CONTUMELY

Chapter One

Hero of Kvatch. It was a lofty title.

Well, to Druzelle, anyway.

In truth, the twenty-two year old Imperial once thought that adventurers were lowly, grimy peasants who drank stale beer from tin steins and told stories of exploits that truthfully weren't nearly as valiant. She was right, in part. As the daughter of an affluent but otherwise unremarkable and untitled merchant who traded with every realm from Elsweyr to High Rock, Druzelle was raised on caviar and embroidered silks. That was, until she was ousted from the Dissentia family.

It was a good story, really- though not a very happy one. With a preoccupied father unable to supervise her and a dead mother, Druzelle could get away with any petty crime she wanted- and pay off the authorities whenever they got their filthy gauntlets all over her case. She exploited that privilege endlessly, and dabbled in every dastardly deed she could imagine. Murder, however, was probably not her most ingenious plan.

In retrospect, it had gone horribly wrong for Druzelle, and even worse for her ill-fated friend. Had Druzelle known that someone had secretly coated her dagger with poison, and listened to the coaxing of her two-sided friends, she would never have entered the damned bar fight. She didn't mean to kill him, after all. But when it was over, her Bosmer combatant lie writhing on the floor as the poison coursed through his veins and stopped the beating of his heart. What would have been a single charge of assault became a trial of murder. Someone had orchestrated her capture, someone with a sick sense of vigilante justice, willing to see an unlucky wood elf die if it meant that Druzelle was finally locked away where she belonged.

The authorities, and Druzelle's father, weren't about to tolerate the young woman's behavior any longer. Despite her passionate protests, Druzelle was sentenced to the Imperial Prison, sent away from her city with only stale beer in a tin stein to keep her company.

Yet surprisingly, her misfortune was to her fortune. She soon found herself on the other side of the Prison, covered in muck from the sewers and clad in rags, with the Amulet of Kings clenched in her hand. She had been christened an adventurer, and embraced her new life, took up arms as a warrior, and later sprinted off to Kvatch to close the Oblivion gate and be proclaimed a hero, all the while entering the Dark Brotherhood and serving as an assassin of the Night Mother.

That, of course, was not the end of her story. One lasting thing remained from her previous life that she hadn't ever erased: her waywardness, to put it mildly. It was under this circumstance that Druzelle Dissentia, warrior and sister of the Dark Brotherhood, would find herself in Chancellor Ocato's office.

"Please take a seat, Miss Dissentia."

The Imperial woman eyed Chancellor Ocato dubiously before she plopped into the wooden armchair in front of the Altmer's desk. Ocato cleared his throat, setting the exquisite plume of his quill back into the inkwell. The wrinkles on the Chancellor's brow deepened as his expression morphed from one of complacency to one of almost comical vehemence. The woman's eyes narrowed.

"I believe you know why you are here, Miss Dissentia," Ocato began.

"It's Druzelle," she corrected.

The Altmer breezed on, "You are the esteemed Hero of Kvatch, closer of Oblivion gates, and quickly becoming a figure much in the public eye of Cyrodiil, Miss Dissentia."

Druzelle's shoulders sank with ire, as she ran a restless hand through her stringy, burgundy locks.

"You know quite well then, I assume," Ocato continued, "that counts and countesses alike seek your aid in closing the Oblivion gates outside their cities' walls. Of course, this puts you in very close proximity to people of political power."

"I get it," Druzelle snarled, "It put me in proximity to you, didn't it? I must be doing something right."

"On the contrary, Miss Dissentia, you are doing something very wrong, which is why I commanded Jauffre to send you to me," Ocato answered, "Rallying beggars against the nobility? Stealing? Lighting all of the bridges in Cheydinhal on fire? Sporting the armor of the Dark Brotherhood while doing all of the aforementioned activities? I won't ask how you obtained it, and don't tell me. Listen, you are giving yourself a shamefully seditious reputation, which will not serve you well if you are to champion Cyrodiil."

"I could give a minotaur's ass about my reputation," she replied curtly.

