Oblivion: A Firm Hand

Chapter One: Siren’s Song

Mikkel Ironhand, a young Nord of a mere twenty years, always counted himself lucky. In his village of birth, all the townsfolk agreed: Mikkel was a special young man. Dubbed a ‘sable’ by the curious convergence of three signs over his birth, Mikkel was a tough fighter, a persuasive man, and a darling to the maidens of his village.

In his teens, Mikkel developed a reputation for hunting deer in the countryside with his bare hands. He’d often have a group of admirers--women--watch his fleet movements as he ran down a buck, wrestling it into submission before using his powerful hands to snap its neck. Afterwards, he’d demonstrate to one of the women watching how gentle his strong hands could be...and how skilled a lover a sable truly was.

Even as a young man, Mikkel became wealthy through the sale of the furs and meats he brought in--at no expense of wasted arrows or other equipment. He developed a taste for fine clothes that made the crude Nord men of his village cast him out, calling him a bastard Breton.

He was only a few days’ travel from his village, wrestling a deer to the ground in order to secure his next meal, when some Imperials arrested him for poaching. The charges were trumped up, and the proceedings were too quick--Mikkel knew something corrupt was at work. But he soon found himself rotting in the Imperial prison.

Mikkel’s luck, however, saved him as usual. During the Emperor’s assassination, he was able to follow the ruler and his guards as they used the sewers to escape. Making hasty promises to the dying liege, Mikkel was once again free.

Eager to start his life anew, Mikkel made his way to the far side of Cyrodiil. Making a neat sum of gold trapping as he moved west, Mikkel was once again wearing a quilted shirt and smelling of men’s perfumes when he made his way into Anvil.

Then Mikkel’s luck proved true once again. Mikkel was sitting down to eat a tender cut of some freshly prepared venison in the Count’s Arms, one of Anvil’s finest inns, when two beautiful women walked into the room. One was a tall Nord who carried around more bosom than two average women, flaunting it delicately with a carefully stitched up leather corset and low-cut cotton top. Behind her, and at least a full head shorter, was a woman of decidedly more delicate features. Mikkel figured her for an imperial, judging by her fair skin, average height, and dark hair. Her eyes, a piercing green that danced fiercely in the inn’s firelight, matched the green of the tight velvet dress she wore. And even though this second woman’s figure was not so gaudy as the first’s, the dress managed to entice Mikkel’s lust even more, drawing his eye along her subtle curves to a perilously high slit in the side of her conforming dress.

“Hello,” the Nordic woman said to Mikkel. She must’ve walked up to him while he was still admiring her friend. “My name is Signy.”

She sat down heavily in a chair opposite Mikkel. The action, though possessing its own sort of grace, provoked a tantalizing jiggle in her exposed breast, causing cleavage to dance back and forth. Mikkel’s mouth went dry. He’d been arrested over a year ago now, and went unsexed all that time, and the display before him was mind-numbingly transparent.

“H-h-hail, fair lady,” Mikkel stammered. “My name is Mikkel.”

“Mikkel? A strange name for a Breton,” Signy replied, assuming that the well-dressed and perfumed man before her was a Breton. “But then, you are a unique specimen for a Breton. So why not have a unique name, no?”

Mikkel blushed and nodded. He let her continue to think, in error, that he was a Breton. Breton’s were smaller and considered much more dainty than Nords, but he’d rather be a huge Breton than an above average Nord any day...

“And do you hail from the North, Signy?” Mikkel managed, pouring charm into his voice like water into a clay cup. She nodded. “Signy? Doesn’t that mean ‘doe’ in the Nord tongue?”

“W-w-why yes!” Signy replied happily, genuinely surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I have traveled much in my days,” Mikkel said sagely, assuming a mature and nonchalant tone. “The Nords have always fascinated me.”

“Fascinated?!” It was Signy’s turn to blush. She awkwardly forced herself to regain some composure then blurted: “So you travel much on business? A trader, perhaps? Or a merchant?”

Mikkel nodded.

“The travel must be taxing,” Signy mused, carefully eyeing Mikkel. “But your youthful stamina sees you through the long trips, I’m sure.”

Mikkel coughed, gagging on the subtext of the conversation before managing: “It is a lonely business, but I find it has its rewards.”

“Such as?” Signy smiled, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hand. Mikkel’s fell down Signy’s shirt, lost in the depths of her massive cleavage.

