(AN: Your review, WarWizard, was impeccably timed. Thank you very much: you've given me much food for thought. Whether or not the culture of Cyrodiil will be based on that of Byzantium [my brother would want it to be based on traditional medieval culture with a mix of creole: nothing Roman whatsoever], remains to be seen.)
(This will be the very first time that most of you will have seen a rebuilt Kvatch as, apparently, the city is in ruins by the time you reach there in Oblivion. My version is not based on any mods that recreate the city, only the basic structure of the ruins and what may have been there based on what might be built there over two hundred years ago. Also, unlike Anvil, things won't just be handed to Crixus: he'll have to work for an audience with the Count, but he'll also find some rather interesting things going on in the immediate area.)
The City That Endures
Over two hundred years ago, during the Oblivion Crisis, the city of Kvatch had been all but destroyed by hordes of rampaging daedra. For several years it remained a ghost town, until, at last, Savlian Matius, who had become captain of the city guard during its destruction, led a group of survivors in the decades long task of rebuilding the city. For his efforts, the people of Kvatch sent a message to the Elder Council, demanding that he be made their Count. The next century saw relative peace in Kvatch, as the city recovered from the Stormcrown Interregnum and, true to its motto, endured every storm and rebuilt after every destruction. Then the War came and, when the Dominion seized control of the Wealdan counties, Kvatch, though it had been overlooked at first, was sacked. Varus Matius, the last Matian Count of Kvatch, was killed in the streets with the city garrison, defending his people against the Dominion forces. In the aftermath of the War, a man by the name of Brachus Romulus took control of Kvatch and proclaimed himself Count.
This was a little bit of the history of Kvatch as far as Servius Crixus heard from those who were willing to talk, both at the Brina Cross and, further down the road, the Gottshaw Inns. They told him a few of the rumors they had heard about this Brachus Romulus, the Count of Kvatch. He bore no love for the Merchants Guild and was engaged in what appeared to be a trade war with them concerning tariffs. The people bore little love for him, but few were willing or even able to oppose him. They were not willing because he had re-opened the Kvatch Arena: destroyed during the Oblivion Crisis, it had seen greater or lesser activity in the centuries afterwards - mostly in favor of the Imperial Arena in the Capital. While this did not make Count Romulus immediately popular, it made most of the people unwilling to oppose him for love of violent sport. Furthermore, they were not able because few dared to cross him since he had gotten the services of one Publius Varro to act as his chancellor and steward.
"Blaspheme the Divines," they told him. "Slander the Emperor, the Elder Council, the Dominion, desecrate the bones of your own ancestors, if you like, but you'd be a fool to cross Varro."
As far as Crixus could gather on this Varro fellow, he had been champion of the Kvatch Arena for nine years, gaining the favor of the Count until he was made chancellor. Though it seemed beyond belief that a gladiator could possibly be a competent administrator, Varro quickly developed a reputation for efficiency and ruthlessness. In both inns, Crixus had been reminded not to cross Publius Varro unless he had a death wish.
So it was that, on the third day of their departure from Anvil, the three travelers were clearing through the trees that had thickened along the road. Less than half a mile from the door of the Gottshaw Inn, the trees cleared and they could see the high hill upon which the city of Kvatch was built. Though most of the walls on the southern side of the city had been torn down during the War, the stones on the western and northern sides were from the Third Era city. The newer walls were brighter and less shambled than the older walls; but, as one's eye was drawn towards the shining new walls, their attention was also brought to the line of people snaking their way up the path leading to the city gates.
The bell from the Chapel of Akatosh in the city tolled the hour of eleven as they approached the long line of refugees. There were a great many upon the road, or gathered along it in make-shift huts and tents. A thick column of people, pressed together so that no man, woman or child might get through them, were gathered upon the road winding up the hill to the gates of the city, and many others had forsaken the road altogether and were trying to clamber up the hill off the road.
"Who are all these people?" Petruvius asked.
Crixus said nothing as he spurred Shadowmere up the side of the hill past the throngs of refugees. Behind him Petruvius and Lethia reluctantly rode after him, apparently heedless of the cries of those around them. At last they arrived at the southern gate of Kvatch, where a detachment of soldiers were standing guard. Unlike the soldiers of Anvil, these were dressed in scale lamellar cuirasses with sable tabards upon their chests, depicting the image of the wolf, and steel helmets made in the style of the Legion. As the travelers approached the gates, which Crixus saw were closed, several of the guards, including a bald one with a short, neatly-trimmed beard who seemed to be the captain, came up in front of their horses. The captain held out his gloved hand in a sign of stopping.
