Balgruuf the Great ch 51 preview (New) (Patreon)

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Imperial City

Cyrodiil. The beating artery of civilization. Tamrielic Civilization. And clearly, she had seen better days.

Such were the thoughts of Amaund Motierre as he crossed the dark alleyways of the capitol, a hooded robe covering his face. It had been five years, since the end of the war but the city still never fully recovered the life and luster it had before the Dominion took it. The worst was gone, but pockets of horror still remained. He took a careful step forward, making sure not to make too much noise. While the Legions were slowly reforming and order was getting restored to Cyrodiil, it was quite clear that much work still yet needed to be done.

He sensed eyes on him and quickly, he lowered his head as he passed by some vagrants warming themselves by a fire. He felt their eyes pierce him, gauging his every move and gait. Now, Amaund was exactly helpless on his own but he'd rather not start a scene.

The vagrants on the other hand kept watching him, even as he quickened his pace and hobbled onto the main street where luckily, the presence of people would shield him from prying eyes.

Finally, he found the place where he was set to meet them. A quaint tavern, with the image of a sleeping fox underneath flowers. Or that was the image the proprietor was trying to go for. The outside facade looked burnt, and the paint had long since dried off. The windows were barred by great barricades and only through little slits could light get into the building. Amaund supposed that helped into their whole secrecy.

He went forward, knocking against the door. For a moment, there was silence before finally, he heard a great lock open from behind the door. A little window slit opened and bright eyes peeked out. "We're closed," a gruff voice declared, peering at him.

"The greatest among us shall walk barefeet," he recited,

"And in this path, walk great again," the gruff voice responded.

Amaund nodded and with that, the doors opened. In this busy street, he looked nothing more but another seedy customer of a seedy inn. Nothing too suspicious about it, especially late at night. Amaund walked inside, taking note of the smell and the ambiance of the tavern. From one corner of the room, a band played with their instruments, filling the room with gaudy music as dancers entertained a crowd of roughly dressed men and women. Burps and drinks were imbibed in quiet corners, filling his nose with the stench of cheap liquor and even cheaper food.

If that wasn't a sign how much the Empire has fallen, then Amaund didn't know what was.

"They are in the back, per usual," the gruff voice spoke up from earlier. The owner of the voice was an orc, with an even more rough look.

"So they have started without me?" Amaund asked, raising an eyebrow as the orc escorted him round, through throngs of serving girls carrying casks of beer and meats.

"No, they decided to wait until you arrived," the orc replied, making his way to a far corner room. There stood a door, watched by a fierce looking Nord. The orc and Nord exchanged looks. Nodding, the Nord opened the door and beheld them to a underground chamber.

"Touching," Amaund said, not too kindly, before descending inside the chamber. The walls down below were old but not exactly decrepit. Thicker smells filtered his senses. Herbs and aromatics that were common among dens. But he wasn't here for that, neither were his compatriots.

Arranged around pillows and candles burning of expensive wax, Amaund traded eyes with like minded members of his little social club.

"And so, you have finally arrived," a young yet strong voice greeted him.

Amaund took the moment to dip his head at the source of the voice.

"Took him a while. He probably had to wonder if the left foot went first, or the right," snickered another one. That one, Amaund had little time and respect for. He raised his head, his eyes settling on a man seated amongst pillows. He was tall, and clad in the red tunic of a soldier sans the armor. He looked very much an off duty legionnaire but to the men and women in the room, he was so much more.

"Prince Castor," Amaund greeted him.

Castor Lucius Mede.

If there was anyone else who could be looked to in restoring life to the Empire, then Castor was the one they could set their hopes on.

"Amaund Motierre. How fares my Imperial father?" Castor asked, getting into business quickly.

"Nothing has changed, Prince Castor," Amaund reported. "He stares out of the window of his tower, poring over maps and documents. He hasn't appeared for any meetings with the Elder Council either. Certain elements in the Council are taking advantage of this, my lord. Our social club has influence yes, but there is only so much we can spend before the other factions overtake us."

That social club being a secret group of loyalists to the Empire. Those who still yet believed it could be saved, unlike those more predatory sharks that would want to seek it to ruin with their delusions of grandeur.

"It's true, you know," added another voice. Castor and Amaund turned to see a Imperial lounging by pillows, a serving girl hugging his knees as another one dropped a grape into his mouth. "Prince Castor, Amaund and I are powerful but the amount of political capitol we are spending pretending that things are alright is being wasted. The Chancellors are anxious with the Ruby Throne's constant silence. The High Chancellor himself professes loyalty to our cause but he has been quietly gathering allies. For what purpose, I do not know,"

Castor nodded, silently listening to the conversation. He leaned back on his chair, his eye glinting as he pondered.

"Truly, a sad state of affairs that we must heckle and grouse over the greatest Empire in the history of Tamriel like grocers exchanging chickens in the market," remarked another voice.

"Ah, but what is politics but heckling and grousing over power?" retorted Amaund. He shook his head. The Breton turned back to the Prince.

