(AN: So i just had a new thought about one character from Skyrim who is making a cameo in this chapter. Mjoll introduces the Black-Briar family as all of them being Maven's children, and that is the canon that i follow. However, further dialogue states that Hemming is the son and Ingun and Sibbi are his children [which the Unofficial Skyrim patch corrected in favor of that]. Originally i just had it that Hemming was a complete dick who treated his siblings as though he was their father, but, of course, Game of Thrones gets my mind in the gutter [because morality is lower than the grave on that show] and it makes me wonder...what if Hemming and Maven are in a bit of a Lannister-style relationship and Ingun and Sibbi are both Maven's children and grandchildren? What do you think?)
A Feast for the Vain
Neramo was not at the Ambassador's office. He had received an invitation from one of their clients and was sent afield. His absence was indeed noted, for Lady Arannelya had to do most of everything on her own. Most humans would have found the challenge a tedious one, but for the Altmer highborn woman, it was a worthy challenge. She had rarely had the time to do things herself since the end of the First War with the Empire.
Lately, her greatest interest was Servius Crixus. Ondolemar's reports on what had occurred in Anvil were coming through, and little by little Lady Arannelya was starting to piece together an image of her arch-enemy. Born and raised in Anvil, 30th of Frostfall, 4E 156, father Valerius Crixus, mother Claudia nee Maro, brother Venerius. Father's family were farmers in the Highlands before moving to Anvil, mother's family had a long history of service to the Empire, stretching as far back as the Septims, with a Maro positioned in Gnisis during Morrowind's time as an Imperial province. Mother died two years after giving birth to him, raised by a stepmother named Sedris Ulver. There were no records on her whereabouts, or whether she had a family or not. Later on she found a record of his enlisting in the Imperial Legion during the War. Officially, he disappeared when the 9th Legion was destroyed towards the end of the War.
As she was one of the few people who knew the true fate of the infamous Ninth Legion, she knew that this was a lie.
The rest she pieced together from the reports that were collected from the Thalmor offices in Skyrim. Ondolemar's last message said that Servius Crixus was last seen going east with two others in his company: an elf and a man who was his servant. That was near the beginning of the month: he could be already at the gates of the Outer City by now. As it was, another report came in from her operative in Kvatch. Servius Crixus had appeared again, this time severely weakening the power of the Count of Kvatch by removing his chancellor.
After reading the reports over again, she placed them down on the table and scribbled in her journal. The words were written in an ancient code, known only to her and written backwards, so that no cryptographer could decipher it.
"I'm getting closer, Servius Crixus," she muttered, looking down at her paper.
It took the rest of the day to find Blackberry Hall, but by the time Crixus finally reached there, he found a messenger waiting for him. In his hands was a letter of invitation from Venerius, to join him at the Blue-Cluster Hall for Georg Surilie's feast. Crixus had no time to get himself decent, for the letter had been waiting for him since midday and it was now an hour from the feast. Crixus wiped the grime off his face and hands as best he could, then made his way with the messenger to the Blue-Cluster Hall.
It was the second time since his arrival in Cyrodiil that he was brought before a lordly feast. The great feasting hall of Blue-Cluster Hall was not as grand as Castle Anvil, but there were more people hereabouts than in that feast. The chairs were lowly and not high-backed; short, made of wood, and some piled with cushions. On the walls, the banners of the Surilie Family and of Skingrad were displayed: white with golden harp astride black and moons of red and silver. The table was arrayed in similar fashion, with the host at the head of the table in the crook of the 'C' that it formed.
Georg and Dorian Surilie seemed noble in their own way, almost like Colovian gentlemen, in Crixus' eyes. Georg, the eldest, was taller than his brother and his dark hair was turning gray with age. He bore a pleasant face, and the corners of his eyes were creased with the lines of many years laughter. Dorian was younger, and his hair was darker, and he bore a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee, but while his brother was tall, he was average height for a Breton. His face also was harder, sterner, and while his brother had warm, welcoming brown eyes, Dorian's eyes were narrow and blue: too much of Benjin saw Crixus in those blue eyes. Yet for all their contrasting features, they both bore themselves as lords.
While Crixus stood thus in the doorway, waiting to be announced by the steward, Venerius rose up from his seat and walked towards the door.
"Brother, there you are!" he greeted warmly. "I was afraid you weren't coming. Where have you been?"
