The Thalmor in Woodhearth

Recap of event, 6/27/2014:

A bosmer crier, flanked by two Thalmor sorceresses, climbs one of the parapets overlooking the docks district, turns, and blows his horn thrice to call the attention of the crowd. Once he had their attention, he delivered the following speech:

Town Crier wrote

Herey herey, by decree of the Thalmor, new laws shall hereby be instated onto the City of Woodhearth by the order of Lord Vorian Stormor to do away with the unlawful happenings from a Barbaric gathering of people.

The Docks are hereby closed for an undetermined amount of time in to investigate reports of unlawful substances being shipped. During this time, no ship may enter or leave the Port, and shipments already in will seized until a thorough search has been completed.

Furthermore, all merchants who have used the docks for shipping must release their shipping manifests to the Thalamor for the last six months to for this investigation. Refusal to release them will be considered an admittance of guilt and consequences will be sever.

All caravans must from this point forward submit to a search, and forfeit all Moon Sugar in their possession. Alchemical and other provisioning materials may also be confiscated on guard’s discretion. This search will extend to ships coming in when the port opens again.

We will also be interviewing select individuals during this time; refusal to comply will be taken as admittance of guilt.

For the longest time, Woodhearth has gone without law and the vermin have been allowed to take over the streets and rule over you. The Thalmor has taken it upon themselves to remedy this slight oversight.

These changes will only be temporary as we root out the filth littering the city, the Thalmor ensures these vermin will be dealt with severely.

That is all.

Later that evening, a Thalmor soldier is found dead and naked at the foot of the stairs. Most people suspect murder, and a few recall that someone had raised an alarm on the western pier, but the stories don't seem to add up very well.

Thalmor security on the docks increases; a guard is thereafter posted near the gangplank of every deck. Most notice that the guards themselves are all high-elves, with the bosmer city watch being regulated to patrols or lighter, less important duties.

At least one of the Bosmer Sergeants was beaten in front of the Embassy for incompetence.

Ri'sari comes out of hiding and meets with the Goblin Gnarlus to discuss a deal that would see his clan and their Skooma out of the city. He offers to repair the Goblin's boat in secret over two nights so the Goblin may sail away in exchange for passage to an undisclosed destination. The Goblin shows warranted distrust in the Khajiit clan leader and says he will draft a document to hold Ri'sari to his word.

Ri'sari tells Gnarlus not to delay and to meet him near Five Claws tavern under the moons tomorrow.

Ri'sari instructs his recently freed clan favored Kazzah to gather as many trusted clan mates as he can and bring them to the location where they held the late clan mother's funeral. He says to send all others to Five Claws with the promise of coin and peace so they can be observed before being escorted through the swamps to the secret meeting location outside of the city.

T'yele stood, a scowl etched onto her features. Without further glance at the Khajiit named Ri'sani, she turned on her heel and made her way from the hostile environs of the Five-Claws. She paused outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air and looking out over the rain-drenched center of Woodhearth.

I have done as asked and now we shall see what comes of it. The thought deepened the scowl on her face. Which is fouler, T'yele? That there are traitors amid the Thalmor contingent here or that the lesser of evils is to allow one group to prevail in breaking the law in order to bring stability here and preserve it? If there were but more Marines... T'yele exhaled slowly at the lament.

She paced with precision down the spiraling ramp from Five-Claws, features drawn tightly and narrowed eyes missing little. To the onlooker, the glower on the Altmer's face grew deeper and darker. What few people that braved the pelting rain gave the ill-humored elf a wide berth.

Orders are orders, I suppose - but that doesn't mean I must like them. The thoughts swirled behind the grim-faced expression she wore. I trust they know what they are doing.

Heedless of the rain that drenched the tabard over her armor, T'yele continued her patrol along Woodhearth's mostly deserted streets, lanterns' light diffused by darkness and rain guiding her subconscious steps through the silent wet of night. The only sounds were the staccato drum of rain on her armor and the darkened town, and the muted splash of her footfalls on the paths she trod.