"Fact of the matter is, my prince. The administration of this Empire is...paralyzed. We cannot run the Empire, not when its Emperor refuses to lead and inject life back into us again. Rents and expenses are getting higher while salaries for the commoners remain the same. We need new leadership. We need you," Amaund professes, not too softly.

"The problem, Amaund, is that my noble Father is Emperor, not me," replied Castor. "Disgraced as he is, he is still the Emperor and that title still has weight in these times."

He shared a glance with each man in the room, purple eyes taking note of the facial expressions.

"I know what it is you would like to ask of me. Frankly, I agree that making the Emperor retire is the best possible course of action for the Empire but surely, you all must see how that would look? I cannot just march into the White Gold Tower, armies of Colovia in hand, and demand he step down. I would look like a grasping usurper and in this time, the thing we need is stability, not legionary uprisings."

He stood up, producing a map and rolling it on the floor. On the parchment was a map of the known world. Amaund's heart skipped a beat as he watched the territories of the old Empire, now reduced to a paltry three. "Look and behold at what remains of our Empire, gentlemen," Castor declared grandly as he took a stick and placed it gently on Cyrodiil.

"Our homeland and capitol, Cyrodiil. Rich yes, but still massively devastated from the war. Even now, we still find a fresh grave of war dead, buried as some sick reminder of atrocities," Castor exclaimed, tapping away at different areas around Cyrodiil before turning to the other provinces.

"High Rock, so ever-intertwined with the Empire yet so far away," Castor mused. "Rich and cultured, and so independent in spirit. Lord Poncaire, how does the province feel regarding its membership to the Empire?" The prince asked the other Breton in the room, the man which made remarks about the High Chancellor.

Lord Poncaire was an elderly man, with sunken cheeks and aged eyes. But there still breathed some life in the old beast. "Why, I had just finished a dinner with a few of my fellow Bretons. They feel...indifferent really. They haven't really lost much from the war nor did they really gain anything. At this point...we are still quite happy to bash each other in the face it would seem."

A round of chuckles erupted around the room. Poncaire wasn't laughing however. This, Castor saw.

"There is some concerning news, however." reported the Breton noble. "The Thalmor have been rather enthusiastic in sending their diplomats into the province. Of course, this could all just be your usual pleasantries but...it it still the Thalmor,"

A quiet mood descended in the room. Castor rubbed the underside of his chin. "It is times like these, I wish my erstwhile Grandfather listened to Lathenil of Sunhold. If only we had..."

"We had bigger problems at the time, my Prince," Lord Poncaire sighed. "The Interregnum needed to be solved, order had to be resolved. Military adventurism at that time...it was hardly people needed."

"And in hindsight, something that should have been done," Castor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced back up at them. "Unfortunately, we do not have the benefit of choosing which times we wish to live. Should there be war again, could we count on High Rock to help defend the empire?"

"High Rock has always done its duty for the Empire, Prince Castor. You know that," Lord Poncaire replied.

"But you and I both know, Poncaire, that the winds of opportunity change. What if, for example, the Dominion can offer something better to High Rock?" Amaund muttered quietly.

At that, Poncaire snorted. "What other benefit could the Dominion offer our people, Amaund? The death and destruction of the Great War? The atrocities the Dominion left in Hammerfell, after their defeat there? The Thalmor and the Dominion can offer nothing, but ruin."

Amaund shook his head. "Remember how our homeland goes, Poncaire. We are a civilisation built on plots and schemes,"

"You Bretons and your schemeing ways," Castor said, shaking his head. "Well...no news is good news, I suppose. Better for High Rock to be quiet than grumbling."

At that, he turned his attention back to the map. Amaund followed the Prince's eyes and there, he turned to see him stare at a single province to the North of them.

Skyrim.

"How fares Skyrim?" Castor asked. 

"Well...you did see the cheap fare outside this hovel," Amaund said, crossing his arms. "We've finally gotten back to producing goods again as the men return to the fields but many still order pork and potatoes from the Northern Kingdom." 

With the ruinous levels of destruction wrecked upon the Thalmor, as well as the privatizations of war visited upon them after the end, Cyrodiil tethered on the brink of starvation. Roving armies fed upon the land after all, whether Elven or Imperial. With so much being taken, what was left for the ordinary citizen? It was quite fortunate that when the cities of Braavil needed help before it could be taken over by criminals, the Nords brought not just troops but also relief in the form of goods. 

That left quite a bitter taste on Amaund's mouth. 

"Skyrim, good loyal Skyrim, and we've made it illegal for them to worship their God," Lord Poncaire said, shaking his head. 

"Has there been grumbling from the Nords?" asked Castor again. 

"We've feared that we would have the regional Jarls raising their armies and proclaiming religious rebellion. It would seem that they are anxious for stability just as much as we are," remarked Amaund. 

"Yet, it has been five years already. Plenty of time for the High King to stabilize the Kingdom, yes?" Lord Poncaire pointed out. "Have you all heard about the developments happening in there?" 

