Key
Italic writing = Third person not in the book
Normal writing = Dareio's perspective written in the book
CAPITAL LETTERS = "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book
Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
It was the recognition of my own cowardice that got me into this insanity. Since I wouldn't openly admit to being frightened, the only person left to tell was myself. Granted, there were other factors that were involved, statistics and numbers all listed up and added up to almost impossibly small probabilities, dictating that what happened should have not ever occurred. But it did. At the time, the fact that I got so nervous over potential events that may threaten my health was an extreme curse, festering within me like a disease that couldn't be cured. As something of a health professional, I sometimes considered writing a paper to one of the big-shot government facilities about clinical pusillanimity, but to risk revealing my own position as a sufferer would, stupidly, strike fear in me. The possible repercussions of making my cowardly instincts public stuck an icy weight to my chest, brought my heart into my throat, choked my mind of any thought of standing my ground—Well, you get the picture. I was scared of admitting I was scared. A stupid, personal paradox that I never publicly confronted.
Though, I'm evidently slipping off track. I suppose the best place to start this adventure is in a place reasonably far back in the fateful evening that I actually half-remember. It was the 2nd of Sun's Dusk, and a last-minute formal business dinner had been established. While it would probably be very entertaining for you all to read about my ten minute comical costume-change from work uniform to my formal "No. 1"s, as we used to call them, I think I may just spare myself the embarrassment.
I had always told himself to pay more attention in social events like this, always said that if I did listen to the white-noise conversations, that perhaps I'd pick up something. A note, a melody, a symphony of beautiful information or philosophy or some-such. Perhaps even a fellow Altmer's conversation on the outrage that was the price of milk would take wing in my mind: Why is milk increasing in price? Because there's less being made to meet demand. But why's that? Are the animals malnourished? Are the farmers on strike? Or, perhaps there are milk-hoarding nobles paying out extra investments to keep some of the milk for themselves? This is preposterous!
On second reflection, this is probably why I did not listen to the suzzle (I will explain this word in just a minute) of people small-talking and let ideas develop in my mind, for the things I conjured up within my brain had far too much abstraction for anyone to find attractive, even myself! Now to explain my theory on "suzzling", this is a word I made up to explain the collective noise of a large gathering of people chatting amongst themselves. Perhaps most authors would use the words "murmur" or "hum", but it's neither of those things at all; the people are talking at a normal volume between each other, it's just the subconsciously shared volume cancelled out the detail of words. It's so selfish, in fact, to call it a murmur, because that really just suggests that its volume and nature is changed due to the fact that the writer can't pick up individual words! It's absolutely unacceptable! And, of course, I came to save the literary world by gracing it with a new word: "suzzle".
As the Dunmer returned to the book with a quill of his own, he scanned the words as Dareio wrote them, and shook his head. "If the readers have lost track by now, I really don't blame them."
So, there I stood in this grand dining hall, present at this dinner party as the lower ranks waited for the members of the top table to arrive. I took another sip of wine, the flavour becoming a welcome distraction. I felt myself smirk as I glanced into the goblet. It's quite ironic how I drank to drown out my own overthinking, strange inner voice of mine, yet the alcohol only served to further estrange and abstract my thoughts from expected normality. Though, that may have just been stupidity, instead of irony. I don't really know and I don't really care. It's not like I have a problem with alcohol or anything; I can control myself.
DAREIO HAS AN EXCESSIVELY RUTHLESS CASE OF ALCOHOLISM
As soon as his Dunmer friend wrote his first line of input, Dareio was quick to shout at him. "I really do not need your assistance in giving me a bad name, my friend." He hissed, slightly burnt that his issue with alcohol was now down on paper, though said nothing more as he continued to write.
Leaning on the back of my dinner-seat for the evening and lifting it off of its front legs slightly, I took a glance around the room. Everyone was stood behind their seats, or near enough, suzzling to one another, as was expected, so I glanced to who I was seated with. I groaned inwardly as I caught the back of some old mer's balding head, a glare from the platoon's mega-bitch, and a finger-wave from Mister Suspected Rapist (I had labelled him that on no basis other than the bulge in his eyes and the way he leaned forward and smiled when he talked to people, which, quite frankly, made me feel quite sick).
I asked myself at the time: Why am I always seated with rejects? I wasn't a completely unattractive Altmer, I don't think. Quite a long, flat nose, long chin and boring orange eyes, true, but my skin was quite an adequate shade of yellow-gold. And my hair! By Auri-El, I took an incredible amount of pride in my hair, but rightly so! That evening, it voluminously cascaded over my shoulders and down my back like tumbling waves of gold-spun silk, almost glittering in the flickering magelight spells that uniformly dotted the walls and filled in the gaps in chandeliers where candles were originally. It was not dissimilar to a haul of ancient, enchanted gold that had been melted into liquid form and poured over jet-black rocks of DAREIO IF YOU DO NOT GET ON WITH IT I SWEAR TO THE GODS I WILL TAKE THAT PRECIOUS HAIR OF YOURS AND- … I had tucked my hair neatly behind elven, knife-point ears, as I did usually when working, though I did nothing more with it apart from that, simply because I didn't have to. Though, apparently, even my beautiful locks don't permit me to finer company.
Of course, I knew that not everything in life depended on the company of others, but society influenced me just as it did everyone else. About a century ago from this dinner, I found myself irritated by a particular co-worker, who was complaining about women who did not wear make-up, and how absurd the idea of make-up-less women was. Now, I'm not a particular feminist, but I admit that I do like to have something to spark some drama. So, the day after, my colleagues were surprised to see I had lined his own eyes with the darkest Khol pigment one could import from Hammerfell, mixed with some oils so one could apply it as a liquid (it was expensive, but so worth it). Of course, coinciding with my rather (evident) theatrical personality, my eye-lining was not subtle, extending out from each corner of my eyes a good inch or so. "What are you playing at, Dareio? What is this madness?" They interrogated angrily, but all I would do was smirk a, if you don't mind me boasting again, unmistakable smirk, and leave the statement I was making unsaid but recognised. "It'll be off soon," they grumbled, "he won't last the week."
