Cheydinhal Imperial Garrison, 4E 201
Anarril rubbed his wrists, thankful to be free of the tight, iron shackles that he was forced to wear for so long. His white hair was now cut short and he wore the garb of an Imperial Battlemage. He shifted uncomfortably in the rigid armour he was forced to wear- somehow even more uncomfortable than heavy Elven plate. This idea of being utilised as a Battlemage was baffling to him. While it was true that he was an accomplished practitioner of the mystic arts, his talents lay in analysis and enchantment; the higher mysteries. He was no explosion-minded simpleton who solved problems with arcs of lightning and jets of flame! It would be an utter waste of his talents and time to bloody his hands in such a manner.
Thankfully, the humans seemed to have at least partially recognised their folly, for he sat in a finely crafted wooden chair inside of the office of the Garrison commander, the one who just so happened to have 'liberated' him from captivity. The room was finely decorated, with gems and artifacts neatly placed on display and trophy racks strategically positioned to catch the eye of any visitor. Anarril drank in the scenery as he waited- you could tell a lot about a man from the way he organized his workshop. Indeed, he himself often insisted on inspecting such when he was requested in order to determine if his client was worthy of service; in his early days, he had accepted any contract for money, but in his later years he was bothered far too often by buffoons with a surplus of wealth and a large deficit in mental acuity.
Whilst not to the same standard, he was gratified by the deliberate balance of form and function displayed in the decor; it reminded him of his temporary workshop in Bruma. The line between 'impressive' and 'gauche' was razor-thin, and far too often people preferred simply to not even attempt to find it, leave alone balance upon it. He was different, however; He took great pride in his creations and the state of his workspace reflected that. Contrary to the disorganized mess most artificers choose to work in, Anarril's workspace was pristine. Each tool, project, parchment and book had a specific place in which it was kept, organised for ease of collection. Even that paled, however, when compared to the aesthetics of his study in Alinor; he had spent centuries layering and fine-tuning the enchantments that rendered that workshop as much a work of art as it was one of reason. In it, he had applied well the lesson that his father had once given to him;
"If you want respect, you must look respectable".
Idly he wondered what had become of the Bruma workshop in his absence. Though it had been a temporary thing he had still considered it a slice of home, carried with him from the Summerset Isles. He hoped that it had not been ransacked -most of the objects within were of little value to any but a master artificer- but prejudice had probably compelled the humans to destroy it anyway. He let out a long, defeated sigh at the thought.
His melancholy was finally broken by the arrival of his erstwhile commander, a man named Venexus. An Imperial with short black hair, and adorned with the ornate armour of a Legion lieutenant. As he entered, Venexus' gaze shifted from Anarril's face to a piece of parchment he had in front of him, and he wasted little time in seating himself at the desk opposite. As he did so, Anarril made sure to straighten his posture and compose himself, assuming an expectant pose with his fingers steepled in front of him. This was a song and dance he had mastered long before the human in front of him had even been born.
First rule of negotiation; never show weakness to an observer, even if they have more leverage. Especially if they have more leverage.
For a few seconds, the two men sized each other up, and the human was the one to speak first.
"You are Anarril Aediuth, correct?"
An obvious stall tactic, meant to buy time for him to gather his thoughts- why would he be here if he was anyone else? Well, Anarril thought, he wouldn't begrudge the human his crutches; besides, he'd known many nobles who disguised their slow wit with loquacious drivel. He gave a simple nod of acknowledgement, and waited for a more substantive opening.
Venexus scribed something onto the parchment that lay in front of him, affecting disinterest.
"And you do realize why you are here, yes?"
This was his chance! Anarril carefully arranged his features into a mask of cool disdain, and spoke. "Hopefully, because you have finally realised how grievously you have been underestimating me".The human's response was to produce another piece of parchment, and lay it on the table; "This form contains the results of your aptitude tests" -Anarril had to suppress a wince at the memory of that unedifying experience- "and whilst your magicka capacity is exceptional, you showed no proficiency beyond the novice spells in either Destruction or Restoration". The human lifted an eyebrow. "Tell me, then- how exactly are you being undervalued?".
