Applying Exotic Metaphysics (Tyrant, 23.k) (Patreon)

Back at Dragonbridge, if someone said the dangling cat was going to be a political figure someday, she would have been the first to laugh at them.Nobody cared about the alleycat, back then. Chasing goats. Jabbing at the fish with a sharpened stick. Playing with the others. Kirat Eriksson was always underfoot. Smaller and slighter than the hardy nordic children. Always freezing, most of the year, bundled up in furs.

Nowadays, though, she was usually the most visible person in the room. People could feel her legacy. Nerevar had a presence to him, one that still lived in her alongside the strength Corprus had given her. This was why she kept Voryn around so much, to take some of the attention away from her.

He wasn’t here now, which made it a little harder to distract people. Eyes on the left, hands on the right, as the saying goes.

So she had to do other things to keep people off balance.

Like standing atop the table, an old Redoran platter in her hands, a nice new dent in it from where she'd knocked the councilor out of his chair with it. The dark elf sat on the ground, looking up at her, eyes wide.

The rest of the Councilors- excepting Divayth- started muttering derisively.

The throne room of Mournhold looked almost like it had last time Kirat was here. The biggest difference was the table sat in the center of the room, chairs set out for each of the councilors that came as representatives from their Great Houses. Another difference was that the throne itself was empty. King Helseth was in Cyrodiil, meeting with the Emperor while the grand council was settling things.

“How dare you!” Grand Dres-whatever goggled up at her, hand on his face where she’d struck him. He reached for his knife- but she’d already taken it, stashed it in the small of her back along with half of his coins and a housekey.

“It’s beasts like you that-”

She threw it at him this time. The platter cracked against his arm as he protected his face, and the pieces clattered down next to him.Then, she stood on his drink, the bottle barely feeling her weight, with the peculiar way she balanced on it.

“If you think I’m an animal, then settle your s’wit ass on the ground. Because I am above you.”Maria was probably a bad influence. This was exactly the sort of thing she would do. Then again, this was Dunmer politics; Maria was probably the ideal politician for this sort of thing.

“The gulakhan were invited as a neutral party.” She says. “They will stay.”

Standing in the corner of the room were the Ashlander Gulakhan- something between a second in command and an emissary. Kirat had ridden through ash and dust to meet with each of the tribes, and had gone to a lot of effort to get them all here. She was going to be pissed if the rest of the Council kicked them out. They haven’t said a word since they entered Mournhold- It was something cultural that neither Kirat or Nerevar quite understood, yet.

“How about we do this as the Grand Council was meant to?” Dram Bero- the Hlaalu Councilor- chimed in. “It will be our first true test. We vote.”

“I concur.” Divayth responded. “For that matter, I vote to permit their presence here.” He had that same soft smile on his face that he always had, like he knew something she didn’t. Through his words, she could feel his sincerity. It wasn’t until recently that she realized that her ability to tell truth from lie wasn’t just an aspect of being, well, herself, but it was part of a practice, a meditation that House Mora had taught her while she was growing up in Resdayn.

Her ears flicked as she remembered it was Nerevar they taught, not Kirat. The line was blurring every day.

“I vote against.” The Dres councilor snarled, standing up. He sat angrily in his chair again, refusing to even look up at Kirat- he glared at her boots instead.

“I agree with our Telvanni cohort.” The Indoril councilor lied. He wore a mask, like the rest of his House, of Nerevar’s own face. “Their way of life has preserved dunmeri culture, and if we are to discuss the future of our people, we must know our past. I vote for.” There was a slight falsehood there- He didn’t completely agree- but he was still voting the way she wanted, so she didn’t touch it.

“House Dagoth abstains.” Dagoth Araynys said. She glared at the three Ashlanders. But Kirat saw what hid behind those eyes. It was complicated- the Ashlanders may have hated outsiders, but they hated House Dagoth more. If a former Heartwright had voted to keep them, they might have walked out on the spot.

Everyone treated Araynys at arm’s length. It made sense- House Dagoth had been a bit of a ruddyman for a long time, and Kirat and Voryn’s adventures hadn’t done quite enough to mend their reputation.

“I agree with Councilor Ulien.” Hleran- the newest Redoran Councilor- snapped. “This is supposed to be the reforging of the grand council. The Ashlanders have decided they will reject the Houses, and so they have no right to be here.”

Dram Bero frowned. He could do the math. With two for, two against, and one abstaining, it was up to him.

“... I already supported you as Hortator, Kirat.” He said, folding his arms behind his head. “You’ve already shown that you’re clever as well as strong. It’s also that you want the Ashlanders here. But there’s one problem.”

Kirat could hear it in his voice. He was tense, almost scared. But he was ready for… something.

“It isn’t a proper dunmeri meeting if the Morang Tong haven’t arrived yet,” He said.Which is, of course, when figures in red crept through the hall’s doors. They used their own trick to step in, a Mephala kind of walk through the keyhole. Thin, barbed shortblades sat in their hands, and a few shurikens glinted on their hip. Kirat could already smell the poison.

“Hah!” Bero called. “See? That’s one for each of us. And, presumably, one from each of us.”

“I don’t believe House Dagoth hired one.” Fyr said. “It is not their… style.”

