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]

22.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Chorrol

When I re-entered The Grey Mare my friend was still holding our table.

“No trouble, I take it?” he asked, passing me a bottle.

“Not much,” I replied. “What is this?” Not knowing didn’t stop me from popping the top.

“Beer. A porter, to be precise. They brew it over at The Oak and Crosier. So everything worked out with the guard captain?”

I didn’t answer for a moment—I was taking a deep draught of the rich brew. Very nice. That settled, I answered, “Yeah, Bittneld understood. From his face, I don’t think he was too thrilled about having me skulking about in his jurisdiction, but then he doesn’t have any choice in the matter, does he?”

I sucked down some more beer.

“I walked him through the evidence, and he agreed with my conclusions, no problem. He also agreed to dispose of the corpse nice and quiet like, so hopefully word won’t spread too quickly among the rest of the Mythic Dawn.”

Nine-Toes nodded, looking off into space. “Sounds good. So now we wait here until it’s time for you to deal with Motierre?”

“Now we wait.”

* * *

“Oh! Well... um, hello. You must be the one Lucien Lachance told…”

“Lachance told you nothing!” I roared. “Nothing that counts, anyway. Just shut up and let me do my damn job, s’wit!” I glared at Francois Motierre fiercely, and he was frightened. He should have been. Kill him! My blood boiled. But his naked fear served to modify my rage—I still thought him a monster (he offered his mother to the Brotherhood!) but he was a toothless monster, animated by cowardice.

I unsheathed the languorwine blade and waved it in front of Motierre’s face.

“Listen up. As soon as that enforcer steps through the door, I’m slashing you across the chest with this—a touch’ll do the job, but then it wouldn’t look fatal, would it?”

A pause, and a thought.

“I’ll try to miss your heart… but no guarantees, eh?”

It was at that moment that Francois Motierre soiled himself.

We stood there a few moments, surely a more incongruous pairing than anything even Sheogorath himself could conjure up—the lean, hardened argonian assassin and the paunchy, pampered, piss-stained breton. The smell of urine was just beginning to saturate the room (tasteful, well-appointed, obviously expensive but not opulent) when the enforcer rapped on the front door. He spoke with the voice of one of my countrymen. Another marshbrother wrapped up in this business.

“Motierre! I know you're in there! My employers are most displeased. I'm coming in and you can beg for your life. Not that it will do any good! Ha ha!”

I could clearly hear the little *tink* of a lockpick at work—it would be any moment—and a tiny whisper from Motierre—“Hides-His-Heart”—and… where had I heard that name before? The question was immaterial, however, as the enforcer burst through the door—where have I seen that face?—and I slashed the exceedingly and gratifyingly terrified Motierre across the chest, clearing his heart by a safe and sane three inches. I threw down the pathetic poisoned blade, drew Kills-You-Dead, and faced Hides-His-Heart. I saw… recognition, in his face. Then surprise. Then abject, open fear.

“You? It can’t… but…”

Hides-His-Heart dropped his blade and fled out the door. Most strange…

But it gave me time. Time for what? Time to remember Nine-Toes’ words. To wit: “You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.” I looked at Francois Motierre, prostrate, sodden, bleeding, and helpless, and then imagined him with the addition of several broken ribs. Plenty of time to prove my dear old friend wrong.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM