Inquisition
It has been twenty years since the horrid Oblivion Crisis. In the aftermath, the Empire was left poor and broken, poverty and crime more common now. Ocato seized the throne as most would expect, but he rules like a tyrant. His feared secret armies send even the most brutal of criminals scampering for the alleys. Amongst these elite warriors, one group reigns supreme. Their true name is unknown, but they are called "Inquisition" by most. These men are the most skilled fighters in all Nirn, they work alone, choosing to live a seclusive and bloody life. This is the tale about a man running from the Inquisition. His name is Loken Bjorni, and he has no idea what he's in store for."Three pieces of bread. Make it quick," grunted Loken, his right palm on the back of his head, rubbing where a mercenary had clubbed him a few weeks ago. His ragged clothes spoke of much hardship, and his bloodshot eyes gave him a psychotic look to him.
"Eh, comin' up," replied the clerk, who pulled three loaves out of a barrel. "Six gold."
"Yeah yeah." Loken rummaged around in his filthy pockets, and let six septims fall to the counter, accompanied by flecks of dirt and lint picked up from the pouch.
"Thank ye sir."
"No, thank you. You're the only place who sells to me anymore."
"I don't want to know why. Now shoo before I change my mind about bein' nice."
"Farewell," grunted Bjorni, exiting the shop.
"You mean you didn't notice? The new guys got 'ere a couple days ago. They're asking about some guy named Loken... I onno about you man. This whole business gives me the creeps," said a nearby voice.
Loken's heart stopped, and a chill shot up his spine. "What do they look like?" stuttered the Nord, dreading the possibility that he had to move again.
"I dunno. Tall, leather greatcoats. I swear I saw the sheaths of at least five swords when I saw beneath the coat. But then I might just be seeing things," replied an elderly Breton man.
"I... I have to go."
"May the gods give you wings," said the man, but Loken was already gone. The town of Scall wasn't the biggest, but it had a good fifty buildings, with a hundred people give or take. Everyone knew everyone, but Bjorni tried to stay on the unknown side of the spectrum, lest someone find out who he was.
He arrived at his small shack, and hesitated before entering.
These bastards are probably right in there, waiting for my return. The Nord edged to the window and allowed himself a peek into the room.
Nothing. This was surprising, because the Inquisition were the most relentless and deadly warriors out there. Loken checked again, to be completely sure. Opening his door, he entered the shack.
Everything seemed to stop, and move in slow motion. A tall man, a skullmask covering his face and hair, sidled out from behind the fireplace. "How do you want to die?" he hissed, approaching the shivering and frightened Nord.
"Why sir, surely you have the wrong person."
"Don't get snide with me, whelp! I have been sent here to eliminate the one known as Loken. You are him."
"Well yes.. But maybe we could work out some deal? I have some information," countered the Nord, leaning on his wooden table.
This was replied to with a laugh by the larger man. "I'm not corrupt, I'm not a pig. I work for and dedicate myself for the good of the mighty Empire and its glorious ruler Ocato. I am not an undisciplined noble. I'm the deadliest killing machine alive, and you aren't leaving this room alive."
"Then why waste time talking? Kill me."
Loken bared his throat, and a couple moments later, Loken didn't have a head anymore.
Author
