Metharial: The Anvil, Murder, intrigue and ego. Options

[darkynd]

My, it's been a while since I've posted here! But my comp went down and the story I was working on was lost, so until I get that back on track here's a separate one that I'm working on intermittently.

Prologue


In Tamriel of olden days, after the defeat of Uriel V and the long regency that followed, the upper levels of society were uncomfortably crowded. There were too many nobles with too much power, wallowing in the freedom that the Elder Council allowed them so long as they paid tax. All too often, this led to struggles for power, both big and small, and varying in intensity. Cities would devolve into armed camps, generals of the Legion would challenge the rightful lords of the land for supremacy and all manner of small villages would be caught up in petty disputes then be ruined. These struggles were universally detrimental to the running of society and to the maintenance of the Empire, and when the Emperor Uriel VI finally ascended to the throne as a fully-fledged monarch, his greatest power of state was little more than a veto, something akin to slapping the wrist of a bear. There was a point when Uriel sent out a call for troops to defend the nation from marauders and bandits, and it was all but ignored. Only the Orcs, seeking status and respect among the 'civilized' races, answered.


In that moment, the Emperor realized that his country was riding a knife's edge, ready to slip into a morass of chaos and disorder unseen since the War of the Red Diamond. And he also realized that that eventuality must be avoided at all costs, by all means, no matter how unpleasant. For Tamriel is the center of all civilization, and should it fall, the world would soon follow. Not to mention, the Emperor likely would be the first to get the axe.


So it was with a heavy heart and a reluctant hand that Emperor Uriel VI signed the Order of Balancing, a secret mandate creating a cadre of assassins meant to serve the Empire by readjusting the scales of society. Or, in simpler terms, to kill those who the Emperor deemed troublesome. This is the story of the most well-known member of this shadow organization, a man who, by his sheer efficiency, toppled kings and rearranged border lines.


He was known to cartographers as the "Damnable Scourge of Our Profession," but history knows him by the name "Anvil."



Part 1



The Third of Heartfire began with a brilliant sunrise, golden rays daintily painting the rooftops of Chorrol and not a cloud in the blue sky. Not too long after the citizens of the fair city came out of their houses, and set about their day's work with unusual reserve for such a glorious morning. They toiled, ate and drank in silence, only exchanging infrequent, ominous glances. For the third day of Heartfire is Tales and Tallows, a day where the spirits of the dead are most active, seeking to enter a living host. And on that night the dead will even walk once more, in the shadows.


Of course, in many parts of Cyrodiil all of that was laughed off and ignored as superstition, the people instead choosing to make merry the whole day through. But the city of Chorrol did not; they knew that it was true. Only two years past, the Count, the Countess and all the Guild house leaders were found dead the following morning. So all the people stayed silent for fear of drawing the dead's ire, and did not celebrate.


All the people that is, save one. In the tavern this fellow sat, drinking and laughing with anyone who would stay near him for more than a moment. His face was red and jolly with alcohol, and he had no truck with any spirits but those he found in his mug. A drunkard and a fool he was called, but only by those who did not know him. The select few that did know him called him Metharial. This name, doubtless, was some affectation to give the Breton a semblance of class, but he refused to go by any other.


The innkeeper who waited on him, however, did not care what his name was. And he didn't care what currency the drunken man paid in either, for the boisterous stranger was causing such a ruckus that every specter and phantom within a hundred miles would converge on the inn. With every bottle of wine the Breton grew louder, until at last Metharial turned to the publican, and muzzily ordered another drink.


"Sod off, you drunken oaf!" half-whispered the innkeeper, still afraid of ghosts, "you've drank enough, now go walk it off, preferably a thousand leagues from here!"


Metharial was taken aback, and glared briefly at the Imperial before forgetting what, exactly, he was glaring about. Then he remembered the publican's harsh words, and decided that he would no longer grace this establishment with his noble presence. Staggering from his chair, he headed for the door, knocking several chairs over on the way. As he reached the wooden portal, he stumbled round to face the innkeeper once more, his head held high to allow the sunlight filtering in to reflect off his golden-brown hair. "And don't expect me to ever return, swineherd!"


