Datasets:

mickume

/

dnd_drow

like 0

"Name?"

 "Kaius Treblanus Desin."

 The sound of scratching was ever present in the tiny confines of the room. It wasn’t loud, but it was persistent enough to set even the most stoic of soul’s teeth on edge. For my part I stood perfectly still, ignoring the fluttering fear in my belly that had been a companion for so long it was almost part of me.

 At the sound and tone of my voice, the source of the scratching glanced up and studied me with experienced eyes. The quill stopped in mid motion, the ink staining the tip threatening to drip down onto the parchment underneath its point.

 The sensation of eyes upon me only last for a few seconds, and I forced myself to remain calm, staring over the head of the seated Centurion as he went about recording my details. The wall behind him allowed me to have an almost infinite source of distractions, as covered with dozens of tiny slate tiles hanging to a mass of hooks on the wall. Each were listed with a name, grouped together in towering columns that covered an area over five metres in width and two metres in height. It was a collection of the damned and condemned.

 Old, grizzled and hair slowly turning grey, the Centurion looked between me and the two towering forms of my captors standing a pace back from my sides. Dressed only in a ruined sackcloth I was indeed out of place between the pair of Legionaries of the Imperial Watch. In their scarlet cloaks and metal plate armours polished to an eye-watering precision, it was almost impossible to make us look even more unalike. The only thing that seemed to link us was the way that all three of us stood rigid, arms locked by our sides and eyes staring resolutely forward.

 Using short, sharp quill strokes he noted down my approximate height and weight onto the parchment, using my guards to assist his estimate. "Crime?"

 The Legionary to my right twitched, holding out another sheet of parchment that the Centurion reached out and took. "Desertion."

 Again the quill stopped it teeth-grinding progress across the sheet on the wooden desk and the eyes returned. There was nothing in the expression. No hate, no anger or not even disappointment as the eyes roamed over me once more. The gaze eventually came to rest on the Legion Brand scarring my right bicep.

 "Rank and Legion?"

 "Archer-Praefect. 8th Casta, 14th Legion."

 There was a sigh, but there was some measure of amusement from the man recording my details. Dressed in a simple scarlet toga and bearing signs of years of accumulated injuries it had been his declining years that had put him behind a desk rather than occupying a position in a shield wall. The chair creaked as he pushed it back and turned in place, staring for several minutes at the map on the wall that notated every major Legion posting throughout the bounds of Tamriel.

 "North-western Vvardenfell. Looks like... Fort Ironhand?" He muttered under his breath and shook his head with amazement. "Just how in oblivion’s name did they manage to catch you?"

 Suppressing the urge to shrug I kept my gaze to the wall above and behind his head. I knew exactly what he meant though. As an Archer I was unlike the majority of infantry that made up the Legion’s ranks. I was, or at least had been a forester; one of the highly trained, highly skilled members of a military already famed for its discipline, skill and ability. Where the Legionaries fought in a wall of metal and meat and stabbed and killed with methodical precision; the foresters were the eyes and ears, the dismounted scouts and skirmishers. When the Legion marched through rugged and difficult terrain, the foresters would stalk in front of the cohorts and cover their advance with precise bow fire. During the rare times that the Legion faced an enemy either dumb enough or suicidal enough to face it on open ground, the foresters would form archer-cohorts behind the front line. There, protected in the depths of the formation they would fill the air with clouds of buzzing death. A hail of steel-tipped arrows would shatter and weaken battle lines before the metal-shod boots of the legionaries trampled them into the dirt.

 The foresters were also responsible for assisting the Legions in remaining supplied. Hunting, tracking and trapping would allow the Legions to live off the land to a surprising degree. Such skills had provided immeasurable assistance through centuries of warfare. I knew that the aging veteran noting down my details was surprised at finding himself faced with a forester. Especially one with my rank. For all intents and purposes I should have been able to simply disappear into the wild and never be found.