"I ran into trouble," Crixus replied. "But now I am here. Where shall I sit?"
"Please, follow me," Venerius offered, leading Crixus to a place set to the right of the Surilie Family table. Between them were set two seats and a stool: the seats must have been reserved for nobility or someone important, for there were cushions upon them but not upon the stool. Furthermore, Crixus also noted that, between Georg and Dorian there was a single seat that seemed to be important. It was ornately carved, the cushions upon it were very fine and the banner of Skingrad hung behind it.
"Whose seat is that?" Crixus asked, gesturing towards the seat.
"That's the Count's seat," Venerius explained. "By rights, a seat is always prepared at the table for the Count of Skingrad at such events, but he never comes out to feast. Some say the entire Hassildor family lives up in the castle, cut off from the rest of the world by reason of the plague."
"What do you think?" Crixus asked.
"I don't think anyone could have survived that long without outside contact," Venerius replied. "Especially now that the plague has struck. They don't dare open their gates or else risk the plague spreading to their keep. If anyone's still at the castle, though, that is the biggest mystery hereabouts."
While they were thus seated, Venerius pointed out those who were also seated. The middle table, the crook of the 'C', was reserved as a custom for the wealthiest and most influential guests, with the right and left being for the others. On the right side, where they sat, was the empty seat, and three others. One was occupied by a young man with almost Colovian features: dark skin, a neatly trimmed mustache that twirled at the ends, and a thin goatee. He wore a Colovian fur hat, whose peak had lost its starch and was drooping.
"That is Hemming Black-Briar," Venerius stated. "Representative of the Black-Briar family..."
"Of Skyrim," Crixus interjected.
"Of Cheydinhal," Venerius corrected. "Recently, they were exiled from Skyrim. Now they live in Cheydinhal and are quite a threat to the Surilie's wine operations."
"Is that so?" Crixus scoffed.
"Even here in Cyrodiil," Venerius added. "The rumors of the influence of his mother, Maven Black-Briar, are well-known."
"Is that why he's here?" Crixus asked.
"I believe so," Venerius nodded. "The Surilie Family are nothing if not wise, and they do not take sides in any of the political strife going on here in Cyrodiil."
The next two seated on their side were Drusilla Caro, youngest sister of Sybilla Caro, the Countess of Leyawiin, and Procurus Florius, Sixth Canon of the College of Whispers. As Venerius said, there were eight canons who oversaw the College of Whispers, overseen by the mysterious Arch-Canon, who was rarely ever seen in public. The canons served as the representatives of the interests of the College of Whispers and the Arch-Canon before the counts and the Elder Council.
Drusilla, on the other hand, was short, weighty and had red hair that was tied back and pleated. She wore a green dress and a broad necklace of gold, with tiny horses of silver upon it. Though she was rather short, Crixus noted that she did possess an ample bosom which kept his eyes frequenting back to her neckline. When Venerius spoke again, Crixus, who was quick-earned, turned his attention to the other side of the room, whither Venerius was directing his attention.
"That one over there," Venerius stated, pointing to a thin, bony wisp of a man whom Crixus recognized. "He is a character one is often to see at such parties. He was introduced to me as Pelagius, though I have heard he has other names, some not so friendly. Next to him is Marius Imbrex, chancellor of Bruma." This man seemed very much like Pelagius-Lucan in physical appearance and demeanor, though he seemed to have been much better off. Whereas Pelagius wore rough clothes of simple hues, Marius' garments were of deep blue, damasked with silver buttons and trimmed with silver. He wore a gold chain about his neck and a fur cloak which bore the emblem of Bruma: a black phoenix upon a gold field. Also, whereas Pelagius-Lucan was thin and ill-favored, Marius was fat, bald and bore a broad grin on his face as he eyed the kitchen doors greedily.
"Lastly," said Venerius, gesturing to the one next to Marius. "Cassius Urtius, the bastard of Anvil." Crixus recognized the face immediately: older gentleman with receding gray hair, clad in gray with a large leather cloak resting in the hands of a servant that stood behind him.
"I've seen him before," Crixus stated. "He thinks he should be Count of Anvil."
"I've heard that lately," Venerius replied. "He narrowly escaped capture by the Countess of Anvil."
