12.

Underground, Cheydinhal

He’s all swagger and no faith, Vicente.

He’s bloody good with a blade.

He says he picked up a set of our armor in Morrowind, somewhere.

Exactly my point. He’s good.

He can’t be trusted!

Who can?

You don’t think it’s odd that he only came to the attention of the Night Mother just now? He looks like he’s been hitting for at least fifteen years, with all those scars.

More like twenty, I’d say.

You know something, don’t you?

Ocheeva my dear, I know nothing that Lucien doesn’t.

Is that so?



Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun polished off a magnum of Gaston and David Surilie’s finest vino and reclined in his chair, thinking.

“You want to know the players? Ocheeva, one of my kind, more or less runs the sanctuary, given that LaChance is never about. She despises me, by the way, because I stole a little trinket from her precious Shadowscales. She’ll never trust me, but I doubt she’ll suspect imperial involvement either. And she’s so slow with a blade it ain’t even funny—all that time training, and she’ll never be any good in a fair fight. Her brother, I think his name is Teinaava, he’s a little better, carries a heavy shortsword and knows how to use it. But a more trusting type. I’m not sure what he thinks of me.”

The argonian paused his soliloquy to open a pint bottle of flin, to take in familiar and friendly surroundings. A triad of old legion buddies sat at the bar getting properly soused while a khajiit and a bosmer sat in opposing dark corners eying the stacks of gold coins accumulating on the counter. The local dunmer played poker, ashen voices rising with the conclusion of each hand, while the nords arm-wrestled. Caius Cosades sat across the table. All was right in Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun’s world.

“I haven’t bothered to catch the breton girl’s name. Not worth the bother. I’ve seen scribs more intimidating. The bosmer is out of the sanctuary a lot, not on jobs but something else. A spy? The orc is just ridiculous. Worthy of ridicule. Never would send him on a political assassination. Not a stealthy fellow, and what’s more, he doesn’t believe in it. But Gogron must be tough; otherwise I don’t see how he could still be alive.”

Caius Cosades puffed away at his skooma and smiled his knowing smile. “And what about the vampire?”

It was the argonian’s turn to smile. “I was wondering when you’d ask. But you’re a patient man, yes. Well, Valtieri is something of a curiosity. I think he knows or at least suspects more about me than he lets on. But I also think he likes me.”

“That is curious.”

“Anyway, he liked how I did the pirate and the rich wood elf. Called me some kind of gift from the Night Mother, damn his eyes. Has this odd sort of grin when he’s talking to me, like he and I are in on some kind of joke that we’re playing on everyone else. Strange fellow. Of course, he is a vampire.”

Caius thought on that a while, several moments in point of fact, until his pipe seemed in danger of burning all the way down. Finally, without looking up he asked, “What’s this about invading the Imperial Prison? To kill a prisoner?”

The argonian’s grin grew wider. “Valen Dreth, been in there… eleven years. Some rot about public indeceny, slander and libel against the Imperium, conspiracy, and breaking and entering. Into the Red Dragon bedchambers. Interesting fellow.”

“Your plan?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the Sun took a generous draught of flin, which he chased with a moment of thought. And another grin. “I’m going to walk in through the front door.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:21 PM

Now that's the way to start a (much-too-early) Wednesday morning- with a proper portion of Al!

Fun reading as always.

I'm going to pretend as if we haven't been deprived of Al's adventures for several months. Reading this update more than makes up for it. Great work, Canis!

GaaaH!! Overdose of Al after getting him out of my blood for all this time! Addiction....returning!

13.

Office of the Imperial Watch, Prison District, the Imperial City

Itius Hayn looked up from the parchment in his right hand with a question on his face. Before he could speak, Adamus Philida had the answer.

“This matter in Bruma is our business because the Dark Brotherhood is mine. You just make sure that letter reaches the guard. I will be speaking personally with this Caenlin, in three days time. We have much to discuss, he and I.”

