The Colovian Rebellion
Chapter 1
Bruma.
In the ten years that had past since the Oblivion Crisis and the similarly major events that effected the city itself, Bruma patched itself up and moved forward as it always did, still the same frozen haven for the Nord's, where life rotated around hunting, smithery, and a long night at Olav's Tap and Tack (save for the wealthy members who lived on the higher levels of the city and took their dining to the Jerall View Inn).
As of late, however, division has come about. Countess Carvain turned a fine profit by securing the Pale Pass with troops and turning it into a tourist location of sorts; and the steady new income attracted various nobles and well-to-do's from across the Empire. The upper levels of the city were expanded and renovated, the wood replaced and treated and the stone steps replaced; and an elitist class was formed. The commoners of Bruma, however, never saw a Septim of this wealth beyond their construction and renovation participation; and the divide between the Nobility and the peasants was starting to get heated.
As the story begins, Countess Carvain has received a rather rude emissary from the Elder Council instructing her seizure of the 'Historic Landmark' to cease and desist; and with a fair troop of mercenaries, financial support from Skyrim, and pure arrogance, she intends to capitalize on the gesture made against her.
"You mean to tell me that this is why my dinner was interrupted?" she snapped at Holga, her new Herald. Such a pity that Tolgan passed on the year before. "Perhaps we shall have to have another discussion about the appropriate times to disturb me. Leave me." she hissed, then, passing through the threshold from the Dining Hall came to sit upon her throne, peering down at the spindly emissary at the bottom of the steps. "What business do you have here?" she called down. "I am from the Elder Council." the emissary responded, "I have come before you with an ultimatum. Black Marsh has just seceded from the Empire; Skyrim has invaded Morrowind in the north and pushes it's armies south. Your rejection of Imperial authority causes High Ch-" "'Imperial Authority'?" Countess Carvain interrupted, "What Imperial authority is there? We have no Emperor!" "…Your rejection to submit to Imperial authority," the emissary continued, "has suggested that your loyalty may not remain with the Empire. Already, rebellion is brewing in the Highlands. All the Count's and Countesses are expected to make their loyalties plain, and now is the time for you to do so. You are hereby ordered to surrender the County's claims to Serpent Trail and Pale Pass in the lapse of ten days, your cooperation requiring informing of the Elder Council within that time frame on penalty of treason, your status as 'Countess' being terminated upon your failure to comply. If your emissary is not heard of by nightfall on First Seed 28th, the Tenth Legion will advance upon the city and capture you. Is this understood?"
Countess Carvain had chosen to remain silent after his initial outburst; and as the ultimatum was lain her expression shifted from arrogant to nervous. "Understood clearly, emissary. You are welcome to stay at the Jerall View Inn this night, and tomorrow a fresh horse will return you to the Imperial City…with my response. Good evening." she finished, and rising, offered a shallow bow before entering the door to her Manor briskly, her personal guard right behind her.
Skel was a seventeen-year-old Nordic commoner in Bruma. He bore all the physical features of his race; big head, unkept hair, thick muscles and a joy of brawling. Beyond that, however, was his differences with most others: he was quick by the tongue and loved reading. He had left home a year earlier, opting instead for a specific arrangement with Olav himself: work the Inn every night as rent in one of the downstairs bedrooms.
His possessions were few, as was his gold; the little he had acquired was through assisting at the Chapel, tutoring the few Nords that cared for any form of education during the day. On this particular Fredas Skel was just leaving the Chapel on the surprisingly warm day from tutoring some of the Elderly who found his theatric one-man re-enactment of the Siege of Bruma highly entertaining. As he crossed the street, passing a few others about and a guard, he was expecting a nice nap at Olav's before the evening's work began.
