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Story Five: The Orator
Topic Started: Nov 1 2009, 03:24 AM (328 Views)
Darkom
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A single candle sheds its glow upon a bronze bordered painting, bringing to life the ornate persona of the Colovian countryside were the shadow of a single traveler meanders down into the valley below. Cool walls of stone and the mantle of a soulless hearth frame the painting, giving way to a chamber where a heavy oaken table sits with its ten smaller companions, which in turn gives way to more stone, a deciduous hill and to the countryside which the painting commemorates. It is not the exact same countryside, but similar. A wisp of wind away, a traveler who is little more than a shadow traverses over grass and rock to a stone trail leading down to a city, alive with the essence of magick. The yellow sun of dawn awakes over the horizon and rises into the lightening sky which has been anticipating its arrival.

The white brick of the city is lit with the oranges and yellows of morning, accented by the sea of green which adorns the tops of the buildings. Mythical sculpture and architecture merges its nobility with that of the sky’s to allow for intentional widespread anachronism. Touches of stone and marble compliment the glowing brick while mosaic’s of ancient times sing their praises of it all. It is a city of buildings sent skyward, epitomizing in a dominating spire of white and gold. Rounded arches with occasional vaults, rings of solid walls which tell the stories of growth, decline and history, ancient and new. All the while the peaceful waters continue on a path they have yet to forget despite being crossed by bridges and surrounded by plazas, homes, markets and palaces.

Between the Arboretum and the great Temple stands a man, a man on a white stone bench in front of a small tree. There is nothing especially notable about this Breton. His teal jacket and breeches are of not spectacular quality nor does he bear the attributes of a city guard. His hair is a dark brown with a thin cloth band holding it down and a thin raggedy beard covering an otherwise clean and sharp face. His appearance speaks of peasantry, but his voice of nobility, for by no other way could he have received the rhetoric he does. There is nothing about him to indicate that his jacket covers a blade stained with gods-blood, that the folds of his clothes hide trinkets of ancient magicks, or that the thin band on his head circles one of the most adept minds in Tamriel - for this was Socucius, the most powerful criminal creature on the continent. He speaks of societies, of politics, of revolutions both Marukhati and merish, philosophy and religion, of anarchy and of the sovereignty of the Empire. Heresy if he is ever confronted for it, but he is not, until this morning where the mists of the dawn dew fall upon the traveler and the orator.

“Cyrodiil, city of enlightenment watched over by its patron Akatosh, the dragon-god of Time, I beckon you to welcome the day, and to join me in my discourse of mortality...” says the orator, a few citizens stopping for a moment to listen before moving on. “Were you all blind, how would you know it, none having the sense to relay the notion…”

The traveler walks through the plaza. He is a not a young or old man, but he is younger than he is old. He is an Imperial, his hair is dark and flowing to his ears. A neatly trimmed goatee frames his chin and he strides with an air of pride, the design of his earthen colored clothes placing him in the middle artisan class, no doubt a member of some local guild and temple. Were he to remain silent his presence would go unnoticed, but he does not. Rather, he contends the orator.

“Were we all blind, good sir, then the point is moot. Such is to ask ‘what if we all lacked wings’, we do, and the answer doesn’t matter. If we all lack it we may be content in what is natural.”

The orator is taken aback for a moment. For four months he has spoken from atop his bench; a bench which in those past four months has become a podium and a lectern for all known progressions of thought. And in these four months, not one of those making their way about the plaza in their daily lives have thought to reply to the rants of the orator. He is taken aback, but he is pleased. “Please, my distinguished guest, I beg you to continue, but first would you honor me with your name?”

“Marsilius Falier, a member of the Imperial Cult.”

“Ah, a religious man. You may call me Socucius, the rest isn’t of any relevance, at least not for our current discussion.” replies the orator. “Can you tell me now, what if the lacking is not natural? What if it is a construction of a peoples as a whole? Could you tell the difference?”

“Whether or not I could is, as the rest of your name, not of any relevance. What is of importance is our current situation, and were we go from here. If we had wings prior to our present state, so be it, it doesn’t aide us now. And who’s to say we would want it any other way?”

“There are those who do, I can assure you, for I am one of them. I am one who wants a reformation of the mind, a revolution of the society. A prevailing of either order or chaos, whichever I happen to favor at the moment.”

“How can you speak of revolution and reformation when the Empire stands as a beacon to all the world.” replies the traveler, “It may not be perfect, and may ebb and flow with the waves of time, but it works. Your chaos, your revolution, if naught but for the sake of such is folly in its greatest.”

“Society, religion, politics; they all need refreshed now and again.” says Socucius hopping down from his bench with an almost boyish rhythm, “Come, walk with me.”

Marsilius looks for a moment in perplexion and then turns to walk with the odd individual. He expects the Breton to have some sort of purpose in mind for their walk and expects him to of course elaborate that purpose to him. After walking in silence for some time Marsilius speaks again, “Where do you pick up such ideas as yours. If I did not know better I might report you as an agent of the defunct Mythic Dawn or some strange eastern Tong. Revolution is the sphere of Dagon you know, and chaos of Sithis, and the Tongs are quite radical as well.”

“Do I appear Dunmer to you?” replies Socucius. As the two pass through the archway leading from the Temple District to the Talos Plaza the orator pauses and opens the door, as Marsilius walks through his ears perk at the sound of an ‘clink’ such as a coin makes upon striking the stone ground. “No, I seek no return to the Dawn,” Socucius continues, “though I am criminal to the core, an anarchist of the highest degree you might say, at least today, and you my friend are my newest accomplice.”