“Such as this lovely meeting, here, on the far side of Cyrodiil,” Mikkel said, pulling his eyes out of Signy’s breasts in order to favor her with a sly smile.

“Really?” Signy giggled. And jiggled. “It is funny you should mention the loneliness of your travels...”

Mikkel arched an eyebrow.

“I too am lonely,” Signy confided in a conspiratorial tone, leaning so close to Mikkel that he could taste the sweetness of her breath. “Meet me at Gwenon Farm, tonight, and we can continue to keep each other company in more personal surroundings. Here’s a map of the countryside, with Gwenon Farm marked for you.” Mikkel gasped slightly as her hand slipped into her front and pulled a folded map from between her breasts. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Mikkel.”

Mikkel nodded as Signy gracefully stood and turned to leave. He fancied he saw her friend biting her lip as she glanced at him before the pair casually left.

* * * * *

Mikkel was strong, lucky, and amorous, but he was no fool. He’d heard rumors about women luring men out into the countryside to make off with their belongings and their pride. Mikkel was a stranger here in Anvil, and hence no pride, but he did want to keep his possessions. So, before heading to the remote Gwenon Farm, he stocked up on supplies from some of the local shops. After filling his travel bag with tools for the night’s encounter, he slept the rest of the sunlight hours away, leaving the Count’s Arms as the sun was setting.

* * * * *

It was a Mikkel had figured. The farmhouse was some ways from the nearest road, out of eyeshot and earshot, and the sheltering trees that surrounded the western-style farmhouse would make a hasty nighttime exit nearly impossible, if not outright perilous.

Mikkel trod loudly, torch in one hand and travel pack in the other, up the gentle slope to the farmhouse’ front door, and found Signy’s Imperial friend waiting for her, leaning sensuously in the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering of many candles from within.

“Hail, milady,” Mikkel bowed courteously, although he tried to sound anxious. “My name is Mikkel. Signy had bid me meet her here. Have I come at the wrong hour?”

“No Mikkel,” the Imperial shook her head gently. “Your timing is perfect. Please come in.”

Mikkel followed the woman’s gesture into the house. The den of the building had been converted into a large bedroom. A bed larger than any he’d ever seen dominated half the room, with ornate candelabras standing in each corner of the room. Opposite the bed lay a large but simple dresser.

“My name is Faustina,” the Imperial woman introduced herself, standing directly beside the bed. “I must beg your pardon, but Signy asked me to keep you entertained for the time being.”

“Of course,” Mikkel muttered, taking the opportunity to fully admire Faustina’s green velvet dress. “Are you related to Signy?”

“Gods, no,” Faustina laughed lightly. “We are friends. In business, in our hobbies, in our social circles, we are friends who share all these things.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Mikkel said, looking around not a little nervously. A short hallway to the left of the front door ended in a heavy, closed door. To the right of the front door, Faustina looked longingly at him, and that proved to draw his attention more reliably than the mystery door.

“You need not weigh yourself down,” Faustina gestured towards the dresser before reaching behind her back for the laces of her dress. “I find these clothes entirely unnecessary at this juncture, don’t you?”

Mikkel, his back to Faustina, nodded as he stripped down to his pants. He put his shirts, traveling cloak, and gloves inside the dresser, while his heavy pack he placed on the dresser’s top. He was removing something from his pack when he ears pricked at the soft sound of a dagger being drawn from its sheath.

“Actually, Mikkel,” Faustina’s voice assumed an edge to it. “Why don’t you leave? You’re the one who is entirely unnecessary here. I will take your possessions, however.”

Mikkel, his back still turned to Faustina, slowly withdrew a scroll from his pack. He unrolled the delicate parchment cracked with age and gently laid it on the table.

“But I haven’t even seen Signy yet,” Mikkel said innocently, pretending to be hurt.

“Yes too bad, you’ll have to leave without her tenders of affection,” Faustina said, mockery ringing in her voice.

“No,” Mikkel said as he turned to face Faustina. She held a silver dagger a handbreadth from his chest.

“You can survive, Mikkel, if you leave.”

“No. I refuse”

“Then I suppose you’ll get to see Signy after all. Signy! Tsarrina!” Faustina shouted.