"The city is closed," the captain stated. "Count's orders."
"Closed?" Crixus asked. "What do you mean it's closed? We came all the way from Anvil..."
"I don't care if you came all the way from Akavir," the captain replied rudely. "You ain't gettin' inside the city. It's sealed up in response to the plague."
"I have here," Crixus replied. "A letter from the Lord Mayor of the Anvil chapter of the Merchants Guild." He removed from his bosom Signius' letter and presented it to the guards. Without so much as looking at it, the guard laughed and threw it on the ground.
"You again, eh?" he laughed. "Didn't learn your lesson yet? What, did you really expect that I'd just let you back in?"
"But I..."
"No no no," the guard shook his head. "Nobody gets into Kvatch without the signed permission of the Count himself: and no one at all gets in who's in league with the Merchants Guild. Now piss off! We've had enough of you greedy drake-mongers in Cyrodiil! Divines take you all!"
After being dismissed, Crixus turned his attention to the letter on the ground. Dismounting, he knelt down to pick it up. But no sooner had he arisen when an Imperial man with short hair was standing before him: Crixus recognized the gold amulet with the scales upon his neck.
"You want to get inside Kvatch, friend?" he asked.
"Who's asking?" Crixus replied.
"Not here," he muttered. "Meet me at the bottom of the hill in one hour, outside of Dasek Moor."
Crixus nodded: at the Gottshaw Inn, he had been given directions for the rest of his journey. About two or three miles south of the inn, the road would fork: the left-hand path would lead to Kvatch while the right-hand path would continue on towards Skingrad, passing by the border fort of Dasek Moor. Finding it should not be a problem, he mused.
He mounted up again and the three of them went back down the hill, turning back west down the road until it reached the fork. There they took the path to the right and backtracked until they were come upon a point where the woods began to grow thicker again. Just off to the right they could see the ruins of the fort, with the Red Diamond banner of the Empire flying from its towers.
"There it is," Crixus stated.
"It's in a sorry state," Petruvius added. "If there is a garrison here, why aren't they rebuilding the walls? I can't tell, sir, my eyes aren't as good as yours. Look on the walls and tell me if you see any sentries."
"No," Crixus sighed. "No sentries."
"It's a disgrace," Petruvius grumbled.
"I'm sure they have good reasons to be relaxed in their vigilance," Crixus replied. "Most likely some kind of holiday I don't know about."
"The Legion soldiers aren't like this," Petruvius shook his head. "They shouldn't be like this."
"It's only one fort," Crixus stated. He then reached into his bosom and examined their map. "According to the map, there are at least two more forts before the end of the Strid River."
"Why are you making excuses, sir?" Petruvius asked.
"Why are you questioning me, squire?" Crixus retorted. "And you too, Lethia. Didn't you say you would submit to my counsel?"
"You haven't given any counsel as of yet," she replied, a cheeky grin on her face. "Only insults and blows."
"And I have plenty of both for you," Crixus threatened. "And you, Petruvius, you should know better than to question the Legion."
"You know I'm loyal, sir," Petruvius replied. "I would never do anything to dishonor my oath to the Legion and the Emperor. And it is because of those oaths that I ask why this fort is in ruins! Are we not on the edge of the Dominion's puppet state of Valenwood? Why would the garrison relax their vigil?"
"Careful, my dear Silenius," Crixus spoke, using his squire's first name, which he rarely did. "What you say is treason."
Just then the sounds of a horse galloping towards them could be heard. They saw the man Crixus had met inside the city gallop towards them, then dismount from off his horse and address them.
"Let me see that letter, friend," he said, holding his hand out to Crixus. "Don't worry, I'm not a robber. I saw his seal, I know you have the favor of Lord Mayor Signius."
Crixus reluctantly handed the letter to the man, who opened it up and examined it. He then handed the letter back to Crixus.
"Lord Mayor Thwyndilion will be most pleased to see this," he said. "I should have you into the city at once."
"But how?" Crixus asked. "You heard the guards, no one's allowed inside."