 A gauntleted hand, the outer portion of the hand and fingers covered with a series of interlocking metal plates reached out and grasped me firmly by the jaw. The metallic edges rubbed at my skin, but the leather gloves under the metal felt strangely cool. "He got bitten by a bloodsucker." Rumbled the guard to my right.

 The Centurion took a moment to study the healing bite marks in my throat, visible due to the rags that I wore. "He’s not going to turn is he?"

 Clanking softly the guard released his grip on my face and shrugged. Then, thinking better of it he shook his head. "They picked him up at the gates to Balmora. The report we got was that he had stuffed the wounds with Chokeweed and Lichen. It’s almost been a fortnight since they caught him as well."

 "Good. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your gods-ordained punishment now would we?"

 "What’s the going rate for deserters at the moment?" Asked the guard to my left.

 "Usually hanging, although Tribune Tarvldyn has had to become more creative due to the recent increase of desertions. It’s either hanging, a beating, or a swim in the Rumare."

 The feeling of fear grew stronger and I couldn’t help but feel a terrible unease at what awaited me. Two of the punishments were definite death sentences. Hanging was hanging, but a swim in the Rumare was one of the more ancient punishments within the Legion. Although it varied, it was usually as simple as tying the accused in a sack with their hands and feet bound before throwing them in a river or lake with some rocks for company.

 The beating however was potentially worse. It wasn’t completely guaranteed to result in death, but being left to live out the rest of your days as a cripple was the best possible outcome. A squad of legionaries; usually fresh recruits would be chosen to beat the offender for five minutes with nothing more than their hands and feet. Anyone who appeared to be pulling their punches or holding back would receive a flogging as a result. If at the end of the time the accused was still breathing they would be released. In my first years in the Legion I had seen the punishment enacted. It was extremely rare for anyone to live through such an ordeal.

 Leaning over the parchment, the Centurion returned to jotting down more of my details. My rank, unit and posting was added to the sheet that represented little more than an epitaph. I had barely any family or friends outside of the Legion, and so with a death sentence looming in my immediate future I had no doubt to what awaited me. If I was lucky I would have a grave. Maybe.

 The choice of deserting had surprisingly been an easy one. It was not a pleasant place for a legionary to find himself. The northern winds would sweep south from the Sea of Ghosts, biting through even the most solid of furs and coats and making everyone’s lives miserable. The only places that were colder was Solstheim to the north, and some of the postings in northern Skyrim.

 This life hadn’t been improved since we had received our new Legate. One of the 20 commanders of the military might of the Empire, I had been unlucky enough to find myself in the exact fort where he had chosen to reside. Far from the prying eyes of Imperial bureaucrats he had forged a petty little kingdom all for himself. Five hundred legionaries and the dozens of support staff in the fort were his subjects. Fines, floggings and punishment details for the smallest of infractions, or even on a whim ensured that I wasn’t the only one who considered making a run for it. Unlike most of the others, I was one of the few with the skills to make the attempt.

 As dangerous as a course of action desertion was, several years within the northern reaches of Tamriel had left those surviving legionaries such as myself just as dangerous. Patrols into the Ashlands were common, as were the running skirmishes against Ashlander Tribes resisting the armoured gauntlet of Imperial Rule. Other patrols and sorties against bandits were also common, as they were required to secure the supply lines not only for ourselves, but the various Ebony Mines scattered about the region. I had fought supernatural horrors, killed men and mer and seen sights that would’ve quailed the hearts of the obliviously content citizenry of the Empire. I also had the scars to show for it, mostly physical but there were plenty of nights that I was left sweating out the dark hours until dawn. In the rolling hills and plains of the West Gash and in the depths of the Ashlands I had also left several friends and comrades buried in the soil and ash.

 "There’s a request here from Legate Quintillius to hand him over to the jurisdiction of the 14th."

 The Centurion snorted and didn’t bother looking up to the guard who held out a rolled up scroll. "Unless Quintillius is another name for Uriel or Tiber Septim then I say good luck to him." The quill continued on its path, stopping every few scratched lines to be dipped into the ink pot. "Only the Emperor in all of his wisdom can overturn Legion Law."