Anarril scoffed. "Don't confuse me for one of your barbaric battlemages, Lieutenant. I am a practitioner of the higher arts; a creator of wonders and horrors beyond anything Frost or Flame could accomplish". In a show of excellent self control- or more likely massive ignorance, the Imperial did not react visibly, though Anarril could tell he was examining the statement in his mind.
"An Enchanter, then".
"I suppose the comparison is warranted, though I am similar to your 'enchanters' only in the way one can compare the present and historical Falmer. That is to say, I am far more than a peddler of cheap tricks". Anarril leaned forward, never breaking eye contact with his target. "I have had centuries to hone my craft, human. Nobles and merchants have competed for my favour, and my seal graces some of the most ingenious workings to be found in Alinor, far more puissant than any flaming sword or Shock Staff. It would be more apt to name those services I cannot provide!"
The Imperial in front of him seemed to come to a resolution at that. "Foremost among which is military service, I presume". He quickly held up a hand, forestalling Anarril's retort. "Leaving the veracity of your claims aside, it is clear now that you are a civilian contractor. As for the skills you speak of, I doubt they are of much use without very specialised, very expensive tools, none of which I can procure on short notice". Now it was his turn to lean forward: "So again I ask; why should I not let you go here and now?"
Anarril had to consciously keep his lips from twitching upwards at that; the lieutenant was good. Not good enough to best him, of course, but good nonetheless. He leaned back in his chair, and allowed a smile to curl his lips even as he spread his hands. "Come now lieutenant, we both know you shall not be doing that. How would your superiors react if you let an Altmer simply leave your service? A truthful man like you would no doubt have to report my profession, and then both of us would be executed as Thalmor spies- no, better by far that you keep me where you can see me. Besides, I'm sure a man of your standing has problems that cannot be solved by beating them into submission. Those dastardly Thalmor spies, for instance, that have evaded detection by even your most skilled sorcerers…"
The lieutenant furrowed his brow at the thought. "You would work against the Thalmor so easily?". Anarril shrugged; in truth, he cared little about the Thalmor one way or another, and would not mind if they were pushed off Tamriel entirely. Their idiocy had already cost him his freedom once, and the favour of the Imperial Army would allow him far easier access to Dwemer sites than simply trusting the locals to aid him. Besides, it would be a fine test of his skills to pit them against fellow Altmer. Certainly more stimulating than taking commissions from humans.
He came out of his reverie to find the soldier examining him with narrow eyes. "And what would you want in return for such services?"
To Anarril, that was as good as an admission of defeat; he may not be fully trusted, but he was confident that his work would speak for itself. "My dear Venexus, my bottom line is very simple; freedom to pursue my goals as I see fit -I will of course adhere to all the relevant laws!- and access to certain Dwemer structures for my research once I have earned a measure of your trust. As for the details…"
He locked eyes with the Imperial again, and this time Venexus almost recoiled at the intensity of his gaze.
"...I am happy to negotiate".
After the meeting, Anarril grumbled under his breath as he stepped outside of the barracks. The parade grounds outside of his lodgings were bustling with activity. Legionaries busied themselves carrying weapons and provisions to their respective stockpiles. Officers could be seen conversing amongst each other in varying degrees of formality, their polished steel armour gleamed in the sunlight.
"Well there you are, been searching all over for you!" a voice penetrated through the busied ambience of the parade grounds.
Anarril shifted his gaze slightly to notice the familiar grin of Astielvin, a bald Breton with a bushy beard. He was a fellow prisoner in the same position as him. Taken from his decrepit prison cell and straight into a Legionary formation. He was one of the only friendly faces Anarril had encountered throughout his ordeal so he made his best efforts to remain on good terms with him.
"Yes, yes," Anarril groaned, still irritated from his meeting with his pompous commander. "I have been speaking to Venexus, apparently he only just now realized that my magical abilities are not barbaric enough for his tastes."
Astielvin chuckled and gave Anarril a hearty slap on the back. "You're probably the only person I've heard put it that way."
Anarril was distracted, the glare reflecting off of the Breton's head assailed his eyes, he was sure that any mirror would struggle to be as reflective as Astielvin's head.
"Come," the Breton beckoned, "I'm headed into the city proper and getting a lay o' the land."
Anarril was reluctant to follow, he wanted nothing more than to retire to his bunk and relax his bones which were still sore from sleeping on a stone floor for months on end. But the look on the Breton's face seemed to imply that there was only one answer he was going to accept.
