The virtuous seek out the Nine,
But Mehrunes Dagon the swine.
While the Nine seek out the pure,
But the villains Dagon loves for sure.
-- Sundas School lesson





Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One

Edward had finished scaling the nearly sheer cliff face and was standing outside the walls of the Imperial City . He was hot, tired, and very weary; and his mood was little better than his physical condition. He had just recovered his breath, and was heading toward the nearest gate, when a hand tapped his shoulder.

Jumping in alarm and spinning about, mad images in mind of the furious shade of Valen Dreth pursuing him, he was surprised to see only a red-robed and hooded figure. He stared quizzically at the man before him, whose face was difficult to make out, so hidden underneath his hood as it was. And then his eyes bulged anew, and he felt a scream of panic rising in his throat. This was one of those men, those assassins, who had pursued the Emperor and him during his first escape from the Imperial Prison.

But the robed figure spoke before he could commence screeching. "My dear Edward!" he said, "I am sent to you by our dark Lord and Master, Mehrunes Dagon himself."

Edward paused, the urge to scream momentarily put on hold. "You? What connection are you to my god?"

A smile was visible underneath the hood, and then the lips parted. "Why, I am an agent of the Mythic Dawn, whose mission it is to serve our glorious master."

Edward frowned at him. "Wait, you guys serve the Dragon too?"

"The Dragon?" the agent hissed. "No, we serve Mehrunes Dagon, not Akatosh!"

Edward frowned in confusion at him.

"And our god has heard your pleas, and seen what you have done for us!"

"Oh," Edward declared, his expression brightening a little. He wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd done, but the fact that it pleased a god sounded good enough to him. "I see."

"Indeed. We would like to welcome you into our ranks on behalf of our god, if you would be willing to join?"

Edward positively beamed. "I'd be delighted!" To himself, he thought, "How exciting! Joining a cult of assassins at the invitation of a god himself! Finally, I am getting the recognition I deserve!"

"Excellent! Well, then, initiate, after your glorious work of destruction, we have a task that will seem trivial by comparison. And yet, we hope it may be sufficient to excite your interest, so that you will lend your manifold skills to our endeavors?"

"Of course!" Edward agreed hastily. Whatever it was, he was glad to do it. After all, this god and his followers were the only ones who really, truly valued him for what he was; when was the last time Vicente had spoken of his “manifold skills”, or mentioned tasks that would be “trivial” to him? Never, that's when!

"Wonderful," the robed figure smiled. "Now then, it's a simple task really. We need you to discover the identity of the Emperor's last son, hunt him down, and kill him."

Edward blinked. "What?" he asked, astonishment filling his eyes. "You want me to kill him?"

The robed man nodded. "Yes. Our Lord has faith in you."

Edward's eyes gleamed with sheer pleasure. It was one thing to be sent by a mere band of assassins to kill people; it was another indeed to be hand picked by a god to kill the Emperor's son and heir. "I'll do it!" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Good," the Mythic Dawn agent nodded. "Our god will be proud of you!" Edward's smile grew to positively titanic proportions. "And, once it is done, we will have another task for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes...the Amulet of Kings has disappeared. We need it."

Edward shifted uneasily. "The Amulet of Kings?"

"Yes...rumor has it that some damned fool picked it up after our Brethren slew the Emperor, and we've not been able to locate it since."

"Ahh," Edward answered. "Well, I, umm, might be able to help in that regard."

"Oh?"

"Yes...I've, umm, heard rumors that, uhh, Friar Jauffre has it."

"Oh?" the Mythic Dawn agent repeated, staring out from under his hood at Edward. "I suppose we should have thought of that...but we trailed that swine Baurus, and he didn't have it..."

"Yes, well, rumors are only rumors," Edward declared. "Still, I'd check it out if I were you." To himself, he thought, "Blast! If only I had known beforehand, I might have saved them the trouble!" But he didn't dare reveal his part in this masquerade, for fear that his shifting loyalties would reflect poorly on him to this agent of his god.

The pure of heart
Stands by his friend
Ignoring the faults,
Standing firm to the end.
-- On Friendship

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two

Edward, now an initiate into the Mythic Dawn, strolled into the city with a glad heart. Sure, he still reeked of sewerage; yes, someone in whom he'd placed his faith -- Valen Dreth -- had betrayed him and tried to murder him; true, his valet sent him to prison; and, granted, the burning White Gold Tower still rose above the city like a giant flaming specter. But things were finally looking up for him, at least on a personal level. The gods -- "Curse all of them, except, of course, the One, True Being, Marooned Dragon" -- had spent years ignoring him and spitting upon him; now, at long last, they were recognizing him for what he was, and what he could offer them. And soon, so soon as he'd completed his task of assassinating the Emperor's heir...well, what rewards could he expect from a god, after all? There were no limits for gods...they could reward the faithful as they saw fit. And surely one of his character would be deserving of ample rewards, wouldn't he?