Passing a couple who had dropped in for a bite at lunch he headed down the small stairs to the lower level, and shutting the rickety old door behind him headed for his room; but Olav was waiting for him at the door, arms crossed and a bemused expression creeping up his features. "Enjoy entertaining the graveyard today?" "Always a fresh experience, Olav." Skel responded with a smirk of his own, "Is there a problem?" "Oh no, no problem," said Olav, shifting about to be less impeding of Skel's path to the door, "But I need you to do something for me, alright?" Skel furrowed his brow curiously; in his year of tenancy, Olav had never approached him like this, "Alright then, what do you need?" "There's an Imperial emissary in town and I'm certain he isn't pleased with the Countess. Why don't you run up to the Jerall View Inn and grab some information. We have to remain the chief proprietor's of news around here." Skel made another funny face, "Uhm, well, if you say to." "I do." said Olav declaratively, then, scooting past him headed back upstairs to the Inn.
Evening fell across Bruma, and with it came a sharp wind that made Skel wrap himself in a decent fur coat before heading to the Upper Level. As he headed up the steps past the service-oriented Middle Level and to the elitist area, more than one guard shot him a funny look; frankly, if he wasn't the grandson of the famous Selkan himself, they might've barred him passage. The Jerall View Inn had a fair smoke-stack puffing out of it's chimney; and to confirm Skel's assumption, there was a rather festive air in the filled Inn. Of course, most in there were the younger nobility that didn't care to dine with the Countess (and a few older ones that didn't get enough drink at her table). Skel moved his way gingerly to the bar, where the publican Hafid Hollowleg was instructing his wife, Yelanda, on how to best stew mutton. "Skel my lad," he said in polite acknowledgement of the young Nord reaching the countertop, "How's your grandfather? I haven't seen him recently." "Last I heard, he spends most of his time reading some of my old books!" Skel said with a grin. His grandfather was one of the dozen or so houses that lived on the Middle Level, an indicator of just how small the middle class was in Bruma. "Glad to see your wife is well, how's that boy of yours?" Hafid was rather delighted at the inquiry; maybe he'd be a bit liberal with his information tonight, "Actually, I'm taking the boy on a hunting trip in the morning. So, what brings you here this evening? Olav give you the night off?" "Hah," Skel responded, "Not hardly. I came to ask about the emissary that's staying here…" he said in a lowered tone, leaning slightly over the bottle-covered countertop. Hafid glanced to his wife momentarily as if getting a piece of advice; and with a nod of her head he looked back to Skel and uttered, "Follow me."
Modryn Oreyn, Master of the Fighter's Guild, had a bit of a pompous side; and at Colovian Rebel meetings such as this one, he spent the evening criticizing the artwork displayed in Arborwatch.
Of course, this meeting is not what you'd expect; there was nobody huddled around in a dark-lit room speaking in whispers about their latest plan or idea. The owners of Arborwatch, Arnold and Kate Arcen, would have none of that. Instead, they threw a party; but even with the hot rumor of some organization called the 'Colovian Rebels', no one would ever question a party that Bittneld the Curse-Bringer, Captain of the Guard, attended. Downstairs in the foyer Bittneld and Arnold carried on a conversation regarding finances, while Dar-Ma, Seed-Neeus, and Lady Arcen gossiped a bit off-topic; but upstairs in the suite stood Modryn Oreyn, hardly listening to the conversation behind him.
"Some of the word around my Inn is opportunistic," Talasma was telling the priest Otius Loran, smithy Sabine Laul, and Earana the Mages Guild outcast, "I understand that they may be sending General Neros and the Sixth Legion here." "No no no," interjected Earana with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand, "You've got it all wrong. They're only going to send the Legion in if the trade on the road is disrupted or some traveller's got sacked. It helps when you invite the Legion patroller's into your bed every now and then." she said slyly. Otius shifted uncomfortably and picked up on a line of thought that Talasma may have been following, "So it would behoove us to do so, to get their attention; but make sure it's something important enough to where we have leverage, not with the Elder Council but with the Countess, yes?" "Don't be absurd." said Modryn Oreyn, turning towards them, "There's nothing that valuable coming up that road that would help us, it would only piss them off." Earana turned toward the Guildmaster and quickly contradicted, "You don't know that. Maybe we can capture someone important." Talasma approached Modryn, nodding in agreement and brought a hand to rest upon his shoulder, "She's right, Master Oreyn. If someone important goes missing, important to the Countess, she may hear reason to do our bidding in their best interest. Isn't that what your God of Ransom is all about, Priest?" Otius sighed, "Indeed it is…but obviously whom you are implying isn't about to come up that road, no no. Alessia Caro doesn't take pleasure trips across the Province, you know." "What are you," Talasma said, "Some kind of expert? I don't see why she wouldn't come up that road with a little goading." "Well," Modryn Oreyn interjected on behalf of Priest Loran, "When you think of something that would persuade her ass up here, just let me know." Talasma cut her feline eyes and, wrapping her furry tail around her midsection and shaking her hips tauntingly, shot back with "Oh I will." before opening the door and descending to the base level of the fine, polished house.
