Poisonous Gardens

Chapter 1

By Burntsierra

The Cyrodiil Times
Editorial Comment

A fourth day of protests today ended in bloodshed, when Royal Guards charged a mob who were demanding the destruction of, what they called, the false heirs. Rumours have continued to persist, that Uriel Septim's declared heir, Geldall Septim, and the younger Septims, Enman and Ebel, are just doppelgangers who were placed in the household during Jagar Tharn's tenure as Imperial Battlemage. As more and more leaflets have been placed through citizens doors, demanding an end to Uriel Septim's reign, the mood around the city is one of uncertainty. The identity of this mysterious organisation who are posting these leaflets, is, as yet, unknown, but sources inform me that this recent turn of events is causing deep consternation within the palace.

With the Emperor being over eighty, and in poor health, what does this mean to the citizens of Cyrodiil? If public response is so firmly against the heirs, this editor is worried that a coup will be attempted by competing groups. This is something that can only spell danger for all of us, and if such a coup is indeed attempted, who will they put forward as their candidate for Emperor? A confidential source has whispered to me that King Helseth, in Mournhold, is delighted with this turn of events. Could we see the Helseth returning to Cyrodiil? I'm not sure how popular such a move would be, but time will tell.

In Mounhold an Argonian told one of our undercover reporters,

"This new ruler, King Hlaalu Helseth, is trying to transform the role of King of Morrowind from a mere Imperial figurehead into a powerful, personalized head of state. Athyn Llethan, the previous king, was old and dignified, but few took him seriously. Helseth, by contrast, is dynamic and ambitious. Before Morrowind entered the Empire, the Dunmer had no kings, and many Dunmer prefer the old system of council rule, but Imperial partisans want a strong king along Western Imperial lines."

It would surprise no-one if King Helseth had his sights on becoming overall ruler of Cyrodiil, and with the aim of eventually taking the role of Emperor. Our reporter managed to get hold of a broadsheet being distributed in Mournhold, named, "The Common Tongue." Due to legal reasons, we are unable to reprint here the contents, but suffice to say, it casts grave aspersions on King Helseth and the manner of which he took the throne, suggesting that the death of the previous ruler, King Athyn Llethan, was no accident but might well have been due to poison. Backing for king Helseth could be strong, as he is known to have close ties with several wealthy merchants, though such an appointment would be unpopular amongst the people.

If not King Helseth, then who? Who are the people behind this uprising? This paper has decided to try to find out. We are offering a reward of 1,000 septims, to anybody who can shed some light on this organisation. What do they stand for, what are they called, who are their members? If you know the answers to any of these questions, then we want to hear from you.

The Emperor's Treasurer, Cocius Truptori, earlier said,

"For these people to stir up such a climate of fear, whilst hiding behind anonymous leaflets, gives some idea as to the nature of their character. This administration, under the leadership of Uriel Septim, has never bowed to the demands of cowards, and will not start now. We challenge these people to step forward, and show the citizens of Cyrodiil who they are. Whilst they continue to hide behind empty propaganda, they will be treated as insurgents, and dealt with accordingly."

The captain, Sabinuni Popillius, of the Emporer's personal guard meantime said,

"These people have had their say, and I'm not prepared to listen to any more of it. When we catch those responsible for these riots, they will be dealt with by me personally."

These are strong words, and should leave nobody in any doubt as to how seriously the Palace is taking this threat. It is the humble opinion of this editor, that the best thing for Cryodiil City, would be the end of these demonstrations, and the capture of those responsible. For now, we can but await further developments. In the meantime, we suggest that citizens stay away from further demonstrations, as the Royal Guard has made it clear that no further displays will be tolerated, and that they are quite willing to resort to force to contain them.

Rest assured, this paper will bring you any further news, the instant it happens.

Ticedoni Spurru - Editor.

Cocius Truptori neatly stacked a pile of papers together, tapping the edges down on the desk in front of him. Fastidious to a fault, he was not a well liked man. Others thought him fussy and pedantic, an opinion that did not bother him in the slightest, as these were qualities that the Emperor had deemed suitable enough to place him in charge of the Palace's purse strings. Carefully placing the papers on the tidy desk, ready to be attacked tomorrow morning, he prepared to depart. As usual, he was the last to leave. He carried his cup over to the office sink, unlike some of his lazier colleagues, the thought of leaving his cup out overnight disgusted him. The last thing he wanted to discover in the morning, as he came through the door, was that something was starting to grow in the dregs of yesterdays drink.

Small by Imperial standards, though possessing impressive girth around the waist, he moved across the room, collecting his belongings as he did so. When Waughin Jarth's book, 'A Dance in the Fire' had first become popular, he had endured many unflattering comments from colleagues, comparing him to Decumus Scotti, a comparison he had found most unfair. Promotion had occurred since then though, and regardless of what his co-workers thought of him, none would dare say anything to his face now. Such were the benefits of power.

Pulling on his coat, the increased responsibility and salary that went with that had certainly improved his wardrobe, and brushing a tiny speck of dust off the sleeve, he opened the door and blew out the candles by the entrance. No sense in wasting the wick, over the course of a year they could end up being very expensive, and surveying the empty room one last time, closed the door behind him.

The streets of Cryodiil were certainly quiet tonight, the riots earlier having scared the citizens back into their homes. More used to being behind the scenes, it had been an unnerving experience to be interviewed, though he felt he'd come across quite well. The Emperor himself had sent a message afterwards, congratulating him, which now had been neatly framed and placed on his desk in full view of his colleagues. No harm in reminding them of the power he now wielded, and the respect they should be showing him.