"Correction, my friend," the man replied. "No refugees are allowed inside. Since usually there's no way of telling which is a refugee pretending to be a citizen of Kvatch, no one is allowed in or out of the city without an invitation. Fortunately..." He walked over to the horse and removed from his saddle-bag a scroll tied with a black ribbon. "...I just so happen to have a letter of invitation from Varro's friend and organizer of arena fights, Zeno Platorius."
"You mean you stole a letter?" Crixus asked. "Or you forged one?"
"No, it's genuine," the man replied, holding the letter up. "See? There is Platorius' seal on the letter." The seal was a shield with two crossed swords beneath it: almost reminiscent of the emblem of either the Fighters Guild or the Thieves Guild.
"I've heard about Varro," Crixus stated. "I've heard that he's not one to be trifled with, and yet here you are just giving out invitations from one of his friends?"
"That's what I do," the man replied. "I work for Lord Mayor Thwyndilion to procure safe passage for...very important personnel into Kvatch right under the Count's nose. Eddard Perrick is my name."
"Do you think that's wise, Master Perrick?" Crixus asked. "Giving away your name and occupation to a complete stranger?"
"The Count can believe that he has power in Kvatch all he wants," Eddard replied with a tone of disapproval. "But the Merchants Guild will not be denied. As for myself, the Lord Mayor of Kvatch has very powerful, and dangerous, friends. Friends who can dispatch those who threaten Guild activity in this city." With that, his face brightened up. "Now, then, it's time to enter the great city of Kvatch, eh?"
With the new letter in hand, Crixus and his company made their way back up the hill and up to the gates. The captain stopped them, but upon seeing the letter from Platorius, his demeanor changed immediately.
"Why didn't you say so right off?" he asked, a nervous chuckle on his lips. "Would have saved quite a bit of trouble for all of us." He then handed the letter back to Crixus. "Yes, well, I'll have the gates open for you. Wouldn't want to keep a friend of Publius Varro waiting, now, would I?" The three horses trotted up to the gate, but once again the captain stood to block their path.
"One small thing, first, good sirs," the captain said, an uneasy smile on his face. "I must ask that you surrender your weapons here at the city gates."
"Why?" Crixus asked.
"Imperial law, friend," the captain replied. "No man, woman, mer or beast-folk is allowed to carry weapons within the limits of any city, be it as small as a knife. It's been that way for nigh on fifteen years: where have you been?"
"I know the law," Crixus grumbled. "But I am in haste!"
"And I am in a very dangerous position," the captain admitted. "Either you surrender your weapons or I'll have to keep you here at the gates. Then you and I can both explain to Platorius and Publius Varro why you weren't ushered in with haste."
"Sir," Petruvius spoke up. "If we are in haste indeed, surely we can make an exception here?"
Crixus scowled as he removed his baldric, then his belt, with all of the knives in it. Then he added the Bow of Nocturnal and his Nightingale Blade, warning them not to disturb his gear.
"My weapon is...special," Crixus stated. "And what I have in my pouches is for my eyes only."
"You can be sure," the captain said, holding up his hands dismissively. "That no hand will touch your gear."
"Petruvius, Lethia," Crixus called back. "Give them your weapons."
The young squire was more willing to comply to the rule, but Lethia, who hung to the back, hooded, veiled and gloved to conceal her true form, was reluctant to reveal herself. Petruvius offered to transfer her knife and staff to the guards, but she shook her head.
"What about..."
"We'll talk about that later," Crixus whispered. "Now just do it! You're drawing suspicion!"
Lethia reluctantly surrendered staff and dagger to Petruvius, who gave them to the captain of the guards. True to her fear, the captain and the guards looked at the staff with caution and suspicion: it was as if they were handling a knife surrendered willfully from a known criminal. The captain gave the weapons to one of his soldiers, gave a cry for his men to form ranks, then ushered Crixus and his companions behind the guards. As if knowing that the gates were about to be opened, the crowd of refugees came running towards the gates, begging, yelling, screaming and crying to be let in. The press around the guards was so dense that they began to be pushed back. The captain ordered his men to keep the people back, using force if necessary. Crixus saw several people kicked, wounded by sword-thrusts or trampled by their fellows.
"The gate!" the captain shouted over the din. "Open the gate, quick!"
Crixus and his companions, aware of the situation, had their horses turned towards the city gates. As soon as the heavy iron portcullis was withdrawn, the inner wooden doors were pulled back by unseen guards and the three galloped inside as quickly as possible, with the soldier bearing their weapons running after them. Crixus chanced to cast his eyes behind him and saw the doors being closed and, beyond, the crowds still mobbing the guards to get inside the city. Before turning away, he saw the guard pass into the gatehouse with their weapons and was not seen again.