"And that, Miss Dissentia, is precisely the reason I ordered you here," he countered, knotting his hands together tightly. Ocato's gaze stiffened, "You, my famed hero, cannot traipse around this country acting in the manner that you have. You are rude, violent, brash, and every meaningful sentence that escapes your slanderous mouth is a snide comment on the ineffectuality of authority."

"Eloquently put," Druzelle conceded distantly. No sign of concern tainted her voice.

"You clearly cannot acknowledge the severity of your stupidity," Ocato seethed in response, "If you continue to act as you do- insulting counts in their castles and councilors in their courts, instigating rebellion wherever you go- the nobility will never support you."

Druzelle kicked up her feet and rested them on the edge of Ocato's desk, her hands tucked primly behind her head. She flexed her toes in their boots, evoking an expression of total disgust from the Altmer, who pushed his chair as far away from the woman as he could. The Imperial's mint eyes glistened with a delighted, debased sparkle.

"You know, I don't care what the nobles think, and I don't need to. I've saved people's lives closing those gates, while your soldiers sat idly and watched me do it," Druzelle muttered coolly, "Don't play me the fool. We both know that the Imperial Legion is too busy cleaning up after the emperor's death and maintaining order. I'm the only one you've got to close these gates. I don't have to listen to your bullsh-"

"Again, Miss Dissentia, you're wrong," Ocato rejoined angrily, "You can close as many Oblivion gates as you please, but the daedra will come back with a vengeance. We are on the brink of war, Miss Dissentia, and you cannot face the enemy alone. When you are overwhelmed, who will come to your aid? No one. The nobility loathe you. And that, my lady, is why you need to clean up your act."

"I'm not about to keep listening to this idiocy," Druzelle retorted. The Chancellor chuckled quietly, settling calmly into his chair. Druzelle eyed him suspiciously, as he assumed an air of sudden triumph.

"You won't have to," he announced, "Because I have invited someone to counsel you."

"What?!" Druzelle shouted, tearing her feet off Ocato's desk and slamming them on the floor, to the resounding thud of stiff leather and cold iron on the stone beneath.

"You heard me," he said, "If you are to be a proper hero, you need another hero to tell you how to navigate the politics of saving the world, as it were, and direct you away from the error of your ways. Therefore, I have asked the Nerevarine to convene with you in Bruma, for as long as it takes to rid you of your wretchedness."

"You can tell the Nerevarine that they'd be more welcome advocating Argonian slavery in the middle of Black Marsh than they'll be when they arrive at Cloud Ruler Temple," Druzelle snapped.

"Don't be ungrateful," Ocato admonished, "The Nerevarine has called off a much-anticipated expedition to Akavir to journey to Cyrodiil- to your benefit, I may add."

"Well, sure, you probably ordered the Nerevarine to come here just as you did me," Druzelle observed sharply.

"That's beside the point," Ocato replied, "And I tire of your complaints. Save your misery for the Nerevarine. Dunmer relish anguish like yours."

"I'm not-"

"For Akatosh's sake, go back to Bruma, Miss Dissentia. I won't hear any more of it. Jauffre will need you to prepare for the Nerevarine's arrival, and I should suspect that the countess would like to debrief you more on the significance of this visit. Lady Carvain is perhaps the last noble in Tamriel who has the patience to withstand your waywardness. You are dismissed, Miss Dissentia."

Druzelle snarled and rose to her feet, sulking across the office and making a point to slam the door behind her with a satisfyingly thunderous clatter.

--

It is commonly known that the Dunmer are the most miserable race in Tamriel. There is no subject that escapes their gripes, no grievance that eludes their complaints, and certainly no rumor that evades their attentions. Particularly the ghastly ones.

It was no surprise, then, that Lady Idayn Eralas despised Cyrodiil. Like all Dunmer, she believed that the world beyond Morrowind was a gurgling cesspit of promiscuity and barbarism. The moment that her carriage stopped at the Cyrodiil border, she poked her dainty face out from behind the curtain of her window and sneered. Before her Dunmeri attendant could unlock the carriage door, Idayn flung it open, her silken skirts gathered in one hand. Her polished black tresses frayed from their braided knot, casting narrow shadows across her violently orange eyes. She hopped to the ground, sniffed the air, and sulked.