"So what are they going to do, lock up the Countess?" asked Skel with a bewildered expression. "I suppose," responded Hafid with a shrug, "She needs to learn to play ball." Skel shook his head and paused for a moment; but Hafid grabbed a bottle of mead from the table there in the spacious kitchen, "Now I've got to get back to work, boy, but send your regard to Selkan for me." "Yeah, thanks for your help. I'll send him your wishes." Skel said in closing, and passing through the door left the higher-end Inn in a bit of a hurry.
It was a slower night at Olav's, who had little chance to leak out his newfound spot of information. Skel mostly swept and scrubbed floors where a rowdy Nord couldn't hold his ale, keeping his ears open for any further word of happenings at the Castle; but by the time he tucked himself in and read a small piece of 'Disaster at Ionith', he found himself questioning the drastic nature of the information he just received.
The following morning, however, Skel awoke to a rather unpleasant sound, like something clattering about on the floor up in the Inn. Suspecting a thief he grabbed his shortsword; and hurrying up the stairs half-dressed found Olav himself armed with a bar stool watching the door as if it was about to burst off it's hinges. "Olav, what in oblivion is going on out here?" said Skel in a loud tone, and Olav responded in kind, "It's the Countess. She's attempting to conscribe every young man residing in the Lower Level, and I think they're gonna riot out there!" Skel was a bit panic-stricken himself now; what was stopping the Guards from kicking down the door and seizing him where he stood? Well, once he thought of it, his grandfather could prevent that.
"This is nuts, nuts…" said Skel as he hurried back down the stairs; and getting fully clothes threw a book and a few small trinkets into a sack and took off back up the stairs. "Where are you going? You'll get mugged out there!" said Olav. "Probably." said Skel; and with that he opened the door.
'Riot' was right. There was no less than a hundred citizens out in the snow, yelling curses and angry threats at the Countess, whose address was being drowned out be the level of noise; and it was evident that she would have been butchered in a heartbeat if the guard hadn't formed a wall on the slope that rose to the Middle Level. They were beating together whatever that had in their hands, and one or two stones was deflected off the shield of a nervous Bruma guard member. They're right, Skel thought, declaring independence is absurd.
He made his way through the threatening crowd; and was fortunate enough to be recognized by a few veterans when he tried to enter the Chapel. Inside, he was startled to find his grandfather pacing about; but when the tall old Selkan saw him he spared the pleasantries. "Skel, boy, you have to go." said Selkan, grasping his grandson by the shoulders, "You have to leave the city, now. I can't stop them from drafting you otherwise. Here," Selkan said, pressing a sack of what jingled as gold on the inside, "Take this and run. I'll be fine." "No, I can't leave. I can't leave you." Skel protested, but his mighty grandfather backed him to the door, "I'm not asking you, boy, I'm telling you. Get out of here!" and with a shove, Skel was out the door, his protests lost in the frantic air. "Told you to leave, did he?" asked Rellius Cage, on of his grandfather's old colleagues, "Come on, boy, to the gate with you."
The escort was helpful piercing the threatening crowd; and Rellius got him just to the far side of the gate, the sound of the dire situation on the inside dulled away by the massive door.