"Who are all these people?" Lethia asked, once the gates were closed and there was a high stone wall between them and the mob.
"Refugees from Skingrad," Crixus explained. "Remember what we heard in the last inn?"
"The plague," Petruvius muttered warily. "But why wouldn't the Count open his gates to them?"
"That is for the Count to decide, not us," Crixus replied. "Now, then, let's find ourselves the inn I've heard so much about: the Hero's Welcome."
The Hero's Welcome was not hard to find. Immediately to the left of the gates they found the stables, where Crixus asked about the tavern in question. As luck would have it, the inn was right next-door to the stables. The stable-boy directed them to a long, two-story building in an L-shape with another two story house cradled in the crook of the L. That, he said, was the Hero's Welcome, within sight of the Hero's Statue in the city square. After shelling out a few septims for the stabling of the horses, the three of them went into the inn. It was still early in the day and, though they had no need of lodging right now, they wanted to have their rooms ready for them that night.
Over the door of the Hero's Welcome was the image of an Argonian in full knightly regalia, brandishing sword and shield bravely. Inside, they found the proprietress, an Imperial woman, behind the counter. When they told her that they were going to be staying here, a smile appeared on her face and she became, at least to Crixus, strangely welcoming.
"We haven't gotten many visitors to Kvatch lately, what with the plague and all," she stated. "This used to be the most prestigious inn in all of Kvatch. If only the Count would open the city gates again, we'd have more business and he'd have more tax money and everyone would be happier for it."
"Hmm," Crixus nodded. "Prestigious, you say?"
"Oh, yes," she replied. "The foundation stones of this inn were made from the stones of the old city, what was left of it after the Oblivion Crisis. Local legend says that St. Anhild herself carved words on one of the stones, though it's never been found. But there are other stories about this place: Attrebus Mede carved his initials on one of the tables in the common room."
"Really?" Crixus asked. "The first Medan Emperor?"
"Oh, he wasn't Emperor at that time," she replied. "But, as the name implies, this tavern used to be one frequented by adventurers, self-styled heroes, and those who would eventually go on to do great things themselves. It has quite a bit of history, as I've already told you."
"Right," Crixus replied. "Well, we certainly look forward to sampling some of that history. But, for the present, we'll just have the rooms."
"As you wish, stranger," the innkeeper answered with a grin.
Crixus paid the fare for one room for three - they never slept in separate rooms for fear of discovery, especially concerning Lethia - then the innkeeper, who gave her name as Flavia, gave Crixus the key and told him that if there was anything else he might need or want, to let her know. Her house, she added, was the one on the other side of the inn's courtyard: the house in the crook of the L, as it were.
"Why do you stay there and not at the inn?" Crixus asked.
"It's my family's house," she replied. "Built centuries ago, renovated over the years. Haven't got the heart to tear it down. It's not because I think I'm above my customers, you know. It's just a family thing."
Crixus nodded but said nothing else.
"If I may," Petruvius interjected. Crixus nodded, then the young man addressed Flavia. "My lady, what can you tell us about the city?"
"Anything you want, young man," she replied with a flirtatious smile.
"Anything of interest?" he asked.
"There's the statue in the city square, just north of here," Flavia continued. "If fighting is more of your thing, there's the Fighters Guild hall on the eastern side, with the Arena just next door of that. I'm not much of a church-goer, but if that's your thing, the Chapel of Akatosh, one of the oldest sites in the city, is across the street from here."
Petruvius thanked Flavia, then followed after Crixus and Lethia, who were already on their way out of the inn.
"You should have shown her your letter," Petruvius said to Crixus after catching up with him.
"Which one?" Crixus replied in jest.
"The one that got us in," he returned.
"That one is not for her," Crixus stated. "And the other one I'm also not sure about. I wonder if what Perrick said was true, and that, despite being evicted, there are still Merchants Guild members in the city."
"How would you go about seeking them out, sir?" Petruvius asked.
"We'll find that out soon enough," Crixus answered.
For the present, he was making a path for the Hero's Statue in the center of the city. He had heard rumors about the statue - such rumors that even Eirik, who had lived in Bruma and never come this far south, had heard - and wanted to see it for himself. The city square was crowded with people, many of whom spoke to each other in hushed, worried whispers: they spoke as if in fear that some greater power were listening to their every word. For the present, Crixus gave this no heed as he carried on to the Hero's Statue.
