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]

18.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Blackwood

The landscape feels vaguely familiar. It is not quite home—the swamp is much thicker, darker, and more menacing in my part of Black Marsh—but riding through Blackwood, the unsettled territory along the border between Cyrodiil and Argonia, makes me prone to flashbacks and daydreaming. So it was that I rode along, remembering my (thankfully brief) time spent training with the Shadowscales.

“You know how it is in our homeland. Those born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood. A Shadowscale hatchling is trained in the arts of stealth and assassination, and lives a life in service to the mighty kingdom of Argonia.”

Teinaava’s words, of course. Words for which I had no response, and for which no response was needed. He knew my story—it had become part of Shadowscale lore: the ragged resistance fighter who didn’t fit in, the arrogant master, and a precious artifact stolen. The artifact I’d wielded for more than fifteen years now. I’d not rendered much in the way of service to my homeland.

“When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate, a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail. The three of us were inseperable. When our training was completed, we reluctantly parted ways. But now... Now, the unthinkable has happened! Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh and refuses to fulfill his duties as royal assassin! This is an act of treason! This treachery must be punished! Just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale. That is why you must go to Bogwater and eliminate that treacherous snake! Please kill Scar-Tail, so Ocheeva and I can put this matter behind us.”

Of course. One traitor deserves another, after all. As one might expect, I was not enamored of this particular ‘favor’. There had been a time when I admired the Shadowscales, but that was long past. The order of assassins may have once served some useful purpose, but the organization as I knew it was blind to reality, like Teinaava. “Mighty kingdom of Argonia”. Ha! Black Marsh is no kingdom, and as I far as I know never has been. Centralized government has little meaning in a land of impenetrable swamps and isolated clans. The empire itself has only nominal control over the province. To serve the “Mighty kingdom of Argonia” is to be a plaything for the imperialized city-states of the exterior—Gideon, Soulrest, Lilmoth, Thorn…

It was with such thoughts that I was occupied when Outruns-Bandits and I rode into the camp at Bogwater. I didn’t bother with stealth—for Scar-Tail to attack me on sight would have been an intolerable violation of Argonian courtesy. Visitors are so infrequent in Black Marsh—one might not see a fellow clansman for months or even years—that marshwalkers are predisposed to generosity toward guests. (Our persecution over the eras, sadly, has made it so such generosity is seldom extended to foreigners anymore. Such is life.)

Scar-Tail bade me to dismount and sit beside his fire. He cut right to the heart of the manner, as is our way.

“I guess I've been expecting you, assassin. Don't try to deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Dark Brotherhood, right? Let me guess, it was Ocheeva, right? No, wait. Teinaava. Yes, he put you up to this, didn't he? Ocheeva was always too busy to even be bothered. Well, you can kill me if you like. I'm afraid I won't make much of a challenge, though. The Duke of Blackrose already sent an agent to do the job,” he paused, nodding to a body, another of our countrymen, lying in the marsh. “He failed, of course. But he got in a pretty good hit. If I don't get some rest I'm probably dead anyway. So maybe I can appeal to your sense of good will, huh? Ha ha ha ha! You let me live, and I'll tell you where I stashed my treasure. Is it a deal?”

I waited quietly, for a moment, thinking of Blackrose. I’d been there once, two years before, tracking an escapee from the big imperial prison. A horrible place ruled by despicable men. I could imagine what sort of work Scar-Tail had been doing.

I stood up, walked to my horse, and pulled a healing potion from my saddlebags. I tossed the vial over to Scar-Tail. “You can keep your treasure, and your life. But you’d better clear out of Cyrodiil, fast. If the wrong person sees you, it means trouble for the both of us.” I stopped, thinking. “I suggest you try Stros M’kai. There’s a tavern there.”

He gave me a weak smile—a smile of relief mixed with a bit of confusion. “You have my thanks, marshwalker. Now, I imagine Teinaava wants proof that I'm dead, right? Let me guess -- my heart? I suggest you take the heart from that fellow”—he gestured to the dead agent—“over there. He doesn’t need it anymore, and Teinaava will be none the wiser. I wish you luck.”

A few minutes passed, and Scar-Tail was gone. I lingered on, watching him until he disappeared into the evening. It was only then that I pulled out my ebony and got to work carving out the agent’s heart, marveling at what could have driven all of us—me, him, Scar-Tail, Teinaava—to this madness.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:34 PM