 Strangely enough I felt better at hearing the words out loud. A Legate was one of the most powerful men within the entire Empire, seconded only to the Emperor Himself and equal to the various Counts, Kings and Lords within the Provinces. But like all of the men and women in Tamriel they were bound by law, and this one particular law stated that all deserters, once caught would be returned to the Imperial City and face their punishment there. It was an ancient law, one that had been in place since the days of Reman Cyrodiil. Despite the logistical and administrative nightmare of such a law, the greatest military the world was a stickler for details. If the Law stated that a deserter would be fed and transported hundreds of kilometres from where he was posted and captured – then by the Nine it would be done. As a result, and after a fortnight of seeing little more than the interior of a prison cart I had found myself standing in the heart of the Empire.

 I knew exactly why the Legate wanted me returned. The fear of being discovered how he was padding his wages from fining the men and mer under his command and slipping in his duties was ever present. It was this fear that had sent out his mounted Extraordinarii after every man who deserted his post. To my knowledge I had been the only one to make it further than an unmarked grave amidst the fungal forests of Vvardenfell.

 Being attacked and subsequently bitten by a creature of the night had definitely not been part of my plans. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had been injured and stumbled into that patrol of Ordinators I would have comfortably disappeared. Although being captured had had allowed me a week or two respite from my journey to Aetherius as the Ordinators had taken me prisoner within full sight of the squad of mounted legionaries tasked with killing me.

 The muffled curse from the Centurion caught all of our attentions as he forced himself to rise to his feet and look over the series of slates hanging from their hooks. Normally charcoal black, they had been used and reused for so many countless years that the chalk stains had rendered them a pasty grey.

 "The Legion cells are full." He said, running a hand missing a pair of fingers through his thinning hair. The toga he wore did little to hide the fact that he was a veteran with all the injuries and wounds to show for it. Grey and somewhat faded, the Imperial Dragon branded on his arm revealed him as once belonging to the 8th Legion within Blackmarsh. The mottled scars across every part of his skin showed that he had once suffered from one of the terrible diseases that ravaged that region, a might have been the straw to break the guar’s back in terms of being posted to the Watch.

 "Where do you want us to put him then?" Asked the guard to my right.

 The Centurion rolled his gaze down the slates showing the names of every prisoner and their allocated cells, mouthing each name as he went. The Imperial Prison may have been the largest in the Empire in a city containing over a million citizens, but every district had their own Prefaecture with holding cells. This allowed the Prison district to cater to the worst of the worst, and provided the Legion with its own section for military prisoners.

 "Bugger it. Just throw him somewhere in the south wing." A hand gestured vaguely in the approximate direction of the door. "I’ll have to talk to Warden Largash but I doubt he’d even notice an ex-legionary in his cells."

 "Glad we’re not having to fill in the paperwork." The left hand guard laughed as he pushed me towards the door leading further into the prison.

 "Laugh it up boys. Laugh it up."

 With not-too-gentle shoves to the spine they pushed me onwards, one standing close behind me with a discipline cane ready in case I tried to run or escape or fight back while the other lead the way. Several passages from the Centurion’s office lead in various directions under the Prison District but it was all too easy to tell that we were underground. No windows, holes or skylights allowed the sun to reach into this world of stone and wood, and only lanterns scattered every few metres let any of us see at all.

It was damp, cold and reeked of sorrow and sadness and the sight of age worn stone was only broken by the plated forms of the various members of the Imperial Watch who acted as wardens and guards for both the military and civilian portions of the underground prison. By the time we had reached the prison wings the security had increased even further. Every door was locked, and manned by one or two fully armed and armoured members of the Watch. Each time we would be stopped, looked over briefly before guards would open the doors, closing and locking them as we passed.