I've worn it every day since, come rain or shine.
Before I could get lost in any more memories, a glass chime sliced through the suzzle in the air, silencing it immediately. Everyone's glance shifted to the top table, the biggest chair- Well, one would be inclined to say throne. No one was sat at it, not just yet, but the source chime was located soon enough. A young elf, in full ceremonial robes, lowered the almost-empty, Alinorian crystal-formed glass and spoon, cleared her throat quietly, and then called out to the rest of the room, "Ladies, Gentlemen; the top table."
Immediately, backs straightened, heels clocked together and hands went down to people's sides rigidly. As courteousness dictated, everyone faced straight ahead from them, though I could make out the figures of various, over-dressed dignitaries and haughty officers. I knew every one of their names, or, at least, I could have named every one of them if asked in a sober state. On reflection, I could only recall a few of them. Brigadier Cordalmo, head of military logistics. Brigadier Morgonor, head of espionage. Commodore Aranil, head of naval operations. Major-General Orgarion, head of the infantry. Major-General Telgamin, head of arcane artillery (a section I fell under). And, the one who ruled over all of them, Lord Naarifin, the General of the military theatre, as well as head of the cavalry. He came robed in full uniform, the gold gleaming to an almost impossible degree against the black-as-night fabric. His face, only faintly etched with the advanced years, held an expression of professional pride as he stood in front of the throne-sized seat. After a well-timed pause and the smallest hint of a nod of acknowledgment to the dinner guests, he seated himself, the other officers of the top table following in a cascade either side of him.
I reached a hand out to pull out mega-bitch's chair, though she quickly yanked it out from under my hand, glaring straight at me. "I can look after myself, knave," she growled, before sitting herself down. I quickly curled up my fingers back and recoiled sharply, before quickly tugging my jacket straight and pulling an expression of feigned apathy (I was, in truth, ever-so-slightly offended). "As you wish," I made a show of mirroring her tone, though unintentionally mixing it with a purr, something that I can't help, before sitting myself down.
As the evening drew on, course after course of the meal passed. I remember not talking much, since I had no one to really talk to. In fact, I did not even dare look at others; the noises of the older, balding mer's eating was enough to make me sick, and I certainly did not need to enhance that feeling with Mr Suspected Rapist's glances over the table. Of course, there was my old friend, wine. Again, I'd just like to iterate; I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, not at all! I just had a liking to its taste that perhaps extends a mild appreciation or, perhaps more so, the sensations it gave me. As the night crawled on, I could feel the familiar warmth began to lace around me, the subtle yet influential fingers of alcohol pulling the corners of my lips into a relaxed smile and caressing my brain into merging the physical world with my creative interpretations of it. Losing my measure of time, it didn't seem that long until all the courses were finished and Lord Naarifin rose from his seat for a speech.
Though I was not fully in-tune with my surroundings, I heard the important parts of this speech and the intonation of the Lord's fluid yet galvanising voice he used to deliver it. "Guests, ladies, gentlemen, dignitaries-" Naarifin started, and continued into a blatantly riveting speech. Surprisingly enough, however, my mind fuzzed it out. The amount of occasions I had heard this was enough to induce a sleep while I hadn't had a drop to drink. Though, after a few unmeasured minutes, I found myself tuning back in, as Lord Naarifin's voice rose a bit, implying importance. "The courier reporting this event came in just this morn, with the testimony of the meeting in the Imperial Palace, stating that the Emperor declined our terms. The men of the Empire chose incorrectly, and now they will suffer our wrath." Naarifin propped his fingertips on the table and leant forward, the shadows darkening under his burning emerald-fire eyes and the corners of his lips curling just a fraction. "This is not the beginning of a war; this is the beginning of an extermination."
Cheers and applause roared up from the crowds, glasses raised and small bursts of excited suzzles broke in here and there as people began to discuss this "extermination". Being quite tipsy, one would have expected me to be partaking in one of the more excited forms of celebration. I certainly did not. Instead, I recall, I looked into my glass, eyes widened, as if expecting something the wine itself to grow into a tidal wave and swallow me up, drowning the heaviness of anxiety that glommed to my chest. My drunken state somewhat worsened my sense of foreboding, as mental abstraction began to spin my thoughts into a mildly traumatic wash of incoherence. In an attempt to and not look entirely dead to the outward observer, I mover my eyes, following the rim of his glass into a circle and spiralling into the centre of the blood red conduit of sense-suppressing wine. The word "War" in the painted crimson letters was what my mind managed to decipher of an alcohol-drenched page of my internal dictionary. The war has been declared. And I was facing deployment into battle.
Being as lost in thought as I was, I did not hear the metallic whining sound of air being sliced that momentous split second, and I did not immediately notice the noise of cheering morph into shouts of distress and shock. Though, when I did finally managed strength to pull my consciousness out of gory mental machinations, there was panic all around me. Agents were pouring out of their seats and out to every exit, scouring around every wall, window and archway. After a couple of blinks, I rose out of my seat slowly and turned my vision towards the top table. At first, I thought it was just a drunk Major-General Telgamin strewn over the table, with a dripping spillage of red wine spreading underneath him. But I was sorely mistaken. As the terrible realisation hit me, Naarifin began to bark orders, hysteria seeping into his voice as much as it was everyone else's mind: "Find him! Find him! Find the assassin!"