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 here's part four!

Part 4

Carrio lit another candle as he shuffled through the various reports from the last few years. The watches all around the Empire kept good records, and copies were sent to every important watch office in the realm. Documents describing crimes hundreds of years old could be found by the intrepid researcher, but Carrio was more concerned with more recent crimes.

He had discovered several crimes comparable to the recent one committed, around the Empire in the archives, all of them involving a similar looking killer, a blonde haired high elf in a bandanna. All of the attacks had been brutal, swift and unsubtle, the killer obviously attempting to cause as much death as possible. Every target had been somebody important, with huge amounts of collateral damage done and nearly every death in the households being one that would have been slow. People had seen the killer, over a hundred witness descriptions of him had been given of him over the years, yet he had somehow escaped justice.

Carrio sighed in frustration and jammed the rolled up scroll back into a shelf so hard that it rocked. In a sudden panic, he grabbed it firmly to stop it from falling, but not before several scrolls, books and parchments had been knocked off.

Bending down to pick them up, Carrio absently mindedly rolled open a scroll to see what the crime was.

It could have been fate.

It could have been pure, dumb luck.

It could have been divine intervention.

Perhaps it was all three.

Carrio read the scroll, reread it, checked and double checked the date. The other documents forgotten, Carrio sprinted upstairs to find the captain, clutching the scroll in his hand.

#

“Look at this sir,” Carrio said, pointing at the sketch. “That’s our man, right there.”

“That’s impossible,” Lex muttered. “This is completely and utterly impossible.”

“Yet it’s there sir,” Carrio pointed out. “Somehow our killer was at large three hundred years ago. The description’s the same, the sketch is identical and the nature of the attack is exactly the same as any of these other ones.”

Lex read the description of the crime, poring over the words of the report from over three hundred years ago.

The criminal is a High Elf of a young age, it read. With straw blonde hair, blue eyes and with a black bandanna covering the lower half of his face. Witness reports describe him as wearing black clothing, with bandoleers of knives, but it seems his favoured weapon seems to be a short sword of elven design.

So far, of the eleven attacks commited, there has been only one survivor, a severely wounded and extremely traumatised young Dunmer maidservant. In an interview, the girl described the attacker as talking to her and seeming to gloat about the deaths of everyone in the household. She said that he called himself the Son of Sorrow, after the legendary assassin who was raised by the Daedric prince Mephala. Though I would dismiss this as ludicrousness, as the Son of Sorrow is simply used as a bogeyman to keep their children in line, the recent brutality and swiftness of these attacks has been enough to convince me that this “Son of Sorrow” may be either an extremely dangerous, possibly rogue, member of the Morag tong or perhaps the legendary assassin himself. If this is the case, then I feel that the resources of Chorrol’s watch are inadequate for this crime, but at the same time I also think that however many men we use to catch this criminal, we may not have enough watchmen in the entire Empire to catch this man.

“I don’t understand this,” Lex said. “How can a criminal who is three hundred years old still be young enough to assassinate a count, his wife and half of a castle’s garrison? I know Elves are longer lived than most, but they have to die sometime.”

“What do you suggest, sir?” Carrio asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Lex said. “I’ve tried to fight immortal criminals of legend before, and look how much hunting the Gray Fox humiliated me. It got me posted to here, when I was so close to getting him. That man has power, but he never wanted to kill me. If this person sees fit to come after me, then what chance do I have?”

“So what do we do?”

“We don’t have a choice, Carrio. We’ll have to call off the case.”

“What? But you never give up sir. That’s why they call you the Bloodhound sir-when you get a scent you don’t stop following.”

“I’m finding it hard to see the difference between the hunter and the hunted. I don’t want to put any more lives in danger. We have no leads, only a few descriptions and a criminal who’s committed crimes centuries ago. What chance do we have?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

The pair were interrupted from their reverie by a young watchman sprinting down the stairs.

“Sir,” he said, hastily saluting. “There’s been another attack!”

“Where?” Lex asked.

“It was the chapel sir,” the watchman said. “One priest missing and one murdered. The wounds on him seem similar to those inflicted on the count.”

“Could it be him,” Carrio asked.

“Could be,” Lex said. “Alright lad, we’re on our way.”