Edward swallowed hard. He could still remember the creepy, grabby, unwashed hands of the goblin creatures that infested these tunnels -- not to mention the assassins who seemed to materialize out of nothing. "Me?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me to lead?"

Valen glared at him again, demanding, "Yes! Now move!"

Sighing and shivering a bit, Edward gingerly stepped forward, peering into the scantily lit chambers and passages around him. They were, he reckoned, about half way through the tunnel...soon, they would reach the door that had been locked last time, and the underground, goblin-infested passage. "It's this way," he declared, pointing down the passage.

"Alright," Valen nodded. "Lead on."

Edward flinched, but -- truth to be told -- he was at least glad to have this elf with him as he traversed these lonely stone halls. "It's a shame I'm going to have to kill him," Edward thought. "He seems a nice enough chap to me."

Goblins, goblins so sweet
Goblins, we love goblin meat
Goblins, goblins to eat
Goblins, send us goblins we entreat.
-- Song of the Goblins, popularized version of a favorite song of the inmates at Woodmeadow Lunatic Asylum

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

Edward and his companion had traveled together in silence, each dreading an encounter with anything -- man or beast -- that might inhabit the desolate passages they traversed. At last, however, they reached the wooden door that had, on Edward's last passage, been locked.

Testing the handle, Edward groaned.

"What is it?" Valen whispered, glancing about. "What's the matter?"

"The door is locked," Edward explained.

"Locked?" Valen gasped. "Well, what now? Oh, wait! There's a passage, over there. You see?" He pointed to the earthy opening in the stone walls.

Edward frowned, but then an idea struck him. "Oh, really?" he asked, his tone expressing surprise. "Well, why don't we check it out?" Staying back just long enough so that the elf would unconsciously take the lead, Edward smiled to himself. The last time he'd gone through this terrible, stuffy underpass, it had been heavily infested with goblins. This time, at least, someone else would take point.

Meanwhile, just as Valen and Edward were stepping into the musty caverns underneath the Imperial Prison, the Grand Champion was telling his adoring fan, "Now, I'm very serious. I have to go see my friend in prison!"

To which the style-challenged elf protested, "But, Great Champion, surely he does not deserve to bask in the glow of your presence after his insolence?"

The valet sighed. Aside from the impracticality of attempting to make the little Bosmer understand, he couldn't reveal his actual motivations in having Edward sent to prison, as that would endanger his friend. So, unable to explain that he'd been facilitating a Dark Brotherhood execution, he had to make due with convincing the fan that Edward was, in fact, worthy of his assistance. So, on this pretext, he told the Bosmer that he'd forgiven his friend, and so was going to plead with the Guards for his release. He did not doubt that his clout would win Edward's freedom, just as it had earned him imprisonment; so, a quick talk with the guards, maybe signing a few autographs or so, and Edward would be free -- and after he had an opportunity to scope out the prison, locate Dreth, and maybe already dispose of him.

"Now," Dragonheart told his follower, "let's have no more of this talk. I'm going. And, if you want to come too, you have to be polite. Do you understand?"

The fan sighed deeply, but said, "Yes, my Champion, for you, anything -- even be nice to that...that...that fiend!"

Rolling his eyes, the valet continued toward the palace, hoping that the fan would soon -- very soon -- tire of trailing him.

At the same moment, Edward and Valen were creeping through a damp, musty crawlspace. "Shhh!" Edward hissed. "I think I heard something!"

Valen froze, and they listened for several minutes in silence. Yet no sounds came to their ears. "You must have imagined it," the elf told him.

"No," Edward told him. "I don't think so. I think it was one of the goblins."

"Goblins?" Valen asked, turning horrified eyes toward him.

Edward flinched. "That's right," he thought, "I haven't told him about the goblins yet, have I?" Aloud, he said, "Umm, yes, goblins...don't you remember me telling you how they infested these tunnels?"

Valen glared at him. "No!"

"Oh...well, I did," Edward assured him, most insincerely.

"You liar!" the elf charged.

Edward stared at him in affected shock at this effrontery. "How dare you!?" he demanded. "I never lie, elf!"

Valen stared daggers at him. "Just wait until we're out of here, Imperial!" he growled. "You'll pay!"

Edward rolled his eyes, and shook his head in a taunting, mock frightened manner. "Since we're on the topic, elf, I've got a score to settle with you, too, once we're out of here."

