I am going to tell you a story.
So sit, and listen. I brought the second chair for a reason.
—
It needs no introduction. It is the Imperial City.
Perching precariously upon one of the many arches, Garrotte crouches down on all limbs like a Khajiit, peering down at the gladiators below. He counts few diversions; this, by liberal definition, could be considered one of them.
So rages the championship bout; a tectonic exchange between two fighters whose personae have become ingrained in contemporary Cyrodilic culture. It has become dogmatic amongst the plebeians; you are a blue or a yellow, and that was that (alas, if you declared yourself a 'green,' you would be severely beaten outside of a tavern by both parties). Even the patricians entertain the notion of belonging to such teams, and thus commissioned the finest armor and weapons for their sponsored champion to bear whilst beggars starved in the streets. Such was it that scalping tickets is punishable by the steel-tongued whip.
The bout ends, after much artful posturing. This was it; after the Colosseum had been flooded with pigmented water and ships sailed upon the false waves, after an entire copse was transplanted to recreate a battle in a flowered meadow, this was it. The blue provocator has fallen, his defeat graceful and poetic—no, operatic—falling to both knees and raising his hands in supplication to whatever uncaring deities gazed upon him. His mirror-polished raiment, sculpted in the form of a muscular naked torso, glints like a hydrargyrum fountain in the spring noon sun. Even the rose-red of his blood runs beautifully. He is not slain; that is not the Imperial way. He will for-ever be damnatio memoriae; living the rest of his life as a pariah, his name condemned and forgotten, worse than any derogation. Well… In theory, anyway. In practice he will still be a celebrity loved and lusted.
The winner—their new champion—throws down his gladius and scutum, lifting his arms to the sun. The crowd screams, weeps, convulses in collective liturgical orgasm. This man no longer a man, this hero birthed before them, glistening with blood rather than amnion—was their new shining god, and they will worship the air he exhales, anoint themselves in the sweat that falls from his fingertips. Rose petals flutter from the Colosseum velarium like numinous rain. To any foreigner, this is no mere bloodsport. This is religion.
Garrotte watches as the crowd issues forth from the Colosseum, blood from a mortal wound, the pressure too great to be dammed. All two hundred thousand of them. So many bodies, ecstatic and livid and ready to fall upon the city as though they were righteous liberators themselves. The Praetors have summoned surplus Cohortes Vigilum to patrol the Colosseum District, ready for the night's ritualistic revelry and libations of burnt-wine to fracture into sectarian blue-versus-yellow combat at the slightest of provocations. Even Legionnaire auxiliaries have been dispatched, their steely plates of lorica quite conspicuous amongst the citizenry.
He does not walk amongst them. He crouches, still, on that same arch, waiting for the chaos and noise to subside.
He will be there for a while.
"Must be a pleasant view. What a fool I was, to pay for the prime seats when I could have had one even such as this, eh?"
Garrotte tenses, and glances down. In the shadow of the arch is a Dunmer, whose flamboyant attire somehow had not announced his presence.
"The view: yes. The bout: no. Overchoreographed."
The Dunmer nods, raising his silvern chalice. "Yes. Yes, indeed. But consider the audience, would you not? These specimens, bred of the 'civilized' persuasion, have no grasp of battle desperate and true. The Colosseum is meant to distract and amuse, not traumatize."
"Yes," Garrotte utters, attempting to compress himself lower upon the arch. Hopefully no other wandering eye will espy him.
Moments pass. The Dunmer sighs. "No pleasantries, Garrotte? No 'and how have you faired?' No 'what-ever have you been up to?'"
Garrotte produces a noncommittal noise, eyes flickering over the crowd.
"Oh, very well. Be your usual self. I will suffer it, kind as I am." The Dunmer finishes off his chalice, and throws it to one of the departing revelers in the lower stands, who catches it with surprise. "I have a carriage waiting. Walking is simply unthinkable after events of this magnitude. We shall converse there, eh?"
Garrotte looks down. Zekoreth looks up. After a long pause, Garrotte relaxes.
—
The streets are dense with celebration. The carriage moves at such a pace Garrotte may as well have walked.