Before he knew it he was well on his way through the busy parade grounds and into Cheydinhal proper. Owing to the city's proximity to Morrowind and it's high Dunmer population, much of Cheydinhal's population was now composed of Dunmer, following multiple crises in Morrowind. Cheydinhal, being so close to the border with Morrowind was an obvious choice of refuge.
However, the rapid influx of refugees has left the city overpopulated, Dunmer filled the streets as there was nowhere to accommodate them. The Imperials and historical Dunmer population of the Cheydinhal largely turned a blind eye to the disparate peoples now crowding the Chapel and Market districts of the city.
The two crossed a bridge into the Market district. The bustling streets became unbearable, Anarril and his new friend being forced to brute force their way through a plethora of bodies whom in turn pushed passed them. Not since his foray in the Imperial prisons had he felt so claustrophobic. He endured the packed streets until finally emerging into a large plaza.
"By the Eight, there seems to be no end to them! At least now we have a little breathing room" Anariil grunted.
Astielvin cheerfully nodded in return, if he was irked at the sea of market goers they battled to get this far, he was good at hiding it. The Market plaza was lined with shops of all manners, the stone walls reached only towards the first floor before giving way to a more traditional wooden second floor. The architecture of some of the more recently built stores reminded him greatly of buildings he had seen in Morrowind. Likely the result of the migration which had only recently taken place.
Within the plaza itself rows upon rows of kiosks filled the large square. Each was of different quality, with some of the more established merchants having constructed sturdy, well crafted kiosks on which they displayed their wares. While others built shoddy frames meant to support a canvas covering.
"Since we're here, I could go for some food," Astielvin blurted out while patting his small pouch of coins he had only received the day prior, "if ya' want, I can split something with ya'"
Anarril was loath to accept the Breton's charity but considering his current situation, he wasn't about to refuse a free meal. The two spotted a nearby fruit stall and returned to wading through the crowd which seemed to obstruct their advance.
The merchant operating the stall was a stern Imperial who vigilantly scanned the crowd for any potential buyers. His demeanor loosened and glanced expectantly at the two battlemages approaching his kiosk. Rows of produce were neatly sorted on the display in front of him. Astielvin immediately began conversing with the merchant talking pleasantries and discussing the happenings around Cheydinhal. Without saying a word, Anarril reached out and grabbed a nearby apple, inspecting it for any imperfections.
"I all o' this is picked fresh from me farm- not much meat fer' sale though." The merchant said, an irritated look blooming across his face.
"What's happened to all yer' meat?" Astielvin asked, inspecting a particularly large onion. The merchant shook his head, scratching his beard.
"All o' the cattle just up an' vanished! Been happening all 'round these parts."
Anarril's hand brushed against something coarse and furry, at first he dismissed it as some sort of fibre littering the rack but a brief glance later and he recoiled in shock and disgust. His friend and the merchant curiously looked over in turn only to display the same reaction as him.
A large grotesque rat gorged itself, hidden underneath a pile of produce. The merchant sprung into action, lunging across the table and swiping for the vermin, bellowing insults and expletives as he did. The rat deftly jumped away from the furious Imperial and scurried off the Kiosk and into the crowd.
Anarril could vaguely determine the Rat's location by the shrill screeching and commotion which drew further and further away towards the outside of the square.
"By the Gods, not again!" The merchant spat "Th' Rats ave' been gettin' worse and worse!"
The merchant busied himself whilst Astielvin left a small pile of gold pieces as payment for the produce they had taken. Anarril's appetite, however, was spoiled after his encounter with the Rat. The two made their way to the other side of the square. Their advance, while still hindered by the crowd, was more bearable as they approached the edges of the plaza.
"The rats ere' seem pretty bold" Astielvin blurted out. Anarril shuddered in agreement. Despite the business of the plaza, he now noticed the prevalence of rats lurking in gutters and alleyways.
"Far too bold for my liking, filthy rodents!" Anarril spat.
"Still, I wonder what's been causing all of that farmer's cattle disappearances…"
Astielvin smirked, "I reckon it's Ratmen behind it!"
His laughter pierced through the cacophony of the Plaza. Anarril, however, was not as amused. With his luck, it probably was Ratmen.