Frowning as he realized he'd broken into that habit of old of licking his lips greedily at the prospect of wealth or fortune, Edward straightened himself out, and strolled nonchalantly through the town. He didn't even take it personally when people pulled quickly away, wrinkling their noses and staring at him with disdain. He was too lost in scheming reverie to take much note. "Maybe," he was thinking, "my god will make me Emperor! After all, with all the unworthy heirs dead, and the last of the ingrates dead at my hands no less, the mighty Dragon might see that there are none better suited to rule than myself." He was smiling broadly at the prospect, and walking a bit aimlessly, as he wasn't really sure of where he was going or why. He had a vague idea of retrieving his horse from the stables, but was afraid that, if he should pay a personal visit to Snak gra-Bura's stables, she might recognize him. Yet, as much as he despised the beast, he couldn't warm to the idea of traveling on foot. And, with his wayward servant at last cast off like the vile ingrate that he was, he really had no choice but to fetch the horse himself, or to abandon it.

It was then that an annoying voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt his ears practically itching with aggravation. "Don't take it to heart, Champion," it was saying, "it's sad and all that for sure, but he really is unworthy of your concern!"

Edward froze. Was this...could it be? Were the annoying fan and the miscreant servant approaching? His first instinct was to run, as his servant would no doubt try to have him incarcerated again; but the prevailing sensation was to murder the fiend on sight. So, he remained fixed in place, listening as the voice continued to implore its "Champion" to move on and forget the deceased unworthy. There was now no doubt in his mind...in all of Tamriel, he was sure that only the Ice-Cream-Head could babble so incessantly, repeating the same, oftentimes meaningless, things over and over in ever new and different ways.

Soon enough, the voice drawing nearer and nearer, first the taller form of his valet, and then the childlike form of his valet's stalker, rounded a corner, and froze. Edward watched as his servant's eyes grew wide in shock. Just about to engage in a bitter tirade about betting his servant was surprised to see him after his murder attempt, he froze a second time as the other man rushed over and clasped his hands on his shoulders.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "Oh, sir, you're alive! Oh, thank the Nine -- I was so afraid..."

"That you'd murdered me?" Edward spit out, ignoring the look of relief and joy that spread across the other man's face.

"No sir," the valet answered. "That you'd died in that fire! I'm so sorry that I interfered. I thought I'd give you a shot at Valen, and I almost got you killed."

Edward stared at his valet, who was positively shaking with both remorse and joy, his face a strange, contorted mask of the two. Something in the other man's relieved expression, and the fact that he didn't recoil in disgust though he was grasping reeking clothes, stayed the flow of bitter fury that was about to roll off of Edward's tongue. "What?" he asked.

"My plan -- to get you in with Dreth by having you hauled off to prison," Dragonheart continued. "Some fool started the palace on fire, and you almost got killed."

Edward glared at him furiously, but the words somehow penetrated his barrier of livid unreasonableness. "You mean...that was all a stupid ploy to get me access to Dreth?"

"Of course," the valet nodded. "I didn't suppose anything like that would happen, though."

"You almost got me killed!" Edward roared, understanding simply giving way to a new facet of fury. "How dare you meddle with my work?!"

Great imagery you created with this guard !!! Perfect rendition of a working class dialogue !!



ROFL !!! What a perfect description !!!


And Edward joining the Mythic Dawn - one of my favorite subplots in the whole story !!!! ROFL !!! Awesome Write !!!!

Why is it every time I read this story, I have a vision of an animated film playing in my head?

A bad animated film, no less. Something along the caliber of Speed Racer from the '70's.

Hilariously funny because the animation is so bad, and even more hilarious because the plot doesn't care how bad the animation is, it's that hysterically good!

And mALX:
Working class dialogue?? The working class doesn't talk quite this way around here! I guess it depends on where you live. So would that be more like ETN dialogue? Around here, it would be more like "'Cause the records are burn," the Guard answered, guffawing at his own joke. "And ya cain't find sumthin' dat's burn, can ya now?"

mALX and haute ecole rider: Thanks -- glad you're both enjoying the chapters! Where I live, that's how things get mixed up..."are" is "is" and things of that nature. However, you're quite right...it all depends on location...

Dear Divines,

My name is Edward, and I’m an Imperial living in the Imperial City. I am writing to you this holiday season because I have a request -- two of them, in fact -- and the priest at the temple said that you might answer them if they were good requests. So, you’ll have to take my word on it that these are good requests, because they really are. First of all, please smite my brother. He annoys me. Secondly, could you make me Emperor when I grow up? I hope that’s not too much to ask, but I can’t think of anything else that would make a fitting present for myself.

Yours in subservience and all that,

Edward

-- Childhood letter written to the gods during the winter holiday season

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Three

It seemed to the Imperial that it was a decent trade off...forgiving his servant of lesser crimes than he had originally thought him guilty in order to secure his continued service. And, anyway, it appeared that the valet had already subjected himself to sufficient mental torture over having Edward arrested. The miscreant, apologetic servant once more welcomed into the master's fold, then, Edward wasted no time in giving orders. First, the valet had fetched him new clothes -- at his own expense, of course, seeing as how Edward's "money was all confiscated by those tin-suited baboons!"; this was nonsense, of course, as Edward had had no money, but his servant had not argued. Then, he'd gone to fetch their horses. Edward and the Adoring Fan were waiting outside the city gates when he returned.