"All the eye can see is grass," she huffed, "Is that all Cyrodiil is good for? Endless fields of grass and a dead emperor?"

"My lady, forgive me, I do not intend to be rude," her attendant offered meekly, "But we have only crossed the border."

"Then I shall expect to see more of it, if the colorless scenery of this wretched country could hope to worsen my melancholy. The grass, I mean, not the dead emperor. His loss was hardly tragic," Idayn cynically replied. The attendant poked his head from the inside of the carriage, his lips drawn in a twitching, nervous line.

"What- what I mean to say, my lady, is that Morrowind is just behind us."

"That is usually the case whenever one crosses a border, good sir," she announced. She wrinkled her nose and paced around her entourage. As she stretched her legs, the attendant leapt from the cabin to follow her. He hurriedly snatched the bottom hem of her chocolate-colored dress to lift it off the weeds as she tramped through them and reeled around the head of the caravan.

"My lady, I mean to say, there is just as much grass behind us and you were not at all displeased," the attendant supplied, "If not for the landscape, I beseech you, you must find some pleasure in your holiday here."

"Dear Dram, if I were on holiday, I would not be in Cyrodiil," she jeered as her attendant scurried behind her, an armful of her billowing skirts gathered to his chest. Whenever she spun around towards him, he nearly stumbled into her bodice. Idayn flattened her gown irritably with her hands, and scoffed, "Recall that the last time I holidayed in Cyrodiil, I was held captive as a political prisoner by Uriel Septim and later shipped back to Morrowind as a common criminal in pauper's rags. I was a prisoner, Dram, ordered to do Caius Cosades' bidding, against my better judgment, and against the advice of the Morag- oh, forgive me, Dram. I digress. I do my best to keep my dissatisfaction to myself, but this land reminds me of terrible things, and the station of the Nerevarine has brought little solace to my existence."

As Idayn boarded the carriage, her lips softened into a hopeless frown. She would have been beautiful, Dram brooded, if her face weren't a continuous expression of despair. To his own dismay, Dram knew that Idayn's misery was warranted, and it would likely be years before she was ever happy again. He followed her into the cabin, taking the seat across from her, and considered, "You have not seen the city of Bruma, my lady. Perhaps you shall take a liking to it."

"You expect much," she uttered, planting her feet solidly on the floor as the caravan began to move again. The carriage jerked forward, the horses neighing as the entourage rolled northwards across Cyrodiil.

"Chancellor Ocato seemed to think you would," he smiled encouragingly, "His letters indicate that Bruma is a small, quiet, snowy city, which should suite your taste for discretion in Cyrodiil exceptionally well, my lady."

"How lovely," Idayn sulked, "A city with even less culture than the Imperial City, if that is even possible. Dagoth Ur should have slaughtered me and fed my body to the lava pits of Red Mountain, if only so that I would never have to suffer the sight of Cyrodiil, and its cities, and its…endless fields of grass punctuated by not a single intelligent creature ever again. Azura, give me strength. I have a feeling that this shall be a very long… holiday, indeed."

On that note- Dram stifled a groan- he could not agree more.

--

The Cheydinhal sanctuary brimmed with life, which was ironic, given that it housed a guild of murderers. Its members buzzed about the maze of chambers with extraordinary excitement- and trepidation- in preparation for Lucien Lachance's visit. The Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, one of its ruling members and amongst the most menacing leaders in the organization, did not frequent the sanctuary often, but when he did, it was always quite the event. It was also the only occasion in which Gogron and Telaendril weren't clawing at one another.

"I shall treasure this moment," Ocheeva mumbled as she passed the wood elf and the orc in the line-up, "Everyone in my sanctuary, standing in one room, with all their internal organs remaining internal. Magnificent. Lucien will be overwhelmed with joy whenever he arrives."

"That would be extraordinary," Telaendril sourly replied, "Given that 'joy' and 'Lucien' generally don't show up in the same sentence together."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Antoinetta pouted, "I've seen Lucien Lachance happier than could be. In fact, Lucien was very joyed whenever he recruited me to the Dark Brotherhood. Did I ever mention that he rescued me, starved and dying, from a gutter?"