Walking along the cobbled streets, his footsteps echoing loudly amongst the silence, he smiled at the memory. The moon was low tonight, a full moon having passed, and was not giving much illumination. The view ahead was getting progressively darker, the lights broken. He tutted to himself, more mindless vandalism of public property that would need replacing. Didn't people realise that these repairs had to be paid by him, and if there wasn't enough money to pay them, their taxes would have to be raised to cover the costs. Making a mental note to deal with that tomorrow, he pulled his coat tighter around his body, and walked on.

As he walked on, getting close to his house, he felt a pang of unease. Was someone with him? Turning around, he looked back along the street. No-one there. Silently ticking himself off for being paranoid, he turned around and started to walk again. There. There it was again. He spun around.

"Who's there?"he shouted into the dark. There was no reply. "I said who's there? Identify yourselves." Still there was no answer. "Don't you know who I am?"

The darkness didn't reply. Staring suspiciously for a moment longer, he turned, and started walking home quicker than before. Footsteps. No question, several pairs of feet from the sound of it, walking quickly. His breathing shortened. He tried to walk faster, his portly legs carrying him as fast as they could. A joke, he thought, just a joke. Probably some of his colleagues, jealous of his interview, trying to scare him. Well, they wouldn't succeed. He stopped, angry now.

"Damn it! I said identify yourselves!" he said. "This is not funny!" There was only silence. "You'll be sorry! Tomorrow, you'll pay for this, I promise you that!"

He stomped off, his feet landing heavily on the cobbles, sending pebbles scampering out of the way. They'll pay for this. Who did they think they were, trying to intimidate him. The footsteps behind him has started up again, only this time it seemed like more had joined in the pursuit. Good God, how many were there? What if it wasn't his colleagues. He started to feel scared. Looking over his shoulder nervously, he redoubled his pace, sweat starting to drip off his forehead from the exertion.

Breathing heavily, he spied the road on which his house lay. Almost there. The footsteps behind were just keeping pace with him, not attempting to get closer. Then he heard them. More footsteps off to the side. Had they been there the whole time, or had they been waiting for him? Summoning every last inch of energy he had, he started to run, the first time he'd run for a long time. He'd got a second wind, fear causing an increase in his adrenaline, the blood pumping through his heart. Behind him and to the side, the footsteps started to run. It would be tonight, he thought. all the Royal Guards had been recalled to the Palace after the riots today, for fear of reprisal. There was no-one he could call for help, and even if he tried, he wasn't sure that his lungs had enough air to scream anymore.

The footsteps seemed to be coming from every direction, faster and faster, he was having difficulty separating the sound of them from the thudding of the blood in his head. There was the door, almost home. Running too fast to control, he slammed into the door, spinning him around. His hands searched frantically through his pockets, desperate to find the key. Why didn't I get it out ready? His fingers were trembling, the keys seemed to be shrinking away from the searching fingers. In a panic, he looked up. There was nobody there. Not a single soul on the street. He stared in confusion, lower jaw dropping slightly, as he squinted up and down the street.

"Damn them!" he muttered. It had been a prank after all. Shaking with rage, he considered the terrible fate he would bring upon them when he found them. He'd given them the satisfaction, that was what galled the most. They'd seen him run away in fright. Oh, they must be laughing right now, congratulating themselves on their cunning. The nerve of them, who did they think they were, to play a cruel prank on the Emperor's Treasurer? Why he'd. What? What will you do? He asked himself. To acknowledge this would play right into their hands. He wouldn't give them any more satisfaction at his expense.

He breathed out slowly, trying to gain control of his emotions. For now, there was nothing he could do. Cocius pulled out the key, finally found underneath his handkerchief, and unlocked the door. Casting one final baleful look to the street behind him, he pulled the handle down, and stepped inside. Without a seconds pause, he slammed the door behind him, causing the hinges to screech in protest, and walked straight across to the cupboard on the wall in front of him. Cocius pulled out a glass, placed it on the table's surface, and using a cloth to the side, polished it. Satisfied that it was sufficiently clean, he reached back into the cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of Brandy. Just a little drop, just to satisfy the nerves, he told himself, carefully puring a small amount into the glass. Lifting the bottle back up, he returned it to the cupboard. Not one to indulge in vices, he removed the temptation. Otherwise, with his nerves in the state they were, he might have been tempted to have another. Closing the cupboard door he gasped, faces visible in the reflection of the veneer.

"Who are you, what do you want?" he managed to finally say, his voice struggling to make itself heard over the trembling. The three men moved forwards, flanking him. With a sudden burst of courage, he asked, "Have you any idea who I am?"
"Of course we do." said the one in the middle. "You're Cocius Truptori. Treasurer to the Emperor."
Moving closer, they surrounded him. Cold eyes staring at him.
"What do you want? Money?" he asked.
"It's not about what we want Cocius. We're simply doing what you asked."
"What I asked?" said Cocius. "I don't understand."
"You challenged us to step forwards. Here we are."
"Challenged you, oh dear God."
"Now stay still Cocius, this will be much less painful if you don't move."
Cocius let out a low moan, as the men grabbed his arms.

Sabinuni Popillius turned away in disgust. As the Captain of the Emperor's personal guard, he had seen plenty of senseless violence in his time, people mutilated, body parts strewn around the battlefield, prisoners of war tortured to gain information, but the sight that had been in front of him made him sick to his stomach. His second in command, Aebond Duronia, came across, his hand brushing around his chin, wiping off the last traces of the vomit caused by the sight in front of him, the smell still lingering on his breath.