The publican flushed, gesticulating madly for the stranger to just leave him be. Metharial obliged him and left, not without fumbling at the door handle a bit.


Now out in the bright sunlight, the Breton regretted suddenly the copious amounts of mead and wine and ale he had imbibed. Stumbling about - much to the disapproval of all onlookers - Metharial finally found a shady alley to hunker down in and sober up. He had indulged himself since early this morning, in the warm glow of a job well done. What exactly his profession was, well you'll soon know, but let it suffice to say that he was a well known figure among his peers. And as such, he garnered much attention from many parties.


One of those attentive parties was watching him at that very moment, though he was unaware. Metharial had always assumed that since he wore a cloak and hood, his identity was more or less secret. But there are few secrets to the kind of person who watched him as he slept off his celebration. Very few indeed. So Metharial the Breton was more than a little startled when he woke up some time later in a pitch black room.

[darkynd]

I doubt anybody even remembers this story, but it's back! And I hope to read all of yours very soon too. I hope you can enjoy it, and if so, please tell me. If not, please tell me how you I could have changed it!

mplantinga, you're a very observant fellow, and yes, he does take risks. Partly that is who Metharial is, partly that's a failure on my part as the author. But I am working on it. And jackalvin, your comment is also pretty incisive, hehe. That statement is maybe one of the hints in this story as to what I believe.



Part Sixteen

Guts and Gore

The city of Bruma, Hoblin thought, would surely look better wi’out a whole army of villains seekin’ to break its doors down.

Standing on the high slopes of the Jerall Mountains, the Nord warrior had a grand view of the city and much of the countryside, snow-covered as it was. The city itself lay at the center of the vista; high stone walls overtopped by the Castle Bruma. Its walls looked to be guarded by no more than a few hundred guards. Surrounding them was nearly five thousand men, from what Hoblin could see, all serving under a sable galloping boar on a purple field. They were building catapults and siege towers from the verdant pine forest which speckling this county, so much of the land surrounding the camp was devoid of tree life. The effect was that of an eerily blank landscape, except for the artifices of war. Hoblin had avoided the city, never having been one to walk straight into the bear’s den; he circled ‘round and scaled up the mountains, trying to ascertain the exact nature of the situation.

From what he had seen, the besieging army was divided into three groups. One consisted of Barons Endral’s hardened troops; Hoblin had spotted the Baron himself on one occasion when the Nord had dared to venture close. Endral was a slight man with the most cruelly imperious visage ever seen. Even his men, no strangers to brutality, shied away from looking at their leader in the eye. The other fellows were either foot soldiers in black and white following a gryphon banner or scraggly mercenaries, following no banner except maybe one knit from gold.

And their numbers had swelled considerably. When Hoblin had first arrived, there might have been just over three thousand, and the whole mass of them looked bruised, fresh from the fight. But day by day, columns of mercenaries, gryphon soldiers and Endral men had arrived, until the force was its present size. Hoblin found it hard to believe there was not already a full legion close by, ready to smash this threatening host. After all, Barons and Lords and Counts could mess about all they wanted with petty fiefdoms like Bruma, but leading five or six thousand men into Cyrodiil, the Imperial heartland? That kind of thing could get any noble killed, no matter what connections he had.

As it was most likely going to, noted Hoblin, fingering his axe. The harsh call of a crow snapped the Nord out of his brief thinking spell. Shuffling briskly to his horse, Hoblin mounted up and turned the beast westerly. As he plodded along through the knee-high snow drifts, Hoblin’s thoughts turned to his mission. He knew where Endral’s nephew – the rival claimant to the Bruman Counthood – was living. The boy had moved into a modest, if comfortable, farmhouse a few miles from the city. Twelve knights guarded the cabin day and night, and almost a hundred mercenaries were hunkered down only fifty yards distant. They were close by, but Hoblin reckoned the few trees screened the house pretty well; it was noise that would alert them. Hoblin was good with noise; he always made a lot of it, no matter what happened. He needed a distraction, in that case. But rack his brains as the Nord might, he could think of nothing that might serve.