"Yes, you have, Antoinetta, many times before. And it's joyous, or joyful, not joyed," Ocheeva sighed.

"Speaking of extraordinary, it's amazing what grammar one can inherit from life in a gutter," Vicente noted as he crossed the room and joined his fellow assassins in the middle of the sanctuary's lobby. The vampire's angular, pale cheeks and scarlet eyes were framed by awry, pecan-brown tresses that had obviously been loosed from the ponytail behind his neck from sleep. Antoinetta scoffed as he glided across the room and stood next to Teinaava, as she uttered how highly Lucien thought of her-loudly enough for Telaendril next to her to hear. The wood elf grinded her teeth.

"What was that, Antoinetta?" she asked deafeningly, "I can't believe my poor Bosmer ears. Ocheeva, are you hearing this? Did Antoinetta just say that Lucien wanted to make love to her… in a gutter?"

"No!" the blonde assassin blushed, snapping, "I wasn't saying anything of the sort."

"Oh, no, that's what I heard," Telaendril shouted, "You're always fantasizing about that damned gutter and how much you love Lucien and how highly he thinks of your talent."

"He admires me!" Antoinetta insisted. Ocheeva buried her forehead in her palms.

"For Sithis's sake, can't you both keep silent?"

"Oh, sure, I can," Telaendril retorted, "But Antoinetta has a hard time keeping her trap shut about how she wants to fuck Lucien Lacha-"

"Telaendril!"

"Did someone offer to bed me?"

"Lucien Lachance!" Ocheeva stammered, leaping in front of Antoinetta, "We are honored by your presence."

"Yes, I can see that some of us are overjoyed," he said, eyeing Antoinetta fiercely. When she winked back, he recoiled, folding his arms over his chest defensively. Sensing his discomfort, Ocheeva shot Antoinetta with a fuming, embarrassed glare.

"Had you arrived not a few moments' earlier," Ocheeva offered, "Our associates would have acted more befitting of your presence. I shall punish them appropriately for it later, unless you would like to address the matter yourself."

Under his black robe, Lucien's shoulders tightened, "She did not defy one of the Tenets."

"Nope, she didn't, Ocheeva!" Gogron boomed, and swung an arm around Antoinetta. Her head thumped against the armor of his chest as the orc petted her head with a gloved hand, exclaiming, "Sex isn't written in any of the Tenets!"

"Thank you for enlightening us," Teinaava growled.

"What did I say about hugging, Gogron?" Ocheeva admonished. The orc released the human, upon which the woman gasped frantically for breath.

"Uh, sorry Ocheeva. And Antoinetta," He apologized meekly. Which, for an orc, was piercingly loud. The echo of his voice lasted for a while, ringing through the sanctuary. When the noise faded, Lucien coughed, snatching the short attention spans of the assassins while he could.

"May I proceed?" Lucien muttered. He didn't wait for a response to remove his hood, so that the auburn light lighting the foyer illuminated the warm brown of his eyes and the rugged curve of his jaw. He paced in front of the assassins, sending quivers through all of them. And presumably, an orgasm through Antoinetta.

"I came here in hopes that I would intercept your precious Sister, Druzelle Dissentia," he announced, "She was not completing a contract or frequenting the sanctuary in weeks. I feared she was an agent of the Empire, come to unravel our organization from within, who left for safety in the Imperial City whenever she advanced too far in our ranks. This was not the case, as my private agents reported. She happens, however, to be the Hero of Kvatch."

"Uh, Lucien, don't mean to be insulting," Gogron interjected, "But everyone knows that."

"When you're living under a rock, that's not precisely common knowledge," Vicente uttered under his breath. Ocheeva stomped on his foot whenever Lucien turned away from them, and the vampire reeled silently with pain. When Lucien glanced over his shoulder at him, Vicente smiled obliquely and hobbled on his feet.