"I've never seen anything like it."
Sabinuni looked at him, concern on his face.
"Are you alright, Aebond?"
"Alright?" said Aebond. "No, I wouldn't say that I was alright." His face was pale, and another round of vomiting did not look far away. "Are we sure it's Truptori?"
"It's him." stated Sabinuni, looking back at the corpse. The remains of Cocius Truptori were on the ground, guards milling around him, the body recently removed from hanging on the walls of the palace, hands tied together around the pole of a flag. The absence of any skin on the body had made the process of identification initially problematic, but his ring, along with a shred of paper with his comments from the newspaper earlier today had given some clue. Sabinuni had immediately dispatched guards to Truptori's house, where they'd found evidence of a recent struggle, and blood all over the walls, as though the missing skin had been rubbed on them like a cloth.
"Have they found his skin yet?" asked Aebond.
"No, it looks as if whoever did it, took it with them as a trophy."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching guards struggle to pick up the body, the bloody corpse slipping through their fingers.
"Why?" asked Aebond.
It was the question Sabinuni had been asking himself since he'd arrived.
"I'm not sure yet." he replied.
"The amount of time it must have taken, why risk it? Why not just kill him? Why peel him like," he paused, struggling to find the words he wanted, "like a vegetable?"
Sabinuni still hadn't taken his eyes of the corpse. Now finally, he turned to Aebond. "They're obviously making some sort of statement. What, I don't know. Hell, we don't even know who they are yet."

The guards finally succeeded in getting the corpse wrapped up in a sheet, the white fabric immediately staining with the blood.
"Oh for Stendarr's sake, couldn't they have found a dark sheet?" asked Aebond. The grim spectacle had drawn quite a crowd, the horrified faces of onlookers staring with macabre fascination at the scene. "I'm going to clear the crowd, they can get their thrills somewhere else."
He set off determinedly, stopping as Sabinuni called him back firmly.
"Has it occurred to you, that whoever did this might be in the crowd?"
"Here?" asked Aebond. "Whoever did this will be out of the city by now surely."
"I'm not so sure. They could be watching to see the reaction their handiwork gets. I've heard of criminals staying on the scene to relive their success." said Sabinuni. "Either way, I want the names and addresses of all the people watching. Take a couple of guards and question them, then when you're done, head back to the barracks. We'll need to set up a meeting to discuss what our next step is."

Sabinuni started off, he'd nip home, change his clothes and head to the barracks to organise the men. He hadn't had chance to change into his uniform when a guard had frantically banged on his door, informing him of the murder, appropriate clothing hadn't seemed important then, but now he was uncomfortably aware that his appearance was not suitable for being out in public, the Captain of the Guard was supposed to look professional, not like he'd just been roused from bed. To which end, he mused, a shave wouldn't be a bad idea if he had time. He'd have to play it by ear, he decided, getting the wheels moving on the case was more important than the condition of his facial hair.

"Captain Popillius." came a voice from the side. "Ticedoni Spurru, editor of The Cyrodiil Times. Just a couple of quick questions, Captain."
Walking faster, Sabinuni muttered a terse, "I have no comment to make."
"Captain, can you confirm that the body is that of the Emperor's Treasurer, Cocius Truptori?" "I've no comment to make." he repeated.
"Is the murder related to the comments he made earlier today?" continued Spurru unperturbed.
"Sources inform me that a clipping from the paper was found next to the body."
Stopping, Sabinuni turned to face him angrily. "And who the hell told you that?"
"Just a source Captain. An anonymous source." he said quickly, before Sabinuni could interrupt him. "Can you confirm?"
With an effort, he tried to bring his temper under control. So the paper was paying guards for information, he shouldn't be surprised, he thought. It happened in every profession, why had he thought the Guards would be different?
"At the minute, I have no comment to make." he said. "We'll be holding a conference later this morning, when hopefully we'll know more. Until then, there's nothing more I can say." With that he started off again, walking quickly on, ignoring the reporter's complaints.

Reaching his house, he pulled out the keys, and twisted the handle. I'm losing my composure, he thought, I must have forgotten to lock it when I went out earlier. Muttering distractedly, Sabinuni entered through the door, closing it quietly behind him. He didn't want to wake up his wife again, the previous argument had only ended a couple of days ago, he didn't think he had the energy for another one to start up again quite so soon. Aware that she wasn't mad at him directly, but the situation itself, the tension recently was becoming unbearable. They'd been married just over a year, and the enthusiasm of being married to one of the Emperor's Guards had quickly waned, when she'd realised the hours he was forced to keep. Since the marriage ceremony, he'd wondered if he'd made a mistake. She was much younger, having only just graduated the City's University before the wedding, and he had the feeling he was robbing her of her youth. The two vacations they'd had planned had been cancelled at the last minute, and the early excited talk of starting a family had stopped completely, her comments being that he had to be there occasionally in order to accomplish that. Sabinuni sighed, he wasn't being fair to her, he should be putting her first, not the job. Next time he booked a holiday, he'd make sure they took it, otherwise he was becoming more and more afraid he'd be taking them by himself. He went through the living area, to the bedroom.

Damn, she wasn't in the bed. Preparing himself for an earful, he pulled open the closet, and reached inside for his uniform. He dressed as quickly as he could, ripping his shirt as he pulled it over his head in his haste, very conscious of the need to get back to the barracks for the meeting. This Royal Guard Armour was not designed for quick dressing, it was supposed to look formidable and sturdy. Wishing they'd made it easier to get the greaves on, he hopped around the floor on one foot, pulling mightily, whilst attempting to keep falling ungracefully onto his backside. A crime of this magnitude would take some organisation to solve, as they would be having to respond on several fronts, not least having to keep that damn newspaper informed as well as the Emperor himself. They'd have to do door to door questioning all the way from the Palace to Truptori's house, in the hope that someone might have seen something, and they needed to discover who was behind these riots, the press clipping had made him very nervous.

