Blood On The White Road

by

Cryptic Mystic

Chapter 1: New Friends and Grand Plans

Etzel Ferrer peered out of his window for the ninth time that morning from his breakfast nook. The grey old Breton was not sure if he was short on patience or was tiring of his self imposed isolation. The sun shined like it was Midyear but the cool winds rolling up the Strid River from the Abecean Sea alerted the land it was Frostfall. He made his home almost on the border of Cyrodiil and Valenwood after retiring from the Imperial City Engineer Corps. His experiences repairing the city after the Oblivion Crisis convinced him he was done with city life. There were too many people, too many demands, and too much aging infrastructure for him to enjoy life as much as he wanted. So he bought himself a plot of land on the quiet Valenwood border and built his home. The location proved very ideal as the Valenwood city of Arenthia was an easy journey from there. His home was fully decorated in the best Bosmer craftsman furnishings and fixtures.

He slowly turned away from the window and shuffled his slipper clad feet across his marble floor back to the breakfast table. Etzel walked with a slight hunch. The result of a construction accident in his younger years that he now paid for every morning. It was almost noon. Typically the pain in his back and legs would subside by then but lately it had persisted into the afternoon. It was from all of the farm work. He grew crops and raised sheep and chickens to live make a living from his isolated home. All of which required a lot of bending over and lifting early in the morning. Sometimes he would take his goods to a market in Skingrad whenever there was a surplus of food to trade for other items. While living in the city and working on clogged sewer lines he romanticized rural life in his day dreams of retirement. Now he understood the social aspects of city life masked how easy it was physically.

Etzel was ready to return. At least for a while. He was sure of that now. Perhaps he could patch up things with his ex wife Anna. He allowed the stress of his job tear apart their marriage. He was sure of that now too. Maybe he could even convince her this house would be a great place to spend winters. He sat down at the table with a groan and patted the large elaborately embossed leather bound book on his breakfast table. And here is the key, he thought. If only Alastar would arrive sometime during this age of man.

Alastar Cummins was a traveling nobleman Etzel met on his way to Arenthia a few weeks ago. He grew up in Cheydinhal and was educated in the Imperial City. He traveled all over Tamriel as a trader and an adventurer. He was going to Vallenwood for a ritual hunt when Etzel met him. Alastar talked to Etzel about all of his journeys and dealings. He hobnobbed with knights, nobles, and royals one evening and partied with bawdy sailors, whores, and gamblers the next. To Etzel it seemed like Alastar was one of those personable people that dazzled others like moths to light. Although he was a little too flamboyant for Etzel's tastes, Alastar seemed to like him enough and he visited often baring gifts.

Alastar naturally had many strong personal connections to people in government and well moneyed families which was just the kind of thing that came in handy when doing something as political as Etzel's little project. Something he thought of on his way to Chorrol many years ago. His solitude afforded him the time to draft up the plans. He really never thought about it making him money until he desired to return to the city.

Etzel sipped some spearmint tisane tea that he grew and blended himself from his ceramic cup but it was cold. He pushed up from his chair with a grunt and went to the hearth. He poured some fresh water into the kettle and opened a special compartment he designed into his flue so the iron grate over the firebox could remain in place when he made hot tea. Inside the compartment was a tempered steel sliding rod with a hump in it for the kettle to rest on. He pulled the rod out, placed the kettle on it, pushed it back in, and closed the compartment. As soon as he sat back down with yet another old man grunt a knock came from the door. "Damn it Alastar," Etzel whispered, "one second sooner." Etzel shuffled his way to the front door and opened it for his friend, "Alastar my boy, come in! What is that on your back?"

The dark haired Breton carried a long bundle secured with straps on his back. He had to step in the door sideways, "Oh, just a little gift from my last trip to the Market District. Where can I set it down?" Whenever Alastar visited he wore the same brown shirt, brown pants, and rugged leather boots. He also traveled with a satchel slung across his chest.

"It's not a rug is it?" asked Etzel.

"It's a hand crafted embroidered Etonian carpet, Etzel," pleaded Alastar. "These are impossible to come by."

Etzel held his hands up, "Sorry friend. I didn't pay good money to have these marble and lacquered redwood floors covered up."

"But they get so cold in the winter. It will look just wonderful in front of the fireplace!"

Etzel pointed to his feet, "That's what the fur slippers are for." He sniffed the air for a second, "What is that?"

"It, uh, got a little wet on the trip over here."

"You came up the river this time?"

"Yes. I was in Anvil last night and met a Nord moving some goods to Skingrad on a longship. So I paid him to take me all the way up the Strid. It's actually less wilderness to trek through and you avoid all the bandits."

Etzel nodded, "They are getting more aggressive these days."

"And armed to the teeth! About the carpet, please use it. It will look splendid in here."

"Alright, I'll put it next to my bed where I put my slippers on. I don't want it near the fireplace where it could ignite. Set it over there by the wall."