Crixus swallowed inside, wondering just how much of his exploits were being spread in rumors around the taverns in Cyrodiil. While he was thus engrossed, a silver bell was rung and Georg Surilie rose from his seat.
"Friends, Colovians, citizens of the Empire," he greeted. "Welcome to my humble establishment. The feast will soon begin, but for the present, I will have the servants pour you all some of our finest 190 vintage."
"Hear hear!" Marius exclaimed, raising his fist in triumph at the news.
Suddenly all eyes turned towards the doors of the hall. There stood an Altmer clad in the black and gold robes of the Thalmor. He had very typical Altmeri features: high forehead, pronounced cheekbones, thin, pointed chin, slanted eyes and what appeared to be a scowl permanently etched onto his face.
"My lord Neramo!" Georg exclaimed. At this, his brother Dorian rose from his seat.
"I see you've decided to have the feast without me," Neramo commented. "Was your invitation not specific? Perhaps this is some attempt to present the Thalmor as a laughing stock for your little band of drunken revelers?"
"Never, my lord!" Georg replied, bowing low before Neramo. "We would never permit the Ambassador's secretary to suffer such indignation. No, we were merely beginning the pouring of the wine, as is our custom."
"Hmph," snorted Neramo. "In civilized places, the wine is not poured until all invited have been seated. Still, I should not expect refinement among you humans." He walked along the table opposite where Crixus sat, glaring down at those at said table. He came to the middle table, the one reserved for the most important guests, and, without being offered a seat, promptly sat himself down in the Count's seat.
"I see a seat has been saved for my arrival," he said to Dorian and Georg, who still stood on his right and left-hand sides. "How very touching. Now, let's not have the servants idling on my account. Carry on, carry on."
Georg ran his bell again and the servants appeared with bottles to pour the wine into everyone's cups. Those seated began to talk while the wine was flowing. Venerius leaned over and whispered into Crixus' ear: "Shameful, utterly shameful. And disgracing."
"What?" Servius Crixus asked.
"That Neramo fellow," Venerius stated. "I've heard about him. They say he's the new Thalmor Ambassador's secretary. Not even a military rank! Shameful!"
"And what's so shameful?"
"Didn't you just see?" the brother replied, gesturing with his eyes towards the occupied Count's seat. "Look at him, sitting there with a smug grin on his face, lording his power over us like some kind of king!"
"I'm still not seeing it," Crixus replied, refusing to acknowledge what his brother had seen.
"He's seated in the Count's seat!" Venerius hissed. "Reminding us lowly Imperials who really runs this Empire. They walk all over the Elder Council and the House of Nobles, I see and hear about it every day."
"Don't be paranoid, brother," Crixus shook his head. "No one has that amount of influence, especially here in Cyrodiil, and if they did, we would know about it. That Thalmor secretary can plop his yellow arse wherever the fuck he wants to. No concern of mine."
"It should be your concern," Venerius returned. "It should be everyone's concern!"
Venerius' words were cut short. Near at hand, Crixus heard Dorian address Hemming and, weary of his brother telling him what he did not want to hear or believe, he turned his attention to what the vintner and the fop were discussing.
"I hear," Dorian said. "That there has been some trouble in Cheydinhal. Riots, looting, fires, robberies, blood in the streets. I do hope this hasn't stymied your family's business."
"On the contrary," Hemming replied. "My mother is a skilled business-woman, and she has many friends. The Black-Briar meadery in Cheydinhal is working at full capacity. The...unfortunate things you mentioned happen only on the eastern side of the city."
"But what about this rumor of this killer?" Dorian asked. "The Butcher, they're calling him. Rumor has it that he's back in Cheydinhal, and he's killing again, on the east and west. Isn't his presence a threat to you and your business?"
"Hardly," Hemming grinned. "The family business flourishes under such extreme conditions. And as for myself, I am a trained swordsman. My mother spared no expense with my training: the finest fencing masters from Hammerfell, House Redoran and Alinor were brought to Riften to educate me. I've been taught to wield a blade as if it were an extension of my own body."
"And how many people have you fought, hmm?" Dorian asked. "I mean, after all, you're a Nord from Skyrim." He chuckled, and those around him chuckled in reply. "Everyone fights over there, right? You must have fought quite a few people in your day, right?"