"Good!" Valen sneered. "Now I'll have a chance to kick your -"

At that moment, both men froze as a pair of glowing yellow eyes peered into the darkness at them from the rear end of the tunnel. They turned at a peculiar angle, as if the head that contained them had pivoted in a quizzical manner. Then it cooed in a high, sinister way. Both men began to scream in hysterical, panicking tones. Valen started kicking and scrambling to be free of the passage; being in the lead, however, his kicks ended up finding their way into Edward's face and torso.

Furiously, frantically, meanwhile, the Imperial was grabbing and pulling, likewise attempting to crawl out of the damp, dark pass; his efforts, however, did little but hamper his companion’s ability to flee.

Hear the screams,
Scream the alarm,
Alarm the guards,
Guard the Palace!
-- Official Defense Plan for the Imperial City, as transcribed from the Royal Archives

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

Dragonheart rounded a bend, his heart feeling very light. At last he was free of the houses that obscured the panorama of colors overhead, and so he would be able to see the sunset -- strangely early as it was -- casting its lovely reddish hue upon the city. Glancing upwards, however, the Imperial froze in horror. It was no sunset lighting the city in hues of red and orange. No indeed; it was a giant spire of flame encircling the lower portion of the White Gold Tower, and climbing higher and higher with every lick of the deadly orange flame tongues.

This -- the Imperial Palace in flames -- was bad enough; but it was worse since the Imperial Guards had commissioned the Bastion -- what had once housed the Imperial Prison -- for their own use, and had transferred the prison to the palace basement about a year earlier.

"My gods," he gasped. "I've sentenced him to death!"

"Oh dear," the adoring fan, almost silent for once, gasped. After a moment, he added, "At least, though, Great Champion, it started before you entered!"

The valet glared at him, a thousand terrors assailing his thoughts. What sort of evil fate had he subjected his friend to, all in his bumbling attempt to assist? Why, why, why had he not trusted to Edward's abilities to hunt Dreth without any interference or assistance from him? How could those fools of Guards let a fire like this start when there were prisoners locked in the dungeons? And was it possible that they had rescued the prisoners?

Staring at the flames as they climbed, engulfing more and more of the palace tower with every moment, Dragonheart felt very sick. He had, he was sure, sentenced his friend to a terrible death; and now he was too late to do anything to help.

Of course, little did he know that, at that very minute, Edward and Valen Dreth were very much alive, and busily beating, kicking and screaming at one another in their individual attempts to get out of their tunnel enclosure before the other. Finally, delivering a good, hard kick to Edward's face, Valen managed to break free of him. The Imperial, however, was hot on his heels as he fled, and scrambled out of the passage only seconds after the elf, careening into him as he leaped from the earthen shaft.

Both men tumbled into a heap at the mouth of the passage, and at once fell to striking each other in their frenzied attempts to get away. A gurgling goblin inquiry from within the tunnel roused them from their senseless endeavor long enough so that they could rise to their feet; and then they took off at breakneck speed, paying no heed to which direction they went, and knowing little except that there was an ever-increasing horde of vile creatures on their tails.

Eventually, screaming and fleeing as they were, Edward lost sight of Valen, and imagined that he must have taken some turn to another side. He honestly didn't care...he was far too worried about the host of furry, biting, hissing, screeching things on his tail to care about the elf -- even if it did mean muddling up his contract. Worse yet for him, though, was the realization that there was no band of Blades waiting at the end of the tunnel to destroy his pursuers. And, perhaps most alarming of all, was the fact that the tunnels were growing increasingly hotter. Was it possible, Edward wondered, that the palace itself had caught flame, and was heating these passages, like a giant clay oven? The thought sent a shiver down his sweating back, and he hurried his frenzied pace.

At last an aperture in the earthen basement opened up, spilling into the stone of the underground palace passes. Edward charged blindly forward, leaping joyfully from the clay oven, only to find with dismay that he'd entered a brick one. "Ye gods!" he gasped, tearing at his clothes and gasping for breath. "It's hot enough to cook something!"

This realization prompted another one, and -- despite toppling at the brink of a terrible death -- Edward was at once aware that all of his exertion had made him terribly hungry.

Terrors of the night,
Fears of the ages,
All of these are naught
Compared to him.
-- Song of Edward, Verse Six

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

From far and wide, people paused in alarm and dismay that bright afternoon. In horror their eyes turned to the Imperial City, and in horror they watched the iconic White Gold Tower grow red and orange, and seem to dance before them. Mountaineers in the Northern slopes, midland herders tending their flocks, outlaws vanished into the rocky dwellings of the Colovian Highlands, hermit dwellers of the Valus Mountains, boatmen and women in the harbor and upon the high seas, Blades atop their rocky summit of Cloud Ruler Temple, hunters in the Great Forest...all these saw, in horror and dismay, the flaming icon of the Imperial City, indeed, of the Empire itself, glow red and dance its doomed dance against the late afternoon sky. What tragedy, what disaster, what travesty could have brought the Palace to such an end? What cruel whim of the gods had it been to ignite the symbol of the Imperials, of Alessia and the slave-race who threw off the yoke of bondage to destroy their masters and establish themselves in their own right? Was it, the masses whispered in fear and alarm, the fulfillment of prophecy -- that the Dragonblood, once extinguished, had taken with it the greatness of the Empire? Did the burning of the White Gold Tower portend the wrath of the gods and the doom that awaited mankind, people wondered in growing terror?

Of course, little did these speculators realize just how wrong their frightened musings were, and just how far from the reality of the incident their wandering conjecture had strayed. Little did these troubled citizens realize that the burning of the Imperial Palace could not be attributed to any god, or to any stern fate dictated by the divines, but rather to a revengeful Imperial prisoner, whose disastrous supplications to the god of doom had led to a small but containable fire; and whose attempts at putting out that fire had escalated it into the burning inferno that they witnessed now, as it consumed the symbol of their nation's greatness. Little did they realize that, far from the grand and terrible images of powerful, vengeful gods that they conjured up, the actual cause of this disaster was at the moment himself frozen in terror, teetering over the edge of a newly opened fissure-like aperture.

And yet it was so, for Edward, whose bungling had ignited the Imperial Palace, now stood in mortification, overlooking a rift in the Imperial Sewers, no doubt caused by the tremendous crashing and shifting of portions of the palace overhead. It was a steep drop, a good fifty or so feet from where he stood, into a pit -- he knew not how deep -- wherein the contents of the Imperial Sewers had drained. Overhead, the moving and creaking of stone forewarned of imminent danger; and behind him, the hissing, squeaking, gurgling, spitting fury of a mob of monsters bespoke even more immediate menace. And yet, for all this, Edward could not make himself plunge into that horrid, steaming -- literally, as it, like everything around it, had heated up due to the conflagration above -- pool of waste below him.

This decision, however, was not one he'd have to make for himself, as a screaming, panicked body, appearing suddenly onto the plateau from some side passage, careened into him, hurling both itself and Edward headlong into the pit below.

Terrified as he was, Edward's fury mastered his fear; and as he rose to the surface he was cursing angrily at whoever had been the fool who pushed him in. The fool, it turned out, was Valen Dreth, and he likewise was cursing.

"What the Oblivion did you push me in for??" Edward berated.

"Why in Oblivion did you abandon me??" Dreth demanded at the same time.

Each about to shout denunciations of the charges leveled at his door, and condemnation of the other man, both paused in shock and dismay as they saw two packs of rats, goblins, and other subterranean-dwelling creatures plunge headlong off the miniature cliff in pursuit of their prey -- them. The elf and Imperial screamed in unison, each hastily making for the edge of the pit. Their swim was a long and vile one, and the plop, plop, plop behind them as their pursuers dove in did nothing to ease the disgusting nature of their business. At last, however, thoroughly soaked in the city's waste, they reached the edge of the chasm.

Hesitating not a moment, they scrambled out, noting with only fleeting satisfaction that the numbers of their pursuers had diminished significantly. They glanced about them quickly, and were able to pick out a path that seemed crossable. "Here!" Edward shouted, pointing it out. "We should be able to climb over the rubble!"

Panting, wheezing, cursing and grunting, the two men made haste to do so -- and ignore the awful, nauseating smell of heated septic waste that adorned their bodies, or the ever-increasing temperature that heated the rocks beneath them and the air they breathed.