“Yes sir, Commander.”

“Tell the jailor to prepare a cell.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

This was shaping up to be a good day. His war against the Dark Brotherhood was going rather well, all things considered. And to receive this piece of intelligence from the Blades… he felt sure that his voice was finally getting through to the high command, to the Elder Council. It was just a shame that it had taken so long…

Philida shook the cobwebs loose from his head. Too early to reflect. He had still had weeks until retirement. Maybe longer, if he could extract a little more information from those Blades.

He walked outside and practically into the arms of the argonian fellow outside, reaching for the doorknob.

“Apologies my good fellow,” Philida managed to say after they managed to separate and straighten up. “Are you the courier?” He noted the satchel with the imperial seal, the dust on the teal mage robes.

The fellow nodded, said yes, he was. He’d been requested?

“Indeed,” Philida answered. “Hayn will see you inside”.

So the two, man and betmer, went their separate ways. It wasn’t until much later that Adamus Philida discovered his entire set of keys had been lifted.

Inside, Hayn had just managed to seal the missive (addressed: Capt. Burd, Bruma City Guard - Castle Bruma, city of Bruma, county of Bruma, Cyrodiil) when the courier walked up rummaging about in his bag, not even looking up as he spoke—the harried, busy type. Has a schedule to execute. Perfunctory questions—are you Captain Hayn? You have a message for me? Where to?

“I am Captain Itius Hayn, yes.” (He was proud of the appellation, enjoyed the opportunity to answer in the affirmative). “This letter,”—he handed over the parcel—“should be delivered to the Captain of the Bruma City Guard with all due haste. Are you familiar with Bruma?”

The courier answered in the affirmative. He knew it. Had just been there recently.

“Oh, one more thing? Where’s the usual fellow? The legion vet? Severus his name?”

The courier shook his head and laughed, quietly. “Oh, him? I hear he got into a bar fight in Kragenmoor, busted a couple ribs. Got pissing drunk with two of his buddies, tripped over the feet of one of my kind, started a row, and got the worst of it. So here I am in his stead.”

The Bastion, Imperial Prison

The jailor, Destitrus by name, did not bother to rise from his chair at the opening of the door. Nor did he even look up from his copy of The Black Horse Courier. Guardsmen were always popping in and out with the shifting of the watch, or heading up into the barracks for a quick bite or nip from a flask. Balding, rotund, shiftless—Tobin Destitrus was perfectly made for his role, caretaker to Cyrodiil’s scoundrels and scalawags. But today his attention was actually required.

“Jailor! Watch needs one of your inmates to sign some form. Something about seizure of property, auction of assets, whatnot. You got a Claudius Arcadia here?”

Destitrus glanced up. “Give me a moment, eh?” He finished his reading (“A New Guild For Fighters?”) and finally stood up from his desk. “Give me that, I’ll bring it down to him.” He took a thick envelope from the courier’s scaly grasp (something familiar about this fellow, he thought) and opened the door to the medium-security cell block, the prison’s eastern wing, soon disappearing down the corridor. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made for the west wing, maximum security, and its unpickable door lock.

From within his robe (a little worse for wear, having been pierced by a pair of viper-bolts once upon a time) he pulled out a ring of keys (complete with Imperial Legion symbology) and a shortsword of ebony (pulled from a dunmer corpse in Black Marsh) and set to work. But nothing would work. Or more properly, none of the keys (four in all) fit, and lock picks were useless. He risked the flash of light from an unlocking spell, and it too failed.

A sigh. “To Oblivion with this garbage. I’ll go through the damned sewers.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:24 PM

I like the fact that Al doesn't actually lie to Hayn. And I also like how he just 'happened' to be in Kragenmoor when the Legion courier got badly beaten up.

Also, the way in which he casually bumps into Philida and nicks his keys without him even noticing, that's pure Thieves Guild stuff.

