All-Flag Rangers: Prologue II
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Hammerfell, 4E 96
There was darkness, and there was light.
To the left the cavern was of shadowed stones that had never seen the sun, always cool to the touch. To the right light bathed the ground, wafting down from two large holes in the ceiling. Every now and then a breeze would blow in from the desert and whistle through the gaps, haunting their way through the tunnels in the back that wound down into the heart of the world. At the cavern center, caught between the shadow and the beam, a warrior sat in meditation. Two eyes stared forward, seemingly looking beyond this world. One thigh upon smooth, cold stone, the other on scorched hot rock, Iszir was between this world and the world of the kinetic. The world of potential energy, always coiled, always waiting, strikes unstricken teasing the air with their possibility. In that place Iszir was without equal. But the real world - the world of wasted potential that always drains energy - was waiting.
The wind carried in the sound of footsteps and the dragging of something heavy, something that was struggling.
Iszir's eyes seemed to stare without blinking when the body tumbled from the hole in the ceiling and slammed into the hot stone. It was a mer, tall and lanky wearing ragged sand-torn clothes that looked more at home in Sentinel or Stros M'kai than the endless Alik'r desert. The mer's skin was worse, the illustrious golden sheen hidden beneath the dust and grime of sand stuck to sweat. He struggled to right himself and almost got to his knees before a long metal pole descended from the ceiling, the butt bumping into the mer's spine and pushing him back down. He froze, bending slightly to move his contorted limbs, struggling to speak beneath the gag that covered his mouth. Looking up he caught sight of Iszir and began to thrash harder still. The staff lowered slightly, hooking beneath the rope that bound the mer's feet to his hands. There was a grunt from above, and the mer slowly rose a couple inches, held aloft by some weight balancing on the other side of the pole. He could struggle, but could not move.
Iszir's eyes cut in half, split apart to reveal another pair beneath them. The prisoner struggled in terror before he realized it was just paint. Iszir sat, and watched.
"This is the man whom you sought," a voice called out from the direction of the pole, hidden in the ceiling, "This is your other. The assassin that escaped, as you are the victim that survived."
Iszir had yet to move, but spoke in an even, almost monotonous tone, "Do I know this to be true?"
"Go to him, and see." came the reply.
Iszir stood slowly, hand wrapping around the sheath of a blade that lay upon the floor. Iszir walked carefully to the prisoner, careful not to expend a mote of unnecessary energy, and said,
"He looks frightened."
"Pupils wide, sweat on the lip. The hairs on his head stand with energy, adrenaline running, blood coursing," said the voice from above, "can you so easily tell the difference between terror and zealotry? Fear and bloodthirsty malice? Look again," the voice grunted, "and quickly, my grip is slipping."
Iszir looked again, carefully. The prisoner was no longer struggling, but staring in... consternation? Confusion? Perhaps disbelief that a mark had survived the slaughter? Whatever the case it quickly changed when Iszir drew the blade. Then it became obvious.
There was a flash as the blade passed through the light, then a sharp intake of breath from pain and momentary relief. The gag was cut, a spot of blood began to bleed through the cloth from where Iszir's blade had cut the mer's lip. The next moment he began to scream.
"Hai Dominia!"
"Hai Dominia!"
"HAI DOMINIA!"
The sheath represented the move to action, coiled potential awaiting release. The sword represented only the inevitability of silence, for that is what it brings, and that is what was brought.
The mer's head landed with a plop, and was followed only by the howling of the desert winds. Iszir sheathed the blade and waited. The metal pole clanged and clattered, bouncing as it dropped. The voice grunted as it fell into the cave, failing to land properly. The man, a cyrodiil, groaned as he stood and dusted himself. Iszir waited till he was stood properly, taking in the man's dusty robe, his deep shadowy hood, and the cloth wrapped about his eyes. This one has no sight, Iszir thought before asking,
"Who are you that has brought the killer I sought here, to me?"
"My name is Furioso," said the robed man, calmly side-stepping the corpse he could not see, " and I am a brother of moths, and a servant of Emperor Attrebus Mede. And you, Iszir, are the last living Brother of the Blade," Furioso picked up the metal pole, righting it so he could lean against it, and paused in thought, "or do you prefer Maiden of the Spirit Sword?"
"I don't care. I prefer Iszir. Why did you bring this assassin here?"
The imperial shrugged. "Brother or maiden, he or she, we don't care either." He gestured at the headless corpse, "You have killed the last of the altmeri assassins that murdered your masters. You have avenged their deaths. There is no further use for your blade here. I have helped you free yourself from that sacred bond." Furioso raised his head, looking at Iszir without eyes, "Iszir, you may be the last of your order but you are not the last of your kind. You are a hero, yet unforged, but I have come to carry you into the fire.
"I am here to speak to you about the Rangers initiative."
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