Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25828117-20200205021240/@comment-5543592-20200205193002

Elinhir
The current ruler of Elinhir was no taller than an upright coffee table, no thicker of build than Heidar’s eldest daughter. He had the patchy facial hair of an optimistic teenager, the hunched, uncoordinated walk of a dedicated scholar. His uniform was pressed and crisp in a manner of irritating overpefection and all his pens, collected in a mug on his desk, showed signs of bitemarks. ''So. Many.'' Bitemarks.

He was also the foremost officer of Elinhir’s military: Captain-General Raphael Victore. Heidar thought someone with a name like that had to be awesome. He was very mistaken.

General Victore was not awesome. He had the personality of a squashed mouse and the brain of an overly imaginative toddler. Upon meeting Heidar, he had refused to shake the blademaster’s hand (“The utmost danger a soldier faces is disease!”) and now sat behind his desk, shuffling about mounds of papers.

Heidar was inspecting the office, the one customary of Victore’s rank. Commander-in-chief's throughout time had sat at that desk, as well as put their own flairs on the office, so it bore many, many mementos from past victories. The dented helmet of an Imperial captain, the axe of an Orsimer war chief, a suit of Dremora armor. A collection of hand-crafted Bosmer arrows, reputed to have been collected from the Camoran Usurper’s personal guard, were arranged in a display that hung above Victore’s head, (“I sometimes fear they will fall and spear me!”).

Heidar knew Elinhir’s military reputation to be excellent. The Daedric forces terrorizing Cyrodiil had tried numerous times unsuccessfully to penetrate the Hammerfellian border at Elinhir. Each time, a total of eight, Elinhir had repulsed them. So, despite Victore’s weak, frail appearance, despite his propensity for sniffling while another person was talking, despite his complete lack of awareness and grace, there had to be a genius rattling around inside the General’s mind.

There was not. The man responsible for Elinhir’s military success had died in the massacre on the Hall of the Assembly. As had the five men who would have been his successors. Victore had been that man’s secretary as well as second cousin and previously held the rank of Major-General. He had naturally assumed the rank of Captain-General, as a result of proximity to the role, (“I even asked them if they were double sure. They said yes!”).

Now, Heidar was typically without judgement. Everyone had their good sides and Victore hadn’t done such a bad job, so far. Had the situation remained static, this could have even been a good thing. Victore was a temporary leader and him being a weak one was actually a good thing, it meant he was incapable of usurping power. But the lack of movement in the investigation of the Assembly Massacre, as they were calling it, had riled up those beneath Victore. And Victore, who had the backbone of an amoeba and could be made nasuous by the world “pressure,” caved into calling in an investigator. Again, a non-issue for Heidar. That was good, maybe they’d learn what happened.

The issue came in who the investigator was. The Aldmeri Dominion, in the 2nd Era, had had a hand in crafting Elinhir’s constitution upon its transition from a republic to kingdom. In that constitution, they put in a stipulation that, in the event of a constitutional crisis, they be involved in deciding the city’s future. Victore, being the pencil pusher he was, had read this little tidbit and interpreted it as a need to request the Aldmeri Dominion’s direct involvement.

Which he had done. A month ago. And Heidar was only learning about it now.

The Thalmor were sending in one of their most decorated and experienced Justicars. Who would arrive today.

Heidar paused at the window--the curtains were made out of minotaur skin--and looked out over the city. His view was partially obscured by a waterfall as the Captain-General’s office was in one of the wings of the Hall of the Assembly. Even despite the massacre, the wheels of bureaucracy still turned here. The bodies had been buried fairly quickly, although the Assembly hall itself hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned yet.

There was a knock at the office door.

Victore slapped his papers down, rising quickly, “That will be him!”

He popped to his feet, nearly stumbling over his own ankles as he rushed to the door. Heidar faced the door, set a hand on each of his sword pommels. Not because he felt there was a threat, just to look imposing.

Victore pulled the door open only a quarter of the way before it was pushed out of his grasp, slamming the rest of the way open. The Justicar stepped right inside without invitation and Victore had to jump aside to avoid getting knocked flat.

He was tall, broad, his skin almost sallow in color, but pleasantly so. His eyes were large and a rich golden color. His hair was cut in style untypical of a mer and he had a half beard. If not for his pointed ears and metallic eyes, he could’ve passed for something other than an elf.

He wore the full uniform of a Thalmor Justicar, and proudly. His sect was very, very unpopular in Hammerfell. To be so brazen with his allegiance was either bravery or arrogance. Heidar decided arrogance because he wanted to dislike this guy.

“General Victore,” his voice was rich and accented like that of an Alinor native. “High Justicar Hrathmar. I am at your service.” He thrust out his hand.

Victore stared at it. Heidar could see his internal conflict, the war between cleanliness and decorum. Agonizingly, the general lifted his hand and clasped Hrathmar’s.

They shook, “A pleasure, Justicar. Thank you for coming.”