"Well now, sir," the valet greeted, "Snak gra-Bura was most obliging. She was glad to see someone was treating this old nag so well."

Edward grimaced. "I need to pray for a better horse," he reminded himself. "It's a disgrace when my god's hand picked assassin is riding around on a horse that has no respect for him!"

"Are you sure," the fan broke in at the sight of his beloved Champion, "that I must wait here for you, oh Great and Glorious Champion?"

"I'm afraid so," the valet nodded. "My friend and I have important, risky work, and we cannot endanger you with it."

"Oh, but, Mighty Champion, I would risk any harm to be near you!"

Edward grimaced, but his servant was quick to silence the fan. "No, no," he said. "You must stay here. That's the wish of your Champion, and you know you cannot violate it."

Assuming a crestfallen air, the little elf nodded. "Yes, my Champion, I will obey. But you will come back, won't you? You're not just lying to me like that other Champion?"

Here, the valet hesitated; but Edward had no compunction in piping up, "Of course he'll be back! Would your Grand Champion abandon you?" He didn't mean a word of it, and knew well enough that his servant didn't either...but, as far as he was concerned, he'd do whatever it took to lose the little blighter -- up to and including bloody murder, if necessary. For now, though, he was content to confine himself to non-violent means...particularly when the eyes of the Guard were so near at hand.

The little fellow's face brightened, and he pressed, "You promise, my Champion?"

The valet hesitated more visibly this time, but again Edward interjected, "Certainly he promises! The Grand Champion is as good as his word, after all!"

Though Dragonheart frowned, the elf was positively beaming now. "Oh, Great Champion," he eulogized, "you are the greatest, the absolute greatest! Words fail me when it comes to expressing your beneficence, your grandeur, your magnificence!" And, despite professing that words had failed him, the fan set about finding ample expressions to convey, in a hundred ways and a thousand glowing tones, just how great were the depths of his adoration.

Edward was positively seething by time they were out of sight of the little fellow, and utterly livid when, some time later, they were out of the range of his vocal praise.

"I really wish you hadn't said that, sir," his valet told him then. "Now I'm obligated to find him when we return."

Edward stared at the other man, his mouth agape. Finally, he stuttered -- so great was his rage that his usual steady flow of words had dissipated, "You wouldn't dare, you...you...you accursed servant!"

Dragonheart turned surprised eyes to him at this tone, but replied, "Well, sir, you gave my word. And, as you know, I can't break my word."

Conflagration at the Palace! Destruction of the White Gold Tower!

It is with dismay and consternation of the deepest sort that your correspondent puts pen to paper in order that he may, though words come with difficulty, inform his readers that the White Gold Tower, symbol of our City and Empire's magnificence, is, at the hands of a low, scheming arsonist, no more. Reportedly started by a vile prisoner, who was being held in the dungeons underneath the palace proper, a blazing inferno swept upwards, igniting everything in its path in a devastating and unstoppable orgy of destruction. Alas, but the charred ruins of the tower are all that remains; and even these will, it is rumored, need to be taken down, as they present a considerable safety hazard. This is indeed a dark day for the Empire, and for all who have come to depend on the might, glory and righteous guidance that it provides. With shaky hand and trepidatious heart, your faithful correspondent signs off.

--Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four

All the while vowing that he would unceremoniously disembowel his servant if he ever thought -- so much as thought -- about seeking out his annoying elvish stalker, Edward and his valet made their way to Cheydinhal. Edward's thoughts were that he needed cash, first and foremost to buy a respectable horse; and then for whatever necessity popped up in his hunt for the Emperor's long-lost heir. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though not acknowledged by him, of course, was the fact that our wayward hero had no idea whatever of how to go about seeking out and exterminating the Emperor's son. Neither Friar Jauffre nor the Mythic Dawn agent had given him much to go on. A former monk wasn't a terrific lead, after all.

So, he figured, he'd finish up his business with the Dark Brotherhood, and then...well, he'd see where his path took him from there. Things had a way of falling into his lap, so, at present, it seemed the best course of action to hope that some information would come his way, so that he could get on with the business of murdering his emperor. "Marooned Dragon will understand, I'm sure," he thought. "These things take time and all that."

Of course, he could relate none of the true nature of his task to his foolhardy servant. "The moron will probably go off the deep end," Edward mused, "ranting about honor and duty to the emperor and all that rot." More than rants, however, the Imperial dreaded interference; he doubted very much -- though he'd be the last to admit it aloud -- that he could best his servant in a contest of arms, and so it seemed the far wiser course to avoid such a contest if he was to see to his business.

The other man's voice roused him from his reverie. "I'm actually surprised that you wanted to head out so quickly, sir," it was saying. "I would have thought you would have wanted to stay around to find the fiendish arson who destroyed the Palace."

Edward scowled at the mere thought of the blaggard who would torch the Imperial Palace, the symbol of the might of Imperials. "I would," he admitted, "except that I have such urgent business to attend." To himself, he thought, "I suppose working for a god does trump even an insult of that magnitude." It was one thing, to Edward's mind, to kill the emperor; the emperor was just a man, and any man -- him, for instance -- would be as good a ruler as the next. But the White Gold Tower? That symbolized everything that was great and glorious about the Empire and Imperials, from their conquest of the Aleyids up until the present day. The destruction of that symbol had been not just a slap in the face to the emperor, but to the Empire and every Imperial -- Edward included. It was personal to him, and he could picture a slinking, unwashed barbarian -- sometimes an elf, sometimes a Khajiit, sometimes a Nord, sometimes an Argonian...it didn't really matter which -- skulking about the palace, lighting the fires that had turned into the all-consuming conflagration he'd witnessed.

"Urgent, sir?" the valet asked, his brow wrinkling. "I thought you were just reconvening with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Umm, yes," Edward stammered, "That's true, but, I, ahh, also, umm..."

"Ohhhh..." the valet nodded, a knowing gleam in his eye. "Another secret mission?"

Edward flushed, but nodded. "That's right."

"Then Friar Jauffre didn't send you away without a task?"

Edward blinked. "Jauffre?" he repeated, suddenly feeling very guilty. He had, after all, practically sentenced the old man to his death, hadn't he?

"I knew it!" the valet continued obliviously. "He may be a grumpy old coot...well, not to put too fine a point on it, but a regular old nutter...but he's not foolish enough to let the man who retrieved the Amulet of Kings -- who was charged by the Emperor himself with returning it! -- slip through his fingers without roping him into service!" He was beaming proudly now. "You are an asset to the Empire, sir!" he told Edward. "A real asset. I mean, your Dark Brotherhood service was noteworthy enough, but this! Retrieving the Amulet of Kings, and now..." His eyes bulged. "Finding the heir!" he exclaimed, interrupting his own speech. "That's it, isn't it?"

Edward started. It was bad enough to have his fanciful servant imagining him on the side of the Emperor and working with Jauffre...but this?

Dragonheart beamed at Edward's reaction. "Ahh, I knew it!" he repeated. "I must say, sir, I am proud -- proud! -- to be working with you, and for our Empire!"

Edward nodded guiltily, the faintest twinge of remorse toying with his heart. It was too late to turn back from his chosen quest, however...and, right or wrong, it still held true that a god had more power of reward than a mere mortal Emperor. Thus, though touched by some pangs of conscience, he was not too sorry for his alliance.

The palace has fallen,
Gutted by a little fire
The Imperials are bawlin'
At the work of a liar.
-- Lyrics penned by Mankar Camoran

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

The ride to Cheydinhal had been uneventful, and -- so far at least -- nothing had dropped into Edward's lap as he'd been planning. He was hardly bereft of hope, however, and so he swaggered with a new-found ease into the Dark Brotherhood headquarters. None of the paltry peasants with whom he was about to associate, he knew, were working at the direct mandate of a god; even if Sithis and the Night Mother existed, these people were the nobodies at the end of their long chain of command -- whereas he was the servant and ambassador of the great Marooned Dragon. These thoughts so impressed upon his mind, he carried himself with an even greater air of arrogant superiority than before. All eyes turned as he passed, and doubtless a number of stomachs proportional to the ratio of eyes-to-stomachs present.

Vicente was standing in the main chamber as he entered, and turned to stare daggers at him. "Edward!" he barked.

His fierce tone jarred the Imperial's stony insolence, but not as much as the fact that, for the first time since their acquaintance, the Breton had used his actual name in addressing him. Edward suddenly felt very meek as he stared into the furious red eyes, managing, "Yes, Mr. Valtieri?"

"So you're back?"

"Ummm...yes?"

The Breton glared at him. "Is that an answer, or a question?"

"An...answer?" Edward stuttered, realizing too late that his answer regarding his answer to a perfectly obvious question was posed so timidly that it, too, sounded like a question.

Vicente's icy glare seemed to freeze the very marrow in his bones. "Do you have any idea what you've done, Imperial fool?"

"Umm...no?"

"Are you answering me, or asking me?" Vicente demanded, his tone powerful and fierce even as his eyes burned a furious red.

"Answering!" Edward shouted, taking care not to repeat his previous slip up.

"You've just committed an act of treason, of war in fact, against the Empire! And did so as an agent of the Dark Brotherhood!"

Edward felt the blood draining from his cheeks, and imagined that he must look paler than Vicente himself. "Ye gods!" he thought. "How could he possibly know?"

The Breton apparently took this guilty reaction as acknowledgment of his crime, so he continued. "After what you've done, if there was anything -- anything! -- that I could get you on, by the gods, I'd do it!" he snapped. "Unfortunately, as the only person you actually killed was Dreth -- your mark -- I can't find anything..."

His eyes were blazing with fury, and Edward felt himself quaking. "I understand you don't approve," he managed in a half-whispered tremor, "but I thought..."

"Thought?!" Vicente demanded, interrupting. "How could you possibly justify that?!"

Edward shrugged, realizing that it was likely better to avoid elucidating his process of rationalizing. "Well, at least I didn't actually kill him," he explained. It made no never-mind to him that he still planned to; just so long as the Breton's fury was redirected long enough for him to make his getaway...

Vicente blinked at this defense, demanding, "Kill him? Kill who?"

"The Emperor," Edward explained. "Well, the heir to the throne."

Vicente's eyes opened wide. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded.

The blood drained from Edward's face a second time. Was it possible, he wondered, that Vicente was speaking of some other transgression, and not his plot to murder the Emperor? But what? Certainly he had committed his share of misdemeanors and crimes in his day, but few -- except for his plot to kill the Emperor -- amounted to treason. "Well," he thought, "maybe stealing the Amulet of Kings could be construed as such...but could he possibly know about that?"

"Well?" Vicente prompted.

Edward seemed to shrink with every word the Breton spoke, and he wanted this interview to be over with as soon as possible. He was, to put it bluntly, scared nigh unto death. "I...I have no idea," he lied. "I just...what are you talking about?"

"Your stunt in the Imperial City!" Vicente roared.

Edward blinked in surprise. "Is that all?" he wondered to himself. Aloud, he said, "Look, I'm really sorry about that, but the provocation was too great...and, seriously, it's not like it's a big deal." Vicente's pallor seemed to redouble for instant, and then the Breton flushed red with fury. "I mean," Edward hurried to explain, "that's what I thought then...but now I see how, umm, wrong I was."

"Gods know," Vicente muttered under his breath, "if there was even the faintest technicality, I'd make short work of you..." His tone reaching a more audible note, however, he said, "But you completed your contract, and broke none of the tenets. So I've no choice but to give you the pay you were promised."

Edward took the bag of gold he was offered, but frowned. "Don't I get...like a bonus or something?" he asked. If it was true that he hadn't broken any rules, then it only seemed fair that he be rewarded accordingly. Vicente Valtieri's eyes flamed a shade of red that might well have come from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Edward at once fell to trembling. "Just kidding!" he yelped hurriedly.

"Let me make something clear to you," the Breton growled, "if you ever, ever do something like that again -- rules or no rules -- I'll personally drain you of the last drop of your blood, you worthless maggot!"

Edward blinked at the sheer fury the other man displayed. This really was too extreme, he thought -- but wisely kept to himself -- for something as simple as slapping the Grand Champion about a bit. Aloud, however, he said, "Yes sir. Now, as far as a new contract?"

"You'll be dealing with Ocheeva from here on out," he returned through clenched teeth. "I'd just as soon make a meal of you as not, but she says I can't...still, I'll have nothing further to do with you."

Knowledge is crucial to man's success
Without it, he is ignorant.
But wisdom is more important yet
For without it, he is a fool.
– An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six

A very depressed Edward slunk out of the Dark Brotherhood shortly after his meeting with Vicente. His conference with Ocheeva had gone little better than that with the Breton, although, at least, the Argonian didn't threaten to eat him. She had brusquely told him that his "reprehensible behavior" had put him in a bad spot with the Brotherhood, and -- should it ever happen again -- something "unpleasant" was sure to befall him. That said, she had given him his next contract, noting that he had officially been one mission away from working with her full-time, but that his actions had disgusted Vicente so much that he refused to work further with him.

So, given the details of his latest assignment -- to fake a death -- he left quickly. He hadn't, he noted sadly, even seen Antionetta.

His valet was waiting patiently for him at their inn, and was surprised to see the glare with which he was greeted. To Edward, of course, that made perfect sense -- because, in his mind, he was being castigated for striking his servant, the Grand Champion, rather than burning down the White Gold Tower, which he was utterly unaware that he had done.

"Back already, sir?" the valet greeted, deciding it was best to ignore the ill-humors of his master. "I take it then you must have a new contract?" Edward merely growled at him. "Well then, are we going to be spending any time here, or are we setting out at once?"

As much as he wanted to ignore his servant, this question gave Edward pause. The day was still young, and they had plenty of time to head out...but the thought of lazing about for a day or two was also an alluring one. "But the Dragon's business cannot be delayed," he told himself. By which, of course, he meant Mehrune Dagon's business. "Alright," he snapped, "we're heading out."

"Ahh, very good thing that I didn't rent us rooms yet," the valet observed. "I saw that the place was mostly deserted, so figured I'd wait..."

"And what in Oblivion makes you think I care?" Edward interrupted. "Do I tell you the details of my business? No! So what makes you think I want to hear the details of a servant's business? Just do your job, and shut up -- and we'll both be happier!"

The other man blinked at these venomous words, but, clearing his throat, returned quickly, "Yes sir. Of course sir. My apologies."

Edward glowered again. He hated that polite, up-tight attitude his servant took on when he was being...well, unreasonable. He said nothing, however, and the two trudged toward the city stables in silence.

At last, however, Dragonheart interrupted the gloomy quiet. "So, sir, where are we headed?"

"Chorrol," Edward snapped.

"Oh, very good!" the other man returned, his tone cheery. "So you decided to go there after all, sir?"

Edward snorted. "I didn't decide...that's where my next contract is. Plus, I have a few more questions for that stupid monk."

"Friar Jauffre, you mean, sir?"

"Yes, him."

"Ahh...you mean to aid you in your quest for..." Here, he glanced about and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "the long lost heir?"

Edward glared at him. "Yes."

"How exciting!" the valet commented, apparently forgetting or ignoring the other man's glum mood. "I suppose, for starters, you'll want to know his name?"

Oh, I'm sure location does matter. I wasn't referring to modern times working class dialogue at all - more like from a period historical movie about Great Britain or the very early Americas or something, lol. I ... watch a lot of period movies, lol.


GAAAAH! SPEW !!! Mankar Camoran's poem !!! ROFL !!!!

BWAAAAHAAAA !!! The whole conversation between Vicente and Edward - that is another one that never EVER gets old !!! I roared through it the first time and was anticipating it this time so I could roar through it again !!! I LOVE the back and forth between them in this scene !!!!




ROFL !!! AWESOME WRITE !!!!!!

QFT!

Again I really enjoyed the hilarious slapstick and Marx Brothers-style dialogue you write so well. As a matter of fact, this could have been a Hollywood comedy filmed back in the '30's with Groucho, Harpo, et al. Oh and let's throw in Laurel and Hardy while we're at it.

In thinking back, I realize now that the scene in Nenalata is pure Abbott and Costello! :facepalm:

Keep it up, I'm enjoying this!

Well, I must admit that I never imagined this being made into satire. I love it! Edward's sarcasm and responses are funny and engaging. I have only just read the first chapter, but I enjoyed it and will continue to read more.

@malx, I hear you, sometimes when I'm writing I hear the voices of the actors in those period pieces saying the character's lines, lol. Glad you enjoyed it!!

@haute ecole rider: hehe, glad you're enjoying Edward's bungling

@Lady Syl: welcome to the thread -- I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

Of Cyrodiil and Tamriel we sing
Of merchants, seafarers and a king,
Of thieves, cutthroats and criminal sorts
Of legionnaires and Blades in their forts.
-- Excerpt from Song of Tamriel


Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

It was a bright, sunny day when the pair arrived in Chorrol. Edward's mood had, through the course of their travels, brightened a tad. He had even deigned to share with his valet the details of his task -- that from the Brotherhood, of course, and not that from his god.

He was, he'd told the other man, supposed to pretend to kill a fellow named Motierre. He'd even been given a special knife for the task, which he showed to his companion. "They said it's covered in something that will cause a sort of paralysis that resembles death," Edward explained. "So I stab him with this in front of the other assassin -- who is really planning to kill him -- and it looks like he dies. And, before I stab him, he's going to act like he's really afraid of me. Then, once he's been put in the crypt and everyone thinks he's dead, I use this-" Here, he produced a vial of liquid. "Which is a counteractant that will revive him."

The valet frowned. "But why this charade, sir?"

"Because, it turns out this Motierre fellow was an underground criminal, but, for the right price, he turned, and has since been working with the Imperial Guard as an informant against some rather sinister characters. Now they want him dead. So I pretend to kill him in front of the assassin they've hired, and the assassin doesn't kill him because thinks he's already dead. Consequently everyone thinks he's dead. They just assume I was an assassin hired by someone else he'd informed on -- and, because he's acted afraid of me, the other assassin reports this to his employers. And then Motierre picks up his life somewhere else. You see?"

"I say, that's very clever," the valet agreed. "And, I suppose a bit risky for you, eh? I mean, if that other assassin figures out that you're a fake...or if he wants vengeance since he thinks you took out his mark?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He hadn't really thought about it like that before. "Well," he replied hesitantly, "I suppose that could happen."

The valet nodded. "Yes sir. Very brave of you to take on a fellow assassin!"

Edward's expression morphed into a glare. Somehow, his servant always had a way of annoying him. "He must do it on purpose," Edward thought. "That innocent nonchalance must be a pretext."

"So, when are you going to do this?" Dragonheart continued.

"As soon as I can get over there," Edward answered. "The Brotherhood had caught wind of a hit placed on him two days before they gave me the assignment. Which means our assassin will be here anytime."

"And if he's watching the house?" the valet mused. "Won't he see you enter?"

"So?"

"Well, won't that weaken your story? I mean, especially if he waits awhile, and you wait until the real assassin arrives to 'kill' him?"

Edward frowned. He didn't like to admit it, but there was some sense in the valet's words. "Hmm..." he said meditatively. "I suppose it might."

The two men walked in silent contemplation for a few minutes, each thinking of solutions to this poser. For his own part, Edward was lost. As it was, if he waited to enter, he'd need to find a quick, sure way to get into the house. What was he supposed to do, he wondered with a scoff...leave getting into the house to chance, and just hang around waiting for the bad guy to show up?