"Yes, I have," Hemming added. "Most notably was the one who threw my family out of Skyrim. This folk-hero, this...Dragonborn. Do not believe any of the rumors they tell about him: he is weak. In my country, we call such people 'milk-drinkers', because they haven't the stomach for mead, a man's drink. I fought him in the streets of Riften, and after two passes, I had brought the brute to his knees. He was begging and pleading for mercy: quite pathetic, really."
"Is that so?" Crixus, who guessed that this story was bullshit, interjected. "Why, then, were you the ones thrown out of Skyrim and not him?" Eirik was many things, both in truth and what Crixus believed him to be, but, even under the delusion that he was the Grey Spirit, Crixus would never believe that Eirik would beg or plead for mercy, not from anyone.
"My mother...didn't want to cause a scene," Hemming replied uncomfortably.
"Come come," Georg interjected. "This is a happy occasion. Drink wine and be merry, and leave all hard feelings and worries beyond these walls."
Hemming grinned at Crixus as if he had gained a victory, while Crixus scowled and turned back to his brother.
"So, Servius," Venerius said. "It's been a long time since we were last together like this. How is father? He still living with that old b*tch?"
"You don't know?" Crixus asked.
"Know what?" Venerius replied.
"Father's dead," Crixus grimly replied. "He died during the War."
"What happened?" Venerius gasped, a look of horror on his face.
"The Dominion attacked Anvil," Crixus stated. "At least once during the War on their march to Hammerfell. He was called out with the city guard to defend it, and he fell during the fighting."
"Are you sure?" Venerius asked, his face still stricken with disbelief.
"Positive," Crixus replied. "When the 9th Legion marched into Hammerfell, we passed by Anvil. General Claxitus gave me one day's leave to visit my family. That's when I heard that father was dead." He had been buried outside of the city in the graveyard to the northwest, but Crixus hadn't visited it when he returned to Anvil recently.
"And what of the old dark elf b*tch?" Venerius asked. "Is she dead too?"
"Yes," Crixus nodded. "There was another grave dug next to father's. I...dug it up..."
"You what?" Venerius exclaimed. "Look, no one knows how bad she was more than I do, but to dig up a grave..."
"I had to make sure," Crixus replied, with teeth clenched. "That she was truly dead. I know that Dunmer witch could have survived anything. But not this time. I saw the body...the Dominion must have hated her as much as we did, because her face was burned away. Only a charred, blackened skull was there...a Dunmer's skull. She is dead."
"And what about you?" Venerius asked. "What happened to you? I've not been able to come back to Anvil, due to my many obligations. What have you been doing these past twenty-seven years or so?"
Crixus began with an abridged version of his exploits. He left out the more unscrupulous details of his life, such as 'his goddess', the Dunmer woman he married in Mournhold and was still married to when he came to Skyrim, his dealings with the Thieves Guild, the Dark Brotherhood and the death of the Emperor. He painted his life the way he wanted to be seen, by only the best aspects and the most flattering depictions.
"I only wish," Crixus added. "That I could have been there to kill Ulfric Storm-cunt myself."
"Do you hear that?" Venerius exclaimed. "We've got ourselves a war hero here." As the servant poured the Surilie 190 into his cup, Venerius, despite his brother's protests, rose to his feet, holding up his silver cup before all around him. "Once you've all had your cups filled, may I propose a toast, noble host and you, esteemed guests?"
"By all means, Brother Crixus," Georg allowed.
"We have here in our midst," Venerius continued. "One who has worked tirelessly for the good of the Empire. One who has, but a few weeks ago, returned home after a great struggle against the rebels in the Northern province of Skyrim."
"Damn Skyrim and damn the Nords!" Urtius cried out.
"Hear hear!" every human at the table cried out, even Hemming Black-Briar who was himself a Nord. Crixus said nothing, sinking as he was into his chair, hoping that he could escape without being noticed. Too late he saw that Neramo, who had not taken up the cheer, was watching Venerius. Every moment or so, his golden eyes flashed to him.
"It is precisely," Marius Imbrex stated. "Because of the Nord problem that I have come here to the auspices of the Surilie Family..."
"Please, Chancellor Imbrex," Dorian interjected. "Brother Crixus has not yet finished his toast." He then turned back to Venerius and waved him on.
