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]

9.

Waterfront District, the Imperial City

You want t’ know about the Cap’n of the Mah-ree Elena? Aye, s’pose I hear some things. He don’t ever come out of that cabin of ‘is, is what I hears. I sure ain’t never seen ‘im, and I’m on the Waterfront all day, if ya’ know what I mean, sir. Oh, yes sir, does all his business through that dark elf mate what patrols the docks. Real hard case, that one. Why, I was making me rounds the other day sir, you knows, singing for me supper, and I swear to old Aka she’d have slew me on the spot if it weren’t for the Watch.

Would I likes to earn some scratch? Aye sir. What’d you ‘ave in mind?

* * *

No doubt about it, Malvulis was agitated. Nervous, even, though her crew would never speak a questioning word; at least not to her face. Not now, on their last evening in port. In the morning they would sail down the Niben, bound for the Abecean. But until they reached the open sea they were vulnerable, and the First Mate knew it better than anyone.

“How many crates left, Hutsei?” It was more a command than a question.

A shirtless, red-scaled argonian answered thus: “Twenty-five, ma’am. Any faster and we’ll damage the cargo!” They were moving brandy, wine, hard booze—skirting tariffs—and a fair helping of skooma, all of it destined for Stros M’kai.

Twenty-five crates would take another three hours, at least, to haul down below deck and secure. Probably four. Malvulis swore, none too softly. Four more hours and she thought she would drive herself batty, imagining every passer-by would get curious and start poking into her cargo, or want to see a manifest. And then there was the other problem. She glanced back to the ship and saw the reassuring candlelight glow from Captain Tussaud’s quarters. She took a deep breath… everything was going to be alright.

“Ma’am,” a redguard’s voice interrupted, “the beggar is skulking about again.” She looked up and saw the fellow pointing dockside with his cutlass.

Letting loose a contemptuous snort, Malvulis turned and saw the bum. This time he had a drink in hand. This was why she hated the charitable. “I’ll take care of it, Bridger,” she groaned, “You just get back to loading. I want to be ready to leave at first light.”

The beggar seemed to be… singing? He must have found quite a benefactor tonight, Malvulis thought. He clearly already had a few in him. She strode quickly down the gangplank, fingering her cutlass, as the beggar staggered up to a stack of cargo.

“O, t’was never better… than to bed her… all ‘long the ‘becean Sea…”

The doddering fool took a deep swig of his libation—Malvulis smelled mead on the air—and then sat down heavily on a strongbox, a chest the dunmer first mate knew contained at least ten vials worth of skooma. The bum’s grimy fingers idly played with the padlock…

“Away from that cargo, s’wit! Now!” Malvulis’ cutlass was drawn, her gaze enough to make an ogre think twice. The bum practically vaulted up from his seat, terror full in his eyes. He looked anything but drunk, now, and stammered, “Many apologies milady, I meant nothing by it, nothing a’tall! Just wetting me whistle, is all!”

The dunmer raised her sword, “Just wetting your whistle! Why—“

The watchman rounded into view. Malvulis froze. The beggar turned and ran, forgetting his mead. And the redguard Bridger shouted, “Ma’am! I hear noises in the Captain’s cabin!”

“What!” The dunmer turned and ran shipboard, shouting. “Open that door! Now!”

Hutsei fumbled with the key, then dropped it, then kicked in the door. Three pirates burst inside, finding the Captain slumped onto a table sticky with his own blood. The aft door was open wide.

All that remained of the killer were the ripples in Lake Rumare.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:13 PM