 "This looks good enough for me." Muttered one of my jailors, as they both seemed to choose a door at random and nod to the single guard standing beside it. The passage we were in was the upper level of the South wing, and connected the dozen of more minor wings like the vacated root structure of an immense stone tree.

 The door thudded closed behind us and I could hear the tell-tale click of the lock being set by the sentry. The sight before me was pitiful and left me feeling thoroughly depressed. The collection of prison cells within this passage of the South Wing were tiny, disused and almost completely empty. The smell of mould and moisture was overwhelming and was not where I would have even considered spending the last days of my life.

 "Oh look," crawled a voice from the nearest cell on the right. The clang of metal and echoed hauntingly through the vacated cells as a Dark Elf pressed his face against the bars. "An Imperial in the Imperial Prison. I guess they don’t play favourites, huh?"

 Although the bars of his cell door were too closely spaced to fit anything larger than an arm, he did his best to push his head through. For the most part he seemed content in twitching and staring with an expression bordering on insanity plastering his face as it was pulled even more taut by the iron bars.

 "Looks like you have a new friend." The laugh was shallow and I knew that both of my guards were more bored that anything else. "At least you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

 Flicking through the ring of keys that they had been given by the guard up the short flight of stairs, neither of them seemed to bother with taking me any further than the first available cell. Unfortunately for me it was the one directly opposite the glaring, twitching Dunmer and he watched without blinking as they found the right key, opened the door and pushed me in.

 "Make yourself at home." With a click the manacles were unlocked and I found myself rubbing absently at my wrists. "You could be here a while."

 The Legionary gave the squalid cell a brief glance, grunting something under his breath before turning and slamming the door behind him. Their duty had been completed, and I found myself wondering whether they would even tell the Centurion where they had left me. That was even if they even knew what cell was now my home. While the threat of hanging or being beaten to death still hung over my future, I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea of dying of disease or old age any better.

 With the door at the top of the stairs locked behind them, I found myself staring into the maniacal expression of my neighbour. "What?"

 A mouth full of broken, rotten stumps of teeth revealed itself in a face paled from years within the darkness. "Your own kinsmen think you’re a piece of human trash." Hands with cracked fingernails gripped the bars tightly as he looked at me with madness in his eyes. "How sad. I bet the guards give you special treatment before the end."

 It was my turn to sigh as I looked about my new "home’. "At least it’ll be better than being stuck with you." I replied, taking note of the tiny barred hole to the surface barely larger than my head, the table and chair, slop bucket and the piece of furniture that was only a bed in name. "You and all your friends..."

 He laughed, cackling but without any humour or amusement. "Oh, a funny one I see. I might be locked in here but it’s not forever." A finger encrusted with grime and filth stabbed in my direction as though it was a spear point. "But you? You’re going to die in here Imperial. Imperial criminal scum like you give the Empire a bad name you see..."

 Snuffling and snorting to himself, he turned away from the bars and was lost to the shadows. Only a handful of ill-kept lanterns were within the passage between the dozen cells, and they provided little illumination. What I found disconcerting other than my present company, was how the cell was not much different from my living arrangements in Fort Ironhand.

 The service also appeared comparable. For three days I sat in that cell, watching the tiny strip of light from the barred hole above my head creep across the floor and loosing myself in the depths of my own thoughts. After the first afternoon the boredom was getting to me more than the constant tirade of spite and maliciousness from the bastard in the cell opposite. The taunting and insults would only stop when he was eating the gruel that we were provided, or some of the times that he was asleep. Even between snores he somehow managed to mutter and chatter away incessantly. While I soon learned his name, I had no clue what had left him locked away in the dark depths of the Imperial Prison or for how long. Judging by his appearance it was obvious that the years of captivity had left him bereft of his sanity and wasting away physically. Not that I had any concern or pity for him. I was more concerned of my own fate and the feeling that perhaps execution may be a better end.