"As we all know," Venerius continued. "General Flavius Tullius has returned to Cyrodiil from his campaign against the Nords. He is, for the time being, waylaid in Bruma, as the esteemed and illustrious Chancellor Imbrex will doubtless confirm. But, upon his arrival in the Imperial City, he shall march to the Old City in a grand cavalcade, honoring his victory against the rebels. In that hour, he will be the hero of the people of Cyrodiil and shall receive their honor. But we have the rare privilege of having one who served under him in our presence, under this very roof, who honors us all by being here. My brother Servius Crixus!"
There was a general murmur of cheers, congratulations and applause. Crixus grinned uneasily as he leaned over to his brother and whispered: "Sit down and shut the fuck up!"
"You deserve more honor than this for serving the Empire, brother," Venerius replied, then turned back to the guests. By this time, the servants had poured wine for everyone at the table. They now rose their cups up to join Venerius in his toast.
"To Servius Crixus!" he toasted. The others followed suit and drank from their goblets. As the younger Crixus sat down, the older one seized him by the back of his neck, wrapping his hands in a tight vice, the way he recalled Sedris Ulver doing to them when they were younger, and whispered into his ear.
"I'd keep a lid on it if I were you," he hissed.
"I just wanted to give you your well-deserved recognition," Venerius stammered.
"I've survived this long," Servius hissed, teeth clenched. "Because I keep out of the eyes of others. Now you've just outed me in front of the..."
But at that moment, he was interrupted as a final entourage arrived late to the party. A tall man walked into the hall, dressed in black with a silver amulet with a wolf's head hanging upon his neck. He had short, slicked greasy dark hair streaked with gray. He had small, beady eyes that shifted nervously to everyone in the room and Crixus noted that his left hand hung at his side, flexing and clenching rapidly. His right hand was resting on the shoulders of a young boy with downcast eyes.
"Count Romulus!" Georg announced, rising to his feet. "I'm deeply sorry that you were late in arriving at our feast."
"No, no," stammered Brachus Romulus. "I-I...I'm the one who should apologize. Things have been difficult since those rabble-rousers drove poor Publius out of Kvatch. Animists, bandits, wild Nords, plague, and now there's rumors of a wild hunt on the borders of Valenwood and Elsweyr. Our cities have become islands under siege!"
"Will you please take your seat?" Dorian asked.
Brachus stammered on his way to the chair and stool between the Crixian brothers and the Surilie family, stumbling all along the way. At last he came to the chair and ordered the boy to sit in the stool while he sat down. Once seated, he placed his hand on the boy's shoulders and Servius Crixus noticed the boy quiver with the older man's touch. In his mind he saw Viator Matius sitting at his side, fists clenched, eying Count Romulus and muttering every expletive known to elves, men and beast-folk in Tamriel under his breath.
"Good, we're all here," Georg smiled. "Dinner may now be served."
The food was much finer than anything Crixus had tasted at the table of his cousin Selvia Maro. The appetizers alone were some of the most fabulous things of any feast in the West Weald or Nibenay Basin. Fried Scaly Pholiota caps stuffed with pork, spiced and breaded mudcrab cakes and garlic bread with rich, oily brown sauce for dipping. They ate in relative silence, while Crixus, who was still angry at his brother for outing him, looked around the room instead. Nermao ate nothing, drinking instead from his cup. Hemming greedily stuffed his face with as many appetizers as he could get his hands on, while Chancellor Imbrex eyed him with disgust. Procurus and Drusilla also ate very little, looking around at everyone else. Romulus ate heartily, but gave no food to the little boy at his side.
"Now, then," Dorian spoke up. "My brother is a very accommodating host, but there are doubtless reasons for your visits. Let's have it out, then."
"As always," Neramo stated. "I'm here to insure the interests of the Thalmor Ambassador are met. We're very interested in the welfare of Skingrad, you know."
"Is that so?" Dorian asked, winking. "Now, then, what about you, Chancellor Imbrex?"
"Hmm?" Imbrex muttered. "Very well, I will speak. My lord, Count Edvald the Wise, is very concerned about the welfare of his city, Bruma."
"As are we all," Neramo added. "Bruma is the gateway to Skyrim, and with the rumors of unrest in the North, the welfare of Bruma is a very important situation for us all."
"No, no," Imbrex shook his head. "There is only one problem with Bruma, my lords, and it is a simple one: it's full of Nords. They've been infecting our pure, beloved Empire with their barbarous bile. I've seen what Tullius' brave and bold Legions consist of, and it's not proud, swarthy men of Cyrodiil, it's these white scum of the North."