Rushing, he went into the kitchen, wondering if he'd have time for a bite to eat, if he waited till later at the barracks, he'd end up eating under cooked food from the trader around the corner, and he was convinced this was the reason he was getting heartburn, to apologise to his wife, and then beat a hasty getaway before she could start another fight, and stumbled, as he was pushed from behind. "What?" he cried out, and then stopped. His wife was at the table, dressed in her nightgown, her face as pale as the sheer white fabric, a gag tied tightly in her mouth, eyes filled with terror. Two men, one on either side, were flanking her, their swords pressed against her throat. The man behind him pushed him against the wall, took away his sword and checked to see if he was carrying any other weapons. When the figure was satisfied, he roughly tied his arms behind his back with a coarse rope, and marched him over to the table.

"We were wondering when you'd get here." said one of the men. "Your wife here, she was convinced you'd come home to change, so we decided to wait. Looks as if we made the right choice."

Sabinuni was unable to speak, partly due to the gag, and partly due to the look in his wife's eyes. Don't worry, he tried to convey to her, it'll be alright. The man talking was watching him intently, and slid a piece of paper across the table towards him. Another clipping from the paper, his quote circled. Closing his eyes, Sabinuni grimaced, and awaited what was coming next.

"Oh, you've nothing to say now, eh?" asked the man. "Shame, if you'd done that earlier, maybe this wouldn't be happening. But it is, so take a seat, and lets get started, shall we?"

Ticedoni Spurru scrutinized in dismay the scene in the kitchen. Through a mixture of bullying and bribery, he'd managed to talk his way into the crime scene, but was now greatly regretting this success. Two heads sat on the table, faces contorted with pain, a look of sheer horror at what had befallen them clearly visible in their expressions. They had obviously been screaming as the butchery had ensued, though no sound would have been audible as their mouth's had been sewn together. Then the heads had been separated from the bodies. Bodies of which, according to the guard he'd paid off to bring him in, there was no sign. Next to the heads, on the cheap wooden table, was the clipping from yesterday's paper, the quote he'd attributed to Sabinuni Popillius, roughly circled in bold ink. The message was clear, whoever was behind this was silencing their critics. Of more concern to Ticedoni at that moment though, was the fact that two of the people who'd spoken out against this group of unknowns were now dead. Murdered in a gruesome fashion, and the third, final person who'd spoken out against them was himself. Was he next, he wondered.

The eyes of the deceased seemed to follow him around the room, balefully, blaming him. So much pain, so much terror lay in those expressions. What had they been forced to watch happen to the other in their last moments? Why did you print that story, they seemed to scream at him. Look what you did. Trying to shake the queasy feeling within him, he attempted to survey the room dispassionately. A critical eye, focus on the details.

The heads had been placed in a platter, presumably to stop the blood pouring onto the wood, but this had only had the effect of pooling the blood almost an inch deep around their necks. Almost as if somebody had carelessly spilled a bottle of red dye onto it, and forgotten to clean it up. The rest of the room showed no sign of struggle though. No tables were overturned, no items had been sent crashing to the floor. It was almost as if what had happened they'd grimly accepted. That, or they'd been taken by surprise and been given no time to react. The overall effect was one of peace. Except for the dismembered heads and the look in the eyes which still seemed to be following him.

The room looked as if it had been designed by the wife. There were no masculine touches, no signs that they had joyfully poured over ideas of how it should look, planning it together. He would place money on the fact that the Captain had simply told the wife to do whatever she wanted. Colourful cards were tacked onto cupboards, small cupboards which were fastened to the walls. On closer inspection, they were cards of well wishing, congratulating them on their union. They must have been there since the wedding, nothing in their lives since to replace them with. Every item in the kitchen had a place for it, neatly stacked away after use.

It looked as though the room had only rarely been used, no surprise given the Captain's reputation as a workaholic. No lingering scents of recently cooked food, no remnants of carefree laughter echoing around the room. How much time had they actually spent in here together, he wondered. It was depressing, to be standing there, recreating an image of their lives, imagining the unhappiness of their marriage, knowing that they were dead, and could no longer defend themselves. Well, they were here together now, their eyes still following him, passing judgement on him for speculating at their living arrangements.

Feeling the need to escape the unremitting gloom, he stepped outside, and considered his options. Why had he offered that reward? Stupid. He'd started to believe his position rendered him untouchable, a belief that, at this moment, seemed utterly ludicrous. The Captain of the Emperor's Personal Guard and his wife were dead, the Emperor's Treasurer was dead, and he was just an editor of a newspaper. The more he thought about it, the more panicked he became, certain in his mind that he would be the next victim. The guards, they'd have to protect him, that was their duty. With a sense of resolve, he headed off to speak to the newly promoted Captain, to demand their protection.

"You are joking." said Aebond Duronia. "Right?"
Ticedoni Spurru spluttered indignantly. "No, I most certainly am not. Your job is to protect citizens, I'm a citizen, I pay my taxes, and I demand your protection."
Duronia laughed, a short barking laugh that could have been mistaken by a careless observer as a cough. His gaze roaming over the editor with disdain, clicking his fingers with each point he made, he replied, "You can demand all you want. I've got citizens rioting, three people murdered, one of whom was my friend. I've got to orchestrate with the Palace, discover a way to keep order, find the murderer's and bring them to justice and I've only been the Captain for fifteen minutes."
"Look I appreciate the problems that you're facing, but surely you can see I'm in danger."
"At this time, your suspicions are just circumstantial." said Duronia. "You've got no evidence, no threatening letters, no evidence of anybody threatening you whatsoever."
"But you have to admit," Spurru pleaded. "that this suggests a common thread. Everybody quoted in the passage has been killed, and a shred of the paper left beside each body. Are you telling me thats coincidence?"
"I'm not telling you anything. Just informing you of the Guard's position. Besides, I wouldn't want to say something, and have it end up being quoted in todays paper."