A low moaning wind gusted, shaking the pines and whipping around the many rocks until it sliced into Hoblin. The Nord shivered briefly before clamping down, his jaw set. He had been away from the cold winds and deep frosts of the north for too long, it seemed. Anger bubbled up, anger that he could be subject to such a pitiful thing as the weather. Nevertheless, his expert eye searched for someplace to get out of the wind, which had developed into a freezing gale. Pulling up on the reins, he took shelter behind a tall boulder, as the wind blustered with increasing fury.

Dismounting, Hoblin stamped his feet to get the blood moving again, not sparing a glance for the smooth rock face protecting him. Instead, he studied a nearby copse of evergreens, searching for any signs of movement. The Baron’s army was not very enamored of scouting parties, but he had seen enough to be wary when moving through the open. For an instant, he thought he did see some movement…but it was a flash of yellow, not of white or purple as he had expected.

It was gone as soon as he had realized it was there, however. Hoblin was experienced enough to trust his eyes in most cases, but he wondered if the snow glare had gotten to him; the bright sunlight reflecting off the ice could play any number of tricks with a man’s mind. Hoblin had once known a fellow named Gjold who ran off into the tundra one bright day, screaming “I’m coming, laaaadies!”

Yes, the north was a strange place. He had most likely hallucinated seeing that yellow. Besides, all the Brumans were sealed up tight in the city. Hoblin rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some kind of warmth, when a slight creaking came from behind. Turning his head slightly, the Nord looked back at the boulder. Nothing.

Shaking his beard from side to side, Hoblin berated himself for letting the cold affect his mind. Hearing doors open, out here in the middle of nowhere.

Creak. Hoblin wheeled, drawing his claymore from its scabbard, face contorted into an animalistic snarl. If he was going to hallucinate, he would teach the damned hallucinations to bother him much more! Stalking up to the boulder, he noticed a patch of screed and a scraggly sapling which had concealed a very small wooden door from his passing glance. The door dropped down just as Hoblin turned, and the Nord stalked right up to it. Whoever was in there – goblins, bandits or necromancers – he was going to teach them a lesson. A lesson on not making a fool out of Hoblin. With one huge boot, he kicked in the door and without further ado dropped straight into a small, stuffy cave.

He landed right on top of somebody, too, knocking them to the ground with a stifled shout. Hoblin was a big man; that fellow would not be getting up very quickly. But telling by the sound of steel snaking out of sheaths, he would be the last of Hoblin’s worries. Reverting to a defensive stance, Hoblin was unsurprised to see that the cave was brightly lit by torches. By the firelight he made out probably a dozen men, dressed in the manner of Bruman guards; yellow surcoats over light mail. One and all, they wore a hunted, desperate look, and more than one was wrapped with bloody bandages.

“Lower your sword, intruder, and get off my man. Or die.” This came from the closest of them, a young officer whom Hoblin instantly recognized. Golden blonde, immaculately shaven and clean despite the disheveled state of the others… and deep blue eyes which spoke of a man utterly devoted to a cause. He had met Hoblin at the Bruma border, along with a man named Greilain –who Hoblin now saw, standing just behind the knight – and also with a young scamp named Urold. Who, now that Hoblin looked, he was standing on.

Over his head, the telltale creak of bowstrings pulled back and now eager to release told Hoblin that the flashes of yellow he had briefly spotted before were no looking down on him. Carefully, he lowered his blade and stepped to one side, hopefully taking away the angle for some of the bowmen. He flashed an uncertain smile at the knight. “A hundred thousand pardons, me lord, but I were perusing the forest when I thought I espied a bandit’s hole. Had I known it were you heroes –“

“I despise lies,” pronounced the knight, who, Hoblin noticed, had not bothered lowering his sword. “I have never been able to abide them. Now, I recognize you; you passed by my outpost just a few days ago. I cannot believe that was a coincidence, your timely arrival to Bruma just as Baron Endral arrived, and I cannot believe that you wandering about is simple ‘perusing.’ Tell me the truth.”

“Aye, I’ll tell the truth,” Hoblin said. “But I’ll only tell it to a man whose name I at least have the knowing of. So, out with your name.”