"As I was saying," Lucien continued, "Miss Dissentia is quickly on the road to becoming Cyrodiil's champion against the rising Daedric forces. Unfortunately for the security and well-being of Tamriel, she also happens to be the most ineffectual diplomat to have ever lived, and the nobility will not accept her as their champion."

"So they've called someone in to counsel her," Ocheeva answered. Lucien frowned, irritated.

"You were aware of the presence of the Nerevarine in Cyrodiil?" He griped.

"It is not common knowledge, no, but it is widely known amongst those who observe the actions of the Empire closely enough," Ocheeva shrugged, "I did not see this as problematic to Druzelle, or to any of us."

"Of course not," Lucien seethed, "Because you were clearly unaware that the Nerevarine is a master of the Morag Tong, and she will be counseling a sister of the Dark Brotherhood. The Nerevarine will be uncomfortably close to our organization, and that, you imbeciles, is why I traveled here to locate her and advise her against agreeing to the stupidity of the Empire's decision to ever bring a Morag Tong agent to Cyrodiil!"

Lucien caught his breath, inhaled, and collected himself, "If, through Miss Dissentia, this Tong agent draws anywhere near this sanctuary, I will be powerless to end her miserable existence and maintain the secrecy of this safe haven. I cannot kill the Nerevarine and risk the wrath of the Morag Tong and the Empire and the people of Morrowind assaulting the Brotherhood at once, should they discover our involvement in an instance of self-defense, essentially. This puts us- particularly Miss Dissentia- in a treacherous predicament, one that I endeavor to prevent."

"Shall we watch her, then?" Ocheeva asked.

"Or bait her in? Set a trap for her here?" Vicente offered. Lucien shook his head gravely.

"No. I shall pursue Miss Dissentia alone, and ensure that she does not begin a political crisis between herself and the Morag Tong. Your duty here, then, is to station our agents on the surface, to keep a watchful eye ever on the city of Cheydinhal. If you see any sign of Druzelle, do not permit her entry until you are completely certain that she is not followed by anyone. And if you see the Nerevarine-"

"Slaughter her!" Gogron exclaimed.

"You're definitely not getting stationed in Cheydinhal," Teinaava frowned, "Ocheeva and I will decide who is given positions on the surface."

"I place my faith in your judgment. Do not disappoint me," Lucien warned bitterly. The Argonians nodded solemnly, and herded the rest of the Dark Brotherhood members out of the foyer. As the members dispersed, and the chatter of Telaendril and Antoinetta's brewing cat fight weakened, Vicente emerged from the shadows and grasped Lucien by the shoulder.

"This situation is more dangerous than you admit to the sanctuary," he murmured, "Despite the secrecy surrounding the events, you are aware of the uniqueness of your… dilemma. Perhaps the others have not been in Sithis's service long enough to remember, but I have not forgotten it, and neither have the Dunmer people."

Lucien pulled his limb loose from the vampire's grasp, growling, "If the Nerevarine wanted vengeance, she would have found me already, and she would be dead by my hand as we speak. Is that the case, though, dear Vicente? No. It is not. She does not seek revenge, she does not even know who I am, and I doubt her sentiments have worsened in the interim."

"You mutilated her husband and left him to die," Vicente uttered softly, "If not consumed by her wrath, she must be by her sorrow, which must be immeasurable. It is said that she planned to journey to Akavir to escape her grief in Tamriel."

"I don't regret killing Liram Eralas, and I do not understand how these petty things are significant," he snarled, the gravelly rumble of his voice grating against the cold, dry air of the sanctuary. He snatched his hood and tugged it over his head, acting as if he would depart, but Vicente held his attention.

"It is significant, Lucien, because should you rendezvous- intentionally or not- with the Nerevarine, you could singlehandedly spark a guild war between the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong. Had you poisoned Lord Eralas, or slit his throat, perhaps this would not be a valid concern," Vicente explicated. Lucien glanced warily over his shoulder at the vampire.

"I can see where this discussion is headed, and I disagree entirely," Lucien responded stubbornly.

"Then pardon my speech, but you're an imbecile," Vicente replied, "Do you genuinely think that after eviscerating Lord Eralas and leaving him to bleed out on the floor of his chambers, that his wife would be satisfied with merely killing you? She will use you, and Druzelle, to destroy all of us. By chasing Druzelle, you're opening a dangerous door that the Nerevarine could exploit."