Within the cabin, Garrotte's gloved hands grip the edge of the plush velvet seat, his spine spear-straight. The suspension of the carriage is well-engineered, but he feels every loose stone and gap in the road. And the occasional human body. Even here, his hood remains up, scarf bound tight around his mouth.
"I have a preposition, Garrotte." Zekoreth pours himself goblet of red wine, knowing enough of his guest not to bother pouring a second. He replaces the bottle on the rack. "A preposition just for you. A preposition I believe you will indeed like."
Garrotte has known Zekoreth for but a little while. A season and a half, at the very most. But that was all it took: the bizarre Dunmer had made an impression, like a bronze stamp into hot wax. He is nothing but serendipitous. That is his talent, his skill, his philosophy, his vocation. That is him, and there is nothing else.
"I am listening." Though it is difficult, considering the sheer noise from outside, and the occasional pounding on the sides of the carriage. Zekoreth has drawn the curtains across the windows. They sit across from one another in false twilight.
"How I hoped you would. You see, Garrotte, I am, above all things, a mer of the people. But just after that, a mer of business. And—as I am sure you are well aware—what business reigns supreme in our fair Cyrodiil?" He gestures with the goblet to the door of the carriage.
"Death," Garrotte replies automatically.
A smile splits Zekoreth's grey face. "Such pessimism, my friend." He stabs a ringed finger at Garrotte. "Life! Life is a business, and so many are willing to pay what-ever it is they may have for a taste. Would you not agree?" He drank deeply from his goblet. "The smallest taste," he adds, nodding assuredly.
"Rhetorical question," Garrotte observes flatly.
"With a purpose, never you fear." Zekoreth leans forward, setting aside his wine. His eyes are spheres of blood, glinting oddly in what little light penetrates the curtains. "I have called upon two others—a most magnificent man-at-arms, and a magus whose brilliance is without barrier. And then you."
Garrotte meets his gaze. Green eyes clash with red.
"In a realm of guilds and factions, many pleas go unheard, prayers unanswered. Can you imagine that? Within the seat of the illustrious Empire, the polished jewel of Tamriel, that there are wrongs that lie unrighted at the very foot of the throne? What bitter irony, when judges and emperors and gods alike are deaf to the cries of their favored children."
"I have yet to hear a preposition, Zek." How many times has 'preposition' been said in this damnable carriage?
"Ah! How very true. Forgive me—you know of my passions." He clears his throat, allows himself another mouthful of wine, licks his stony lips. "I wish for you to join us, Garrotte. Join our business—our pact. You stand to gain much—gold, fame, prestige. Think of the enemies you will duel, the sights you will behold. We will be called criminals, heretics, saviors, heroes! You will life grant life to others as you live! What better preposition, Garrotte?"
The carriage trundles along. Garrotte's eyes never leave Zekoreth's. After a few minutes, Zekoreth idly wonders if Garrotte may have a condition that makes blinking difficult.
"I will think on it," he says at last.
Zekoreth resists the urge to run a hand down his face.
—
"Onward to the estate, then!"
It is a long ride. The entire way, with that voice of gravel tumbling over a rough-grit whetstone, Zekoreth regales him with stories of his supposed allies' feats. Tyr, who divorced the heads from the necks of four men with a single swing. Nicht, who made an entire river reverse its flow uphill. As the Dunmer speaks, the interior of the carriage stinks more and more of red wine. Garrotte realizes after the fourth story that he has already heard of these men. In passing. In rumor. Perhaps even seen their handiwork at a distance. People like them… like Garrotte… tend to find each other, one way or another.
When Zekoreth referred to his 'estate,' Garrotte had assumed he meant a mansion in the Talos Plaza District. But the hours passed, and having drawn back the curtains, he could see they had crossed the great bridge over Lake Rumare.
"Did I say 'estate?' Perhaps I should have said 'villa,'" Zekoreth says with a casual wave of the hand. Garrotte narrows his eyes. His host grins.