Let us see if Ri'sari's clan will prove a fruitful means to root out the Veiled betrayers among the Thalmor here. Her sigh of exasperated frustration hissed into the muting curtain of rain in the dark. And if their strength is sufficient enough to neutralize the other skooma smugglers as that puffed up cat seems to think by his veiled threats.

Now to see to Lady Isole and what deceits she hides. Stendarr give me strength and patience.

(( Where are the Thalmor? We need a run in before Wednesday. Can any of you be on these characters on Monday? ))

((Isn't Story RP days on Wensday and Friday? Not Monday))

(( Yeah. Just want to see if we can get something going on before then. :))

I can be on with T'yele today (Monday) at about 7pm EST (5pm MST, GMT-7). IC-ly, T'yele has pursued her investigation into Thalmor local corruption and/or treason not only in Woodhearth, but further afield as well. T'yele has made little secret of hiding her motives and investigations - which has no doubt caused some ripples among Thalmor (and perhaps others!) who are disloyal to the AD and the Crown. Whatever other terms used to describe her, disingenuous would likely not be one of them.

T'yele stood at the top of the stairs to Five-Claws, scowling into the rain-drenched dark. Neither Ri'sari nor the goblin Gnarlus were making themselves public and her frustration was increasing in direct proportion to her sodden tabard, cloak and hood. The air was heavy and laden with moisture and only served to add to her discomfort and the depth of her scowl.

Patience, T'yele, Dusk was not built in a day. The thought did little to ease the glower from her face. Venting a frustrated sigh, she pulled her cloak tighter about her lank form and made her way down the stairs and into the soggy gloom of the rain- and night-drenched streets of Woodhearth. The sands of the hourglass are quickening and this lack of progress is maddening. Or perhaps that is merely this dire weather.

Again she vented a frustrated sigh, adding the sound to the sound of pelting rain and the soft squish of her steps in the town's rain-obscured dark.

The traitorous Thalmor of the Veiled Heritance and the skooma smugglers must certainly know I am about. I could not be less discrete lest I hired a town crier to announce my intent and presence. The thought brought a low and humorless laugh to her throat. That such a conspicuous course likely made her a target for both groups bothered her not at all.

Lord Vorian rose from his desk, his face a mask of anger.

“How many?” he demanded.

His aide and personal squire, the new watch Captain, Jedit, didn’t flinch. She had long weathered the wrath of this uncompromising noble. “Four.”

The Lord scowled down at his desk, and his papers. The parchments had piled in this room, almost as high as Jedit’s hip, and were threatening to conquer the office that had been previously occupied by the treasonous Lady Isole, who had been quick-time shipped back to Auridon for questioning. The office veritably waxed with evidence, the cumulative logs of enough merchant transactions to bury even the Lady's staunchest supporters. The particular papers on Lord Vorian’s desk were, however, of a more dire nature; incident reports surrounding the deaths of several Thalmor soldiers. One of them, Jedit knew, had been only three days from retirement.

Many soldiers had taken this posting thinking that the bumpkin bosmer wouldn’t put up much of a fight, and that they would be able to relax in some comfort in the Aldmeri districts. Only she, Vorian himself, and the Queen knew the direness of the situation that the resident khajiit and corrupt bosmer had caused. Lady Isole, as well, Jedit supposed; after all, she had created the mire with graft.

And the bosmer guards she had been appointed to lead had proven reticent, despite the floggings.

“That seems to indicate we’ve found the truth. Doesn’t it?” The mer's voice was icy-cold. He was in a killing mood.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Jedit searched his face, in her stoic and patient way. Lord Vorian could be a hateful mer, it was true, but he was also fair and required a measure of proof before acting. Doing anything else would be beneath the Dominion, and the standard of behavior they struggled to uphold. He could be remarkably compassionate as well. This did not seem to be one of those times. The deaths of his personal soldiers had incurred his ire.

