Malanima'ar the Stygian
Resplendent Daedra Conjurer
Out-of-game context HERE
Two years have passed after the beginning of the fifth era and, with it, the might and soul of the Nords of Skyrim. Not long ago, the civil war had been won by The Empire and the usurper Ulfric Stormcloak killed in open battle in the city of Windhelm. For a few years there was peace, but shortly after came the small pockets of rebellion. They had started as nothing more than the odd attack on Imperial patrols and camps, but gradually they became more aggressive and more frequent. The attackers had always been dressed in Stormcloak attire and so, it was said that the rebellion never died.
That was until the Aldmeri dominion began settling in: like a smothering respiratory disease from stoking fires for too long. This happened after an order had been passed by the Thalmor to 'assist' the Empire in snuffing out these attacks due to its 'ineptness to cope with the circumstances alone', but for some reason, the attacks never lulled nor stopped fully, until those of the mark of the Eagle chose to settle most of their forces in the cold province.
It had happened gradually: spanned over a few years - hold guards were reinforced and Thalmor headquarters were erected in every hold, but soon the number of hold guards became sparse and Thalmor justiciars became the more common sight to see in all of the major cities.
Then it happened - The Night of Mist...
Seemingly, in one night, Imperial Jarls and iconic families disappeared: both Stormcloak and Empire sympathizers at once - gone, as if they had never been. Even the proud General Tulius was never seen again. It was as if the Empire had been taken off the map entirely in Skyrim. Nothing was said, for, in that same instant, it was quickly learned that anyone that spoke out of turn or questioned the event soon went missing too.
So began the fifth era - with thunderous booms of a covert Aldmeri takeover; the likes of which had never been seen since The Great War.
Our story begins in the city of Whiterun, under hushed tones and clandestine nooks in the city less-patrolled by Justiciars. The whispers of a movement against the Aldmeri Dominion occupation hang briefly on the tongues of some newcomers to the hold.
- - -
"What's this then?" The Justiciar cut open the small sack that had been pried from the Khajiit's hands. "Skooma?" The Altmer held the sack before the Khajiit who was almost prone, heaving from being winded. The Altmer then pulled out a handful of juniper berries and gawked at it with displeasure before casting all of them upon the cat who lay near-incapacitated on the ground. "Get lost, Cat! Take your stolen goods elsewhere!" The Justiciar spouted before kicking the Khajiit in the midsection a second time and heading back towards the main gate with his colleague.
Malaeko watched as another Khajiit, no doubt the initial's spouse, tend to the creature, cursing under her breath. The Dunmer raised his head to the deluge that had been ensuing for the past two days without any sign of stopping: he hated the rain. He hated the mud it left too - always caking his shoes and finding its way into his rugs at home, and he was beginning to grow tired of the cold as well. After the second day of rain had started, he had uprooted all of his crops in the fear of them being washed away, only to discover that most of the roots had rotten away. In his anger, he blasted most of them into a smoldering heap of ash and steam and made his way to Whiterun in hopes of recovering some sort of finance through his enchanted trinkets.
Now he was here: bearing witness to a situation that had become all too familiar to him. Of course, he didn't dislike the Khajiit but the thought of being inconvenienced by the effort of having an argument with and possibly being arrested by a Justiciar just didn't seem justified to him, ever. In fact, he was more displeased with the fact that he was getting soaked through on this rainy evening by standing and watching the events unfold in front of him than the actual events themselves.
"Ugh." He grumbled to himself.
To lull the displeasure he was experiencing, he decided to make his way into the city and to the Bannered Mare where he could possibly sell a few of his trinkets and potions - a few Septims ought to change his mood.
The Dunmer halted at the main gate and lifted his arms, followed by the roll of his eyes as the guard approached for the routine pat-down. He kept all of his possessions in plain sight attached to his belt to avoid any unnecessary attention or questioning - Azura forbid if a guard found anything that even remotely seemed concealed.
"A mage ought to have a dagger to defend himself. Where's your's?"
By his accent, the guard was a Nord. Malaeko pulled up his nose in disgust: "Some weapons don't exist in this plane of existence. Can I go in now?"
He thought he caught a smirk on the face on one of the Justiciars positioned not far behind the guard.
"Go right on in." The guard answered after a few moments of hesitation.
Ridiculous, Malaeko thought as he wandered into the city, lingering under the overhang to avoid the rain. His face contorted with irritation and his back slightly hunched from a load of years of rage and resentment, the Dunmer made his way to the tavern, muttering to himself and moaning about the extreme security measures that had been implemented a few years prior. Despite it becoming gradually more relaxed, Malaeko was still irritated by the fact that you had to be touched, checked, queried, and all but interrogated before going about your business.
"Damned ridiculous." He cursed to himself.
But what was the alternative: Nords and Stormcloaks roaming freely in a war of rebellion? No, he preferred his fellow, albeit stuck-up, Mer, but only just enough to tolerate them and prevent himself from doing something that might end with his head rolling about separate from his body.
That wouldn't be so bad, would it?
His thoughts were quickly sent spiraling as he was almost sent reeling from colliding with another footgoer.
"Ugh!", he shouted: "What in the name of Oblivion is wrong with you? Idiot!"
"My apologies." The young man, hooded and his face concealed, recovered quickly. "I am really sorry. Oh, and here: I think you dropped this."
And the young man handed Malaeko a rolled-up piece of parchment. The Dunmer snatched it from his hands and looked on in disgust as the young man walked away.
Blasted fool, he unrolled the paper, distracted by the fact that his robes were now soiled and most likely smelt of mud or city water.
As he read, his eyes became wide with madness. The words glared back:
There are some who do not recognize the legitimacy of the Aldmeri occupation.
There are some who would see them gone.
Ask for S at the Ragged Flagon
Malaeko quickly turned to where the man went, but the latter was gone. The Dunmer's skinned blackened with rage as he realized the predicament in which he now found himself: he was in possession of a letter, clearly from some sort of resistance movement. If he reported it, he would surely be arrested and executed for treason, that much he knew. No Justiciar would simply confiscate the note and wave him off. He would be arrested as a conspirer against the Aldmeri Dominion.
I need to get rid of this, he thought. But no sooner approached two Justiciars who were chatting to each other.
"Ugh!" He cursed to himself before quickly rerolling the paper up and working it into his ponytail before storming off in the direction of the Bannered Mare.
Who was that fool? And why did he give it to me? I don't want any part in this. Nothing.
The old Dunmer swung the doors to the tavern open and stepped in. The usual chatter of the establishment stopped briefly as eyes looked him up and down upon his entry before continuing their conversations.
Malaeko sighed with irritation: whether he wanted to be or not, he was now in a very dangerous situation. He looked about the room and found a number of Altmer guards, which made him shiver: for the first time in a very long one, Malaeko swallowed a hard, dry lump and broke out in a cold sweat. Although his head and face were covered mostly by his cowl, he could feel the usual tightness of his facial muscles ease and change, easily-recognizable as nervousness.
He sheepishly made his way to a table in the corner of the tavern, behind one of the support pillars that obscured him from two Justiciars seated near the entrance. Now was the time to avoid drawing attention to himself. He wanted to act normal - his usual bitterness and indifference, but he couldn't. He couldn't help but try to hide in his chair as best as he possibly could.
They're all watching me. I should have gone home. I should have left.
And he curled up slightly in his chair as paranoia now reigned freely within him.
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