"I've got an idea!" the valet piped up suddenly, interrupting him from his unproductive reverie.

Edward groaned. "Of course he's got an idea..." It was bad enough that his servant could generally come up with a solution to any puzzle thrown their way...and it was worse that it was always a good one.

"Why don't I go to Motierre's house, tell him who I am and how I work for you and how you're working for the Brotherhood and all of that."

Edward rolled his eyes, contenting himself with criticizing the rambling structure of his servant's excited sentences in face of the inevitably good plan that he was about to put forth.

"Then," the valet continued, "he pretends to hire me as his valet, and I start to work for him. This way, when the real assassin breaks in, I can defend him if necessary, and let you in to play your little charade."

Edward frowned. He was searching for some sort of loophole -- anything really -- with which to fault this plan. So far, however, his efforts were meeting with no success. "Well, what if...I mean, suppose..." He growled. "Alright, fine," he said through clenched teeth. "It sounds like a decent plan. I guess."

One must impress, but never overdo it;
Show interest, but never too much;
Make her laugh, show off your wit;
And if better than the truth, lie, but just enough.
– Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Eight

Edward glanced out the window. It had been two days since his valet had gone into the 'employ' of Francois Motierre...two long, tedious days of getting himself up in the mornings, fetching and pressing his own clothes, ordering his own food, and, of course, paying for his own room. It was, in a way, amazing to him to realize how much he had come to rely on the services of his valet – the services, and, of course, the ready stream of cash, as the other man had long since ceased asking Edward for money of any sort, and had just made it a habit to pick up the tab or bill wherever they went. These, apparently, he had no difficulty paying, doubtless thanks to his secondary employment in the Thieves Guild.

For his own part, Edward had been staying at the Oak and Crosier inn, which was a nice enough establishment – and not terribly pricey, which suited the stingy Imperial very well indeed. Even the fact that it was run by a barbarian Khajiit hadn't bothered Edward too greatly, for Talasma – the publican – had greeted him with courtesy and remarked on his sophistication and breeding. “I suppose I am a bit overwhelming, compared to the barbarians she must be used to,” he'd thought to himself at the time.

Of course, the reason he was at this particular inn was that it was directly across from Francois Motierre's home, so provided him with a terrific view of the comings and goings of the skittish little Breton. Two wearying days having passed already, Edward had grown less assiduous in his task, going so far as to take long mid-afternoon naps, or grow engrossed in heated discussions and drunken debates with the locals – a “lot of primitive commoners,” as he termed them. At the moment, however, he was engaged in shamelessly flirting with a Breton woman, Estelle Renoit.

“You know,” he was telling her, “you'd almost pass for an Imperial.”

“Oh, umm, thanks,” she nodded, inching a bit further away from him on her stool.

“You don't have all of the features,” he continued, “but you're still a lovely woman.”

“Umm, thanks,” she repeated, edging yet further away.

“And I just can't believe you're still single,” he told her, repeating himself for at least the third time. “I guess it's just because in this little place there's no strong Imperial knight to sweep you off your feet?”

She groaned as he simpered.

“Well, don't you worry about that anymore,” he continued.

Estelle continued her creeping escape, but, all at once, she yelped in surprise as her stool tilted precariously. Reaching out, she grabbed Edward. But it wasn't enough to stop her falling backwards; it just meant that he fell, too.

Too lost in planning his next comments, Edward was just as surprised as she, and went down like a ton of bricks. “Ye gods!” he yelped, falling painfully onto his companion's barstool. “Ouch. That stings.” But, clenching his teeth, he tried hard not to show the pain he was feeling. He rightly suspected that crying wouldn't help him woo his lady-fair.

Rising, she turned to him furiously, and commanded, “Oh, get out of here!”

Still picking himself up, he blinked. “What?” he managed to ask, though it sounded as if he was being strangled in the attempt.

“Go away! I don't care if you think I look like an Imperial! I don't care if you're a knight! I don't care if the Emperor knighted you himself! I don't care how much land you own and how much your estates make a year,” she answered, repeating the lies Edward had told her. “And I couldn't care less if you're single, either!”

“But...but...” the thunderstruck Imperial stammered. “Don't you...I mean, aren't you....?”

“Oh! Idiot!” she growled, brushing past him and storming out of the inn.

He watched her go, his face a picture of astonishment. He had used the best compliments he could think of, going so far as to say that she – Breton though she was – looked like an Imperial; he had told some of his best lies and used his best lines; he had, in essence, done everything right, and still the foolish woman scorned him.

“Excuse me,” the gravely voice of a Khajiit interrupted his astonished reverie, “but please don't do that.”

He glanced behind him to see Talasma. “What?” he asked.

“Drive the customers away by harassing them,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It's not very good for business.”

He clenched his teeth, fighting back a furious remark. He was still staying here, after all, so he thought it better to hold off on insulting his hostess until he was leaving. “I wasn't harassing her!” he told her instead.