At her words, the hallway door was flung open and Signy and Khajiit woman came charging into the room. Signy wielded a silver short sword and the Khajiit--Tsarrina--wielded two curved daggers. Faustina lunged forward, plunging her dagger where Mikkel’s heart would be were he to stay still. But Mikkel neatly spun to the right, allowing Faustina’s clumsy lunge to send her colliding roughly with the dresser. Signy came next, swinging her sword in a broad, low stroke. Mikkel jumped over the attack, somersaulting over the tall Nord’s head--barely fitting beneath the ceiling--and back-kicking Signy into the wall behind him. She hit the wall hard.

Mikkel landed on his feet just in time to get tackled by Tsarrina. Her two daggers held behind his back, the khajiit woman clearly planned to run him into the far wall, ramming the twin blades into back for a certain death. But she was assuming he was a Breton, not a Nord. He broke her stride, tripping the two of them while spinning about so that he would land on her. He spread her forearms apart, bringing the knives away from him, before head-butting the feline woman into a stunned or senseless state.

Silver slashed at Mikkel’s throat. His right hand flew up and blocked Faustina’s silver dagger. She screamed in rage as the attack drew only the slightest amount of blood from Mikkel’s hand. She raised her free hand into the air, causing the air to ripple as she summoned some form of mystical aid. Mikkel stood, grabbed her wrist, and threw her into the wall. Her forehead connected with a thud and she fell solidly onto the floor.

“What are you?” Signy groaned, standing stiffly against the far wall of the bedroom. “You’re no Breton merchant.”

“Well,” Mikkel said between heavy breaths. “That goes without saying. I am a Nord, born under the sign of the Sable.”

“The Sable?” Signy gasped. As a Nord, she knew the significance of that sign.

Again Signy charged, but this time her attack was fueled by something else. Mikkel could not dodge, could not deflect the sudden berserk move. It was all he could do to turn, shifting his center of mass so the short sword merely glanced off his side. Still, a gash had perforated his ribs. He continued twisting his weight, his bloodied right hand forcing her shoulder back, throwing off her weight, as he tackled her like a panicked doe. The two toppled onto the oversized bed, Signy’s grip on the sword loosening enough that it clattered to the bedside in the process. Mikkel’s velvet pants, scuffed and torn from the fighting, bulged as he straddled the furious, squirming Nord.

“You know, you ladies should screen your victims a little bit better,” Mikkel scolded mildly, smiling as his hips ground against Signy’s. “An eventuality like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“What are you going to do now, Sable?” Signy asked, grinding her teeth as she tried to whip her forehead into her captor’s.

“Please, Signy, don’t call me by my sign. It’s so formal...” Mikkel grinned in self-satisfaction. “Right now, I think it’s time for some light reading...”

At those words, Mikkel sprang back off the left side of the bed, making for the dresser. Signy, now freed, fumbled for the sword that had fallen at the right side of the bed. Her hand grasped the hilt tightly as Mikkel reached the scroll he’d laid out on the table. Mikkel had always lived his life by his luck, and sometimes his insistence on living by his luck seemed insane. In fact, many people from his village used to accuse him of being a worshipper of Sheogorath, the Daedra Prince of insanity. But he never left things entirely up to luck, he reminded himself as he slipped on a Ring of Dibella, the goddess of beauty and love while also donning a Ring of Deflection.

Mikkel had read the first line of the scroll when he felt Signy’s sword tip against his bare back. He held his breath, waiting for the killing stroke, but never felt it come. After a moment’s delay, he slowly turned to face Signy, who slowly lowered the sword. Her eyes were glazed with tears, and her mouth hung open.

“It’s not magic,” Signy muttered.

“Hardly,” Mikkel admitted. “It’s not even good poetry.”

“I could run you through right now...” Signy said, raising her sword again. “Nothing is stopping me from killing you right now.”

“I could ask you not to kill me, if it would help,” Mikkel added innocently, praying to Dibella that his enchanted ring and his luck would work.

“You knew I was going for the sword,” Signy muttered, working out her confusion slowly. “And yet you went for a poem?”

“A riddle, actually,” Mikkel explained. “It’s supposed to hold the secret to an Ayleid treasure trove.”

Silence.

“Curious?”

Signy once again lowered her sword in response.

“What do you want in exchange for the answer to the riddle?” Signy asked, her eyes still misty with lust. Between his ring and his natural allure, she was fighting her hormone’s natural responses even as her greed began to sway towards the handsome Nord as well.