"Excellent!" Alastar unfastened the rug and placed it along the baseboard on the wall closest to the stairs. He turned around and clapped his hands together once, "So is today the day?"

"It is indeed," replied Etzel. He handed the leather book to Alastar.

Alastar's eyes widened with anticipation, "My word! That is beautiful." He turned the book over in his hands, "Where did you get this done? Skingrad? Market District?"

"No, or course not. You can't get leather work that fine in Cyrodiil. I had that done in Arenthia."

"Ah, I see." Alastar opened the book and began leafing through the pages excitedly, "Oh Etzel, this is great. Your penmanship is as precise as your drafting. You even have cost estimates and everything. Oh! And look at these illustrations. They're exquisite. It's like walking through The Great Forest!"

Etzel beamed with pride. He had longed for that kind of recognition, "You think it will work? You really think they would go for it?"

"I'd bet my life on it, friend. They'd be stupid not to see this as a golden opportunity! It is very fortunate we met. Everything happens for a reason, I say."

Etzel shrugged and looked at the floor, "Well, t'was fortunate but it wasn't... destiny."

Without moving his head Alastar glanced up from the book and returned his eyes to the pages, "You surprise me, friend. A man of your age, wisdom, and experience not being able to see the plans laid before us from on high and down low. Seeing as how adept you are at making plans yourself. I think it is the height of tragic irony."

"Sometimes thing happen and sometimes people make things happen, Alastar. It's as simple as that."

"Ah, but what are the chances of the two of us Cyrodilic boys meeting in Valenwood."

"Just because something is improbable doesn't make it impossible. I was told things were impossible my entire career. But I made them happen."

"And you always did it without help?"

"Of course not, I had the resources of the Imperial City Engineer Corps. Planners, workers, builders..."

"Luck?"

"Some of that too," Etzel conceded.

"Inspiration; seemingly from no where?" Alastar raised his right eyebrow.

These discussions annoyed Etzel, "You always argue from the same closed logical loop."

"When I look around Nirn and consider all of its creation I come to the... what's that?" A low whine inside the hearth turned into a screech.

"The kettle, I have some of my signature spearmint tea. Would you care for some?"

"Hmm? Oh. That would be lovely."

The old man stood once again and retrieved the kettle from its special compartment. He moved it over to a counter beside the hearth where he prepared food and drinks. Maybe Alastar was right, Etzel mused. Because I was getting tired of his destiny and divine plans talk. Etzel could hear Alastar put the book down. He hoped that was not a sign that the conversation would continue. Etzel placed the loose leaf tea into mithril mesh infusers. He was about to pour the hot water when a sharp pain exploded in his chest.

He looked down to see the sharp end of a blade protruding just below his nipple. Etzel inhaled to scream. But that made the pain even worse so he only managed a pathetic wheeze. A blood stain on his shirt bloomed from the wound. He tried to move but was shoved up against the counter by somebody behind him. They pressed their full weight against his back and slowly cranked and jerked the dagger through his lung towards the center of his body where it met his heart. Etzel could feel his life leaving him as the blood from his heart was dumped into his lower chest cavity. He was so shocked and confused that he said with his last breath, "Alastar... Alastar run. Some... Somebody else... is here... here..."

Etzel was right. Somebody else was there and he killed both men. But where Etzel's death was an act of murder, Alastar's death was a decision to end the facade. Francois Motierre made the decision. He stood over the dead man's body holding the gory knife through a thick burlap sack. He pulled the sack over the blade and tied it off planning to dispose of it in the Strid River. He then returned to the table and pulled some large sheets of wax paper from his satchel. He thoroughly wrapped Etzel's book and tied it with leather straps before placing it in his bag.

Francois took a deep breath. From when I leave this building on, there can be no mistakes, he thought. He knew the moment Etzel mentioned his book that this was the opportunity he was craving. It was the one thing that would restore his life and his dreams of nobility. Francois had been hiding ever since he defaulted on his loan, contracted the Dark Brotherhood to fake his murder, and offered his own mother up as an offering to their goddess. But no matter where he went or under what identity he assumed after the ruse, he could not get his footing in the world again. Nobody wanted to invest in his ideas. Nobody trusted him to manage their wealth. Francois slowly realized he lacked anything unique that people wanted or needed. This, he knew, was how someone made real money when they had no significant family wealth of their own. So he made the decision to steal somebody else's idea. But it had to be big and bold enough to bring in the money he wanted. Anything less was not worth the risk of pursuing it to the extremes he was willing to go.

Francois stepped over Etzel's corpse to look through his wine rack. He pulled out a bottle and read the label aloud, "Tamika West Weald 415. A fine year indeed." He turned to the dead body, "But don't you think a bottle of 399 is more fitting for the occasion?" He tossed the bottle over his shoulder and it broke open on the marble floor. "I think I'll hold off on the celebration until I reach Chorrol. I have a very important meeting to attend at my home coming. Old friend, its time to unwrap your gift."