"What am I to do, then?" Lucien hissed, "Not pursue Druzelle, purely to avoid potential contact with the Morag Tong?"

"Not at all," Vicente answered, "But don't allow that opportunity to occur. Don't avoid the Nerevarine, because that will only brew suspicion. Watch Druzelle, guide her, but openly- and treat Lady Eralas with the same openness. Speak to her, cast doubt on the Brotherhood's involvement, fabricate rumors, lie and hint that the Morag Tong itself is to blame for the murder of her husband."

Lucien rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his thumb, conceding, "I suppose there is merit to your insight. The Night Mother teaches us that discretion extends beyond the physical ability to avoid detection. I cannot promise that I will heed your advice, Vicente, but I will consider the possibilities of your plans, and act as I see fit."

"For that, I am grateful," Vicente promised, "I shall keep you no longer, though I urge you to return as soon as you can. I have many complaints to register about Antoinetta that I believe warrant your attention."

--

On paper, Druzelle Dissentia looked like the self-styled name of a dreadfully uncreative necromancer. The noise of it was even worse, and to its owner, it sounded like the moan of a spriggan giving birth to quadruplet goblins every time someone suffered the misfortune of having to speak it.

But when Martin Septim called her name, it was like poetry.

"I'm coming!" Druzelle bellowed to him from across the temple. She hurdled across the living chambers, snatching her suede boots and cloak on the way, dressing in them as she snaked through the building and into the main reception room. Martin leaned over a mess of cluttered papers and opened books. His brisk blue eyes, mature beyond his years, stared hard at the scribbled symbols and graphs on the pages spread beneath him. Druzelle had to clear her throat to break his concentration. When he saw her, he immediately grinned, and beckoned for her to join him.

"Ocato may have put you in a bad mood," he noted, "But I think that this will lift your spirits."

From beneath the mound of papers, Martin unearthed a map of Cyrodiil. His finger fell on the page north of Anvil. Druzelle eyed him mysteriously, and then gazed at the seemingly empty spot on the map.

"I don't mean to disappoint, but there's nothing there," Druzelle responded, pausing before she smiled, "Ah, let me guess. It's a dungeon. A cave? Another Oblivion gate?"

"It's a Daedric shrine," he chuckled, and clarified, "The Shrine of Malacath. It's rumored to be the location of a mighty hammer, a daedric artifact called Volendrung. Consider it an option for the artifact I required to begin the ritual. I don't think you'd mind sacrificing a blunt weapon that is of little use to you in order to open the gateway to Paradise."

"You know me too well," Druzelle smirked, kissing his cheek, "Well, I'm off to fetch that hammer. Expect me home in a few days. Farewell, my love!"

Druzelle marched off down the foyer of the temple, snatching her sword off the table top and heading for the door. Before she could leave, Martin faintly sighed, "Druzelle, I'm perfectly aware that you're trying to escape the Nerevarine's arrival."

She froze, her hands clenched. She turned around, giggling nervously as she crept back to the table and sat across from where Martin stood.

"Oh, yes. I, well, you know. Forgot. Silly me."

"You don't need to lie to me," he reminded her warmly, and sank down on the bench. He extended his hand, and wrapped it tenderly around hers. He felt the cool, silver surface of the ring on her finger graze his warm palm. Druzelle's pale cheeks flushed.

"I need to work on that, don't I? Stop lying, I mean?" she murmured sweetly.

"Not at all," he whispered, "I always know when you're concealing something. You're an absolutely terrible liar."

The shrill, nasal noise of Jauffre's voice boomed through the foyer.

"Druzelle! Your Highness!" he hollered, "The Nerevarine has arrived in Bruma! Druzelle, saddle your horse! We ride to the city to greet our esteemed guest!"

"Oh, by the gods," Druzelle moaned, "Countess Carvain warned me to play nice. Don't think I'm ready to quite yet. Still bitter over Ocato, you know."