Hrathmar nodded once, decisively. He turned part way towards Heidar, as though only now noticing him.

“And you are?”

Heidar scratched his nose for a long moment before answering. “Heidar.”

Hrathmar took stock of him. His eyes fell on the pair of swords Heidar wore, looking from one hip to the other. Heidar almost made a joke, but held it. “The general did not mention you in his letter to my superiors.”

Heidar smirked, “Of course he wouldn’t.”

They stood in awkward silence until Victore broke it. Backpedaling towards his desk, he gestured to the chair across from it.

“Why don’t you sit, Justicar?”

“You will call me Hrathar.”

“Why don’t you sit, Hrathmar? I will shout for some tea.”

The Thalmor did so, seeming to float down into the seat. He gathered up the tails of his cloak so that they wouldn’t get trapped beneath him, and then let it lay flat.

Victore hurried around to the other side of the desk. The general was so small Heidar thought he looked like a child running around in a costume, playing grown-up.

“Jazeera!” Victore screamed, hopping up into his desk chair. “Jazeera!”

A tired-looking Redguard woman poked her head into the office. “Yes, general?”

“Three teas! My best leaves!”

She nodded and vanished back out the door.

To Hrathmar’s credit, he did not react to any of this, merely folded his hands in his lap and waited patiently. Victore smiled nervously at him, “She’ll only be a minute.”

“I am not concerned. I have questions about the massacre and then I ask you to direct me to the hall. I wish to begin my investigation immediately.” Victore nodded rapidly, “Of course, of course.”

“The attack occurred on the 10th of Last Seed. This will have been months for forensic evidence to expire, for the circumstances of the situation to change. Each delay will further and further conceal the truth.”

Victore was nodding so hard Heidar imagined his head flying right off. “‘Forensic,’ interesting. You seem to know your stuff. Let me just, let me--,” he tried to look around Hrathmar, who was monolithic sitting across from him, “Jazeera! The tea!”

Heidar had come to stand beside the desk, more towards Victore so that he could observe Hrathmar. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you think you’ll find anything? I looked over that room myself. Lot of blood, lot of bits of people. No ‘evidence.’ Or anything of that sort.”

Hrathmar looked amused, “That is the evidence.”

“What? The blood?”

“Where were you educated?”

Heidar was caught off guard by the question. “Taneth.”

“The Hall of Virtues.” Hrathmar’s eyes looked over the swords again. “You’re a blademaster.” He paused a moment longer. “The regent sent you.”

“How do you figure?”

“Simple deduction.” He spoke to Victore now, “I’ll waste time no longer. The room has been tampered with enough. If this one,” he nodded to Heidar, “is any measure to go by, there’s no doubt much has been destroyed.”

“Me?” Heidar wrinkled his nose, “I’m on the side of finding the killers, buddy. I wouldn’t tamper with it.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Hratmar scootched the chair back and stood up, just as Jazeera was rushing in with the tray of tea. “I will go immediately.” He looked hard at the general, awaiting a dismissal.

Victore had zoned out, but snapped back now, “Yes, please, go right ahead. You have the run of the place Justicar!” He saw Jazeera standing uncertainly to Hrathmar’s right, holding the tea, and began to wave his arm at her, “Jazeera! Cancel the tea!”

She began to scurry out, but Hrathmar swiveled on a heel and caught her shoulder. “Hold.” He swept his cup off the tray with a nod of thanks to her, and then passed out of the room.

Heidar quickly followed him out into the wall, shoving the general’s door aside as it fell closed, “Justicar!”

Hrathmar’s back was already retreating, boots clicking on the tiled floor.

“Justicar!”

Hrathmar paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back up. Two Altmer women were standing with him, one to either of his sides. They were identical, in dress and appearance. Heidar immediately thought that was bizarre, but ignored it for the moment, descending down to Hrathmar’s level.

“What is it, blademaster?” Hrathmar asked. His tone implied an absolute lack of respect.

“Don’t think you’re investigating this without me.” Heidar stood even with him now. Hrathmar was taller by several inches. “I don’t know what you’re up to, it’s something.”

“General Victore invited me here.”

“Victore can’t be trusted to put his own pants on right. The fact is that you’re here. What’s your game?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What do you get out of this? What do the Thalmor want?”

Hrathmar scrutinized Heidar a moment. Then he shook his head and turned away, walking off.

Heidar watched his back for a moment, until noticing that the identical Altmer were staring at him. And they were identical. Almost perfectly so. Same uniforms, same high cheekbones, pointed chins, green almond-shaped eyes. Only their respective hairstyles separated them. One wore a short ponytail, the sides of her head shaved. The other wore her hair long, down the back of her neck.

The staring made Heider uneasy, “Is there a problem?”

One of them frowned at him and then they both followed Hrathmar off. They didn’t move insync, exactly, but there was a coordinated element to it.

He watched the three Altmer vanish down the hall, making the turn towards the main wing, where the Hall itself was located. He breathed out, sitting down on the steps, “This isn’t good.”