Thank you much. And what can I say? Al is a talented fellow. Though to be honest in the course of playing this quest I actually lifted the jailor's keys... same difference, far as I'm concerned. You'd think the "Imperial Prison Key" would have worked on that door, but I'll be damned--it didn't.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 23 2008, 09:20 PM

Ihhhh, the Lizzy is back! great! Good as always Canis!

***Foaming at mouth, passed out on floor***

Very enjoyable as ever. The change of styles and points of view really work for this story.

14.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: the Imperial City

Arrows whistled through the air. For a change, they weren’t aimed at me by some assassin; instead, they were aimed by me at the hordes of rats and mudcrabs populating the sewers of Cyrodiil. I hadn’t intended to approach Dreth by the subterranean route, but once I was committed to it, it was actually rather pleasant. I didn’t care for the smell—I have far less affinity for stale air and swamp gas than most of my kind—but I did appreciate the quiet. I could think.

The vampire bothered me. He seemed to be under the impression that I had recently escaped from this very prison—his reason for assigning the job to me. It was puzzled me—I have not so much as spent a night in any prison, anywhere. Almalexia’s steward once locked me in the Mournhold’s Temple basement, true, but that hardly counts. I tried to think of where Valtieri could have gotten the notion—and failed. I cleared the thought from my mind by perforating a pair of rats.

I had been underground for only half an hour when I reached a hatch to something that the imperial architects’ called “The Sanctum”. Judging from the blueprints—a gift from Caius—the Sanctum would be where I’d likely run into my first opposition from the guards. It was the only place an assassin could get through, and could be easily defended. The emperor’s assassins had turned the equation on its head—it was the only escape route, and easily blocked. (Or so I heard. News travels quickly amongst the Blades, but as happens in covert organizations, the news isn’t always accurate.) Taking no chances, I cast a spell of silence upon the rusty old hatch.

I popped through the hatchway into dark corridor leading to a large, well-lit room—that was where the guards waited, just passing time.

“Of course I'm proud to do my duty. But... It's a waste of time. What are we guarding? Cold stone and shadow. That's it.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you, believe me. Those assassins got what they wanted. The Emperor is dead. They've got not reason to come back.”

Two men. From the sound of their voices, they would be a Nord and a Redguard. I crept forward for a peek around the corner, and found that I was correct. Big men with big swords, standing far too near for me to sneak past. I would need to wait.

“That's exactly what I'm saying! But will the Captain listen? Noooo... ‘We must have a presence!The prison must remain secure!’”

“Yeah, what a laugh, huh? Just who are we keeping secure? Dreth? Since that other one got away, he's the only one rotting down here.”

Could these men have contracted Valen Dreth’s execution? My instructions from Valtieri—“For Sithis’ sake, don’t kill any guards!” (I paraphrase)—suggested as much. But if these two fellows had anything to do with it, their conversation betrayed nothing.

“…well, I best be getting back to my watch…”

The raga made an about-face, striding into the darkness which was to be my path forward. The nord, too, turned away from me. It was time to move, and move I did. I darted into and out of the light with appropriate haste. Back in the darkness I stopped and listened. I’d not been heard or seen, of course.

What would I do if I were discovered? Surrender, blow my cover, and embarrass the Blades? (I could see the headlines: “Your Tax Dollars At Work: Blades Dabbling In Murder?”) Out of the question—I’d be even more a pariah than usual. Kill all the witnesses, preserving my anonymity? Also out of the question—the mission could continue, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My only choice would be to run. Run away. Be a fugitive, again.

The raga stopped adjacent to some stone steps, which was an issue. I needed to go that way, and I was tired of waiting in the dark. I decided to push my luck a bit (was being a fugitive really that bad? I mean, aside from everyone wanting me dead). The stairs were well lit but darkness reigned on either side of the steps. On one side, the left, the guard stood watch. I eased my way over on the right, waited a moment, and… jumped.