"Now, now, no excuses," Martin chided teasingly, "Treat her with respect. You may find that she is not unlike yourself, this Dunmeri hero."

"Heroine, you mean," Druzelle amended with a grin, "The Nerevarine is a woman."

--

"This is unreal," Druzelle snapped, "Why does it have to be so damned cold?"

"Darned," Countess Carvain corrected. Druzelle snorted.

"Look, is this ashborn going to ever get here? Jauffre reported that she was just outside the gates."

"Racial slur," the Countess succinctly noted.

"What?!"

"Ashborn is a racial slur, Miss Dissentia," The Countess said.

"How long have we been outside?!" Druzelle demanded.

"Not long enough to turn your rambling lips to ice, I'm afraid," Jauffre sighed.

"She's coming up the road," the Countess nodded towards the snow-blanketed path. From the jumbled woodwork of the city, Druzelle craned her neck to see a Dunmeri caravan rise over the stairs, walking up toward the castle. Every one of the men in the entourage wore elaborate, brassy armor engraved with Indoril sigils, and scarves dyed royal blue wound around their necks and draped over their windswept, chilly foreheads. As the guards dispersed, a breathless servant emerged from the back of the crowd, juggling two embossed leather traveling bags in his velvet-draped arms. He heaved a heavy breath, dropped the bags to the ground, and introduced the Nerevarine.

"May I present to you-" he grappled for air, "Her Ladyship Idayn Eralas, Nerevarine, of the Great house of Indoril, archer, assassin of the Morag Tong, and former charge of Caius Cosades, loyal servant to the empire."

Idayn floated out from the guise of the evening shadows cast by the city's walls. She lifted the hem of her brown silk gown and curtsied. When she stood, Druzelle noticed how sickeningly beautiful that the Dunmer's exotic elven face was, and how exquisite that the gilded longbow strapped to the woman was, and how supple the chocolate leather of her boots was. Idayn did not dress extravagantly, but as the daughter of a prosperous merchant, Druzelle knew wealth when she saw it. Idayn's elegant gait was telling not only of her blue-blooded upbringing but of her immense skill as a marksman and accomplished assassin, Druzelle recognized. Her cheeks warmed with jealousy.

"It is a pleasure to have been invited to your magnificent city," Idayn announced. She made no attempt at sincerity, "My private guard will retire to the Imperial City until I prepared to return to Morrowind, but my servant Dram will remain in my company."

"It is the pleasure of the Countess to have you," Captain Byrd offered as he stood beside his liege, "May I present my lady, Narina Carvain, Countess of Bruma."

"I am truly flattered to have you in my city, Lady Eralas," the Countess assured the Dunmer, shaking her hand fervently. The wedding band on the dark elf's finger glittered with a colored diamond larger than a fingernail, with more facets than there were monsters in Tamriel. Druzelle masked her simple silver engagement ring with her opposite hand. Idayn surveyed the gathered throng, frowning as she saw Druzelle. Her orange eyes burned through the human.

"May I have the honor of your name?" Idayn requested icily. Druzelle scoffed.

"I thought you came here because there is no honor to my name," she rejoined. The Dunmer frowned, more distinctly and intensely than she typically did.

"Please, excuse her," Countess Carvain said, but Idayn shook her head. Her piercing gaze remained on Druzelle.

"You needn't excuse her, my lady," Idayn coldly murmured, "She shall find in the coming days that her wit will serve her well, if she uses it properly."

"Her name is Druzelle Dissentia," Jauffre adjoined, motioning towards the Nerevarine as he glared fiercely at Druzelle, "And this is Lady Idayn Eralas, the Nerevarine, hero of Vvardenfell, and noble of House Indoril."

"Jeez, Jauffre, I heard her before," Druzelle spat, "Look, Dunmer, let's make this perfectly clear: I don't like you, I'm not going to like you, and you can't change me. I am who I am. It's gotten me pretty damned far, and so I don't think I need your help. Diplomacy is for politicians, not heroes. Now excuse me. I have better things to be doing than freezing my ass out here in this blizzard. Good day."

Druzelle stomped off through the snow towards the castle. Jauffre began to march on after her, but Idayn urged him against it.