It stood atop a round dais of stone, depicting a knight of indiscriminate race or gender standing tall and proud, a shield in one hand and a sword held up defiantly to the heavens. At the bottom of the dais, along the circumference of its edge, there had been some writing. It was old and some of the letters appeared to have been deliberately scratched out. But enough remained so that its initial message could be seen.
Let those who threaten the peace and safety and people of Kvatch
Be aware: our courage and spirit forevermore shall be on watch
"Sounds like some kind of Nord rhyme," Crixus mocked derisively.
"Look, sir," Petruvius noted. "Over here, there's a plaque before the statue."
Crixus came to where Petruvius stood, on the side of the statue that faced the castle of Kvatch. Here there was a stone pillar erected, newer and cleaner than the dais and without any of the scratches and scars upon it. Upon said pillar was a bronze plaque with shiny new words that could be easily read.
This statue was first dedicated to the courage and spirit of Antus Pinder, who fell defending the city from outnumbering odds. In 4E 100, the original statue was removed and a new one erected on this spot and dedicated to the Hero of Kvatch, whose face, sex and origin are known but to the Divines. At the end of the Great War, it was decided that the statue should be rededicated to the memory of Varus Matius, who, like the original dedicate, was slain defending the city from an overwhelming force. At the behest of the current lord and Count of Anvil, Brachus Romulus, it has remained untouched, dedicated instead to the undying, courageous spirit of the people of Kvatch.
"Damn whoever removed the original statue," Crixus muttered, his lips quivering in wrath. "It's like someone up there is trying to erase the history of my beloved country!"
"Don't be dramatic, sir," Petruvius interjected. "It wasn't that bad. I mean, if they wanted to erase the history, they wouldn't have left the statue up at all."
"Seems like a poor dedication," Lethia muttered. "A statue given to honor a man who failed."
"You know nothing, stupid elf!" Crixus retorted. "It's not about that Pinder was defeated, but that he chose to fight on against overwhelming odds."
"That sounds like the Nord heroes to me, sir," Petruvius stated.
"Shut the fuck up," Crixus sneered.
"Actually, he does have a point," stated Lethia.
"No, he doesn't," Crixus replied, annoyance building in his voice. "Our civilized, Colovian heroes are nothing like what the barbarians in the North call 'heroes.' Our heroes fight for honor, devotion and duty, to protect the innocent and defend the helpless. The mongrels of Skyrim fight to take what doesn't belong to them, to win personal fame, women, gold and a richer reward in sovereign-guard: as they have done ever since their misbegotten race blighted this land with their presence. Those heathens love death as much as we love life."
"If you say so," Lethia replied with a condescending, knowing tone.
"I do say so," Crixus retorted. "And while I'm here, there will be no mocking my peoples' heroes, or comparing them in any way to Nords. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Petruvius sighed, hanging his head.
"Lethia?"
"As I said," she replied with a cheeky grin. "I will abide by your counsel."
"Good," he returned. "Now, let's seek out this Zeno Platorius."
"If I may ask, sir," Petruvius replied. "Why are we seeking him out? Should we not go back to the inn and ask if our ravens have arrived?"
"Doubtless they haven't arrived yet," Crixus answered. "But I've been looking through this letter." He presented them the letter which Perrick had given him. Inside it read: 'The bearer of this letter, and those accompanying, has the permission of the undersigned to enter the City of Kvatch for the purposes of the Arena.' Below were three signatures: His Highness Brachus Romulus Count of Kvatch, His Excellency Publius Varro and Zeno Platorius, Master of the Kvatch Arena.
"It was an old tradition, I heard," Crixus stated. "Where there would be gladiator fights in every city in Tamriel. Every province had one: hell, I think I even saw one by the Grey Quarter in Windhelm once. I'm intrigued: I want to know more about the Arena."
"What about our plan for the new Mages Guild?" asked Petruvius.
"I haven't forgotten that," Crixus replied. "But for the present, it'll have to wait."
The Arena was easier to find than Crixus had expected. From the statue they went eastward until they heard the sounds of cheering. Within minutes, over the tops of the triangular roofs, the Arena appeared. Loud roars rose up to greet them as they approached the great entrance, where many people were milling into the ring. Two city guards in sable over lamellar scale-mail stood at the gates, keeping watch over all those who came into the Arena. Before these Crixus halted and presented the letter that Perrick had given him.