Araynys, ashbitten skin curving into a smile under her veil, tilted her head. “We did not. I note there are none for the Ashlanders, though.”

“Nobody knew they would be here.” Hleran sighed. Kirat glanced at Divayth- who had known about her attempt at bringing in the ashlanders- and he just tilted his head a fraction.

The Morag Tong didn’t say anything in response. Somehow, everyone knew it would come to this. Even the Ashlanders, who still hadn’t said a word, were ready for a fight.“Nerevar.” Bero said. The Dres and Indoril councilors bristled at that, but Kirat turned to him. “I’ll vote to keep the Ashlander tribes if you can keep us all safe from them.”

“Really? I’m saving your life, and this is a relatively minor concession.”

“They’re only the Morag Tong.” He drawled. At that, one of the assassins tensed, and the rest looked at him.

Kirat could almost see the unspoken words spilling out of each of them. The tensed assassin is the one with Bero’s writ. The rest were insulted, silently encouraging him to do his job.He took a step forward- and Kirat drew Muatra.  As the spear unfolded itself from her pocket, barbs shining in the light of the room, the Indoril hissed like a cat- a reflexive response to the heresy she was displaying. It was longer than she was tall, like the spears netchimen used to ground their cattle for the butchering. As always, it was warm under her hand. Half-divine in the way only something touched by Vivec truly could.

Shuriken flicked from their hands. Kirat stole them out of the air, and then the fight began.===

The last assassin stood in the back of the room. The writs sat like scrolls in his hands. He wasn’t carrying a dagger. No hooks or edges. A single eye glinted through the lens of the moncle strapped to his face, and he was otherwise half-covered in the scraps and trinkets of a ragman.

The other bodies lay strewn around the room. Some were paralyzed by their own poisoned shuriken. One had been wrapped up in the tapestries along the palace’s walls, pinned there by a half-dozen knives. None of them were dead, yet, but Kirat would leave that to the guards who were trying to break the door down when they finally got in.

Kirat twirled Muatra and set it in the nook between her shoulder and neck, stepping toward him.

“Are you just here to do the bookkeeping? Or are you-”

She froze.

One dark-skinned hand clenched itself. Dirty, chewed nails touched the hilt of a sword that simply was not there before.The sword was made of truth. She could feel it like she could feel lies. It had a presence. It wasn’t just magical- it was something sharper than that, something more delicate.

The assassin raised the sword.The tip of his index and middle fingers touched it. He wasn’t even holding it.

He swung-stabbed-stepped-parried. Kirat’s vision and instincts tangled themselves in a knot as whatever he did happened simultaneously. She dodged, she stabbed and twisted. It was a mere second of combat that lasted minutes, somehow sliced into existence in a trick she didn't know could be done. Cause and effect in a single step. Muatra was locked between his thumb and pinkie, and his sword was at her throat.She had no idea how that had even happened.

But she knew how to react.

She stepped forward, through the blade- twisting through it the way the assassins had stepped through the keyhole, and dug her claws in.

Then she pulled- a flick and twist to steal his heart out of his chest, to put it in her pocket with the rest of the things she’d stolen. Houses, guar, even parraptons- 

Only for nothing to happen. She felt it, touched it- only for it to slip from her metaphorical fingers.

So she pushed him back, corprus strength sending his bare foot skittering against the stone flooring.“Fyr? What the hell is this guy?”

“Ansei. His sword is a redguard art. It’s supposed to be lost. Extremely dangerous.” Divayth Fyr said. Carried in his words was a sense of danger- even he was uncomfortable. He was drawing small circles in the air, keeping a spell in his hand- one to get himself out of danger if Kirat happened to lose.Kirat took a breath. “Hit me with a teleport.” 

Divayth, Azura bless him, knew exactly what she meant. He lobbed a spell at her- something Conjuration-based- for her to pluck from the air as she charged toward the assassin.

Kirat took a breath, hardened her focus- and bifurcated, leaping and diving at once. For a fraction of a moment, the Earthbones didn’t know which ‘her’ was real. 

Her aerial form twisted, and she prepared the same blow that had once killed her.The assassin was ready for it, but this piercing stab was honed. It was perfected. There was only one way he could respond if he wanted to live.

The assassin didn’t respond that way. Instead, he swiped up with his sword- and Muatra split down the middle. It crumbled, breaking apart into teeth and chitin.Kirat wasn’t expecting that.But the other Kirat- the other body, the other Nerevar- it seemed obvious. She slid on the ground, knees against the stone- and thrust the Recall up into the assassin’s chest.

Writs went flying.

He caught her wrist with his other hand. 

Golden- the sort of golden Nerevar remembered wearing. Wrinkles upon wrinkles, pale lines running through his skin.The assassin was ancient.The spell hovered in her palm for a second, too far from the assassin to teleport him away. It needed to make contact.The leaping body ceased to be. Kirat thought quickly- she looked past him, over his shoulder, and gave a grin to empty space.“Now!” She lied, confidently- and the Assassin believed her.He turned, readying his sword for an attacker behind him.

She crushed the spell in her palm, where he still grabbed her wrist.The two would be going through Oblivion, to wherever Divayth sent them, together.