“Hmm...” the Khajiit muttered disbelievingly. “Well, whatever you call it, let's not have it happen again, shall we?”

It is said 'Never leave a child to his own devices'.
But we say 'Never leave a fool to his own devices'.
For see the harm he's inflicted when not left on his own?
What more if we'd left him to his own devices?
– Official clarification from the Nine, commenting on why they chose Edward to ward off the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

Edward sighed. He had stomped out of the Oak and Crosier Inn in a huff half an hour earlier, and was now seated on a bench by the tree known as “the great oak of Chorrol”. His mood was dark, and his thoughts ran in the same vein. “I am so sick of barbarians,” he was thinking to himself. “If I was Emperor, I'd banish them all.” Then, glancing at the tree whose branches reached up overhead, he growled. “And what a stupid idea....to build your entire town around a stupid tree. If I was the Countess...well, a Count...I would cut it down, and have a bonfire.” The idea of burning the symbol of Chorrol to ash cheered him a little, and he began to build up fanciful scenes in his mind of how this might be achieved. “I suppose,” he was thinking, “an arsonist might even get away with it...perhaps come by at night with some oil and a torch.”

He was positively grinning now – a broad, toothy, malicious grin – when a passing, patrolling Chorrol guard cleared his throat and asked, “Excuse me sir...everything alright?”

Edward flushed guiltily. “Of course!” he snapped. “I'm just sitting here...enjoying the sunlight.”

“Ahh, yes...beautiful day, isn't it?” the guard answered.

“It could be,” Edward returned, his mind still following the thoughts of a few seconds ago.

“Could be?”

"Uhh, is,” he hastened to correct himself.

“Yes indeed,” the guard nodded. “Well, you have a fine day then, sir.”

Edward nodded and returned to his malicious reverie, when all at once he saw the door to Francois Motierre's home open. He bolted upright as his servant's head poked out, and then an arm gesturing for him to enter hastily.

Racing across the plaza, Edward nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed into the building. His valet jumped back just in time to admit him, but another man – who he did not at first see – was not so fortunate. Edward careened into him, and both fell to the floor in a heap.

“Hey!” a lizard-like hiss exclaimed. “Who are you?”

Edward jumped to his feet to see a scaly Argonian – the individual with whom he'd collided.

“I am...” Suddenly, he paused. What cover story was he going to give? He and his valet had never really discussed that...just that he would pretend to kill Motierre in the other man's presence. So, he settled for the truth. “I am Edward, and I am an agent of the Dark Brotherhood. Go away – he's my victim.”

The lizard sneered. “Ohh, Motierre, you have been a naughty boy, haven't you? Oh well...as much as I'd love to see someone slit this treacherous filcher's belly open, I'm afraid I'm the one who has to do it, Imperial.”

Edward cringed at the description of the death the Argonian had prescribed, but, mustering all his pomposity, declared, “I'm afraid you're not. I was sent here to do a job, and I shall do it.”

“Look here, Imperial,” the Argonian retorted, clearly annoyed, “Hides-His-Heart does not take to being trifled with. He's no disagreement with the Brotherhood, so go in peace and live.”

Edward frowned at him. “What do I care for Hides-His-Heart? I'm talking to you!”

The Argonian grimaced. “I am Hides-His-Heart, fool.”

Edward's frown deepened. “Don't refer to me as a fool, insignificant lizard. Now, go away before I skin you and make a pair of boots out of your hide. I've business with this cockroach!” With that, he spun around to face his valet and another man, who he recognized from his surveillance efforts as Francois Motierre. Drawing the poisoned dagger from a sheath in his belt, Edward sprang forward. The little Breton gasped as the knife plunged deep into his heart; and then he fell forward, quite dead.

Edward smiled triumphantly, and at the same time heard his servant and Hides-His-Heart gasp. Turning to face the Argonian, he said, “Now, have you anything else to say, lizard?”

Hides-His-Heart cringed, and replied quickly, “No, no, nothing at all. It will be enough for my employers to know that he is dead after his betrayal. As I said, Hides-His-Heart has no quarrel with the Brotherhood.” Saying this, he quickly absented himself from the premises.

Edward grinned triumphantly. “Well,” he thought, “I taught that Argonian to mind his manners when addressing an Imperial, didn't I?” Then, turning to his valet, he said, “That turned out rather well, don't you think?”

He was surprised to see the other man had grown ashen white.

SPEW !!! ROFL !!! Stabbed him in the heart, leave it to Edward to do the right thing the wrong way !!!! ROFL !!!!

I miss you TONS Rachel, and I miss Edward and his mess-ups! Come home, dear Rachel !!!!! <3

Thank you for bringing this to my attention mALX with your latest comment!

I had absoloutley no idea this existed, but seeing as the last chapter had me in absoloute hysterics methinks I might need to read the whole thing

It is well worth it !!!! I don't drink or eat ANYTHING while reading Edward or my monitor gets sprayed.

I love this story, and I've thought about it lots. mALX is right, this humor presents a choking hazard! Put down that drink!