They glared at each other. "So thats why." Spurru bitterly said. "You blame me for this." Duronia didn't answer, just staring at him evenly. "How would you like the paper to mention that although the editors life was in danger, the Guard refused to help. Would you prefer that, because, believe me, that could be arranged."

Duronia straightened his frame to it's full height, and stared down at the editor, eyes blazing. "This conversation is off the record. Any part of this gets printed, and you can expect to be shut down immediately. Or hadn't you realised that two people close to the Emperor have been killed tonight? He could well introduce special powers to help the Guards deal with this threat, and, believe me, you will be the first name on my list if you accuse me of anything."

After an uncomfortable silence, Spurru asked, " So what would you suggest I do then?" Duronia smiled, lips tightly pressed together. "Well," he said. "I wouldn't go walking down any dark streets on my own, if I were you."

Sticking to the main street, making sure he remained in the well lit areas, Ticedoni walked in the direction of his home. His mind was racing, contemplating thoughts he did not want to entertain. Were they out there, waiting for him, around the next corner, poised to leap out, or in his home, just awaiting the sound of his key turning in the lock? He would be the first to admit, he was an extremely ambitious man. Since childhood, he'd wanted to become the master of his own little domain, to have his own sphere of influence, where he alone made the decisions. The paper had seemed to offer that, the owners giving him a free reign to run it as he saw fit, as long the profit margins were healthy, they were happy, and he wasn't disturbed. Since he had taken over, the profit margins, had, in fact steadily increased, the paper becoming more popular and widely read than ever. This had not been to the taste of some of the more long standing readers, who had written in for months complaining about the perceived dumbing down of the paper, it's inclination towards sensationalism and the seedier side of Cyrodiil. His response had remained the same, a quote he'd grown most fond of repeating at parties.

"I write the truth, if people don't want to see what's outside their front doors, they shouldn't be reading the news. Why, they should be tucked up in bed, a warm drink close to hand, and a sweet little tale in their hands, one where you know the hero will win through in the end."

His confidence had grown, seeing himself becoming an important figure in the city, a man that people listened to and respected the opinion of. Ticedoni had started writing more and more editorial comments, challenging authority, confidant that his position would protect him, and now that over confidence had come back to haunt him.

Thoughts jostled for position, his mind in turmoil, unsure what to do. His power lay with the words he wrote, and the paper they were printed on. Emotions wrestled within him, ranging from fear, anger and impotence. Mostly impotence. His secure little world held no safety anymore. Every shadow screamed danger, every sound became an attack waiting to happen.. Keeping a wide distance from the buildings, he stopped, in the dead centre of the street. He couldn't go home, that was obvious, he just wouldn't feel safe there, not after the sights he'd just seen. I need, he thought, to be somewhere with other people, people I can trust and who will offer me some degree of protection. The sun was starting to rise, daybreak approached. Pivoting, Ticedoni turned and started to walk quickly to the left. He'd go to the office, where security guards manned the front doors, and his colleagues would be soon be arriving. These unknown assailants wouldn't dare make a move against him there, surely. All he had to do was make sure he wasn't left alone.

The building loomed before him, classic Imperial architecture, designed to fit in seamlessly with its surroundings. One of the guards, of which there were three altogether, hired by the paper to keep out those considered undesirable, or in other words, everyone who didn't have an appointment, nodded to him in what Ticedoni decided was a respectful manner as he approached. He could feel his confidence returning, this was his kingdom, no-one could touch him here.
"You're here early sir." said the guard.
"Hm, I wanted to make an early start." Ticedoni replied, realising he didn't know the Guards name, and deciding he didn't much care. "Has there been anybody around, trying to get in?"
"No sir, it's been quiet all night. I haven't seen a glimpse of a soul the whole time I've been on duty, think the riots yesterday must have kept everyone indoors."
"Right, excellent." said Ticedoni, nodding his head vigorously. "Carry on then, and don't let anyone in who's not supposed to be here."
"I'll do that, sir, don't you worry."

Sanctuary. Ahead lay the comforting surroundings of his office. Ticedoni could feel the tension in his shoulders evaporating, the stress of the last couple of hours lifting away. This was his domain. He'd teach that damn Captain, refusing to help, and then threatening him as he had. An expose on the corruption of the Guards would make a nice headline, he dreamed happily to himself. Maybe see if some of his informants could dig up some dirt on the new Captains personal life. Maybe he owed gambling debts or cheated on his wife, he was sure there would be something. And when he found it, he was going to put it on the front page for the whole city to see.

Hands grabbed him, as he stepped through the door, and pushed him against the desk. Yesterday's cup still sat there, he noticed, unwashed. Ticedoni turned, and gasped in fright at the three men surrounding him.
"No, please." he started.
"Ah, Ticedoni, Ticedoni, Ticedoni." said the man in the middle. "Surely you realised we could get you anywhere." He wagged a finger reprovingly in front of his face. "Foolish, very foolish."
"Wait. You don't have to kill me." said Ticedoni. "I could print a retraction, say what you want me to say."
"No, no. I'm afraid not. We had something else in mind. The new editor has already persuaded us that he'll be most sympathetic to our cause."
"New editor? What new." Realisation struck home hard. His knees weakened, and he reached out to steady himself on the desk. The desperate cry of "Guards!" was stopped before it had a chance to really begin.

The Cyrodiil Times
Editorial comment

The Cyrodiil Times was in mourning yesterday, following the suicide of the paper's editor, Ticedoni Spurru. His body was discovered by colleagues early yesterday morning, having apparently taken his own life. A note was also found, in his handwriting, near the body, blaming the stress of the job and apologising to the staff. The new Captain of the Emperor's Guard, Aebond Duronia, stressed that there was no evidence of foul play, and that the Guard are viewing this as a suicide. As a result of this event, no editions of the paper went on sale yesterday as a mark of respect. We make our apologies to subscribers who'd paid in advance, and assure them that their money will be refunded, although we are sure our readers understand that this has been an incredibly upsetting couple of days. I, Maesaia Vitellius, have been made the new editor, and so I would like to take this opportunity to introduce myself.