"I shall speak to her, if you would permit me," she said.

"Pardon me, lady, but better you than me," he huffed irritably.

Idayn sashayed across the path, leaving Dram behind her. He grappled with the bags on the ground, and followed the Countess towards the castle as his lady headed off up the hill and towards Cloud Ruler temple in pursuit of the Imperial.

"This is going to be a very long holiday, indeed," Dram lamented.

"What was that, Dunmer?" the Countess asked.

"I said that the road was long," he lied, "And if your ladyship would be so kind, a swig of mead would do my spirits wonders."

At least the latter part was true.

--

Druzelle heaved as she trudged up the mountain, her breath a grey fog upon the overcast, nighttime sky. Clouds obscured the light of the moon, and so Druzelle procured a torch from her belt, igniting it with flint from her pocket. Its welcome warmth thawed her frosty cheeks, and shed auburn light on the path ahead. Behind her, she heard the soft footfalls of leather boots in the snow. The ashborn was following her.

She hated Idayn Eralas already.

Druzelle could gain no ground on the Dunmer. At last, just before the summit where the temple rested was in sight, she spun around and screamed agitatedly into the air. She barked, "Why can't you leave me be? Why can't you let me do what I'm doing, destroy these blasted gates, and call it a day? Hmm? Tell me. Tell me!"

Idayn casually strolled up the hill to where Druzelle was. She paused, and again, shook her head, "It is time, human, to stop acting so tremendously ungrateful of my counsel and the immense sacrifices that I made to return to Cyrodiil on your behalf."

"What sacrifices?!" Druzelle shouted, "A vacation in Akavir?!"

"I shall make it painfully obvious, Miss Dissentia, that I find you to be beneath me," Idayn responded, "My intellect, my noble birth, my accomplishments as a hero, my wealth, all dwarf any that you will ever know. You are poor, as I am told, and I am already aware of your tactlessness. No, my sacrifice was not a trivial journey to Akavir, but the embarrassment of having to tame such a lowly woman as you."

"Tame?! Tame!" Druzelle raged, "I do not need to be tamed! I don't need you, or your advice, or any of your bullshit!"

"Furthermore," Idayn persisted, "You diminish your worth to the Empire each time you open your mouth, and I am very tempted to permit you your unacceptable audacity if only to see you killed by Ocato's men and replaced with a more respectable hero."

"Ocato can't kill me," Druzelle spat, "I'm all he's got between the Oblivion gates and the security of every town in Cyrodiil. He knows that; he's told me that."

"Truly? And do slaughterfish fly, Miss Dissentia? Do dremora engage in charity work?" Idayn flatly answered, callously continuing, "Your arrogance is poorly placed, and wholly unmerited. You think yourself superior? There is but one Nerevarine, ordained by Azura. But there are many Druzelles in this world, and Ocato's patience with this one is wearing lethally thin."

"And you call me arrogant!" Druzelle yelled, "One Nerevarine?! How many false Nerevarines came before you, huh? Who's to say that they didn't just fuck everything up, die, and rot while someone new who could actually survive Red Mountain would come rolling along? You want to play mind games, hmm? Well here's one for you: you were just as disposable as me, ashborn."

"I find your comments imprudent, and your insults childish," Idayn remarked.

"Oh?" Druzelle hissed, "Well you were the one treating me with the utmost kindness and respect and big, dazzling smiles and all whenever you got out of that damned carriage, and now look at you- treating me no better than a butcher treats his pigs."

"Welcome to politics," Idayn tersely replied, lifting her luxuriant skirts, as she began down the hill again, "Now excuse me, but I have a banquet to attend and fine linen bed covers to anticipate tonight, Miss Dissentia."

"It's Druzelle!" the Imperial shrieked down the mountain side.

--

Author's Notes

I am indebted to the reviewer An Underpaid Critic (aptly enough) for their suggestions for the improvement of this chapter. I added a new introduction, altered minor dialogue in some scenes, and edited the story summary.

As always, thank you for your readership and comments. It is always a pleasure to hear from my audience.

Happy reading,

Valah