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It's said that after the mace, our Prince's favorite weapon is the axe, since it is the tool of the headsman. Perhaps it is so; who would dare ask?
—Lyranth the Foolkiller
The smell of brimstone and blood permeated the freezing air. The clanking of chains and the crash of metal being beaten into shape harmonized to create the discordant chorus of the forge. Hunched, ragged figures shoveled charcoal and hunks of cold black metal into smelters and basins with roaring flames beneath them.
An armored overseer barked at a group of pallid Mer in filthy rags. Their blank eyes set upon faces contorted in fear and loathing, cowering as she brandished a searing strand of braided leather and flame. A pair of kyn stood by the oppressive sloped wall just a few feet away: a female in a full suit of pointed armor sans the helm, and a male in a sinister black robe woven by shaking hands. They eyed a shriveled Argonian as he carried a crate of ore to one of the horned pitchers of fire. Another figure stood not too far from the device, tirelessly hammering serrated blades into shape.
The knight watched the thin figure work, ghostly-pale eyes fixed somewhere far away as their hands flew like a madman with a purpose. Hammered strikes beat in time with the rhythm of the forge, a metronome for the looming facility's choir of blood and toil. Ceaseless and even, never breaking the rhythm. A heart that never stilled. Her head tilted slightly to the left, leaning towards the flanged pauldron affixed to her shoulder. She eyed her grim neighbor.
"Hey Velkesh," she said with a casual air, still facing the anvil-bound slave. "What do you suppose the Dark One's favorite weapon is?"
Several seconds passed before the hooded Dremora acknowledged the inquiry. His head turned ever so slightly towards his fellow kyn.
"I'd hazard a guess and say he favors the mace. That seems like a fair assessment, given it is his holy symbol."
His eyes returned to the glassy-eyed Argonian, who was walking back the way he came. "What sort of question is that?"
The knight's head swung over the thick of her neck, cocked further in the opposite direction. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, readjusting her upright position and crossing her arms.
"That one seemed obvious enough. Can you think of anything besides the mace?"
The mage ran his clawed fingers over his chin and hummed.
"A well-crafted staff can be used to impale things. And if carved by one with any decent taste, it can evoke the Dread Lord's foreboding ridges. Or his face... or tail."
"Staves are fun, but is there any reason he'd like them apart from their artistic value?"
"If it has enough prongs, I suppose he could use it as a fork."
The knight did a double take. "A fork? Have you gone soft in the horns?"
He turned to address the opposition. "What? He does partake in mortal flesh every now and then."
"But with a staff?" She protested. "Besides, wouldn't a trident be better suited for that? They're made of metal, and wouldn't splinter quite as annoyingly if he fractured it with his mighty jaw."
"That's a good point. He'd look rather swell with a trident, wouldn't he?"
The soldier paused. "Yeah, you're right about that. It'd match his tail. But so would a good, hefty axe."
The hooded figure nodded in affirmation. "That's a fitting substitute for a mace. It's the tool of the headsman; a grim symbol for a most daunting Lord."
Another soldier walked over from the iron-toothed doorway not far to their left.
"You lot seem invested in something," he said. The knight's brow raised towards her curved horns as she lifted her head at him.
"Zylgor! Perfect timing. What do you think Lord Molag Bal's favorite weapon is?"
The newcomer blinked. "Bit of a stupid question, isn't it? Everybody's seen the Master bludgeon a slave to paste with his mace at least once."
She rolled her eyes. "The two of us have already gone over this. What about his second favorite?"
As the female knight expressed her exasperation, a Dremora garbed in dark leathers popped her head out from behind the doorway.
"What's this about paste and maces—oh, Kylxxara!" She waved at the knight. "I haven't seen you since three shifts ago. How'd the fiasco with the flesh atronach and the spatula turn out?"
Kylxxara nodded in acknowledgement. "Gola! The dainty little scullery maid won't be polishing any knives for the next eight shifts or so, but other than that, there wasn't much in the way of casualties. What do you think the Dread Lord's second favorite weapon is?"
Gola paused to consider the question, gazing thoughtfully at the chains suspended from the ceiling.
"He has a rather spectacular trident in his private thinking-quarters. I saw it once on guard duty."
Velkesh nodded. "See, a trident's good. Is it ceremonial or martial?"
"Could be both," she replied. "The way I see it, a trident has three prongs, which is two more pointy bits for impaling mortals. Triple the damage, triple the fun. I figure the Dread Lord would find enjoyment in that."
Zylgor turned to Kylxxara. "Let's go back for a second. What was that about a scullery maid?"
She stared at him. "An idiot man-thing over at the palace was in the way during an incident. Got her head right knocked off. She'll be back one way or another."
"Is it the same slave I'm thinking of?"
"It's likely, if something really stood out to you in that non-descript mention of a Shriven wretch from three shifts ago."
"I saw one of the little withered servants over at the palace fretting and fumbling each time the Dark Lord passed it by," Zylgor explained. "I think it fancies him."
Velkesh cocked his head to the side. "How could you tell? If the Shriven aren't expressing fear and reverence, I'm not paying attention to them."
"Well, it kind of lowered its head and looked down at the dirt, turning away just so while wringing its hands or fiddling with its hair. Stuttering about how much of an honor it was to be in his presence. The creature looked relieved and disappointed when he didn't flog it for daring to address him off its knees."
Velkesh pondered his words. "Hmm. Mortals are strange, aren't they?"