 The fang marks in my throat were healing well and I didn’t need to call upon the little magicka I knew to hasten along the process. They concerned me but not in the way that most people would have been concerned after being fed on by a vampire. My alchemical knowledge and skill of living off the land of Northern Vvardenfell had allowed me to find the correct herbs and ingredients to make a poultice. In years in the volcanic north I had seen my salves and ointments successfully treat everything but the Corpus Disease and I knew that there was something terribly wrong with me. Punctured and twisted, the growing scar tissue of the creature’s fangs was not the only wounds I had sustained from my desperate scrabble in the darkness of that cave.

 In the days since receiving the wounds, my blood had clotted, dried, flaked away and left nothing but parallel lines of scabs from above the elbow to the wrist. For over a week I had hid in the grasslands of West Gash and had foolishly chosen a cave to hide from my pursuers. It was that night, just a little south of Caldera while I had tried to sleep and regain my strength I had been set upon.

 A rush of flesh and claws had fallen upon me in the darkness, and I had felt not only the searing pain of it latching onto my throat, but the jagged agony as it raked its talons down the length of my arm. Instinct had been the only reason why I hadn’t been left a drained corpse on the rocky cave floor, and in seconds I had managed to gain the upper hand despite the way it had been latched to my throat. With blood pulsing from my neck and the creature grunting and slurping at the liquid, I had managed to get my hand on my dagger. Before either of us had realised, I had repeatedly jammed the blade into its ribs, ripping and tearing away at it until I had found its heart. I don’t think that it had truly realised it had been killed, so intent it was to drain me of blood. The realisation had managed to reach its bloodthirsty mind, making it pull away with its face contorted in agony. As a result of its curse, it immolated and burned into a sorry pile of bones and dusty ash.

 Weakened from blood loss I had practically stumbled into the Ordinators. They had taken one look at my state and the Legion Brand on my shoulder and had arrested me. They had been content with the way I had treated my wounds, confident that the way I had packed the bite with the slurry of crushed up herbs had killed the infection. I too had been confident, but as every hour and every day slowly passed the doubt continued its inexorable advance into my mind. The bite had been treated, but in the semi-darkness of the Imperial prison I couldn’t help but run my fingers over fresh scars down the length of my left arm, and remember how the creature’s blood had stained it and the injury as it had died.

 By the morning of the third day I was growing concerned that I had somehow failed to remove the infection wholly, or had merely bought time for myself instead. I was also becoming concerned that if I stayed any longer in my cell, that either the boredom or Valen Dreth’s company was going to send me insane.

 "By the Nine and all that is holy can you stop your gods-damned humming?" I spat, sitting back in my chair and counting the number of cracks in the ceiling’s stonework.

 "Humming, humming, humming." He replied, and I heard the creak of his wooden cot as he stood on the rotting straw mattress. "Hum hum. Ho hum."

 The bars clanged and I jumped a little as he slammed his face between a gap. "Huuuuuuummmmmmmmmm..."

 "No wonder no one else has been locked down here with you." My chair creaked threateningly as I leaned back further and crossed my arms in front of me. "Even by the standards of Imperial Justice it must have been classified as a cruel and unusual punishment."

 The humming continued but I could see the image of the Dunmer’s crack-toothed smile in my mind’s eye. He didn’t have a face for grinning but he did so as often as he physically could.

 This deep under the Imperial Prison district there was little sound, especially how the only source of it was through the hole near the ceiling that was mostly for ventilation. I had listened, despite the difficulties posed by my irritating neighbour on and off for most of the previous days at the shouts and cries of the Legion Training grounds on the surface. The Prison District was in effect the Legion District and was the home, headquarters and where every legionary, forester and Battlemage would be trained. No matter what far flung portion of Tamriel they had originally hailed from; all recruits would be brought here for their first year of service.

 But this particular morning just a handful of hours past dawn, the noise was coming from within the prison itself. Doors were unlocked and roughly wrenched open, and the echoes of shouted orders wafted their way through the thick oaken door to the upper levels.

 Whatever was happening had not left Dreth in a good mood. Like the Legion; the Prison seemed to run like a well lubricated dwemer automaton and for the previous days at least the meals had been delivered with precise timings. This morning they were over an hour late with breakfast.

