One shot stories Options

[Kell-Reevor]

Just a short piece I put together out of boredom. Hope you like it.

*************

It is dark. Two figures traverse a well trodden path out of Suran. The first is a swordsman. The second... his would-be killer.

The swordsman knows of his follower's presence. He listens attentively as the assassin follows. He is clearly untrained, and this may be his first mark. There is no rattle of quarrels or arrows. It is likely the swordsman need not fear a ranged attack.

The swordsman has made an enemy in the Nobles of Suran, and was aware that eventually they would seek his life. But he is not afraid. As a swordsman, death has followed him as a companion he has developed a deep respect for.

His trained ears pick up a sound... a soft and smooth "whif" as a dagger is pulled from a belt.

Spotting a shrine by the road, he approaches. He has no love of the Dunmer, nor has he a love for their Temple, but he is a spiritual man and pays his repects nonetheless as his killer moves in.

He moves his thumb for the guard of his sword. Years of oiling grant it silence as he nudges it from his sheath.

In a flash, he grips the weapon. Rips it from its home. Then thrusts it back, cutting into the assassin's belly. Turning, he frees the weapon with a horizontal slice, then brings the weapon up for a finishing downward cut.

The ordeal is over in a mere span of two seconds. The swordsman flips his sword to remove any blood, then returns it to it's home. He kneels in respect to the life he had just ended. If the nobleman had hired a killer even a tad more competant, the outcome would have been drastically different. If his foe had been equipped with a bow, or maybe armor, or perhaps knowledge of magick, HE would have been the one to die tonight.

He closes the dead man's eyes, mutters a short prayer... then is on his way.

This post has been edited by Kell-Reevor: Mar 2 2006, 02:01 PM

[Olen]

Well its a long time since I did any writing which is the main reason I appeared here. I have about 14000 words of a fanfic done but you won't be seeing that until it gets a second pass (and modified to be more PG-13) so I thought I'd try my hand at this.

Any thoughts appriciated, I tried to be a bit... arty towards the end of this and don't know if it worked but here goes:

---


Anyir hurried out the door of the Tiber Septim hotel and joined the evening crowds. Unlike the rest of the crowds, however, he wasn’t on his way home. In fact he had only just awoken. He smiled as he passed into the Elven Gardens district, to think a year ago that he would be living in the Tiber…

He slipped sideways into a narrow alley which ran alongside the city wall. An old imperial stood halfway down smoking some foul herb from Morrowind. A job tonight then. Good. Anyir walked along the alley, and the man stubbed out the cigarette and flicked it into the folds of Anyir's cloak as he passed. He didn’t break step as he manipulated it into his pocket. He had only gone a short way when he heard the man move behind him and follow. What did Geld think he was doing? Anyir fingered his dagger and felt his heart race.

Footsteps hurrying behind him. He closed his hand over the hilt and withdrew the dagger a short way, its razor edge was dulled with lampblack. He turned into a darkened doorway and waited. He was glad that his old friend, if such a relationship could be referred to as such, knew nothing of the thin armour he wore under his robe. He tensed while trying to retain outward nonchalance waiting to see what Geld was planning. The wispy hared man ignored him as he walked past.

Anyir’s eyes red eyes blazed as he emerged. “N’wah,” he muttered. Geld wasn’t nearly careful enough; on the rare occasions they spoke he didn’t seem to understand that their business had enemies. And the brotherhood wasn’t known for its tolerance of competition either. He shuddered. Even after a year and numerous more killings the memory of the night after he killed a traveller made him shiver. It wasn’t the thought of murder that bothered him, or even the fact anyone had known though that still puzzled him. It was the man. The softly spoken man who had woken him and offered him entrance to a new family. The same man who spoke of worshiping the darkness and the glory of cold murder. The cold insanity had shaken Anyir: killing was a job but to make it a pastime…

They were insane, and they knew that he had killed. How could they have known? He did not take all the elaborate precautions for fear of the guards, as Geld seemed to think. It was them. He was careful, and so long as he kept such care no one would be able to find him.

He shook himself from his musings and pulled out the cigarette butt. He ran his nail across it and unravelled the greasy parchment. Yellow tar stained it from the smoke it had filtered but he scarcely noticed. Six words and a number: Temple district. Second story north corner. 3000.