To be asked to step into the editor's position is, of course, a great honour, but one which is tinged with immeasurable sadness. Ticedoni Spurru was more than just my boss of several years, he was first and foremost a friend and a mentor, and he will be greatly missed by me. This paper was his passion, and as I sit here, writing my first editorial, I can still hear his words of wisdom ringing in my ears. I will strive to continue the high standards that he set himself, and only hope that I can do his memory justice. He was fond of saying that a newspaper is a reflection of the city it's set in, and should be written for the people of that city. With that in mind, I ask readers to send in suggestions of what they would like to see. This is your paper, written by citizens for citizens.

Cyrodiil is a city that never sleeps, constantly moving forwards, justifiably proud of it's reputation as an enlightened city, and as such, this paper must do the same. We will continue to write about the stories that affect you, seeking the truth and reporting the facts. It is time to look forwards, not backwards. My first act therefore, as editor of this paper, is to remove the reward offered in the previous issue. Any information that had been received from citizens, before now, will of course be honoured, but it's time to put the grim scenes of this week behind us, and instead look forward to a future of peace and prosperity. Lets together make Cyrodiil the enlightened town that we all believe it to be. May Mara watch over you all.

Maesaia Vitellius - Editor

"It's an honour to meet you Emperor Septim."
"Stand up, Duronia. Now is not the time for formality."
The newly promoted Captain of the Emperor's Guard, Aebond Duronia, pushed himself up from his knee with some difficulty. It had been a hectic few hours, and he hadn't gotten any sleep. To say he felt ragged would be an understatement. After having finally cleared through the newspaper offices, and vacated the scene, he'd received word that the Emperor wished to see him immediately. Pushing aside a craving for food and rest he'd dashed straight across the city, it didn't do to keep him waiting.
"Three murders and one suicide." the Emperor said. "Or am I getting ahead of myself? Was it a suicide?"
"The evidence suggests so, Sir."
"Indeed. I'm more interested in your opinion though."
"Yes sir, I'm confidant it was a suicide." replied Duronia.
The Emperor watched him intently. Finally nodding, he said, "That still leaves three murders though. You're the Captain of the Guard now, so give me your report. I want to know everything that happened, everything you found."

As Duronia gave the Emperor his report, he was uncomfortably aware of Uriel Septim's eyes keenly studying him. Over Eighty years of age, and in poor health he may have been, but neither his eyes nor his mind had lost any of their sharpness. Never popular with the citizens of Cyrodiil, he was known to be obsessed with secrecy. The room he was giving his report in was a prime example. The Emperor sat in an large, simple wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. He'd heard the rumours, although before now he'd not been sure whether to believe them or not, about the Emperor being so paranoid about conversations being overheard or recorded, that he refused to have all but the bare minimum of furniture in any of his chambers. The theory being there would be no place to hide anything behind. No tapestries decorated the walls, no rugs on the cold floor. The effect was extremely disorientating, in such a large room, to have only one item within it, making Duronia feel like he was even more on display, as he stood to attention.

Finishing his report, and allowing the Emperor time to digest the information, he took the opportunity to have a close look at him, trying hard not to make it obvious. Despite his age and his health, he sat upright, a proud bearing. Most people whilst thinking show some movement, finger's or feet tapping, a scratch of the chin, an involuntary reflex of some kind, but he was totally still. No wasted effort, his mind seemed to be purely focused on what he'd heard.

The keen eyes turned back towards him, Duronia hastily dropped his gaze bringing to an abrupt halt his appraisal.
"So. We don't know for sure who's behind this? It might be Helseth, it might be somebody else entirely."
"Yes sir, that's correct."
The Emperor's gaze unflinching studied his. If the eyes really are the window to the soul, Duronia thought, what do those eyes tell me about him? What are mine telling him?
"This concerns me." said the Emperor. "We need to find out, and quickly."
"Yes sir, we're checking all our informants in Cyrodiil, we'll know something soon."
"No, I don't think so. This, unfortunately, is not our only problem."
"I 'm not sure I understand, sir." said Duronia.
"I didn't imagine you would."

The Emperor resumed his gazing. So this is what feels like to be a laboratory animal, thought Duronia, trying to control the sudden urge he had to fidget, stuck in a glass cage with every move you made scrutinised. He felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor creatures at that moment.

"What have you heard about the situation in Morrowind?"
"Morrowind? Just rumours, nothing concrete, sir."
"Well, you're going to discover a lot more. I have here a letter that I need someone to deliver there. Someone I can trust. You." the Emperor said, pointing at Duronia. "It's to be delivered to the ranking Spymaster of the Blades there, one Caius Cosades. You'll find him in the city of Balmora, ask at the South Wall Cornerclub for more precise directions."
"Yes sir."
Uriel Septim smiled, although it never reached his eyes. "I'll just add the Emperor's seal to it. Oh, and Duronia?"
"Yes sir?"
"Naturally, it's in code. A code that only Caius can read."
"Naturally." he replied, taking the package, and walked backwards out of the chamber, bowing repeatedly.

"Quite a flair for the dramatic hasn't she?" the man reading the paper asked. The question was not seemingly directed at either of the other two people in the room, but rather a thought, spoken out loud. The other men, at any rate, didn't respond. "May Mara watch over you indeed." Still snorting derisively, he pushed himself out of a wooden chair, and walked over to a sideboard, pouring himself a generous helping of brandy. Raising his glass, he offered the room a silent toast, his eyes closing as he sniffed the contents, and sipped with pleasure, his face adopting a look of blissful serenity as the liquid trickled down his throat. His companions had watched this little sideshow with amusement, their eyes meeting each others, before looking away as they attempted to stifle small smiles which had threatened to spread across their faces. Rising, they too crossed the room, and poured themselves smaller, less indulgent measures.

