Son of Sorrow, Murder's child has come... Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Seeing as every time I set out to write a story set in Tamriel I end up doing something that threatens to tear the structure of the nation apart, I though that perhaps I should maybe right something where that didn't happen. Then I thought, Oh sod it.

Son of Sorrow

Prologue

It is said that Mephala is without mercy, compassion or kindness. It is said that she relishes in the death of every living thing, and takes great joy in the despair of others.

This is not true.

Or at least, it isn’t fully true.

When the Ayleid people were destroyed, Mephala had revelled in the genocide that had ensued. Yet when the exterminations carried out by the newly formed ended and the elves were eventually accepted by society again, Mephala was angered, yet she knew that she could do nothing without angering the other Daedric princes.

So Mephala waited.

And then, after the Ayleid had been driven out, and replaced by the high elves, Mephala discovered that, contrary to imperial beliefs, one member of the Ayleid royal family lived. Barely out of infanthood, the young boy had been adopted by a pair of highly born High Elves. In a brutal attack on the house, Mephala sent her daedric minions to retrieve the child. When the watch arrived, the family had been slaughtered and the house burned to the ground.

So Mephala cared for and bought up the child the best she could, her blackened heart showing some semblance of mercy. She trained the child, enhanced and strengthened his body and skills through magic where training alone would not suffice. She sent him on missions, to hunt down and kill the most important members of society to wreak havoc and fear upon the world.

Mephala’s chosen assassin is able to strike in any place at any time, able to infiltrate any stronghold and eliminate the target with deadly speed.

He is the perfect assassin, the perfect killer.

He is the Son of Sorrow.

Marius took a deep swig of the brandy, allowing the strong alcohol to warm his cold body, before passing it to Gegran. The redguard accepted the flask gratefully, glad that he could finally warm himself after the long cold night shift at Anvil Castle.

“That’s good stuff,” he said. “Why didn’t you get it earlier?”

“Make it better when we have it,” Marius replied. “Come on, the night shift isn’t that bad. It’s a bit cold and boring but there are worse jobs we could be doing.”

Gegran had to agree. At least with the watch he could get good pay, three hot meals every day and a bed to sleep in.

There was a clink behind them, causing both watchmen to spin around.

The wall was empty.

Gegran laughed.

“Look at us,” he said. “Jumping at shadows. It was probably a rat.”

“Maybe we should go and take a look,” Marius said, looking nervous. “If someone got in on our watch the captain would have our hides.”

Gegran shrugged and drew his sword.

“If it makes you happy.”

The two men advanced towards the only entranceway to the castle on the roof, a thick wooden door. Gegran rattled the handle.

“Nothing here,” he said, sounding rather smug. “I told it would be…”

He was cut out by a whoosh and chink noise, then a scream.

Gegran span to see what the noise was and saw Marius clutching a stump where his arm had been. Dark red blood dribbled through his fingers. Gegran rushed over to his companion in a panic, but was stopped half way through by something speeding past him unnaturally fast. He slowed, suddenly unable to feel his legs, and he collapsed to his knees. He glanced down to see that somebody had somehow sliced a cut across his stomach, and blood was pouring freely through the cut in his chainmail.

Gegran collapsed forwards, his eyes wide with shock, unable to breath. A wracking cough caused his body to convulse, and blood dripped from his mouth as his eyes glazed.

Without ever seeing his killer, Gegran died.

Marius screamed as he saw his friend die. He frantically looked to the shadows in an attempt to locate the mysterious attacker, desperately trying to ignore the pain in his arm.

“Behind you,” someone whispered in his ears. Marius span, to see only empty wall.

“Missed me, I’m afraid,” came the same voice. Marius twisted to see a face, the lower half of it covered with a bandanna. It was that of a young man with scruffy blond hair that stuck out at all angles, and piercing blue eyes. Marius stared into them and couldn’t see any hint of mercy or remorse in them.

“Who are you?” he murmured, tears running down his face.

“Poor little thing,” his attacker crooned. “Why does it cry?”

He gently ran his hand along the side of Marius’ head.

“Is it sad?” he continued. “Is it hurt?”

“Get off me,” Marius cried, his vision beginning to blur. “Get off me, you madman.”

