8 The Man in the Iron Mask

"Have any of you noticed that the new guy is huge as an ox and like, the scariest guy ever?" A fur clad Redguard bandit asked his pals as they sat around in the lowest tower of the ruined imperial fort of Mistwatch. 

"By the gods, I thought I was the only one who noticed!" shouted his nearest Nord companion, a man greasing his leather and iron armor with the rendered fat of a bear the gang took the day prior, "If you told me the new blood was a daedra under all that creepy armor I'd believe you!" 

The Nord's sister, a tall and willowy blonde bitch in studded hide shivered as she spoke of the new blood, "It's like every step he takes is made with bad intentions. I don't know what the chief was thinking letting him join." 

An older Breton chuckled, his greasy hair wild and standing stiff at all angles along his balding head, "I'll tell you what he was thinking. 'How in the name of Oblivion do I tell a guy like that to step off?!" the elder statesman of the outlaw life cackled and continued, "Won't be long now." 

"What won't be…" the Redguard's question halted when a shrill scream from above pierced the calm evening air. 

The scream briefly got louder till a heavy splat outside ended it abruptly.

"Won't be long till that." the geezer grinned, "The chief is dead. Long live the chief." 

The trio of younger outlaws left the relative cozy warmth of the tower and braved the evening chill to go out and confirm the situation. The fort consisted of five towers ascending a jagged stone hill, two connected to the walls, out of one of which the trio came, and three more rising higher and higher. The highest rose over two hundred feet over the lowest broken tower and at the top of it loomed the new blood. 

Unless the chief took a sprinting leap off the top to avoid all the rocks on the way down, the man above them threw their leader off with great strength, and no assurance the gang would support his take over. The way the trio shuddered just seeing the huge man's silhouette put to rest any doubt they'd rise up to avenge the man splattered on the fortress courtyard. 

Confessional Camera: Harren of the Briar

"I'd like to start things off by saying that though I work for a Company of interdimensional slavers, I am not a slaver." I chuckle at the reverb of my voice coming out of the iron prisoner mask attached to my conical helmet, "In an omniverse full of fools getting the keys to the kingdom handed to them, I'm working in the Reality TV department." 

I paused to let the canned laughter track play. 

"And didn't that hurt like a bitch." I complained, "I'd actually gotten the chance to work for The Company like all those losers I'd read about and instead of getting access to the fabled Waifu Catalog I'd been handed a contract that basically read do be interesting and get points, or be boring and get raped by demons for minimum wage until the failed investment breaks even." 

The second bout of canned laughter made me want to shudder. 

I sighed heavily, "Well at least the terms weren't as vague as: be interesting. I have a goal. Become the Bandit King of Skyrim, and instructions on how to do this. I need to control the bandit forts and camps scattered across Skyrim, and marry Elisif the Fair to 'legitimize' my rule. Basically every three days, so long as I make tangible progress on that, I get 2 points from the Company, and I can save these up till I hit fifty points to make purchases for myself from that fabled Waifu Catalog. I was so excited about that before I read the terms of my employment…" 

If the sigh before had been heavy, the sigh after was obese, "Long story short, my access to about ninety percent of the Catalog is restricted. On the plus side, the starter build my patron picked out for me is pretty solid rather than a cruel joke," A red aura lit up my hand and my sword, a rectangular hunk of steel with an elaborate crossguard wrapped in briar vine, and the sword swung around me using edgy telekinesis, "and so long as I keep up the pace I can still load up on talents and potential and live out my life as an OP fantasy insert character." 

End of Confessional Camera: Harren of the Briar

It feels janky as all hell getting yanked through space and time and sat down in a studio to talk to a camera crew about what I'm doing and feeling, but such is life. Silver lining, the Isekai Genie cleared the first payment, the rubber stamp of approval for my go getter attitude, and sent me two points. 

Rather than focus on the jank, I summoned up one of my new powers, feeling pretty freaking excited about it. A part of me wanted to cross my fingers and shout 'SHADOW CLONE JUTSU' as a fell red specter rose up from the tower top. 

At night I can summon up a projection of myself, capable of possessing even more power than me - though I will need time and talent to get to that point - and traveling great distances swiftly. Much like that fabled jutsu, my projection shares with me all it experiences upon deactivation, forceful or otherwise. More than just being in two places at once, this projection is my ace in the hole.