“To live,” Mikkel responded simply.

“Tell me where to find the treasure and I’ll let you go,” Signy said quickly, halfheartedly.

“Not good enough, love,” Mikkel shook his head. “You’ll still have the sword once I tell you where it is, and besides, the treasure is guarded. You’ll need me to get it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Signy sighed as she tried to shake her head clear of the sexual thoughts stirring inside.

“I told you. I’m lonely. And you came to me, remember?”

“Signy!” Tsarrina snarled as she regained consciousness. “What are you doing? Kill him!”

“Wait!” Signy cried out, causing the angry Khajiit to stop in mid strike. “He knows where an even better treasure lies.”

“Really?” Tsarrina, coming under Mikkel’s enchantment, lowered her blade. Khajiit women were even more driven by their hormones than the other nine sentient races of Tamriel: she practically drooled at the sight of Mikkel. Her eyes fell to his crotch. “When can we have this other treasure?”

“Not that,” Signy snapped quickly. “An Ayleid treasure.”

“Fetcher!” Faustina cursed as she now regained her senses. “I’m going to kill you!”

“No!” Both Signy and Tsarrina shouted together.

“He’s using some sort of magic, dumb bitches,” Faustina snarled. “Look! I’ll cast a dispell and you’ll see that he’s driving you by your juices...”

As Faustina warped the air between them, Mikkel reflexively put up his hand in defense, even though the act would have no effect on whether or not his ring of deflection would work or not. Faustina’s powerful dispell filled the room, a kaleidoscope of magic bouncing off his ring of deflection. For at least a few minutes, no magic would work in this room.

“Damn!” cursed all four of the room’s occupants.

Tsarrina and Signy had their minds cleared just enough to realize they’d been manipulated. Faustina realized immediately that her magic would be useless in the fight. And Mikkel realized his ruse had failed--the treasure was a total lie and the poem was merely a bawdy ballad. Mikkel reacted by quickly snatching Signy’s sword from her hands, he waved it menacingly back and forth as he backed against the far wall of the bedroom. He had nowhere to run, but the women feared to attack him even more now that he was armed. Before the women could decide what to do, however, the front door was crashed in and two City Watchmen tumbled into the room.

“The jig is up, ladies!” shouted one of the watchmen, a Redguard woman, as she leveled her sword at Faustina. “Put your weapons down, we know what you’ve been doing. The Vixens have robbed their last man.”

“Sir, please stand back while we take care of this,” the second watchmen, a Redguard man, said to Mikkel as he pointed his sword at Tsarrina.

“What do you mean, ‘take care of this’?” Mikkel demanded, panicked by the look in the man’s eyes. “Aren’t you going to escort them to the castle prison?”

“No.”

“Gogan?!” the woman hissed.

“We’re the only City Watchmen who know where these women are, Maelona,” Gogan responded angrily. “These sluts have been fleecing our city’s good husbands and merchants for weeks, and no one would question us if we cut them down for their crimes.”

“Are you fetching nuts?” Mikkel exclaimed. “I won’t let you get away with cold-blooded murder over a series of thefts.”

“Then I’ll have to deal with you, too,” Gogan muttered darkly. “A big bust like this could get my wife and I into the Anvil court’s good graces. And a drifter isn’t going to stop that.”

Gogan drew back his blade, preparing to decapitate Faustina where she stood. Mikkel leapt forward, using his sword to block the killing blow, giving Faustina a moment to dodge the attack. Maelona, meanwhile, struck at Tsarrina, skillfully knocking her daggers out of her hands. Mikkel kicked Maelona in the side, allowing Signy and Tsarrina to join Faustina as they huddled in the far corner of the room. Gogan swung his blade weakly at Mikkel, cutting a quarter of the way through the Nord’s left shoulder. Mikkel screamed in pain and thrust his sword into Gogan’s gut. As the bloodthirsty Gogan shuddered out his last breaths caught on Mikkel’s blade, Maelona screamed as she tried to avenge her husband.

Maelona’s sword dug four inches into Mikkel’s hip, gushing blood as the Nord collapsed with the Redguard he’d just killed. Maelona, however, was unable to enjoy her vengeance, as Faustina’s dainty dagger was soon buried in Maelona’s throat.

All went red for Mikkel.