It was a long climb, and a hard one, but, at last, they reached the summit of the rubble, and were, with much difficulty, able to leap to the other side of the ruined sewer passages. These, at least -- as their passages had drained into the fissure from whence Edward and Valen had just escaped -- were clear of all but a clinging sludge, and a few angry crabs. The crabs -- doubtless because of the heat -- were slower than usual, however, so that even their anger aided them little in their efforts to attack the two fleeing men.

"Die!" Edward cursed as he passed a trio of clack-clack-clacking crabs. "I hope you all bake in here, you bastards!"

Oh noes! Edward set fire to the White Gold Tower!

Had to laugh at the description of just about the entire population of Cyrodill watching the tower burn from their locations in the surrounding mountains. It's a pet peeve of certain folks on this forum that cities are so close to each other, and that Cyrodill should take more than a day to cross from one end to the other.

Valen and Edward fleeing the goblins was quite funny too.

But funniest of all was Docada's reaction to Norvayne's statement that he had sentenced his vile friend to certain death!

Rachel, I will have to read this tomorrow morning. I have a headache from H (brought on by the rain penning 2 dogs, a cat, a teen, and a husband inside with me all day). I want to enjoy DOCADA's saga, lol.

The vision of Edward running screaming through the tunnels and sewers below the Imperial City will keep me laughing through about anything !!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!

@haute ecole rider: thanks, glad you liked the chapters! And I know what you mean about the spacing issue...it seems rather cramped for the heart of the empire.

@malx: Ohhhh, rain and pets is bad enough, but teenagers only make things that much worse, lol. Glad you survived it! As for the story, thanks, I love the image of Edward and Dreth running about...I can just see them losing each other without noticing and then colliding like that, lol.

Sings us a song of cowardice,
And he knows the lyrics well.
Sings us a song of malice,
And he knows it as well.
-- Song popularized after the end of the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Valen Dreth and Edward crawled out of the same sewer grate that Edward had stepped out of what seemed like ages ago. They were still pursued by an ever diminishing band of creatures, but they were able to secure the grate in such a way that it would prove a daunting barrier to any creature lacking the intellect required to unfasten it. This done, they immediately dove into the cool water, both to soothe their overheated bodies and to remove the vile layer of waste that covered them.

As soon as he'd plunged under water enough times to wash as much filth as possible off of himself, Edward turned his attention to the City, where he was bound. Then, he gasped. "Oh my gods," he sputtered, indignation and rage filling him, "some fool has lit the Imperial Palace on fire!"

Valen glanced first at him, and then at the flaming spire rising high above the city, his expression changing from annoyance to shock to fury; Edward, however, took no note.

"Who would do such a thing?" the Imperial wondered aloud. "What sort of fiend?"

Valen Dreth stared at him, as if attempting to ascertain if he spoke facetiously or not; his angry, annoyed expression morphed into a darker, more annoyed one as he surveyed Edward, who still ranted furiously, bobbing up and down in the water with each proclamation.

"The White Gold Tower!" he was currently exclaiming. "The symbol of Aleyid power, and the symbol of the might of Imperials -- for it was we who took it from the race of filthy elves!"

Dreth shot him a dark look at this mention of elves, but he again took no notice.

"The arsonist should be strung up for this!" Edward roared, floundering to keep himself above water as he exhaled the air from his lungs. "This is treason, treason to the Empire! A slap in the face to history, to Imperials everywhere!"

Dreth stared at him icily, a mixture of amazement and disdain filling his eyes. "Don't you find it oddly coincidental," he asked, "that you lit a fire in the prison underneath the palace, and -- right after that -- some arsonist lit the palace on fire?"

Edward gasped. "You're right!" he exclaimed, pausing for a moment to pull himself up out of the water. "That's a good point! It must have been one of the guards!"

Valen stared at him, too surprised by this conclusion to respond.

"They must have known about the fire in the dungeon, and took the opportunity, when everyone was distracted, to light the palace on fire!"

The elf grimaced at this wanton stupidity, but said only, "Come on, let's get to shore."

Edward didn’t need to be told twice, and both men swam toward the Island city. The Imperial pulled himself out of the water wearily, and collapsed with a heavy thudding sound onto the sandy shore. “It’s amazing, Dreth,” he told the elf, “that we made it out of there! We actually make a pretty good team, you know that?” He didn’t see the Dunmer’s malicious smile, so he continued, “You know – you won’t believe it – but I had come to the city expressly to kill you. But I’m not going to do that now. Vicente be hanged…I could never hurt a pal who helped me escape from prison and saved my life!”