Zylgor nodded. "It dropped a tray of blood-seared livers intended for the Hero Viscerating Ceremony. Got it all over the Dread Lord, too."
Gola hummed. "Ooo, let's go with this story!"
Another leather-wearing Dremora had stopped nearby, bearing a translucent flask full of vigorous, glowing green fluid. Gola flashed her fangs at him, and he waved before turning away once more. Wiping his brow, he uncorked the flask and sipped a quarter of the contents. Zylgor's story continued unimpeded.
"Well, it turned a corner and stopped right in its tracks when it came face-to-knee with the Daedric Prince. The wretch got a fierce lashing from the Cuisinist that day."
Gola pursed her lips, brows raised high. "How did the Lord react?"
Zylgor chuckled, recalling the scene. "He gave it the coldest stare I've ever seen directed at a Shriven, but he didn't turn it inside-out like I'd hoped. He just watched silently while the fool trembled and avoided eye contact. Sputtering apologies and words of reverence. I saw the creature again a few shifts after the ceremony while I was on patrol in the walkway going court-side from the feast hall."
"It was probably heading out to do some worthless excuse for man-work like 'sweeping the ash off the stairwell' or something," Zylgor continued. "Anyways, it comes down the hall, right? Then the Master does that thing were he appears from the shadows right in front of you, and its face hits his knee again. This time, the creature falls over backwards, gasping shrilly like a slaughtered beast taking its last breath."
"The Master spoke lowly and I was at the other end of the hallway, so I didn't hear much of what he said. By the time I came back around on my route, they were gone. But it was back when I looped back around the fourth time, looking a bit disheveled and awfully upbeat for a Soul-Shriven. The wretch was practically glowing! I was too off-put by its demeanor to consider putting it in its place for smiling."
Visibly reinvigorated, the newcomer with the flask took a rather long swig. Velkesh grunted as Zylgor reached the tail-end of his story.
"Sounds like she's polishing more than just knives," he muttered.
The newcomer choked, spraying a rain of fluorescent green fluid all over the crate-bearing Argonian as he passed by with another load of ore. The startled Soul-Shriven dropped his cargo, causing heavy metal lumps to come crashing to the ground. A few of the Shriven paused for a mere moment before proceeding. The anvil-bound slave's hammering never ceased throughout the commotion. The only eyes that lingered were the judgemental stares of other kyn.
Gola cackled viciously while all of this played out. The flask-bearer swiveled around.
"You have excellent range, Drekl," Gola snorted. "Maybe you should demonstrate for the Lord one of these days."
Drekl's lips pressed into a thin line.
"I'll have you know my accuracy lies more with the bow than impromptu fluid expulsion," he said before turning to Velkesh. "That was my last stamina potion, by the way. Thank you for helping me waste a good half of it."
Velkesh nodded, briefly raising a hand in acknowledgement of his part in causing the scene. Kylxxara addressed the soaked kyn from the back of the group.
"We were just talking about the Dread Lord's second favorite weapon. What do you think it is?"
His eyes glanced over the group before fixing back on Kylxxara. "Given what I just heard, I have to question exactly what manner of weapon you speak of. The Master has many weapons in his collection, but of all the maces he owns, he only permits mortals to polish one."
Another ugly chortle rose from Gola's throat. "How do you know this, Drekl? Have you seen the Master's special mace before?"
Drekl shot her a glare, then chuckled, a playful grin forming on his lips. "And you haven't?"
Gola threw her head back, bringing a hand to her chest as the air left her lungs. Kylxxara frowned and crossed her arms loosely.
"We're getting away from what's important here," she complained. "This is all fun and games, but we haven't determined what the Master's favorite weapon is."
"That would be the mace, of course," said Drekl.
Velkesh looked at him. "Which one?"
Gola's wretched laughter had yet to cease. Kylxxara snorted.
"You lot are a bunch of smooth-horned idiots," she chortled. "But seriously, do you have any ideas?"
"I figured a spear or a halberd would suit his fancy in the lack of a mace," Drekl answered without skipping a beat. "They're pointy, they're long. He doesn't have to stop stabbing if he impales one wretch, does he? He can make a lovely kebab and roast it over the soul-fire for a nice char."
Smirking, Zylgor raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure we're still talking about martial weapons, or are you referring to a spear we don't know about?"
Nodding, Drekl affirmed the question. "Yes, we're talking about the stabbing kind that makes things bleed."
It was at this point the group was approached by the hook-helmed overseer, whip fastened to her belt.
"What are you hornless layabouts jabbering about?"
"The Master's second favorite weapon," said the mage. "The mace is a given for his first, but a solid idea for a second eludes us."
"I always thought he'd enjoy an axe," the overseer said rather pointedly. "It is the tool of the headsman, after all."
Velkesh held an arm outstretched towards the kynreeve. "See? The headsman's axe!"
"A fitting symbol," the whip-bearer said with a nod.
Zylgor sat quietly for a good long moment before speaking up once more.
"Has anyone ever thought to ask him about it?"
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"Absolutely not," Gola exclaimed. "Who would trouble the Dread Lord with such a pointless query?"
Kalyxxa frowned. "Us, clearly. But the point still stands. I feel you shouldn't ask the Master such things unless you'd like a demonstration of how he'd wield it. Finding out how high the axe is on his list of favored weapons would likely end in swift discorporation."
The Daedra murmured in agreement. The kynreeve turned back to the gathered Dremora when the voices died down.
"Glad to see that's all sorted out," she said. "Now get back to work."