I was on the next level up, safely ensconced in shadow, still undetected.

It is a miracle that I am still alive.

I must confess that the rest of my journey through the undercity was rather uneventful. There was but one more guard to avoid—easily done by lingering in the shadows. I live in the shadows. I had been underground for about two hours when I finally emerged into a prison cell. I heard voices. It was the jailor. It was my mark.

“I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help...”

“Filthy cur! I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, well, what's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday.”

“Eleven! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Oh yeah? And where will you go? Huh? What will you do? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You belong in that cage.”

“I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!”

“Right. And you'll be rich, too. Oh, and you'll become a king! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be back. You lot always come back...”

“You'll see, you Imperial dog! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!”

I felt a surge of pity for the criminal degenerate, and a surge of shame within myself. He will never again breathe free air, lay on warm sand, make love…

The jailor walked away, up the stairs, and closed the door. I pulled out my new bow, a fine thing of ebony, and nocked an arrow, a delicate sliver of glass slathered in deadly poison. Aim, draw, release.

Valen Dreth fell with hardly a sound.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:32 PM

15.

A Letter

C,

I hope you were not unduly alarmed by my last missive. The amulet is lost, yes, but both I and the heir are safe at our sanctuary—I dare not write its name, lest this communication be intercepted, but you know of what I speak. In spite of our troubles I hold much hope for the future. Considering the many advantages of our foe, that the Septim line survives at all strikes me as an omen—fate is still on our side.

Now, as to the true purpose of my writing—surely you did not think, pious as I may be, that I would write to you strictly of fate! I inquire, of course, as to your argonian associate and his work. As you know, I have always been uncomfortable with this project, and lament that the Elder Council would direct any of our resources away from the Oblivion crisis. It would be far better for your man to pursue the Mythic Dawn. (Remind me again, why I agreed to this arrangement?) But now, after perusing his file, I must also admit concern for the demands this project puts on the fellow’s psyche. You must admit that his past record of service is, for lack of a better term, troubling.

On this matter I must ask your opinion, for you know the man better than any file. Is there not some risk that we might lose him to the very organization he infiltrates? And if he were lost, would he not be extremely dangerous? Aside from the Nerevarine (who you tell me is in Akavir), is there a more formidable killer in our employ?

I urge you give me some reassurance. And if you cannot do that, then we must find some other productive work for your friend.

Yours,
Jauffre

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:33 PM

Oh excellent! A double-dose of Canis. I really like the deep introspection and then Jauffre's doubts about Al....

Most pleasant to read this continuing adventure.

Yay more Al! As ever it was good. The mixture of perspectives works very well to develop the plot.

16.

A Letter

J,

It is good to hear from you, and I share your optimism. Martin will do great things—of that I am certain.

I will try to address your concerns in something resembling order. You agreed to this infernal project because with no emperor in place, it seemed appropriate to (for once) acquiesce to the Council’s concerns. And yes, his past record is a bit checkered. That, said, Al has met with nothing but success on the assignments I have given him. His troubles have always been apart from his work, even if they have occasionally interfered with his service. I worry less about Al than I do about the conflict one of these jobs with the D.B. could have with our professional ethics. Are we really prepared the sanction the death of innocents so we can keep a man inside the organization? The wood elf in Bruma was merely the first of what could be many. True, that one didn’t trouble Al much… but enough assassinations will wear down anyone. Al already retired from it once.

No, I don’t think we could lose Al to them. He has his own ethic, far different from theirs—or even ours for that matter. If we lose Al, it won’t be to anyone but himself. It already happened once before.

I have been thinking about your Mythic Dawn proposal. Perhaps we should give Al a second assignment, a mental reprieve from the D.B.? As you say, his skills are formidable. I can think of no one better to pursue the Mythic Dawn in our cities. Shall I give the order?

Your servant,
C.C.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:33 PM

Thanks for the exciting updates. I'm enjoying the heavy use of correspondence in your story; you've been using it well.