One of the only restrictions I don't have on my use of the Catalog is R.I.P. a 72 hour window after my death in which I can be revived without losing my abilities gained through the Company. I can still utilize my projection after my death, giving me the opportunity to fix myself up using the in setting magic and seal my soul back into my meat suit like nothing happened. I'll have to explore the flesh crafting aspects of Alteration magic in case I get burnt to ash, though I'd rather just run some resist fire and resist lighting enchantments before it comes to that. Or better yet, Resist Magic enchantments teamed up with the Lord Stone. 

I feel safer already!

I nodded to my specter and sent him sinking back into the stone of the tower, he began streaking like a pool of evil across the ground and traveling towards central Skyrim. Elemer of the Briar, whom my powers are templated off of, terrorized the merchants of the Lands between, capable of sending his projection clear across the map each night. I'd get there soon enough, and surpass it. 

I descended into the tower, the top level serving as the chief's personal quarters. Across the wide circular room hung maps and notes, the man in charge prior to my arrival and swift coup d'etat the thinking and planning type. It served me well to study his notes and journals and chart my own course. 

The man had extensive maps of Eastmarch and the Rift, the two locations our fortress Mistwatch straddled, and he'd noted all the other gangs, clans, and tribes in the regions, marking out their territories and drawing out routes to avoid them if needed. He had places like Fort Amol and Boulderfall Cave marked out in red, signifying the presence of warlocks, and most definitely charted his routes well around the outlaw spellcasters. 

I didn't need to take over the local warlock scene like I needed to take over the bandits, but it would serve me best to get them under my thumb. Of course, anything being under the thumb of an effective dictator in this world would be a step up. While excellent for continuous gameplay, the widespread anarchy in this world is a major problem for anyone wishing to live a peaceful and orderly life. Chaos rules the day, and even when the Septims still lived you could see outlaws at home within sight of the Imperial City. 

My Company smart phone let me know that I needed to confederate the bandits at thirty two locations across Skyrim. Thirty one with my capture of Mistwatch. The previous chief marked ten of them out for me on my map, and if I keep myself to the pace of subjecting one location every three days I can maximize my point gain to 64 and maximize my time to make use of my planned purchases. 

I stayed up waiting for someone to come address the fact that I slew the previous chief, but soon became concerned that the other bandits may have run for it, as such I calmly walked down the stairs of my tower, till I found one of the gang's sleeping quarters. The bandits readying themselves for bed stopped and all stared at me. It felt incredibly awkward, like the nervous energy you get when standing in front of a classroom about to present your half assed project. 

"I killed the chief." I finally admitted, pleased with the rumbling depth of my voice and the reverb of my helmet giving me a feeling of something beyond human. 

"Yeah…" a Keanu Reeves looking Breton nodded, "The chief is dead. Long live the chief." 

He shrugged then went back to brushing his luxurious hair. The man didn't have any of that infamous mer nightmare face the elves of Tamriel sported, and instead looked something like an angel. No homo.

After realizing I'd been quietly staring at Keanu for a long time, I stepped back out of the room and returned to my own, embarrassed by my non-gay admiring of the Breton's features and impressed with the pragmatic professionalism of the people under my command.

I went back to plotting and planning and around midnight I felt something change, the stars aligned and suddenly I felt tougher to kill. With that completed I sent my projection out to explore the map. It took him half the night to reach half way across Skyrim, while Elemer only needed moments to project all the way across the Lands Between. I understand that I am not as powerful as the Original, as even with Template Stacking II I am still a power tier below him, but I am willing to put in the hours to make up the difference. 

Soon enough, the people of Skyrim will know to fear the coming of the Bell Bearing Hunter. 

Or whatever they wind up calling me in a world without glorious Bell Bearings to hunt. 

-----POV SHIFT!-----

"Oh my heart." the Keanu look alike gasped as the freak now in charge of the gang finally left them in peace, "If he kept menacing me any more I'd have had a heart attack."

"I don't know what you did to land on his shit list, friend." A nearby middle aged Nord put a hand on the Breton's shoulder, "But whatever it was, tread lightly and keep your eyes and ears open." 

"Dibs on his stuff whenever the boss decides to off him." A Redguard woman shouted from across the room. 

"No, dibs. We put it as a prize in a betting pool. Whoever guess when he bites it right wins the pot and his stuff." An older Nord clapped, "Ten on next week!" 

The others placed their bets and the Keanu Breton made a sad Keanu face.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the first chapter of a new story brought to you all by the request of wstiglet. Thanks for the support, fam.

You too can support me and my family at 

ko-fi.com/jmanm