“A likely story indeed. And by what whim of the Mad God is it that you believe I would help you were you in fact a criminal; me, an Acolyte of the Imperial Cult.”

“Remember, you came to me, not I to you; that's why.” the man replies “We’ll get to that in time, but not yet. Who knows, perhaps by the end of our walk it will be you who has reformed me and tomorrow I will begin my life as a monk in the service of Julianos. Then again I may instead turn to Boethiah, perhaps it depends upon you.”

“And what is it that you intend to do?” Marsilius replies.

“I intend to commit the greatest heist ever imagined, a grand blasphemy against the empire and the gods – but who knows, maybe the gods would agree.” The pair pass under yet another archway and through another door, this time into the Elven Gardens. Again the criminal takes a brief pause before continuing through. He begins again on the other side, “It really depends on your gods does it not?”

“One would assume, and what is this great heist, this grand blasphemy. You are one man, what could you possibly steal of so great of value?”

“But we are two, and we will steal the heart of the empire, its centrality in the world, like a composer writing a sonnet we will do it.”

At this Marsilius remains silent, pondering the words of the orator, running them through the texts which reside in his mind for some sort of clue. They continue walking, through the Market and the Arena, through the Arboretum until arriving back at the Temple of the One.

“And now we change our circular course my good accomplice, and you have done very well so far in keeping up.” The criminal turns and now begins a path toward the White-Gold Tower “We lay amidst the lunar light and search the nooks behind each eye, to find that point which flickers by – a minute divide between plains of swirling schemes, and the oceanic wood of dreams. Now, to the Tower.”

“I do believe that you must walk the Golden Road, anarchist indeed.” says Marsilius as he follows his partner through the final archway into Green Emperor Way, hearing once again the faint 'clink' of metal striking stone. Mausoleums and tombs stand as a procession party as they ascend the steps. A Moth Priest walks slowly by, acknowledging them for a moment and causing a column of ancestor moths to flee to the sky for a savory moment before returning to the priest's body.

“Do you think even they see it coming?” Socucius says.

“See what coming?” he replies in earnest.

“Very good, I knew you came for a reason.” Upon reaching the top of the steps the criminal turns and stands facing back towards the Temple District. “And now we wait.”

Marsilius stands beside him, silently curious. A minute passes by and nothing occurs. Pedestrians, Legionnaires, Officers of the Watch and Priests pass by. A beggar pleads with a wealthy mage for a coin while further down the way various officials exit the White-Gold Tower, off to find the day's lunch. The sun slowly arrives at its pinnacle in the sky and with this Socucius stirs. “Here we go.”

From beyond the stone wall separating the pair from the Temple District comes a sudden burst of sound, a fount of sparks ascends just into sight and then falls back. The stone of the wall separating the Temple from the Talos Plaza dissolves in a wave of pulsating magick. All around the two men people turn towards the commotion just in time for a second burst to ascend further around the circular city, this time near the Elven Gardens. The series continues, each time a barrier distinguishing districts is dissolved with a roar of magickal sparks and a moment later the next in the series follows suit, tracing the path the pair had taken only a short while before with the sound of rushing wind. The moths from the priest's body now flutter in every direction while each legionnaire takes a different route to try and quell the crowd.

Finally the wave makes it way back to the Temple District, completing its circle around the city. Marsilius thinks the deed done and turns to the criminal, “What by the Sixteen Planes have you...” A final explosion bursts forth from the wall distinguishing their current position from the Temple before he could finish his statement. Sparks of red and gold rise from the central door in quick succession and spread about the wall, no rock flies into the air, but the wall disappears into nothingness as the magick moves over it with tumultuous fury. A sharp gust of air blows toward them from the gap created in the wall, a wind which the acolyte can sense as being dense with magick.

He stands dumbfounded for a moment. Turning to look at the criminal he simply sees the man standing quite quaintly, holding a small bottle of what appear to be fireflies swirling in a wheel like fashion. “What...” The words he needs don't come to him, his mind is nothing but confusion. “What did you do?”

The criminal turns to him, pushing a brown lock of hair away from his face with a calmness only found in the dead, “I told you before, a heist of greatest magnitude.”

“By destroying a city?!” he retorts with force.

“The city is not destroyed, no home or business suffered any damage. I am not here to steal the city, I am here to steal its symbolism, and that I have.” Socucius replies. He stands for a moment and realizing his companion is beyond words he continues, “You see, Cyrodiil is the center... or, it was, a grievance done by the Aylieds in years long past. I have simply... plucked the strings and returned the natural state of things, though you would have never known it was ever any different – blind to the world you are, like a Moth Priest without a Scroll. Revolution of the greatest kind my friend. The Wheel is no more in this city, for that magick is now mine, thanks to you.”

Marsilius mind grasps in circles for an explanation, “How me?”

“As you said, if you didn't know better you'd report me. Order does not expect Chaos to stand on a bench of his own design preaching heresies, instead he looks for it in the sewers and beneath brothels. I am a wanted man, and as long as I stood on Order's bench I was safe. I needed an agent of the system to cover my descent, lest the Office of the Watch see through my guise – nobody approached me, until you, and you hid me all through the city planting my traps. And so here we stand, but I must now go, I hope we may work together again sometime.”

With a quick flick of his wrist the criminal disappears into a shower of mist, where he would reappear Marsilius could only guess. All around him people hurry in one direction or the other, but he stands still, and as he stands he notices that he no longer feels quite as he did before. He tries to place the feeling but cannot, he only knows that he no longer feels as if he is in the same place he was only a moment earlier.
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