Wow! This story is amazing. Al is a very compelling character, and I like the dark humor that runs through the story, as well as the different devices you use to tell it. I can't think of much criticism to add. I'll be waiting for the next part!

17.

Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Morrowind

“This is a funny business, Caius. Just when the Dark Brotherhood points me at someone I really want to kill, I’m supposed to keep him alive.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun paused for effect, and to take a draught of flin. “This guy, Francois Motierre, needs protection from an enforcer for some real hard cases. And I’d just as soon let him die—the Brotherhood demanded a life, and he offered his mother!”

Caius Cosades opened his eyes. He’d been reclining in his chair, smoking, ruminating. Now he spoke, “But they didn’t send you for that part of the job?”

The argonian shook his head. “LaChance took care of it. No, I just get to save that weasel’s behind, cut him with this blade”—he brandished a steel dagger—“and let the poison make him look dead.”

“But you’d rather use that nasty daedric blade of yours, I’ll wager.”

The argonian laughed, ruefully. “I was thinking I’d use the ebony instead, but you get the idea.”

Cosades smiled. “You know I can’t let you do that. It would jeopardize the mission. We’ll do this like we dealt with the job in Bruma. You did deliver Philida’s package to the guard in Bruma, right?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll let the courts deal with Motierre—none of your vigilante justice, Al. I’m assigning Nine-Toes to clean this up, once you’re done with the s’wit. He’ll be arrested. Can you live with that?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun thought for a moment. “Just like Bruma. Fine.” He did not sound enthusiastic.

Cosades leaned forward in his seat, more than a little exasperated. “Dammit Al, I know this is a compassionate mission, and none of us like it. But, by Akatosh, I need you to show some bloody restraint!” And then the Cyrodiil unleashed a wolfish grin—slowly morphing into a broad smile. He finished, “Especially with this new assignment coming in.”

“New assignment?” The argonian’s face remained impassive, but his voice betrayed his curiosity.

Cosades had reeled his protégé in, once more. And he was enjoying it, eyes agleam, even as he forced his smile back inside. “What have you heard of the Mythic Dawn cult?”

It was Al’s turn to smile. “You want me to go after them, too?”

“Maybe. What have you heard?”

The argonian’s smile broadened. “Not much that isn’t public knowledge. Uriel, Kvatch, all that. Though I hear these rumors…”—he says, eyes shining with the perverse glee that comes with purloined knowledge—“something about a fellow named Mankar Camoran and some books. Rumors about city folk acting strange—kind of like the sleepers back in Morrowind. Like this one fellow in Leyawiin…”

“You’ve been waiting for this conversation, haven’t you?” said Caius Cosades, no longer able to restrain his mirth.

“Well hell,” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun started. “It’s been kind of painful sitting on the sidelines with this bloody crisis going on. The Empire is crumbling around us, and I’m supposed to sneak around with a pack of Sithis-worshipping spooks, a bunch of thrill killers getting their jollies from everyone else’s pain? It’s not what I joined the Blades for, and you know it. One tires of running errands for the wicked.”

The argonian paused for a drink, looking suddenly thoughtful. “I’d like to start with cleaning up Leyawiin. Dar Jee tells me that some Bosmer, Fighter’s Guild, just walks around the city day and night, hardly sleeps. Dar Jee is Thieves’ Guild, you know, so he stumbles into this mer’s house and sees things… anyway, that’s where I’ll start, if you don’t mind. I have some other business around there too, so I figure I can kill two cliff racers with one bolt.”

“Other business?”

“It’s Dark Brotherhood business, but it’s really personal business. Nothing for the Elder Council to worry about. But it might help get me in tighter with Teinaava…”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:33 PM

I liked this update. Who is this mysterious Bosmer? If I'm supposed to know, then oh well I have no idea . Hey wait! I do believe I get first comment.

You are back with a vengeance, simply awesome!