At that the men shook their heads. Poncaire levied them a look. "If the food that was enjoyed by the city wasn't any indication, then the reports from the Imperial Treasury will. Skyrim is thriving, my lords. While the taxes there weren't as generous or considerable compared to High Rock or when Hammerfell was still a province, there has been a significant surge in taxes from them." 

Castor raised an eyebrow in interest. "How much?" 

"An approximate 20-30% increase in taxes, compared to the last time the Kingdom was taxed," said Lord Poncaire. "This is what I can remember from my meeting with the Imperial Treasurer. The Eastern Empire Trade Company is also in the middle of talks as well. They wish to corner the Nordic market. Horker sausages, slaughterfish eggs, and more." 

Castor silently listened. Intelligence flashed in his eyes, as he considered the information relayed before him. "What can you tell me of the High King? This...Balgruuf?" 

Poncaire and Amaund exchanged glances. Coughing, Amaund answered first. "High King Balgruuf, by legionary records, served with distinction during the war. He and his brother led quite effective skirmishing tactics behind enemy lines. Apparently, he led a punitive expedition to reclaim a Nordic Hold when it was overtaken by natives. That was what secured him the High Kingship when the old one died." 

"Personality wise," Poncaire decided to butt in, "He is easy-going and affable, allegedly. He runs an efficient administration, a drilled army, and has been content building Skyrim." 

The two Bretons shared a glance. An idea passed between the both of them. 

"You wish to sway the High King to you," the two surmised, glancing at Castor. 

"I do," Castor nodded, tapping the armrest of his chair. "I have Colovia behind me but if I march into the Palace and force father to surrender the throne, I will look no better than an upstart warlord. I need allies, powerful allies. High Rock is an option, but it is too far and too many kings and princes for me to be beholden to." 

"But with Balgruuf, you will only have to worry about one man," said Poncaire. Castor nodded at him. 

"And I think I know just what to promise him, in exchange for his support," Prince Castor said as he stood up, glancing at the map below. 

"And what's that?" Amaund asked, curious. 

"What any good Nord at this time would want," Castor said slyly, pulling out a knife from his person before thrusting it against the map. The two Bretons glanced at each other, before looking down at where the knife had struck. 

The knife was stabbed firmly against the Islands once known as the Summerset Isles. 

"Now, all we have to do is to make this known to the High King...and hopefully, leave Skyrim stable enough that it is not distracted," Castor added, crossing his arms. 

"I wouldn't worry, my lord," Lord Poncaire said, standing up. Optimism in his eyes. "Skyrim has been stable so far. Other than a civil war, which is unlikely, there is nothing that could happen in Skyrim that would render it paralyzed with chaos." 

"I hope so, Lord Poncaire," Castor said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The survival of the Empire depends on it."

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In Solitude, Silana Petreia yawned to herself as she climbed up the steps of Castle Dour, her path heading towards the Temple of the Divines where she served as an acolyte. Today of all days remained uneventful. If not cleaning the temple, she was off to do charity work in the name of the Divines.

Jarl Torygg had done amazing work as the chairman for the aptly named SDRO but even that had limits. What they could not provide, the Temple would fill in the gaps.

Silana grew up in misery and poverty, she wasn't going to grow up and neglect those that she grew up with. But still, there was only so much she could do and it was no time for her to return to the Temple, to pray and make ready for the next day.

Her steps halted slightly however when she saw a piece of parchment nailed against the wall of the Temple. Curiosity filled her as she walked forward to read what it had. Was it a petition? Her eyes settled on the first few letters.

She almost wished she hadn't

"TALOS IS A GOD!

THE THALMOR SAY THAT TALOS IS NO GOD, THAT HE IS SIMPLY NOTHING BUT A MAN. BUT THE ELVES ARE JEALOUS AND WISH TO DENY HIM THE WORSHIP HE IS GIVEN. WHEN THE OBLIVION CRISIS GRIPPED TAMRIEL, WAS IT NOT MARTIN SEPTIM WHO BROKE THE AMULET OF KINGS THAT SEALED THE GATES OF OBLIVION? TWAS HIS BLOOD THAT PUSHED THE DAEDRA FROM OUR PLANE. DIVINE BLOOD!"

Silana's eyes travelled down the extensive document, further proofs being written down that highlighted evidence of Talos's divinity. As she read, Silana's felt a sense of dread grip her very being. But nothing filled her with more fear than reading the last few paragraphs.

"YOU HAVE READ IT FRIENDS. PROOFS OF TALOS'S DIVINITY. AND THE ELVES AND THEIR IMPERIAL LAPDOGS WANT US TO LAY DOWN MEEKLY AND NOT WORSHIP OUR TRADTIONAL DIVINE. THE ELVES AND THE EMPIRE CHAINS US, MY BRETHREN. BREAK THOSE CHAINS, JOIN US AS WE RISE AGAINST THE IMPERIAL YOKE AND THE ELVISH ONE. RESTORE SKYRIM, JOIN US IN FREEDOM! DOWN WITH THE EMPIRE, LONG LIVE TRUE SKYRIM!"

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A/N: I have returned. And I have returned, with a vengeance.