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]

And the promised update, with Daedric prince(esses), plots and a small glimpse of tommorow!

Part 2

The cold pervaded everywhere, creating frost on the rocks and freezing the cobwebs into crystalline strands that hummed in the biting wind. Daedra scuttled about on their business, atronachs, dremora and even a few of the mighty daedroths all made their way through the realm of Mephala, each following their own agenda.

And throughout this quiet, sneaking bustle, a lone figure with striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes walked. The daedra avoided him, feared him even. The Son of Sorrow was dangerous, and none dared challenge him. To do so would be to invoke the ire of their mistress, and none wished to do so. And to even annoy the Son would invoke a slow, painful death at his hands. They all knew how to kill, to turn it into a form of perverse art. But he had turned it into more than just art-he had turned it into a craft in its own right, made every killing a fatal masterpiece of death.

The wind whipped at the Son’s cloak, furiously trying to steal it, but he held tightly onto it, denying it the freedom to fly free of his body. He drew his bandanna over his face and above his nose in an effort to stave off a little more of the cold, but it didn’t help much. The wind, pervasive and cunning as ever, still slipped past the poor defence the thin cloth offered.

The Son reached the entrance to cave covered with a ragged cloth, which struggled to free itself of its mooring in the rock. He pushed it aside, and entered his home.

It was small and spartan, with only a bedroll and chest for his few possessions. A fire was already burning in the centre of the cave, the smoke floating lazily to the ceiling, only to be snapped up by the greedy wind. He collapsed heavily on his bed, breathing deeply. Though he showed no outward signs of it, the attack on the castle had exhausted him.

“Mother,” he called softly. “I’m home.”

The smoke from the fire responded to this, twisting and coiling to form the shape of a figure, before defining itself clearly. Dark hair coiled down past her shoulders, and she wore a black dress and cloak. Her skin was pale and face gaunt, her eyes and lips an unnatural red colour.

She was one of the most dangerous creatures in existence.

She was Mephala, the daedric princess of murder.

“Mother,” the Son said happily. “So nice to see you.”

He embraced her.

“Lovely to see my darling Ainis again,” she purred in his ear. “Was the murder successful?”

“Both the count and his wife are dead,” Ainis said, breaking away from the embrace. “And many of their guards. The entire town is in a state of panic.”

“Good,” Mephala said. “You have done very well, my son.”

“Thank you mother,” Ainis replied. “I kill only for you.”

“I know, my son, I know,” Mephala replied. “And speaking of which, I have another job that I wish you to carry out.”

“Already?” Anis asked. “I’ve only just returned though. Escaping the castle was difficult. I need rest.”

For a moment Mephala railed at the insubordination for a moment, her smile suddenly turning into a snarl for the tiniest perceptible moment, before almost instantaneously returning to its former expression. Most people would not have noticed it, but Ainis did, having been trained to carefully observe anyone to look for weakness. For a moment, he felt a pang of fear. Mephala’s punishments were painful and terrifyingly imaginative.

“I need you to do a bit of work for me before you can rest,” Mephala said. “The count’s death has already sent shockwaves through the town, but the people seem to be rallying around an old priest.”

Time in the realm of Mephala was mutable. A day in Tamriel could pass in seconds, and vice versa. The realm could travel backwards and forwards in time, allowing Ainis to strike anywhere at any time. One time he had even been to the far future of Tamriel, where massive cities spanned the world, the old magics had all but died and the people of the realm had already travelled to stars millions upon millions of miles away. It had been bewildering to see the world so changed, but nonetheless, Ainis had completed his assignment there.

“Who is this priest?” Ainis asked.

“None other than the retired Lord Commander of the Knights of the Nine,” Mephala answered. “The old Imperial Champion of the Oblivion Crisis. He retired to restore Dibella’s chapel at Anvil. To have such a hero assassinated would completely destroy any chance of order in the town. The place would be writhing in its own terror for months to come.”

Ainis smiled. The Imperial Champion would indeed be a glorious target.

“He’ll be dead soon,” he answered. “Very soon.”