"Isn't that because of the Elder Council?" asked Dorian. "The plague, Cheydinhal, Leyawiin, dangers from Elsweyr and Valenwood; reasons for the Empire to keep their Legions outside of Skyrim."
"There are no dangers to be found in Valenwood and Elsweyr," Neramo replied. "Unlike you humans, our allies are not prone to rebellion and insurrection against lawful authority."
"The more we let these scum into our Legions," Imbrex continued. "The greater danger we face as an Empire and as a race. The pure, Cyro-Nibenese culture of the Empire is threatened by Tullius' unfortunate decision to include Nords into the Legion. What happens after they've served their twenty years, these country bumpkins, these Nords, village guards, farmers, brigands who joined the Legion to escape justice? Will they become citizens of the Empire? Will they be allowed to own land here in beautiful Cyrodiil, or have a state house on the Cerunian District? Will they bring their tribal traditions, their heathen customs and folkish superstitions to our beloved Cyrodiil? These are the fears of my lord Count Edvald and many of the Colovian gentry of Bruma and other counties in Cyrodiil."
"While I am inclined to agree," Brachus Romulus spoke up. "That the Nords are a troublesome lot and need tending to, is this not a bit much, what you are postulating? Nords have integrated into Imperial society since the days of the Septims. We have nothing to fear from the savages of the North."
"Oh, but we do, my lord," Imbrex replied. "This rebellion in Skyrim proves that we are threatened by the white mongrels of the North. Ulfric Stormcloak was a Legionnaire, yet he was the one who began this rebellion against his rightful lord and all that the Empire stands for! It stands to prove that one may take the barbarian out of Skyrim, but one can never take Skyrim out of the barbarian. Once a savage, always a savage. My lord's father had a...softer approach to these Nords. He believed the ignorant could be weeded out and educated, brought up to the standard of our ways of living. Time has proven that he was too soft in his treatment: my lord, Edvald the Wise, has a much greater plan."
"What is that?" Crixus asked.
"Violence is the only thing these monsters understand," Imbrex stated. "Therefore desperate times must needs be met with by desperate measures. A final solution to the Nord problem would involve a..." He cleared his throat. "...drastic reduction of the Nord population of Bruma, as a start. As it stands, the Nord's make up more than two thirds of the population of the city: a much better situation would be one that sees their population reduced to only ten percent of the total population of Bruma."
"And how would you bring about this drastic reduction?" Crixus asked.
"Ah," Imbrex grinned. "Therein lies the tale, the answer to a riddle that my lord has yet to answer. For, surely, if he had, there would be no longer an issue with these barbarians. We've tried deporting them back to Skyrim, but the civil war has closed the borders. General Tullius spared none who crossed the borders, no matter what race they were. The weapons ban has been a hot issue in Bruma, though we've had no success in raising enough troops to effect more lasting removals. Even with Tullius' Legions, they have more Nords than Imperials."
"I should come to Bruma, then," Crixus stated. "I have some ideas on how to combat this Nord problem."
"Any assistance is much appreciated, Crixus," Imbrex nodded. "The Count will want to know about your skills and expertise, especially in regards to this problem. I will do my best to prepare a worthy introduction, but I cannot promise anything at the moment."
At this, Georg cleared his throat and rang his silver bell. While he spoke to Linghorn regarding the main course, Pelagius-Lucan was eying Crixus from the top of his glass but said and ate very little. Moments later the feast came out: and what a feast it was! Duck, pheasant, fish, pork and porpoise, grilled, fried, roasted, braised and prepared in every way imaginable, dripping with rich sauces and coated in fine seasonings. There were bowls of soup and warm, savory pies filled with the best meat and vegetables the Colovian Highlands had to offer.
Everyone ate as much as they could from the many entrees presented. While the servants were serving the Surilie Family, Georg spoke to Brachus Romulus about moving his wineries into the hill country around Kvatch: Crixus noted that Romulus was much more open to suggestion in the absence of Publius Varro. Drusilla Caro and Procurus were arguing over magic and its potentially lethal uses. Neramo, like Pelagius, watched everyone in the room, like a wolf eying the sheep, savoring the kill to come.