Perhaps it is for the best. The night after the Colosseum championship is more dangerous than the battlefield. At least three taverns burn to the ground by morning. The blues and yellows end up fighting, no matter the victor. The Cohortes Vigilum used to try arresting those they found drunkenly fucking in the streets or alleyways, but the local jails could not hold them all. Worse, the revelers started fucking in jail, and few were willing to step in to pry them apart. After the last bout, four years ago, a young couple was found beaten to death—likely with wine bottles or tankards, from the traumatic indentations and crushed eye sockets—and it took the Cohortes three weeks to determine that the man had been an avowed blue, the woman a dedicated yellow. Discovered together, they had been slain by their own compatriots.
Garrotte's mouth twists as he watches the grassy banks of the lake roll by, cypress trees swaying in the gentle breeze.
… Yes, it is for the best.
—
As the villa grows closer, it grows more impressive. A white, shining edifice cresting a hill above the Rumare, in full sight of the Imperial City, framed against a clear sky. They arrive just as the sun begins to singe the horizon; as they pull into the lush courtyard and disembark, Zekoreth stretches whereas Garrotte immediately begins scanning the grounds. White-marble fountains jetting water a full fathom skyward, statues of nude women presenting themselves, exotic fruiting trees and ever-blooming flowers. High stout walls veined with creeping, clinging vines, the tops affixed with sharp steel spikes. Quite standard, as far as Imperial opulence was concerned. The patricians might even call it reserved.
Ever mindful, Zekoreth says a few words to the carriage-driver and riding-guard, pressing stacks of Septims into their hands and then shaking those very hands. The driver directs the horses around back to the stable, the guard retires to the servant's quarters. The host turns his red eyes to find his guest, head a-swivel, still alert. "Never you fear, Garrotte. This property is quite defensible." He chuckles, crossing his arms. "Well, perhaps not from you."
Garrotte peers up at the windows, but spies no one. "Not defensible from your checkbook."
"Semantics, semantics. Shall we go in? I can provide only so much hospitality in a courtyard. Let me, at least, pour you a cup of water you can sniff and stare at."
Satisfied—at what, Zekoreth knew not—Garrotte turns and follows Zekoreth into the compound. Zekoreth considered throwing an arm around the quiet man's shoulders, but—that would be perhaps a bit too forward.
—
The villa is furnished as though someone had mistaken art pieces for footstools. Oh, certainly, to the fashionable Imperial eye, it may have looked quite inviting—surrounding oneself with relics stolen from other cultures was a beloved Cyrodilic tradition—but for someone to live in it, well, that is a different matter entirely.
Garrotte observes, absorbs. Intricate bone carvings from Valenwood, mounted upon the walls, pulled from the flesh of beasts he had never seen and likely never would. High-relief triptychs depicting phases of the moons, formed from molten sand from Elsewyr. Arrays of Dwemer alchemical equipment and devices, displayed now only for aestheticism, the charters of Imperial ownership be damned. Small glass and ebony figurines, obsessively detailed, knapped and abraded in the traditional Ashlander folk-style. He frowned at those.
Zekoreth probably does have a mansion in the Talos Plaza District. Has innocuous safehouses all through Cyrodiil, no doubt. Each one carefully maintained and upkept by a staff who never see their patron, yet say nothing when they see the volume of Septims falling into their hands.
"Let us speak further in the study," Zekoreth offers, directing his guest upstairs with a sweep of the arm.
Garrotte hears the voices before they're halfway down the second-floor corridor. He stops.
"You did not mention company."
"You did not ask."
Garrotte's gloved hand rests on something at his back.
"Well, you are not going to stab me, Garrotte. Not to-day; I but just purchased these carpets." He looks down at them admiringly (what a fine Ra'Gada weave, such elaborate knots!), then blinks, as if remembering where he was. "I only wish for you to meet your future comrades, no more. Such an unreasonable request?"
Garrotte says nothing. Zekoreth turns his back and continues walking down the corridor, and only looks over his shoulder once his hand is on the doorknob. "Trust in me, my friend. You will love them."
—
The four of them sit around the table, staring at one another. The crackling of logs in the fireplace is deafening.
The study, like the rest of the villa, is resplendent, the shelves lined with rare volumes, Bretonnic pastoral paintings hung on the walls, a gilded globe of Nirn on the window-facing workdesk, an Altmeri crystal chandelier. The three guests alternate between eyeing their surroundings and eyeing each other, in a ridiculous game of 'let us not stare at each other simultaneously.'
Zekoreth puffs on his pipe, rolling his eyes heavenward. This… is terribly awkward. To be expected, yes, but… even he is cringing at this social display. "Well, I believe Tyr and Nicht have become fast friends in our absence! Garrotte, why not introduce yourself?"
Garrotte looks at the other two men at the round table.
One, a massive Nord, towering well over a fathom. His aketon, crimson. Slung across the back of his armchair is a scabbarded arming-sword, assumedly imported from Skyrim, if one noted shape of the crossguard. He sits rigidly, as if unused to the soft mortality of his body without the closeness of armor. Below a heavy brow his blue eyes stare back, hard, boring, impassive. He is still, save for the rise and fall of his mighty chest… but Garrotte can feel the force emanating from him. That force pushed him a few inches back from the table.
The other, a… Breton, perhaps, but the merrish features are too pronounced. He moves… noticeably. Blinks far more than he needs to. Crosses and recrosses his ankles. Tugs at the collar and cuffs of his nondescript brown jack. Taps fingers rhythmically against the Valenwood mahogany. But his eyes—when he finally meets gazes with Garrotte, he may look away quickly, but Garrotte feels as though the magus took a fragment of him away.
"Zek has told you enough about me," he says. "Most: untrue. But some truth."
The Nordic man raises an eyebrow. "So you didn't single-handedly repel the Thalmor from Stros M'Kai?"
It is Zekoreth's turn to be stared at by Garrotte. He simply shrugs and tends to his pipe.
"Well, you very nearly had me fooled. I almost bloody believed it. A lone man leaping from warship to warship, leaving only torsos and limbs and heads in his wake." His mouth twitches up at one end. "If he told you I once leveled a castle in Wayrest with a single swing, that didn't happen, either. Aye, don't look so shocked."
A snort from the Breton.
"Yes, yes, very good." Zekoreth hastily reaches under the table and produces a scroll of vellum. "Let us proceed to the Pact, shall we?"
—
They argue well into the night.
Why a pact? Why such a formal thing? Tyr sees hardly any point to such. If they are to work together, let it be. But Zekoreth explains that if they are to function within certain societies, they need professionalism. A semblance of it, anyway.
Zekoreth wishes to add a motto, but the other three find the idea of a motto rather sophomoric.
"The Empire has a motto," he pointed out.
"Not a very good one," Nicht replies dryly.
"Look at the Empire now, Zek," Tyr shot back.
Zekoreth shrugs. "Circumstantial."
Garrotte places another log on the fire, prodding it with an overpriced fire poker. Not enough light from the chandelier. For them, he presumed. "Name?" he asks.
They are all silent.
"We have no need of a name," Zekoreth proclaims.
Tyr throws his hands into the air. "You want a motto but don't want a name?"
"Principle, my good Tyr. Those who need of us will know of us. A name only gives the distant and established a means to come upon us."
Garrotte inclines his head. "Agreed."
They argue even more.
In the end, it is brief. But all contribute.
"All pact members must agree before a contract is accepted."
"Contracts of conflicting interests may not be accepted."
"A contract may only be executed in full disclosure."
"For in the end, all matters are a matter of profit."
"Rather poetic, Garrotte," Zekoreth says approvingly.
They sign.
4E 183
11th of First Seed
Valtyr Rauðrsverð
Nichtig Erscheinung
Zekoreth Myaloth
Garrotte Agar
"Your signature is less so," Zekoreth says disapprovingly.
No Dragonborn, no Champion, no Nerevarine. No heroes, no villains. No prophecies.
Just people.
This is going to be a weird one, I'll tell you now. It's been hanging around for a long time, longer than my Fallout work (though one wouldn't know, from the terrible quality of said Fallout work), and will be written somewhat differently to reflect that. It will gradually descend—or ascend, depending on your outlook—into an M rating. It will be rough, inconsistent, unrefined. But for now… here.