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]

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