"My lords," Cassius Urtius spoke with a mouthful of salted pork. "This is truly an exquisite feast. You have spared no expense on our behalf and for that, I am most grateful. It is good to see that there are still some of the old wealth who remain in power in Cyrodiil."
"Oh, we are certainly an old family," Dorian chuckled as he washed down a side of potatoes and leeks with his family's 190 vintage. "And, while times have hit us hard, we have prospered."
"Yes, perhaps," Urtius continued. "Now would be the time to put some of that hard and well-earned wealth to proper use?"
"And what proper use would this be, my lord?" Dorian asked.
"The removal of the Maro family from Anvil," Urtius stated. "Gods, they're a blight upon the nobility of Cyrodiil, cavorting with commoners, farmers, fishermen, whores. They bring down the throne which fate has cursed them to inhabit...in my stead, that is!"
"Lord Urtius," Neramo interjected. "As you know, the Surilie Family's wealth lies in wine. Perhaps the person you should be speaking to regarding this matter is me?"
"Servius!" Venerius spoke, interrupting Crixus' train of thought as he watched the goings on around them.
"What is it now?" Servius groaned.
"You're being rather close, brother," Venerius replied.
"Well, what do you expect?" Crixus asked. "I was drugged, kidnapped, captured by bandits and robbed!"
"Shh!" Venerius hushed. "Not so loud."
"Why not?" Crixus retorted.
Venerius paused to swallow down a bite of shepherd's pie. "There are things happening in Skingrad that are bigger than all of this. Very old things, very powerful things."
Now you're starting to sound like Boderic, Crixus thought inwardly. Outwardly he said: "Powerful, eh?"
"Why do you think Sixth Canon Procurus is here?"
"For the buxom Caro b*tch?" Crixus postulated.
"No," Venerius shook his head. "Both the Synod and the College of Whispers have been trying to gain a foot-hold in Skingrad over the past two centuries. For a time, the College had the upper hand until the plague broke out."
"Why do the Synod and the College of Whispers want control of Skingrad?" Crixus asked.
Venerius looked around, then whispered in his brother's ear. "There's something in Skingrad. Something powerful, something that has evaded the watchfulness of the Synod and the College of Whispers and, before them, the Mages Guild for centuries. That's why we've been called in, the Vigil of Stendarr."
"You're with the Vigil of Stendarr?" Crixus asked. "I thought they were wiped out just recently."
"Only the Hall in Skyrim," Venerius replied. "I was sent back here with warning by Keeper Carcette as the worst began to unfurl, but...well, then I fell in with the Silver Hand."
"Hmm," Crixus mused. "So, is this what you've been doing all these years? Serving Stendarr as a fanatic in his cause? I thought you ran away from home to join the Legion. I mean, we were talking about that, leaving that old b*tch behind, but I didn't think you were serious until..." Crixus noticed that his brother's good-natured grin had fallen. He now shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes frequenting the wine in his glass and the shepherd's pie on his plate.
"I was in the Legion," Venerius began. "But it...it didn't take."
"What do you mean 'it didn't take?'" Crixus asked.
"I..." Venerius sighed, looked around again, then leaned in closer to Crixus. "Let's talk about this in the store-room. Follow me." Afterwards he rose from his seat, clandestinely walked over to Georg and asked to be excused. With the Surilie Family's permission, Venerius left the hall and gestured for his brother to follow him. They went into a deserted store-room whose floor was covered in a thin layer of sawdust. Once Servius entered the room, Venerius shut the door behind him and thus began.
"Alright, here we are," Crixus began. "So what do you mean?"
"First of all," Venerius said, turning around from the door to face his brother. His face was deathly pale and his next words came out slow and fearfully. "I have to know that I can trust you.
"Of course," Crixus replied, a grin on his face. "I'm your brother, we're family. Who else can you trust?"
Venerius sighed, then at last gave his admittance. "I wasn't ready, for the Legion, I mean. I thought I could handle the Legion. I couldn't."
"So what did you do?" Crixus asked.
"I ran," Venerius stated.
"You deserted, you mean?" Crixus retorted.
"I was a young boy," Venerius returned. "I wasn't strong, I couldn't do any of the marches or exercises they demanded of us. And I wouldn't allow myself to be broken and turned into just another piece of meat."