"You're late," the guard said, handing the letter back to Crixus. "The fight's already started. Platorius is in his personal box on the upper level, observing the fight. Should be easy to find him. Show the guards this letter and they'll let you through."
Crixus and the others turned left and followed up a line of stairs that led to the third floor of the Arena. Stepping out of the alcove, Crixus saw a personal observing box where several rich-looking people were observing the fight. The three of them made their way through the upper gallery of seats over to said box. It was clear to anyone that the seats up here were for those who could afford the best seats in the Arena, for many were dressed in finery, with gold in their robes, circlets upon their heads and rings on their fingers. As Crixus approached the personal box, two more guards moved to block their path. Crixus showed them the letter, which one of them took back to a man seated at the chair in the center of the box. He was dressed almost as if he were the Count himself, with a black robe hemmed with gold and a cloak studded with gold and gem-stones which clung to his shoulders like armor.
Upon receiving the letter, the rich man read it over, then waved to his guard with his right hand. The guard saluted in the Imperial fashion - a fist pounded against the chest, then extended with open palm outward - then walked back to where Crixus, Petruvius and Lethia were waiting.
"Platorius will speak to you," the guard told them.
Crixus walked forward first, with the others hanging behind the guard who had stopped them. Crixus turned back and nodded to them, then continued on his way towards where the rich man was seated. The guard who had presented him then announced his presence as a momentary lull fell upon the crowd. The rich man rose from his seat and turned to Crixus.
"Ah, there you are, my friend," he greeted. "It's good that Perrick's connections came through this time." He gestured for a servant to bring a chair to his left-hand side for Crixus. Once the chair - made of black true ebony inlaid with gold - was placed down, Crixus sat in it and looked around while the rich man returned to his seat. At his right was a beautiful Redguard, but apart from a few more guards, there weren't many others in the box.
"Zeno Platorius, I presume?" Crixus asked.
"True that," the rich man replied with a grin on his face. "I'm the organizer of fights in the Kvatch Arena, and your only friend in this city."
"Is that so?" Crixus asked.
"Yes," Platorius continued. "You see, Varro is a friend of mine and he and the Count go way back. But, as close as we are, we do disagree a bit when it comes to politics. While business has never been bad since the Count re-opened the Arena, business would be much better if the city were not on lock-down."
"Business?" Crixus asked. "You spoke of Perrick a moment ago. Are you with the Merchants Guild?"
"Me? I organize fights in the Arena," Platorius replied. "I don't meddle in the affairs of any Guild."
"So why are you working with them?" Crixus asked.
"Not yet, my friend," Platorius dismissed. "First we drink, then we watch the fight, then we talk business." He ordered his servant to bring him a bottle of Surilie Brothers 180, then directed Crixus' attention to the pit below. In the Arena, a Bosmer was fighting with a thing that appeared to be a giant wearing a bull's head. The crowds chanted the name "Drogon! Drogon! Drogon!" over and over, until it was the only thing outside of the box that Crixus' keen ears could perceive.
"Which one is Drogon, Master Platorius?" Crixus asked.
"The large one," he replied, pointing to the one wearing the bull's head. "He's a favorite in the Arena: never lost a match. I have big plans for him: if I can get the lock-down lifted, maybe I can take him to the Great Arena in the Imperial City." He chuckled and licked his lips. "Oh, think of the money a man like me could make there!"
"I see," Crixus nodded. "So is there a reason why your gladiators are allowed to have weapons, even though the law bans weapons in the city?"
"For the common folk, yes," Platorius began. "But there is one thing you should understand, friend: the Imperial spirit is overrated. People in Cyrodiil claim to be welcoming and accepting of all races, creeds and cultures, and that's just fine for the politicians, the counts, the Elder Council and the Emperor. But I know the common man: they like to see blood and violence, just as long as it's not their blood being spilled. For many, the Arenas have been a sort of escape, a way to feel powerful and victorious in a grim, sorry state where victory has no true meaning."
"A rather cynical opinion, Master Platorius," Crixus noted.
"I'm a man, not a priest," Platorius replied. "As such, I have tastes like any other man: tastes for wine, food, women and money. And through that, I've been able to see many people at their basest. Your average man, he doesn't care about politics or cosmopolitanism: he wants to know that he has food on his table, a woman to share his bed, and that victory is his."