 The infernal humming stopped for a moment as the door up the stairs was unlocked. A second later, the armoured form of one of the Watch jogged down the stairs, clanking and jingling in his full armour. The flushed expression on the Legionary’s face regarded us both briefly, making only the most cursory of glances to the empty cells before disappearing back the way he came.

 "They must be preparing executions." The Dark Elf muttered evilly as the grind of a lock had faded into a whispered echo. "They are never this lively of a morning unless there’s killin’ to be had."

 "By the gods I hope so." I snapped at him, my own temper fraying. My humours were unbalanced not only at the waiting, but the fact that my dreams during the night had been blood soaked and horrifying. Even for someone who had faced down Corpus creatures and worse in his time in the Legion, my nightmares had been left me sweating and shaking. "Being executed would be a relief after being stuck with such a s’wit. How you haven’t managed to choke to death on all the guar shit that dribbles from your mouth is beyond me."

 He spat on the floor in the corridor, the thick phlegm splattering on the stones but before he could open his mouth to reply the metallic echo of the lock returned. Both of us froze for a moment before a grin spilt his face like a festering wound.

 "Hey, you hear that?" The chuckle, thick and pneumonic rattled in his chest. "The guards are coming... For you!"

 Pressing his face between the bars as he seemed to do out of habit, he tried to peer around and up to the door. I remained in my seat, hoping that it would be what passed for breakfast, but if it was my executioners coming for me it would at least me that the mind-numbing wait was over.

 Metal clanked and rubbed together, and with the rolling echoes, the sounds of several individuals urgently talking reached our ears. Curious, saw Dreth suddenly look very confused and even worried as he backpedalled from the door as fast as he could.

 The armoured silhouette of a soldier appeared at the door to my cell, and I was taken aback at the sight of a suit of armour of a make and design I had never seen before. Interlocking plates covered the man’s shoulder’s, chest and thighs in a shifting skin of metal. While it shared similarities to the thick heavy plate of the Cyrodillic and Northern Legions, it was obvious it was designed more for mobility and agility than solid defence. Metallic ringing and chiming echoed over the sounds of his armour as he fumbled through a considerable amount of keys. So intent on the door’s lock he didn’t even look into my cell.

 "We don’t know that Sire." A distinctly female voice echoed through the corridor and I watched with utter confusion as more soldiers appeared. "The messenger only said they were attacked."

 "No, they’re dead. I know it."

 I shifted in my seat and stood agape at the sight before me. Three heavily armed and armoured soldiers dressed in their unusual armours were enough to gain my attention, but it was snatched away at the fourth individual in the group. Unarmoured and dressed in nothing more than thick robes, not only was he far from a soldier but was easily twice the age of the others who were escorting him. I might not have been able to recognise the others but the older man had a face that had been stamped on pieces of gold and silver coinage throughout the Empire.

 "My job right now is to get you to safety." Other than the voice, there was nothing to suggest that the individual standing by the side of the aging emperor of female. The armour snuffed out the last of her femininity, and there was not a single trace of difference between her suit and the other two flanking them. There was distinct sense of urgency about all of their actions despite the way the Emperor moved with all the speed and ability of a man of such years, and as the first soldier continued fumbling with his set of keys his commander stepped up to see what the delay was.

 An expression of annoyance darted between her subordinate and his attempts to find the right key for the lock and the interior of my cell, but as she caught sight of me sitting in the chair it turned into something resembling shock and anger. "What’s this prisoner doing here?" She snapped, glaring at me with enough force that I couldn’t help but rise to my feet. There was little that could be seen of her face in her barbute helm, but there was enough to see the inherent threat. "This cell is supposed to be off-limits!"

 Still fumbling with his set of keys, the first soldier looked up suddenly, not only at me but also at his commander. Without his commander’s exclamation of surprise, he wouldn’t have noticed my presence until after he had opened the door.

