Rastislav
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Arc 8: Chapter LXXVI: Days of Triumph
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 22:30:34 +0000 UTC(General POV)
Mavros' mind blanked as he finally climbed up the crate next to his smiling mother and was given a perfect view of Mournhold's central boulevard.
The young Dunmer had never seen so many people gathered in one place that were not Argonian warriors on the march, and even that was when he snuck out with his friends to look at the army of the enemy.
But today's gathering was not marred with childish stupidity and he could do nothing to stop his grin from forming as he looked over the many different styles of clothing from elves as far from Mournhold as Black Marsh.
And the noise! Oh by the Daedra he could barely hear himself think!
He had never expected to see something like this in the bleak city he had lived in for his whole life.
The city which, as he suddenly realized, would never be the same.
Even before three days back when the news arrived, Mourhnold had begun its transformation, as thousands of troops entered and left the city every day, followed by workers and craftsmen who began mass repairs and renovations, all the while traders started appearing by the dozen, competing with each other to get a first dibs in the city.
Mavros was really proud once he shared those thoughts with his mother, something she praised him for for hours.
She seemed to praise him for the smallest of things these days.
Probably beca-
Eyes twitching, Mavros tried focusing on the fact he had seen a proper elven ship a week ago but his thoughts were already moving to dark places.
Not all was perfect in Mournhold.
The constant coming and going of soldiers, merchants, and settlers brought about a new kind of chaos as everyone scrambled for the smallest bits of property, causing only loud bidding wars and threats to occur and inevitably ending up in violence.
Which then brought them down on everyone's heads.
The Dres were as most other Great Houses save for Dagoth and Sadras to a lesser degree, well known to the populace. The once-slaver house were known to be thrifty businessmen and wise logisticians, but the trait that truly came into focus while they patrolled Mournhold in their thousands was that of harsh disciplinarians.
Crime rates fell to a crawl in all forms that were not too petty to notice as everyone, and Mavros meant everyone, that was not a complete s'wit wanted to escape the gaze of the Dres.
Those who did not quickly found themselves beaten, flogged, and ultimately hanged depending on the crime.
On the one hand, the city was in relative peace... on the other everyone was terrified.
The news of glorious victory and peace only served to alleviate some of it as the guards increased their rotations in response, but at least the people had hope to keep them going...
Unlike the Argonians, who even now hid in their designated district, most of them refusing to leave their temporary homes and those that did looking sluggish and terrified.
Mavros was confused at this but one of his more shady friends told him how four days ago a bunch of them died to heart attacks or something.
A loud blaring of a twisted wailing horn nearly startled the young Mer into jumping off his crate but his mother's constant grip stopped it. She directed him with a frown and looked just about to start a lecture, but their attention was drawn by the gates opening as thousands of pristinely armored elves began marching in.
Thousands upon thousands of boots marched in perfect unison as drums beat and heralds rode by every unit and in what must have been magically enhanced voices proclaimed the name and deeds of the force they accompanied, no doubt going ignored by most but painting a magnificent image in Mavros' mind.
So many people had stood together to bring freedom to him and his...
He knew the thought naive, at least to an extent, but he could not help his smile non the less.
Unit after unit marched past them, their deeds greater than those who came before them, even as those who came first had earned glory beyond most warriors. The gathered people were awed utterly, and the time came for the final group to march.
But as the final band approached there were no grand proclamations, or heralds exalting their glories, only absolute silence as the Hortator rode his massive steed with his head held high.
Every single part of him looked immaculate, from the robes that looked to be made of shadow to the armor upon which runes glowed with power most would never know, each and every piece of gear looked to be the creation of something beyond a mere mortal, and the person himself somehow managed to top it all with merely his gaze.
No words were needed for the one who had nearly burned Black Marsh for his people after all.
(Reyvin's POV)
'What ridiculous posturing' Dagoth Ur drawled into my mind 'You should just proclaim yourself their god and they will all fall over themselves to worship you.'
I couldn't help but grin "Cope."
'Your insolence knows no bounds descendant, leave this foolish path you have undertaken!'
My grin widens "Seethe."
'...You would truly give it all up? Now that all I ever desired is within your grasp you would throw it all away for such petty things as morality?'
Had I been made of flesh, my cheeks would be hurting now "Mald."
Finally he breaks 'Fuck you!' And shuts up.
Heh.
-----
(General POV)
The celebrations in Mournhold lasted for nearly a full day as the soldiers finally began to unwind after the long march, the citizens and reservists all but throwing themselves at them to buy anything from a story to recognition, all the way up to snagging an up and comer for themselves by some of the more bright-minded ladies.
Though not all were permitted to simply disband for the day as those few who had stood out during the many battles were called to the Inner City, even as a good number of them doubted they would be given any kind of true recognition.
There were far too many of them called for that after all.
And oh how wrong they were proven as nearly two thousand elves were called before the Hortator and his now reassembled council and their sovereign personally told everyone of their deeds before allotting them with both wealth and land.
Yrel of Kragenmoor barely contained the shaking of his legs as he listened to the many champions of the army be called forth and praised, some of them being directly congratulated for cutting down over ten enemies in a single bout or taking grievous injury and still standing.
All heroes beyond Yrel of course, he could barely even remember the battle after it was done which probably just meant he was a coward.
"-el of Kragenmoor!" The herald called and he nearly leaped from his boots before quickly settling himself and marching out with the closest excuse he had for steadiness.
Only once he stopped moving did he raise his head and nearly felt the urge to flee once it finally set in where he was standing.
In what was once the Palace of Almalexia, in front of a grand fresco depicting the entire journey of the Hortator up to and including the burning of the Hist, stood a throne.
