The Dark Operation, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun is back for more... in Cyrodiil. Options

[canis216]

Note: Yes, I will be finishing the original (and working on the 2nd) A.H.L.i.t.S. story eventually, but I've been on an Oblivion playing binge so I figured I'd strike while the game is still fresh for me. Without further ado...
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1.

Weynon Priory, Imperial Province

Jauffre’s lips eased into a droll smile when saw the figure in black approaching, up the stars. “What news from Morrowind, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun?” The figure in black pulled back his hood, revealing a red-brown, and scarred, argonian face. The grin was toothy, and Jauffre was reminded of the Naga from Waughin Jarth’s newest fiction. Jauffre thought it was fiction, at least.

“Call me Al, please. With Helseth consolidating his power, and everything else, I think I’ll be a frequent visitor.” The argonian handed over a large, sealed envelope.

“I imagine so… Al. How is the courier business treating you?”

“I have no complaints. I haven’t had to break into anyone’s home in six months.”

“Is that so? You did that a lot in the old days?”

“Almost as often as I cut a man’s throat.”

At that Jauffre’s eyes darted down to his katana. Quietly, he said, “I remember.” They were quiet for a moment, the two Blades, now a monk and a courier. The courier turned to leave, almost plowing into Brother Piner—running up the stairs.

“Jauffre! Jauffre! The emperor has been assassinated!”

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Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Province of Morrowind

A puff of skooma smoke on the air. “Full report.”

“My horse pulled up lame on the way down from the pass, while I was trying to outrun a bandit. I killed the bandit; claimed 342 septims from the body, some family’s jewels. Sold the jewels and the horse in Cheydinhal.”

“Healing magic didn’t work on Many-Gallops?”

A swig of beer. Old rhetorical trick—very common in the west. “Right. Well, it worked, but only well enough to trot into Cheydinhal. I’ve had an eye on a black horse anyway.”

“You bought one?”

“I call her ‘Outruns-Bandits’. Very fast. I included the receipt in my written report.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Anyway, there wasn’t any trouble the rest of the way I couldn’t outrun. I collected the most recent reports from the Palace and the Prison, and stayed overnight in the Market District. In the morning I made for the monastery and delivered the package to our colleague there. And then I discovered that Uriel and all of his heirs had been killed. I think I broke all land speed records on the way back here.”

“You were right to do so, friend. The times demand urgency.”

“We don’t have orders from the City already, do we? I don’t think I could wrap my brain around that kind of efficiency from the Elder Council.”

A smile. “No, Al. I’m expecting some sort of word from the Council by tomorrow, though. And I can guess what they’ll say.”

“So can I. ‘Stay put, we can’t afford instability in the provinces.’ So very predictable.” Another swig of beer. A nod and a puff of smoke from the other side of the table, rueful.

The beer drinker went on. “You know Caius, we must be quite the sight. Me in my all black with half-a-dozen empty beer bottles in front of me. You in that ridiculous monk’s robe—with skooma! We never change, do we?”

“So very predictable.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:05 PM

[canis216]

6.

The Green Road, south of Lake Rumare

Dro’Jayr’s ears perked up at the sound of a horse rushing southeast along the road. This was good; business had been poor of late. He rolled over and pushed himself up off of his bedroll, seizing his elven blade in the process. He was already arrayed in his glass armor—the bandit’s life being so perilous that he seldom dared to take it off, unless he was staying at the local inn. All his gear together, Dro’Jayr sprinted the distance to the road, maybe twenty yards. He could tell that the horse was fast, that he needed to hurry to be in position.

The bandit reached the roadside just in time to see a black horse—with a black rider—fly past. He didn’t bother to pursue it.

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The Inn of Ill Omen, 11:35 P.M.

Manheim Maulhand had nearly finished wiping down the bar when the figure in black stepped in through his door. It was a warm night, yet the man—the figure was of fair height—was wearing a full black robe. Hood was up too. Odd, but the innkeeper knew that some folks were like that, always wear the same thing so long as it made their status clear. Finally the figure stepped into the candlelight and he could see the snout of an argonian peeking out of the hood. The argonian looked about for a moment—paying special attention to the basement hatch—and then approached the bar.

As the argonian took a seat Maulhand heard the rough utterance of a greeting of what passed for a greeting—“Evening”.

Eager for some business, the nord tried to ignore his customer’s gruffness. “We got plenty of rooms if you want one. Ain't nobody staying here these days 'cept old Rufio.”

The argonian nodded and—more politely than before—said, “Thanks. I would appreciate a room. How much for one?”

“I've got a small room available right upstairs, first door on the left. Only 10 gold. What do you say?”

The argonian fished into his robes and pulled out a small bag of gold, out of which he produced a 10-septim piece. “I’ll take it” he said as he passed over the gold. “If you have an ale I’ll take that too.” He fished out a few more coins. “And you can have one for yourself.”

After an hour Manheim Maulhand was thoroughly sloshed (no nord born can turn down a good drinking game), and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had confirmed that Rufio could be found downstairs.

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The Inn of Ill Omen, 1:15 A.M.

Who are you? What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!

Oh yes you have, old man.

No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!

You always have a choice, Rufio. You chose wrong.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:08 PM