"Well, the first stage is complete now." said one of them. "We've got Duronia in as the Captain of the Guard, and we have our choice as editor of the paper. When the time comes to act, we'll be able to control the effects, without having to worry about investigations or what might be printed." "Quite so, things are coming along very nicely indeed." replied the other with satisfaction.

A knock at the door interrupted their toast. The three men immediately became wary, splitting up, one on either side of the door, whilst the remaining one looked through a self made peephole to see who it was. Relaxing, he motioned it was all right to his colleagues, opened the door, and allowed the figure to enter.
"Sorry to interrupt gentlemen." said Aebond Duronia, as he walked in to the room.

Duronia felt the usual pang of fear that he always felt in the presence of these men. So much power, so much influence, and so little regard for the trifling matter of human life. On the outside world, they were men of money, respected in high society, one of the men in fact was famous for the extravagant parties he threw, that the famous members of society scrabbled frantically for invitations to. Those who were not invited, it was said, were nobody, and in the exclusive world of the power hungry, none of them dared risk their reputations by not attending. They'd all been somebody for far too long to become nobody now. This however, was different, their cause required a different track, it required them to stay out of sight. Their appearance in Cyrodiil at this time would have set tongues wagging, and they couldn't afford to have attention drawn to them, not now, not whilst there was so much at stake. So, they found themselves here, hidden in a tiny basement in a house in Cyrodiil, with none of the creature comforts they were used to. Looking around the room, he was startled as to how barren it was. These men, like the Emperor, had little trust in their fellow man, every room he was stood in today seemed to be devoid of the usual furniture and decorations one would expect. Three wooden chairs, which after locking the door again behind him, they had returned to, leaving him to stand to attention in front of them, and a sideboard, with a selection of bottles standing on a limeware platter. On the floor next to each chair was a copy of the days paper, which they had obviously been reading, with some difficulty he imagined, seeing as how dark the room was, lit as it was by only three pale blue candles.

"Yes Duronia?"
"I've just come from the Emperor," he said, the sweet smell of the brandy they were sipping teasing his nostrils, awakening a thirst within him. Not that he would dare to ask for any. "I have to go to Morrowind immediately."
"He's sending you?"
"Yes sir. I have a package to deliver to the ranking Imperial Spymaster of the Blades."
Duronia paused, to allow his words to get the reaction he expected, and was mildly disappointed when none came. Instead they seemed completely at ease, as though this development was not only expected but welcomed.
"Whats the problem then, Duronia?"
Confused, Duronia haltingly continued. "The Emperor has sealed the package, so I can't open it without it being known that I'd done so. And, even if I did, he made a point of telling me that the message was in code, a code only this Caius Cosades person could decipher."
"So, don't open it then, just deliver it." replied on of the men, as if that settled it.
"But, I don't understand." Duronia said. When it became apparent that nobody was going to explain it to him, he continued. "This will be the Emperor's plan to deal with us."
"But of course it is, Duronia. That goes without saying. Do not concern yourself, Caius will tell us what it says, when he feels the time is right."

Duronia looked at the three of them carefully. Unsure quite what to say to that, he tried to choose his words carefully, afraid that the wrong phrase would make him look even more stupid than he already did. "Caius will..... You mean Caius works for us?" All three of the men smiled at this.

"Catches on quick, doesn't he?" muttered one of them, an aside probably meant to be under his breath, but in the closed confines of the room, was clearly audible to everyone. As the colour arose in Duronia's cheeks, one of the other men threw a reproving gaze his way, bringing a rueful grin to his face.
"No, Duronia." said the nearest man, patiently. "Caius does not work for us, he is one of us, and has been since the very beginning."
Duronia continued looking, cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Possibly sensing this, one of the men said, "Do as the Emperor has bid you, and deliver the package. Do not bother Caius with such questions though, I seriously doubt he will appreciate them."
Relieved to have a concrete decision on which to act, Duronia straightened, and damn near saluted.
"Yes sir, I'll report the outcome upon my return."
"You do that Duronia."

Turning sharply, Duronia unlocked the door, and let himself out, relieved to be leaving, but cursing himself for becoming so flustered in their presence. Convinced they must think him an idiot, he resolved to carry out the mission as they had ordered, and prove to them how effective he could be.

Three pairs of eyes watched his exit, waiting for the door to close behind him. One of them stood up, and walked over to it, placing the bolts back in place.
"So, it begins." he said, turning back to face his colleagues. "Another toast, I think is in order." Waiting whilst everyone picked up their glasses, he cleared his throat, and said, "To the arrival of the new, and the destruction of the old."
The other two nodded in approval, and sipped with pleasure in anticipation of what was surely to come.

BALMORA

He knocked. Twice. Firmly. No one seemed to be paying him any attention, which he was relieved about, partly because of the sensitive nature of his mission, and the need to retain secrecy, but primarily because he felt grubby. This was quite a comedown after the finery he was used to in Cyrodiil. I never would have believed I'd miss the Royal Guards uniform, all inflexible joints and heavy pauldrons, thought Duronia, but it would be a relief to pull that back on, and consign these beggars rags to the incinerator. Join the Guards, and see the world. He'd seen quite enough of Morrowind already, dust, rain, ash storms had been raging since the moment he'd set foot on the island, and he found himself craving the pleasures of his homeland. The sooner we get the troops out of here, and leave this hellhole to these Dark Elves the better. Another reason, he thought, the native inhabitants were the most taciturn and unpleasant race he'd ever had the misfortune to meet.