It was a magnificent seat indeed, carved from the finest wood that looked suspiciously like magically dried Hist, and lined with silver and amethyst. That singular chair was probably worth more than some towns.
All of it paled in his mind when compared to the person seated upon it.
The mere idea of comparing the deceptively young elf before him to anything felt like a crime to Yrel's shaking mind.
The Hortator was patient as he processed everything, but the six Great Lords near him were not so, and the Archmagister looked just about ready to deliver one of his usual scathing remarks but was preempted as the sacred sovereign finally spoke.
"Yrel of Kragenmoor." The powerful voice banished all doubt from the warrior's mind in less than an instant "Do you know why you have been called?"
'Oh shit.' His mind began reeling 'How did I fuck up?!'
"Speak boy!" The Telvanni finally lost his patience.
Yrel flinched under the gaze of so many great ones and stood at attention "I... do not, Hortator."
"That is odd." The sacred sovereign muttered and before Yrel's mind could spiral even further he went on "Because I am quite certain I saw you personally slay exactly thirty seven Argonians and remain standing until the end of the battle, nearly bleeding out as I took to the field."
Yrel's eyes widened but all he could do was stand there, gaping like a fool.
The warriors all around him began muttering amongst themselves and giving him freshly appraising looks, none of them even daring to imagine what the Hortator had just said may be a lie.
'Was this why everyone was giving me odd looks while we marched?' He finally realized.
"But" The Hortator went on "I see your mind still rejects this." There was a tense silence that followed but the one who spoke did not look offended in the least "So allow me to show you."
A finger was pointed at him, and Yrel saw images of himself doing things he did not even imagine himself capable of, and looking downright heroic as he used Grey's saber to cut through the enemy with fire and steel, inspiring his comrades to do much the same.
He blinked and flinched as the knowledge settled, his heart attempting to explode through his ears.
"Sarano" The Hortator spoke, drawing the attention of the Redoran Archmaster "He is one of yours, correct?"
"A Retainer*, yes." The scarred warrior nodded "Not for long after that showing, of course."
"I will leave the rightful promotions in your capable hands then." The Hortator accepted easily "But I too have rewards of my own to give" He faced Yrel again "For your deeds and valor in the Deshaan Campaign, I award you, Yrel of Kragenmoor, with eighty acres of fertile farmland to the north of Mournhold, alongside a large home within the city itself, you are also to be given a flat sum of thirty thousand septims and a choice between a pair of either guar or horse." He pointed a hand to a nearby door "You may present yourself before the scribes for the exact details of it all."
The once-cobbler stood there stunned before rapidly bowing his head and muttering a string of thanks as the realization his life had just been irreversibly changed began to set in.
He was utterly dazed as he stepped away, somehow managing to ignore the curious looks of his comrades as he retreated into a nearby corner and just... stared into the wall.
He came back together an entire three hours later, and the award ceremony was still going on.
------
Davos whistled as he strolled through the many winding streets of the new capital, the people barely noticing his passage as he pulled on his patron to avoid the bother and prayed that she was not too amusement starved for the day.
He was finally noticed as he approached his destination and the group of cheap muscle visibly flinched at the sight of him "Good evening gentlemen" He smiled at them "Would you kindly inform the lady of the house that she has important guests?"
The guards before him were utterly still before the youngest among them gathered himself and nodded rapidly "Of-of course my lord, please follow me."
Davos' smile remained on his face as he was led through the underground base and entered the now familiar gathering place of the excuse of an organization the modern Camonna Tong had become.
The rowdy group of 'entrepreneurs' stilled as he entered, and some of them went for their weapons before it clicked just who they were looking at and all of them without exception paled.
'Found out who 'Davos' was finally?' He scoffed internally, if they failed at that then he may as well have just culled them for sheer stupidity.
The doors leading to their boss's office creaked open and the woman exited, followed closely by her second "Lord Davos" Kingpin Varana bowed with a fake smile "How may our little family aid the Hortator's Right Hand?"
His expression remained utterly unchanged as he drawls, channeling his inner Boss "I believe you know exactly why I am here. Do not waste both of our days by procrastinating."
The 'Kingpin' flinches minutely but still keeps her fake expression "But of course." She directs a look at her second and they share quick nod before both lookin back to him "We would be fools to let an opportunity like this fall through our hands, even if it means binding ourselves into service."
Davos says nothing.
The woman does an admirable job at hiding her frustration as her smile turns only slightly brittle and she silently inhales "How may the Camonna Tong serve the honored Hortator's interests today?"
"Much better" Davos claps his hands the moment she finishes speaking "How about we take a seat first" His expression shifts into an irritatingly smug one as he adds "This might take a while."
(Reyvin's POV)
The city below me remains awake even as midnight nears, but the noise fails to reach me and after months of trudging through swamp I finally get to enjoy a cup of coffee without any true pressure, or at least immediate pressure.
Which is of course the exact moment I feel a familiar presence materialize in the chair opposite me and fail contain a long, tired sigh.
Not one day of peace! Aaarrghhhh!
------
*Retainer in the context of the Redoran means follower of a noble, basically the lowest level of a house member. Retainer in the context of the Dagoth means a noble follower, effectively a member of Reyvin's household that is recognized as a noble under his service.
Sorry for the confusion but I still haven't gotten around to reorganizing the rankings for the sixth house.
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A/n: A slight bit fillery I know, but I felt like writing some side perspectives so here we are!
Comments
Ryan Helmbold
I normally dislike multiple povs, but I absolutley love them in this fic, theyre so fekin satisfying and just the right amount too
Hakkira
Thank you kindly for the chapter π