"But didn't you just say that victory has no meaning?" Crixus asked.
"For those of us who are wise, my friend," Platorius continued. "The average man still believes that victory can be achieved when the faceless, heartless 'they' is defeated. The Arena gives them this solace, especially as close as we are to the Strid River."
"Are you telling me that you believe we lost the Great War?" Crixus divined.
Platorius' blue eyes flashed back to Crixus. "You're a man of quick wit. You'll bring us a fortune, my friend."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Master," Crixus replied. "Answer me truthfully."
"Only a naive person actually believes we won the War," Platorius answered grimly. "I was one of the few people who was alive and politically aware from the beginning of the War to its end. The Dominion got what they wanted with the White-Gold Concordant. Of course, if the people ever found out about this, we'd have as much trouble on our hands as with the Nords in Skyrim. These fights are a necessary evil, and a means of great profit: how can I refuse?"
"You sound like you enjoy this," Crixus muttered.
"I don't agree with the Placators," Platorius stated. "But what they do and what we do is more or less the same: convincing the people that everything is alright. The only difference is that they do it to pander to our conquerors, while what I do is a public service to keep the peace and the people satisfied and loyal."
"Doesn't seem to have hurt you," Crixus noted.
Platorius chuckled. "You don't seem like a man who would not enjoy my situation also. We're going to get along just fine."
"And what exactly will we be doing?" Crixus asked. "I received your writ of passage, but the letter was stolen from me by bandits on the road here from Anvil."
"I have a bit of a plan here," Platorius stated. "One that will be mutually beneficial to all parties involved."
"What is that?" Crixus asked again.
"You are going to bet on the fights," Platorius began. "As Drogon is undefeated, it will be easy money. Once my old friend Publius sees the kind of money this will bring in, we will be in a position to have the lock-down ended. This will, of course, mean more business for me and, in addition, more business for the Count and Varro and, maybe, with the right kind of exposure, a shot at playing in the Great Arena in the Capital!"
At this, he rose up in cheer with the crowds as Drogon hacked the Bosmer down. The little wood elf lay bleeding on the floor of the arena while Drogon held up his arms victoriously, awaiting the fate of his quarry from the audience. Cries of "Kill!" were chanted over and over, along with hands held out at arm's length with the thumbs down: for Servius Crixus, it was a little discomforting to see his people as blood-thirsty as he believed Nords to be. Platorius rose from his seat, held out his hand and gave the thumbs down. With a loud roar, Drogon below brought his battle-ax down upon the Bosmer's throat, severing his head. After imbedding the ax in the ground, the massive fighter picked up the head and held it up to the wild cheering of the crowds.
"Mark my words, friend," Platorius said to Crixus. "This city endures because we provide something that all people need: the bloody sport of the Arena. And you will show Varro and the Count just how useful this can be."
"Is that so?" Crixus asked.
"That's the reason I brought you here, after all," Platorius replied. "Varro and I are the richest men in Kvatch, since the Merchants Guild was evicted. The Surilie Brothers..." He held out his cup to be refilled by his servant. "...well, they're too busy running Skingrad and all of its problems, plagues and whatnot to be bothered investing in something as 'trivial' as a gladiator arena. That's why I sought out capital from outside of the area."
"By going through the Merchants Guild?" Crixus asked.
"I don't have the same qualms as the Count has with the Guild," Platorius continued. "Tariffs and taxes mean nothing to me, for my fortune comes from the sands of the arena. They are a means to an end..." He winked from over the top of his cup as he drank again. "...a very profitable end, one that will see your own fortunes rise as well."
"I see," Crixus nodded, taking his first sip of the Surilie Brothers wine. It went down warm and bitter, with a hint of oak as it slid down the back of his throat.
(AN: The burden is on me to make a unique introduction for each of the cities Crixus will visit. As it is, he had to get into Kvatch with help from an agent of the Merchants Guild and is there somewhat in secret. It is also here that we will meet one of our first supporting characters.)
(Interesting stuff happening here, like Crixus' comment about "erasing the history of my people" being a shout-out to my brother's complaints about Skyrim allegedly erasing everything that Morrowind and Oblivion created [yeah, for him, the passage of two hundred years shouldn't have changed anything in Tamriel besides bringing in 16th century technology] as well as an ironic statement, since Crixus has no problem erasing or rewriting the history of the Nords "for the greater good".)