Lord Vorian sank back to his desk and pulled a fresh parchment from a box. Dipping pen to inkwell, he began to write. Neat handwriting.

"You are sure he returned to the ship?"

"Yes, My Lord."

“Then, we have our proof. Go and gather the rest of the soldiers from the Feather. Arm them as quickly as you can. I am giving you a Writ of Seizure. Tear that ship apart, bow to stern, beam for beam. Find the rest of the skooma. Arrest all involved.”

He quickly spread the sand over the drying ink, and affixed his seal of office. Jedit accepted the rolled parchment without reading it. She already knew what it contained.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Overlooking the bay area, Lord Stormor paced, each step slow and methodical and furious.

Behind him, one of his scribes stood by, relatively cowed, but he did not notice. An account of the last week’s proceedings had finally reached him, and the news was worse than the original news which had brought him and his companions – fools that they were – to Woodhearth.

Someone – he didn’t know precisely who - had tried to assassinate the leader of this run-away clan instead of arresting him. More than one person.

He could fleece his ranks thoroughly, but ultimately the responsibility for this rested on his shoulders, or at least that must have been the intention. He stared at the sea and his scribe flinched slightly; the gray eyes seemed more furious than the storm gathering upon the far horizon. Just as sailors would be wary if the skies darkened in the evenings, so too would the scribe need to tread lightly.

Someone else’s hand had been thrust into this pot. Someone from Auridon. Something political, no doubt, perhaps someone he had displaced in taking this position, or someone who took offense to his strange rise in power. These were strange times, with the Queen, a woman who had abandoned her country in the good times and only returned to lead them in war, and many nobles had rode upon her coat-tails. Most did not appreciate it, those country gentlemen who had supported her, the ones with vision and fervor and – a base survival instinct, truth be told. Perhaps someone who wished him ill had sent the assassins. Stormor disliked them. A ‘country gentleman’ whose title had come at great cost and great suffering, there would be no end to those detractors.

But he would weed them.

Who profited by the skooma trade?

He paused just at the end of the balcony, set his hands upon the stone and felt the solidarity there. The Dominion would survive. He would weather this storm.

“Listen closely,” he said, his voice composed.

The scribe hurried forward.

“Send a letter to Queen Ayrenn. The usual greetings and perfunctory statements.”

The scribe scribbled furiously. Auridon court life demanded a certain… flair, and Stormor let the scribe finish before continuing.

“It is to my great regret that I must report some measure of failure. Unbeknownst to me, another officer in the Thalmor of some worth and merit has had his, or her, hand within my affairs. If the most gracious Queen would grant us the favor of illuminating her most humble servant to the full circle of gentry who were privy to the goings and doings in the provincial kingdom of the Valenwood, in the town of Woodhearth, her majesty’s loyal followers would be eternally grateful.

"Perfunctory farewells and honors, ecetera, and so on."

The scribe took down the words. Lord Stormor spent the time wondering whether he should ask for more troops, more men to defend the town against what retaliation might come. His own were now few in number, largely killed in the mess on the pier, and the only thing standing between Woodhearth and total chaos seemed to be the militia, though they were often worthless and would declare their contracts ended the moment they hit resistance, and simply walk off. The altmer he trusted, especially the ones clever enough to play themselves fools, had been dispatched to other areas. Only a handful of his personal guard now remained, and of those, he needed most of them here with him to control the flesh-eating rabble.

His mind worked furiously, the product of many years at a private, incestuous intrigue against his fellow mer, and mer were clever.

No. He would not risk his own men in this. He could not afford to. Someone, somewhere, laughed at him. Surely they would be doing so, if they could see him so frustrated!

“Bring the letter to me inside and I shall affix my seal. Start a second letter – no, a notice. There will be a draft. And a formal request to the beast-king. This is his refuse I'm taking out, after all, isn't it? Notify him we wish permission to enter his territory under arms.”