Valen Dreth sneered, and asked, “You, going to kill me? There’s a laugh.”

Edward glanced up, annoyed, but froze suddenly. The elf was toying with a dagger, a dark look in his eye.

“You know,” he told the Imperial, “I didn’t get you out of there for your sake. I told you so from the beginning. But now that we’re out…well, there’s only one person in the world beside me who knows about it.” He smiled, fixing his eyes on Edward’s. “I can’t have that, now can I?”

Edward gaped at the insolence of the man. “You mean…you want to kill me? After I decided to spare your life and everything?”

“’Fraid so,” Valen answered matter-of-factly. “I don’t need any witnesses to our escape. So, you see, you’re putting me in rather a difficult position.”

Edward, however, had heard enough at this point; if the elf’s toying maliciously with his dagger hadn’t convinced him of the sincerity of his words, the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes certainly did. Scrambling to his feet, and loosing a yelp of fear at the same time, Edward sprinted for the cliff face. Even the protests of his weary legs did nothing to slow him. In a moment, he was climbing the rock face, the sounds of the elf quick on his heels driving him ever onward and upward.

“Begone, murderer!” Edward shouted back, desperately clinging and inching higher. “Leave me be!”

He heard Valen laugh behind him, and then felt a cold, clammy hand wrap around his ankle. “C’mon now,” the elf told him, his tone harsh yet almost musical in its cruelty. “You may as well make this easy on yourself.” He tugged downward, hard, on Edward’s leg.

The Imperial was shrieking with fright at this point, and kicking wildly with his unfettered leg. “Let go!” he screamed. “Let go of me!”

He heard Valen laugh, and felt the long, cold fingers of the elf’s free hand brush with his other leg. Flailing it about more violently, he was glad when his heel impacted sharply with the Dunmer’s grasping hand. “Let go!” he repeated, still kicking. He was too frightened to look down, and it was difficult enough to remain in place while Valen pulled on his one leg, and he kicked with the other, without trying to pull himself higher.

But he heard the growl of the elf as his kick found its mark, and he heard him say, “Alright, enough games Imperial twit. Time to die.”

This sent Edward into a new frenzy, and he was all at once screeching as he’d never screeched, and kicking like he’d never kicked. He felt his heels impact with the Dumner several times, and felt the hand on his leg slip away, but he still hadn’t had the courage to look down. Instead, he continued to flail with his lower body, and cling onto the rock cliff face with his upper.

Let me guess - so Edward Numbnuts managed to kill Dreth after all?

'Tis ironic, isn't it, that he always manages to accomplish every 'mission' he so half-heartedly with multiple misconceptions sets out to do? Though usually in manners unforeseen?

His speech at the burning of the White Gold Tower had me holding my laughter in (which was quite painful) due to the early hour. It would have frightened the cats terribly!

As soon as he'd plunged under water enough times to wash as much filth as possible off of himself, Edward turned his attention to the City, where he was bound. Then, he gasped. "Oh my gods," he sputtered, indignation and rage filling him, "some fool has lit the Imperial Palace on fire!"

And this is where I put my head down on the table and gave in to helpless laughter.

The Adoring Fan will forever be Docada now!

This chapter never gets old !!! I roared just as hard this read as the first - I LOVE THIS STORY !!!!!!!!

@haute ecole rider: lol, quite right -- Edward, with a few notable exceptions, always manages to come away from his tasks successful -- but never through the means one would expect. Glad you liked the White Gold Tower speech; I loved writing it...I could see him bobbing and spluttering in fury at the "assault" on the "symbol of Imperial might".