"Is that what you think of me?" Crixus asked. "Of those who died for your ungrateful arse? Of your father? We're all just fucking pieces of meat?"
"It wasn't for me, alright?" Venerius retorted. "So I ran, and I found asylum among the Vigilants of Stendarr. Faith was always something of a high point in our family, you remember? Father always taught us to worship the Divines."
"Don't get smug with me, Venerius," Crixus interjected. "If you'd been there, if you'd seen what we went through in the War, you wouldn't be standing here with that fucking stupid grin on your face and the Divines on your lips."
"I was sent to Skyrim," Venerius stated. "To hunt down vampires that they said were coming back in great numbers over there. Then there was the attack and I..." His voice cracked and tears fell from his eyes. "...and I ran."
"You little fuck," Crixus retorted.
"I didn't know what else to do!" Venerius returned. "I saw my brothers and sisters' heads caved in by those red-eyed monsters. There was blood on me, blood on the living, blood on the dead, blood on the doors, blood on the walls, blood just about everywhere! Carcette could barely speak over the screams and the roar of the flames. She told me to run, so I ran."
"Then you ran to where, the Silver Hand?" Crixus asked.
"They respected the Vigil and the Knights of the Nine," Venerius replied. "We were hunting werewolves now, and I was out on the hunt with several of them. We came back to our camp at Gallows Rock...and everyone was dead. Bodies cut in two, heads hacked off from bodies, severed limbs, blood everywhere. I ran...again." There was silence until, at last, Crixus punched his brother in the face.
"You fucking turncoat," he glowered lowly. "You cowardly little shite!"
"Don't say that!" Venerius retorted.
"Why?" Crixus shouted. "Because that b*tch called you that when you quailed beneath her wrath? Maybe she was right! At least I fought back against her, at least I didn't run from my duty like a Nord coward! Father must be turning in his grave over your fucking behavior, dishonoring him and everything he taught us!"
"He taught us loyalty!" Venerius shouted, face flustered in consternation and eyes streaming with tears.
"Don't you dare fucking turn this around on me!" Crixus retorted. "Unlike you, I actually am loyal. I never ran from my duties or shirked from my responsibilities. Father did teach us loyalty, loyalty to the Empire."
"And I serve them in my own way!" Venerius retorted.
"By running like a little b*tch?" Crixus asked. At this he spat directly in his brother's face.
"You take that back," Venerius said in a low voice, trying to sound threatening before his bigger brother.
"No," Crixus shook his head. "Now go, you little shite, go do what you do best. Run. Because the next time I see you, I will fucking kill you!"
"I'm your own brother!" Venerius gasped in horror. "Does blood mean nothing to you?"
"I killed cousin Gaius," Crixus admitted. "Because he was a scared little shite who was unworthy of the Penitus Oculatus. Don't think I won't do the same to you too...you son of a b*tch."
"Don't you talk about our mother that way, Servius," Venerius returned, anger rising up inside him.
"My mother!" Crixus retorted. "And you don't get to fucking call me 'Servius' as if you've earned the right to my name. Now go, before I ring your neck with my bare hands."
Venerius' eyes were wide with disbelief as he walked back to the door, pulled the latch and walked out of the store-room. Servius Crixus, meanwhile, realized that he was gasping for air and short of breath. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be worked up into such a frenzy of rage that nothing mattered to him: not blood, alliances, promises or anything, only his desire to rage against those who wronged him. Now he was regretting his admittance of the death of Gaius Maro. Before it seemed as though he had tried to excuse himself from that: it was an accident, he tried to shut Gaius up, cover his mouth with his hands, but his knife was in his hands and he slit his throat instead.
Tonight was the first time he admitted that he had killed him on purpose, owning up to his own mistake.
"Looking for someone?" a familiar voice asked.
(AN: Good news and bad news. The good news is that summer is soon coming and, hopefully, i'll be able to dedicate more time to this as well as music-writing and recording. The bad news is that my temp job assignment ended, so no more regular work washing dishes [which sucks because i was starting to like that job, mostly for its regularity])
(I had a lot planned for the feast, and it seemed like each chapter title i came up with gave too much away, especially about the latter half and what Crixus learned. So i went with the title of a Kamelot song [i miss Roy Khan]. The conclusion of the feast will appear in the next chapter, as well as where Crixus learns what happened to Larth. Stay tuned for more coming soon.)