Receiving an acknowledgement from within, he pushed open the door to the little house, a rented bed and breakfast he suspected, and gasped in disgust, as a noxious wave of skooma fumes hit him full in the face. Attempting not to breathe, his face pinched, he stepped into the room. Perhaps it was just as well he wasn't wearing his uniform, he'd never be able to get rid of the stench. Addressing the old Imperial inside, trying to conceal his doubt, he said, "Excuse me. I'm looking for one Caius Cosades. I was told I could find him here."
The old man observed him silently, and Duronia felt his doubts slip away. Old he might be, but this man had an aura of power about him. It was in his eyes, cold and unyielding, the way they studied him and seemed to look beyond the skin. This was the fourth man in as many days to view him such. First the Emperor, then the three... well, best not to even think of that.
"You've found him. And who might you be?"

Pulling himself upright, inwardly cursing his attire, he replied, "I am Aebond Duronia, Captain of the Emperor's personal Guard in Cyrodiil, and a member of.... Well, thats not important sir. I have a package for you from the Emperor."
"A package eh? May I see it?" Caius asked.
Blushing slightly, Duronia reached into his pack, a cheap fabric, the edges torn and frayed, and pulled out the package, the Emperor's glorious seal contrasting sharply with the drab surroundings.
"Yes sir. Sorry sir."
Caius took the offered package, placed it on the bed behind him, and showed no inclination to open it in front of company.
"Right." he said. Looking up, and seeing that the other Imperial wasn't moving, he asked, "Was there something else?"
"I was just wondering," began Duronia, "if you wished me to take a message back to the Emperor or to, well, anyone else sir."
"Anyone else?" asked Caius, staring at the younger man with displeasure.
"Yes sir. I believe we have certain, mutual acquaintances in Cyrodiil." Duronia said. Looking into his eyes, he tried to communicate without words who those might be. Realising that was probably not making thing's clearer, he added, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. "Very powerful acquaintances ."
"I see." said Caius, though Duronia wasn't sure he did, or whether he just didn't want to talk about it, or whether he was annoyed by Duronia asking. With a grimace Duronia remembered the advice he'd been given in Cyrodiil, just before he'd left. "Well you can tell them both the same thing. The Emperor's orders have been received and will be acted upon accordingly."
"Yes sir. That's all sir?" he asked, hoping to God it was, so he could get out of this house, and breathe freely again. The skooma fumes must have made his mouth wander he thought.
"That's all that needs to be said. Thank you Duronia, and have a safe journey back." said Caius politely, in dismissal.
"Yes sir. An honour to meet you sir."

Wasting no time, he turned sharply, and left the building, where he stood gasping in large lungfuls of air for a moment, leaning against the wall of the house. Noticing a Dunmer woman, looking at him curiously, he smiled wanly, and forced himself to move. Travel, then home. The quicker the better.

Grimacing slightly, Caius read through the Emperor's package, wondering once again why he'd made the code so complicated. The old memory is starting to fail me, he thought, a year ago this would have been easy. He ran his fingers over the words, making sense of it, and finally, sat back satisfied. As his mind readjusted to his surroundings, he gradually became aware that there was a soft, insistent knocking on the door. Rising swiftly, he opened it, ushering the woman on the other side within, and closed it quickly behind them.
"Good timing Rithleen, I was about to come and find you."

Armour, even now she was wearing armour. Smiling, Caius waved her to sit down. Rithleen was one of the Blades under his control, and only one of two people that Caius had entrusted with the details of what was going on. With fine clothes and jewellery, perhaps a dress, she could have passed as a Redguard Noblewoman with ease. Caius had never seen her wearing a dress. She looked what she was, a warrior, created by the Gods purely to fight. Leaning over the bed, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of Skooma still overpowering the room, and brushed the rough fabric covering it, before sitting gingerly down.

"Well, I saw you had a visitor."
"I did indeed, though he didn't exactly fill me with confidence."
"Which side sent him?" she asked.
"Both sent him, though he was delivering the Emperor's orders." he said, motioning to the package on the bed. "Rithleen? Where's Tusamiel at the minute?"
"Solthsteim, recovering still."
"Is he ready to return?" he asked, focusing on her fully. She noticed the change, the directness of his gaze, and took her time before answering. "I'm not sure. The last report he sent, stated that he was healing, and he felt he was ready to be considered once again, but..."
Caius nodded, considering. Mind made up, he stood, and walked over to the small table in the corner of the room.
"Well, it's time to bring him back."
Rithleen smiled. Stretching, her fingers reaching behind her to the wall, her body relaxed. "They made their move?" she asked.
Caius nodded emphatically. "Both sides are now in motion."
"Finally!" she said, "I was beginning to think this day would never come." Her smile seemed to keep on widening, the jaw muscles struggling to keep up with her delight. "The Emperor suspects nothing?"
"No, I don't think so, if he did I'd have been recalled to Cyrodiil."

The mood was celebratory, and he poured two glasses of expensive imported whiskey, that the natives called Flin, into small common goblets.
"True, but he's a wily one." said Rithleen, as she joined him at the table. Caius carefully handed her one of the goblets, filled to the brim it seemed in danger of overflowing, and nodded his head in agreement.
"Very, which is why need to be careful." Silently, they toasted each other, and drank the contents in one gulp. Wiping his mouth, Caius grimaced from the burning sensation, and asked, "Now, who do we have available to go and bring Tusamiel back? Anyone not working at the minute?"
"Garieus is free." she replied. "I'll give the job to him."
"Excellent." he said. "And for ourselves, preparation is the key. I don't want anything going wrong, we need to be ready for anything."
"We will be." replied Rithleen. "We've all waited to long for us to fail now."

Here Ends Chapter 1

(c)2005 Burntsierra