When trying to figure out the social landscape of the game, I've always sort of seen the Imperial world as being even more of an extension or re-imagining of the Roman world than the game has it, and so attributed a lot of the Roman prejudices toward "barbarians" to the Imperials, toward non Imperials. As I see it, there would be people like the valet, who don't put people in the "barbarian" and "Imperial" camps; these would be the majority of "regular" people. But many of the noble Imperial families, especially, would consider themselves a cut above the regular Imperial "riff raff", and heads and shoulders above the "barbarian" riff raff. Edward, coming from a noble family, as well as being a total snot, would hold these ideas very dear, and would be seeped in the history of the Imperials from a very pro-Imperial viewpoint. So, to him, this tower is nothing more than a symbol of Imperial might -- because the Imperials were able to take even such a prize from the "filthy elves" and make it their own. To see it burn, therefore, would be a terrific blow; alas for Edward, he has no idea that he, himself, is the cause for that blow. (You can see a similar refrain of his bungling leading to a consequence that he would be appalled at in the Felicity subplot that shows up later [which, I think, I started to post on the Bethesda forum?] -- again, if not for Edward's bungling, the entire subplot never would have been introduced. )

Grits: "And this is where I put my head down on the table and gave in to helpless laughter.

The Adoring Fan will forever be Docada now! "

LOL. Thanks, I loved writing this sequence. As for Docada, I'm glad to hear that as well...he was certainly memorably annoying/creepy in the game as the style challenged stalker, so I'm glad Docada captured that as well.

mALX: Thanks, glad that it retains its funniness on a re-read. As for Edward, well, his tact is almost as great as his powers of perception. He's not only dense about his own actions, but he totally misses -- or doesn't care enough to look out for -- the impact of his words.



Fire reaching to the sky,
A thousand voices asking why,
And one elf to die
Just another adventure gone awry.

-- Song of Edward, Verse Seven


Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

Still shrieking and flailing about several minutes later, Edward felt his arms giving out. "Please!" he was pleading. "Please don't kill me! I swear, I'll never tell anyone! Oh please, Dreth, don't hurt me! We serve the same god! We escaped together! I helped you get out! Please, don't kill me!"

The elf, apparently, had no intention of acquiescing, for he made no response; but, even as terrified as he was, Edward was still unable to hold on any longer. Knowing that the fall would mean his death, Edward felt tears streaming down his face as his last vestiges of strength gave out. The next thing he knew, he had fallen, and was covering his head and face with his hands. He felt himself land on something flesh-like and warm, and knew at once that he'd landed on the elf -- who was, he was sure, about to murder him.

"Please!" he screamed out desperately, "Please don't!"

He didn't really expect mercy, but he thought he may as well try as not. To his surprise, however, his entreaty was met with absolute silence. "Valen?" he asked raising his head a bit. Opening one eye just a sliver, he asked, "Valen Dreth?"

The elf was there, all right, but not as Edward had expected. Rather than towering over him ready to strike, the elf lay sprawled out on the shore. The fleshy object he'd felt had been Valen's leg, on which he'd landed. Shrieking anew, Edward jumped up and backwards. The Dunmer was, somehow, lifeless and unmoving. "Is he...can he be...dead?" Edward wondered, terror still toying with him. But he had to know, and so he leaned over the elf.

Gasping, Edward noted with both glee and surprise the trickle of blood running from Valen's head onto the rock on which he lay, and down into the sand of the shore. Had he fallen, Edward wondered, or had one of those kicks pushed him backwards? So lost in panic as the Imperial had been, he'd not even heard a thud or fall...and yet, now, Valen Dreth was dead, his head apparently smashed on the cliff walls of the City Isle.

Edward's eyes bulged in appreciation and joy. "Oh, great Marooned Dragon!" he prayed out loud. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving your humble slave from the grasp of this madman! Thank you! Only one of your greatness could recognize the caliber of your loyal slave! Only one of your grandeur could appreciate my value to you!"

Meanwhile, as Edward showered the god of doom and destruction with adulatory worship, his valet was frantically trying to find word of his cremated master, as he thought Edward must surely be by this point. He'd previously learned that the prisoners had been rescued, as had all the inhabitants of the castle and many of the books in the Elder Scrolls Library. Even the Moth Priests had been rescued before the inferno spread to their chambers. But, amidst all the rescued, he could find no trace of Edward.

"Look here," he was telling one of the guards, "you must have some idea of him, and what's happened! I need to know!"

The guard, covered in soot and looking somewhat less than pleased to be harassed in this manner over a mere prisoner, snapped back, "I told you already, I can't find him in the records!"

"Why not?" the valet asked. "He must have been registered, since he was taken right here."

"Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn't," the Guard answered. "But I still can't find no mention of him in the records.

"Why?" Dragonheart demanded to know.

"Because the records is burnt," the Guard answered, guffawing at his own joke. "And you can't find something as is burnt, can you now?"