all the joy unforgiven by this task

[preyed]

Date & Time: April 3, 2013, afternoon.
Location: Initiative Hold.
Characters: The Dragonborn (preyed) and the Last Septim (septim).
Summary: Martin and Vera meet and things don't go exactly as planned.
Warnings: Possible visceral imagery. We're talking Daedra here.



It hasn't quite been a month since Vera's arrival in the twice damned city, and she's been practically bored to tears. The apartments are far from the lavish home she'd purchased for herself back in Whiterun or even in Riften, and there isn't enough room for anything beyond sleeping. She's hardly bothered to unpack her things. Why take the risk when she can just as easily be whisked back to Skyrim to continue her fight with Alduin? It would be a fruitless endeavor.

She's fallen in with Hawke, a man who understands her more than most others care to, and despite their on-and-off escapades into bars and around the city, she's had little else to do. The library keeps her occupied, as does training, but it's still not enough. She's restless and unproductive, gnawing at the bit, keeping as close to a low profile as she can dare.

It's not enough.

The Initiative Hold is where she finds herself, more than content to work off some steam by training. She's dumped her pack in the corner and has drawn out her warhammer to lay waste to a few test dummies, none of them quite as satisfying as she needs. With a swing, off goes one of the heads, flying to the side and bouncing.

She hisses through grated teeth, agitated already. She'll need to plan for an excursion out of the city in the coming days. It really is the best for everyone. At least out in the wild, she can shout and not worry about drawing attention to herself...or being arrested for something so trivial.

Comments

[septim]

Martin scoops it up, shoving it into a pocket inside his cassock. Her healing provided enough of a respite for his magicka to coalesce into a diminished-but-workable pool. As long as he's careful and takes his time, he'll be able to heal himself.

"Not so proud, are we now?" Yet his insult lacks the venom to be considering offensive, more of a passing observation than anything else. "Lost your courage to a broken and burnt trinket." It's not a trinket, of course, but the symbol of the Dragonborn Dynasties and their demise, the prophesy made true through his death. "Akatosh brought me here for a reason, that much is certain. I'm quite sure it has something to do with you." He doesn't need to point at her when his eyes are boring into her soul, an ironic change from before. "But for now, I must rest, and meditate on why I've been chosen for this task."

[preyed]

"You call the artifact of your bloodline a trinket. A small wonder how far removed you are from them." Where he is blowing steam, she is not. The hairs on her neck are standing on edge, hands fisted at her sides. "Akatosh has no bearing here, only these Initiative fools. And if you think that He has guided you to me..." The very idea alone is enough to make her want to spit.

How dare you. "Septim bloodline or not, I don't need any charity you want to provide for me." Never has, never will, and any fool who believes otherwise can get a blade shoved into their belly. "Go find another task to occupy yourself with. It's not going to be me."

[septim]

"Do not—" Martin closes the distance in a single stride, ice blue eyes shaking in pain and wrath as his fingers grasp her chin as she did his, "—presume you have the right to talk about my family. Do not think the title of dragonborn means nothing simply because we're not in Tamriel."

He loses his grasp on her, wincing as his shoulder protests the rough motion. "Fine, you don't need my charity. If that is what you think this is, then I cannot help you."

"Let us see how long you will last, Dovahkiin. Let us pray the call of your blood won't consume you, as it did me."

[preyed]

She slaps his hand away, drawing back, her eyes burning with indignation as it flares up as readily as wood thrown on a fire. "Then do not presume to know me, to know anything about a world you no longer have a part in. You're dead. You saved your people. Your place, if any, is in Cyrodiil and nowhere near me."

The sound of her title on his lips is enough to finally incense the fire within her. Fists clenched, head held high, she hardly thinks of her actions before she shouts. "Fus ro dah!"

[septim]

No magic could prevent the force of a shout, screamed in a language that worms its way into his blood, launching his body towards concrete. He feels the wet, dull sound of the back of his head crashing with the wall before he hears it, but once the sound registers, there's no more time to process it.

Martin Septim, Emperor of Tamriel, faints, sprawled in an undignified manner.

[preyed]

Vera is the one left standing, breathing raggedly as if she's the one who's ready to drop to the floor. Her eyes stare at Martin for several moments before she processes just what she's done, and then she's moving toward him.

"Shit." Down on her knees, she reaches out to his head and pushes more healing into him, staunching the damage before anything else happens to him. It's only when she's nearly drained herself of her magicka that she stops healing him, reaching forward and somewhat scooping him up. With some care, she's able to lay him down flat on the ground, body relaxed and head turned so he's not resting on his injury. That's just about all she can provide for now.

Standing, she backs away from him and paces, hand going into her belt to remove a talisman lingering there. "I want a word with you," she says, summoning Lucien Lachance to her side. The darkness that opens up has hardly changed and the specter wastes no time in appearing from its chasm. Her eyes are narrowed and she gestures to Martin. "Tell me who that is."

He turns his gaze to the fallen emperor and she swears she almost sees his back stiffen. Martin Septim. Emperor of Tamriel.

Vera doesn't look pleased at all to hear it. "So it's true," she mutters. Dragon blooded, just as she is. "I don't understand," she whispers, for Lucien's ears alone, for the dead tell no tales and keep secrets as close as they can. "Why is he here? Why now?"

But her specter does not answer her. He takes a few steps towards Martin and it isn't until he reaches for the ethereal dagger that she realizes what he's doing. "Lucien, no." She gets in between them. "Stand down."

He is the Emperor, Listener. Too long I've waited... It would be a fitting tribute to Lord Sithis.

"No," she snaps, agitated. "Not him. Not now. We've done this before." And it hasn't brought her any peace. For a moment, the spectral assassin seems to listen to her. He hesitates and she is nearly certain he'll back down. But then he lunges, trying to skirt around her, and her blade is out before she even has the thought of drawing it. It slides easily into his stomach, an extension of her hand, and she watches with some vestige of regret as he crumbles into dust and returns to the Void.

With a sigh, shoulders finally dropping, Vera turns back to look at Martin's prone form on the ground. And then she pulls out her tablet to call for assistance from the Initiative.