“I’m not mad,” the other man said, his tone offended. “Just very, very cruel. And you’re not. So that’s why we’re in this position now. Perhaps if you’d have been a bit crueller, a bit more ruthless, you might not be here right now, but could be sleeping safely now. It’s all your fault that you’re here now, and it’s my fault I’m here where I am. Because I am cruel, and so I’ll always be better than you.”

Marius tried to struggle away, but found his limbs leaden and heavy.

“You’re dying,” his attacker said. “Does it hurt? I’m glad I’ll never find out. You can’t kill me. No-one can. And you know what, it hurts to die, apparently. Please, tell me if it hurts.”

Marius could only nod.

“Good.”

Marius felt his keys be taken from him, and as his vision darkened he saw a figure walk away from him and unlock the door, all the while whistling a jaunty drinking song.

Alone and cold on the rooftop of the castle, Marius died.

This post has been edited by The Bean: Sep 18 2008, 09:16 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Thanks bbq, I appreciate you reading it and commenting on it.

And now for some more!

Part 1

“Stop him! Stop him!”

The Son of Sorrow laughed aloud as six guards came rushing towards him, their weapons and shields raised. He continued his reckless charge towards them, his own short, curved sword drawn.

He leapt forwards, his blade dancing before him. He cart wheeled and rolled around their blades, and with six slashes he was through the men, leaving them to scream and clutch their wounds. He had cut them so that they could not be healed, so that they would die slowly so they would make a perfect offering to his mother.

Another guard saw him and turned to run, but the Son of Sorrow simply planted his blade in the man’s back, centimetres from the heart, and left him to choke on his own blood.

Guards leapt aside, yet the Son gifted them with a light kiss of his blade whenever he could, leaving them to bleed and die, or live on with horrendous, marring wounds.

“Close the doors you idiots,” somebody yelled, and the Son glanced to see a captain in shining silver plate armour ordering guards around. He couldn’t let that happen, and so he darted towards the man, his sword raised.

Surprisingly enough, it was blocked.

The captain swung his claymore in an attempt to kill him, but the son blocked it easily, before jumping away.

“Very good captain!” he shouted above the din. “Very good indeed.”

He dashed towards the door, decapitated the guard who was desperately trying to lock it, and burst through into the courtyard, to be confronted by a dozen archers.

A dozen arrows sped towards him, but with preternatural speed his blade stopped the arrows, spinning and weaving through the air to stop the course of each shaft.

The archers were momentarily stunned by the deadly speed of the man, and in that second he was upon them, each strike with his blade fatal. As more men sprinted into the courtyard from various directions, the Son assessed the situation.

He decided there were too many, and so with an acrobatic leap, went for a window sill. Using it as a perch, he jumped from there to the top of the wall, then dropped into the streets below.

From his perch on the rooftops, the Son observed the watch attempting to stop him, and couldn’t help but laugh. What fools they were! They couldn’t catch him. And even if they could, who would want to.

The Son stayed to watch the sight a little longer, occasionally allowing a watchman to see him just to increase the confusion. But eventually, the Son decided that enough was enough and made his way over the city walls and into the world outside. His mission was accomplished, and as he opened the portal into his mother’s realm, he couldn’t help but smile.

#

“Twenty men dead and thirty wounded,” Heironymous Lex grumbled. “Twenty! Who in Oblivion’s name was this man anyway?”


“Some kind of elf sir,” said Carrio, his second in command. “Judging by his skin tone, I’d say an Altmer.”

“So we’re dealing with some kind of psychotic Elf assassin who can block a dozen arrows with his sword,” Lex said. “Think he could be Dark Brotherhood?”

“No chance sir,” Carrio answered. “The counts are untouchables. They can’t send an agent after them.”

“What exactly is an untouchable?” Lex asked. “You never did explain.”

“People too important to die,” Carrio said. “The counts and countesses, High Chancellor Ocato, important guild leaders and of course, until a few years ago, at least, the Emperor.”

“I see,” Lex said. “So that means that whoever it was, they weren’t part of the Dark Brotherhood. Who would stand to benefit if the count and countess died though?”

“The countesses’ brother would be the only man I could think of, sir,” Carrio said. “If they died without an heir then he would be the next candidate.”

“Well then,” Lex said. “Let’s pay them a little house call.”