Three thousand? It was more than he usually got for four kills, soon he would have the money to retire. He flicked the parchment down a drain.

*

He walked the long way round and as he walked he prepared himself. He checked his weapons, feeling the lumps in the thick travelling cloak. His tools. A miniature crossbow, a dagger and a vial of most potent poison, the bolts were already treated and the soot on the blade was an oily mess of venom. He stopped in a hovel in the market district and sat unnoticed allowing time to pass and listening to the rumours. Some were of his making but he cared little. A job only.

It was full night when he emerged, moonless but with a slight breeze which made the torches choke. He stalked though the sleeping city, too nondescript to be worthy of remembrance. When he passed into the temple district he slipped into the shadows and shed his cloak. The time was near. He wore tight dark greys and greens, not black. And kept to the shadows. In the city the best disguise was to be one of the crowd. At a crime scene it was better not to be seen at all.

Something bothered him as he neared the western corner. He paused. There was nothing there. Then what isn’t here? A guard. There was no guard stationed outside the corner watchtower. Was it luck? He didn’t like it. He didn’t like luck. He glanced around before turning his attention to the door. The lock was oily. He put a pick and a lever in and felt around. One of the tumblers was jammed up. Someone had picked this, or tried to. He focused on the next tumbler. It was stiff. He pushed harder and the pick snapped. Jammed. That explained the oil and one up but not why.

He paused to think. This was a big payer but something was going on. He looked up to the first floor window. It was ajar. Plenty of people sleep with their windows open… It was too unlikely. He merged into the shadows. In and out fast then. There was a small window by the door but it didn’t look like it opened. He looked up again at the open one. Not a chance. He returned his attention to the lower one.

His dagger flowed from its sheath and soared in his hand. He drove its hilt into the bottom pane and winced at the crack. Steadying his breathing he pulled off his shirt revealing the thin armour beneath and stuffed it though the dark hole. He brought up the heels of both his hands and slammed them into the top pane. The putty gave way and it fell inward and was muffled by his shirt. A gentle twist brought the wooden bar which had been between the panes out and he dropped himself though.

The house was typical. A table, some food, a chest. A couple of fine vials sat on the table with an elaborate pipe. He ignored them all and crept to the stairs. A low moan sent his pulse racing. It was only the second step. He stole on upward, the worn carpet killing all noise of his passing. The door at the top was easy to unlock.

He eased the handle round and pushed gently. The hinges were oiled. He pushed again careful of the first hint of squeal. There was none but he though he heard something. A noise from downstairs? He froze. Nothing. He strained his eyes into the gloom but all was still. Just nerves. He pushed the door again. It was only a little open when the bed came into view.

Anyir permitted himself a smile as he raised his crossbow. The string twanged. The sleeping figure was momentarily rigid then slumped. Clean kill, and he would never know who the victim was.

A creak cut his thoughts like broken glass. The second step. He didn’t waste time in looking back but slipped though the door and leapt over the bed landing soundlessly. He spun and stared. Geld stared back, the whites of he eyes bulging in a pale blue tinged face. The bottom fell out of Anyir’s stomach. What the hell?

Had Geld ordered his own death? True the man was desperate but Anyir had always assumed that ended in the bottom of a skooma vial. Suicide, however contrived, was beyond the old imperial.

A footfall on the stairs. He hadn’t imagined it, someone was trying to go unnoticed but hadn’t his skill. He loaded another dart into his crossbow and sighted over Geld’s stiffened body. The door swung open and the intruder stepped in, dagger drawn. She fell back, a bolt in her throat but Anyir had recognised the black armour she wore.

She’s from the brotherhood. The lock downstairs clicked open. Anyir felt a dampness at his crotch. He leapt to the window and hauled it open.

The world turns to blinding light and he falls scarcely able to breathe, his body a rag doll. Boots advance up the stairs. He has fallen looking at the door. A trickle of saliva runs from his mouth, his paralysed throat unable to swallow. A man steps in.

The man from the nightmares. He smiles warmly, “So good to see you again. We have followed you with interest, it is such as shame you chose not to honour sithis,” the word sounds like a dieing man’s final gasp, “Still you shall. In your way.”

The man chuckled as if enjoying a friend’s fireside jest as he advanced with a knife. “You’ll be amazed what I can do.”