 "Usual mix-up with the Watch. I..."

 There was a muffled curse from his commander and she stepped up to the bars, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword with every intent to use it at a moment’s notice. "Never mind, just get this gate open." She glanced at me with as much warmth as a Vvardenfell winter. "Stand back prisoner, we won’t hesitate to kill you if you get in our way."

 I backed hurriedly against the far wall of my cell, confused and very concerned. These were no palace guards. No violet cloaks or breastplates polished into gleaming mirrors of perfection. Every piece of their equipment was not designed for ceremonies but for the brutality of war, and the recognition of their weapons was enough to leave me pressing my back into the cold stones of the far wall. While I had never seen one in person, everyone within the Empire knew what a Katana looked like and who wielded such weapons.

 They were Blades; the sworn protectors of the Emperor and by far some of the most dangerous individuals within all of Tamriel. Their reputations as expert swordsmen were legendary and even fully armed and armoured I wouldn’t want to cross swords with any one of them. The fact that I was now face to face with three such individuals was more than enough to leave me in a cold sweat despite my confusion.

 The door opened with a screech of poorly oiled metal, and one after another they filed in. Completely ignoring me, the female commander moved over to the wall to my right, pushing in the stones in what appeared to be a very precise pattern. The second Blade, hanging the ring of keys from a hook on his belt moved towards me with all the grace of a predator ad barked an order not to move but my eyes and attention was locked on the third individual who ducked his head through the cell door.

 Uriel Septim VII; the Emperor of all Tamriel stepped inside the suddenly cramped cell with his last bodyguard following dutifully behind. His robes were magnificent, furs wrapped around his shoulders and silks so expensive that their cost alone could’ve supplied an entire legion for months had been pulled tight around his body. He wasn’t dressed for travel and as he shuffled his way inside of the cell I caught a glimpse of an enormous gemmed amulet clasped close to his chest. The central ruby-like stone placed in the centre was as large as my fist and worth more than entire kingdoms.

 There was little to do but to stand there in silence, eyes wide in surprise and shock at the sight of the most powerful of men standing in the very last place I expected to see him. What surprised me even more was when he glanced in my direction for a heartbeat, stopping in mid stride and looking even more shocked to see me than I was to him.

  "You..." I started at the sound of his voice, feeling a surge of terror as he and all three of his bodyguards looked at me. "I’ve seen you..."

 I pressed myself further into the wall as the closest Blade glanced between me and his charge, his grip tightening around the hilt of his Katana menacingly. With a gesture the Emperor stopped him, not taking his eyes from my own as he shuffled closer.

 "You are the one from my dreams..." He murmured, his voice suddenly growing softer despite how his face hardened. "Then the stars were right, and this is the day." "Gods give me strength."

 Running my tongue over my lips I glanced between him and his guards, seeing their expressions of confusion mirroring my own. "What’s going on?" I asked, the only words that I managed to choke out of my throat.

 The Emperor sighed, looking suddenly a lot older than even his considerable years. "Assassins attacked my sons, and I’m next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route." His smile was grim, even though he was chuckling as he gestured to me. "By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell."

 Scraping and grinding, the wall began to open and as a single entity the trio of Blades stepped into a protective circle around the Emperor.

 "We better not close this one. There’s no way to open it from the other side."

 The nearest Blade lightly rested his hand on the Emperor’s shoulder, receiving only the merest of glances from the aged ruler. "Please sir, we must keep moving."

 "What should I do?" I stammered, feeling totally confused and looking at the determined set of their faces.

 A smile, so tiny that it was almost unnoticeable ran across the Emperor’s face. "You will find your own path." He motioned to the opened passage as he turned and allowed himself to be led down the tunnel. "Take care, there will be blood and death before the end."

 The third and last Blade moved past me, disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel. For a brief moment he spared me a grin in my direction as he followed his comrades. "Looks like this is your lucky day." Flints clacked together, and in a shower of sparks the torch in his hand came to life. "Just stay out of our way."