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]

14.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: the Imperial City

Arrows whistled through the air. For a change, they weren’t aimed at me by some assassin; instead, they were aimed by me at the hordes of rats and mudcrabs populating the sewers of Cyrodiil. I hadn’t intended to approach Dreth by the subterranean route, but once I was committed to it, it was actually rather pleasant. I didn’t care for the smell—I have far less affinity for stale air and swamp gas than most of my kind—but I did appreciate the quiet. I could think.

The vampire bothered me. He seemed to be under the impression that I had recently escaped from this very prison—his reason for assigning the job to me. It was puzzled me—I have not so much as spent a night in any prison, anywhere. Almalexia’s steward once locked me in the Mournhold’s Temple basement, true, but that hardly counts. I tried to think of where Valtieri could have gotten the notion—and failed. I cleared the thought from my mind by perforating a pair of rats.

I had been underground for only half an hour when I reached a hatch to something that the imperial architects’ called “The Sanctum”. Judging from the blueprints—a gift from Caius—the Sanctum would be where I’d likely run into my first opposition from the guards. It was the only place an assassin could get through, and could be easily defended. The emperor’s assassins had turned the equation on its head—it was the only escape route, and easily blocked. (Or so I heard. News travels quickly amongst the Blades, but as happens in covert organizations, the news isn’t always accurate.) Taking no chances, I cast a spell of silence upon the rusty old hatch.

I popped through the hatchway into dark corridor leading to a large, well-lit room—that was where the guards waited, just passing time.

“Of course I'm proud to do my duty. But... It's a waste of time. What are we guarding? Cold stone and shadow. That's it.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you, believe me. Those assassins got what they wanted. The Emperor is dead. They've got not reason to come back.”

Two men. From the sound of their voices, they would be a Nord and a Redguard. I crept forward for a peek around the corner, and found that I was correct. Big men with big swords, standing far too near for me to sneak past. I would need to wait.

“That's exactly what I'm saying! But will the Captain listen? Noooo... ‘We must have a presence!The prison must remain secure!’”

“Yeah, what a laugh, huh? Just who are we keeping secure? Dreth? Since that other one got away, he's the only one rotting down here.”

Could these men have contracted Valen Dreth’s execution? My instructions from Valtieri—“For Sithis’ sake, don’t kill any guards!” (I paraphrase)—suggested as much. But if these two fellows had anything to do with it, their conversation betrayed nothing.

“…well, I best be getting back to my watch…”

The raga made an about-face, striding into the darkness which was to be my path forward. The nord, too, turned away from me. It was time to move, and move I did. I darted into and out of the light with appropriate haste. Back in the darkness I stopped and listened. I’d not been heard or seen, of course.

What would I do if I were discovered? Surrender, blow my cover, and embarrass the Blades? (I could see the headlines: “Your Tax Dollars At Work: Blades Dabbling In Murder?”) Out of the question—I’d be even more a pariah than usual. Kill all the witnesses, preserving my anonymity? Also out of the question—the mission could continue, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My only choice would be to run. Run away. Be a fugitive, again.

The raga stopped adjacent to some stone steps, which was an issue. I needed to go that way, and I was tired of waiting in the dark. I decided to push my luck a bit (was being a fugitive really that bad? I mean, aside from everyone wanting me dead). The stairs were well lit but darkness reigned on either side of the steps. On one side, the left, the guard stood watch. I eased my way over on the right, waited a moment, and… jumped.

I was on the next level up, safely ensconced in shadow, still undetected.

It is a miracle that I am still alive.

I must confess that the rest of my journey through the undercity was rather uneventful. There was but one more guard to avoid—easily done by lingering in the shadows. I live in the shadows. I had been underground for about two hours when I finally emerged into a prison cell. I heard voices. It was the jailor. It was my mark.

“I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help...”

“Filthy cur! I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, well, what's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday.”

“Eleven! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Oh yeah? And where will you go? Huh? What will you do? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You belong in that cage.”

“I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!”

“Right. And you'll be rich, too. Oh, and you'll become a king! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be back. You lot always come back...”

“You'll see, you Imperial dog! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!”

I felt a surge of pity for the criminal degenerate, and a surge of shame within myself. He will never again breathe free air, lay on warm sand, make love…

The jailor walked away, up the stairs, and closed the door. I pulled out my new bow, a fine thing of ebony, and nocked an arrow, a delicate sliver of glass slathered in deadly poison. Aim, draw, release.

Valen Dreth fell with hardly a sound.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:32 PM