Urold, the young guard, had regained his feet and was quaking with anger. Waving his spear at Hoblin, he shouted “You’ll not be making demands from Sir Geddard, ya scummy rogue!”

Sir Geddard waved him to silence, sparing the whelp a brief glare before turning it on Hoblin. “There, you have my name. Sir Geddard of Tranheld. Now tell the truth!”

The Nord warrior first put away his claymore, regretting the necessity of it, before speaking, trying not to let on more than he wanted. “Well, you know of the bonnie lad who this Endral fights for? The one who means to take your Count’s lands?”

“Orway, son of Kertren.” The name sounded acidic, coming from Geddard’s mouth. “I know he is the reason so much bloodshed has come to our home.”

“Well, Baron Endral brought him along. Probably so he can put him on your boy’s throne all the quicker after ripping it out from under him,” said Hoblin airily. “But he keeps him apart from the main force, most like so the boy doesn’t have to see what war is really about.”

Unpleasant chuckles arose from the Brumans, their smiles holding no warmth, only cold hatred. The bowmen outside dropped in unceremoniously as Hoblin spoke; three of them, two carrying freshly killed bucks. Sir Geddard frowned at Hoblin, and he brought his silvery blade up so all could see it. “If this Orway met with us, we would surely give him a lesson on warfare. One he’d never recover from.”

A general murmur of assent rippled through all present, except for Hoblin. “Strong words, and true, I am certain.”

“Who are you to gauge the truth of my words?” snapped Geddard. “I am a knight of Bruma. You look to be a common travelling scoundrel, selling his sword to anyone with a silver piece.”

“True enough, me lord,” replied Hoblin wryly, “I am naught but a common travelling scoundrel - who happens to know where this Orway is stowed away. Far from the front lines, he is. Well protected, I can tell you right now.”

The Nord barely had time to react before Geddard was upon him, his cool silver sword pressed firmly against Hoblin’s throat. “You know where Orway is? You can lead me to him?”

Struggling to keep his hands down, Hoblin nodded his head fractionally. “I can do this, Sir Geddard. But the laddie’s well protected; more than a hundred soldiers are encamped nearby, and he’s guarded by a squad of Endral’s knights. You will need more men than what you have.”

As quickly as he had moved, Geddard withdrew. Sheathing his sword, the man turned to look over his men. Fifteen, by Hoblin’s count. Shaking his head, Geddard muttered to himself. “Skelda might have another dozen men. Who knows, he may have collected a few more. Or lost a few more. Lublis was taken a few days ago; Cathnus has deserted.” Still muttering, the knight wandered to the back of the cave, where Hoblin could see a crude chair and table set up. Flopping into the chair, the knight signaled Greilan over.

Giving Hoblin a worried look, the Bruman veteran hurried over to his commander, who whispered into his ear. Straightening, Greilan turned to the assemblage. “Jowan, Urold.”

The two named stood forward. Both were not past twenty years in age, but Jowan’s left sleeve was caked with blood, and his arm was clearly stiff for movement. Greilan regarded them both severely. “Jowan, you’ll go to Skelda, and tell him to meet with Sir Geddard’s party at Dragonclaw Rock in two days. Urold, you’ll try to find Ogdel, and tell ‘im the same.”

The young soldiers saluted, Jowan with grim determination, Urold pale with trepidation, and departed. Greilan turned to the rest. “All right, you heard me, we’re going to Dragonclaw Rock. Eat and rest while you can, because we’ll not be stopping on the way for tea or crumpets or whatever else you fairies enjoy.”

It was obviously some kind of high humor to these men, because immediately following the pronouncement hearty laughter erupted. Brittle laughter though, Hoblin noted; it was high-pitched and ended suddenly, like a carrion bird’s calls. Sir Geddard was simply slumped in his chair now, apparently poring over a roll of parchment, but his eyes were dull. Hoblin looked questioningly at Greilan, who only shrugged helplessly. The Nord sighed. He was in the company of defeated men, driven to follow orders only by a knight who did not know how or when to accept defeat. Corpses walking, that was all they were.

*****

Siraaj supped at her tea daintily, staring politely at the opposite wall. There was not much else to stare at, really. The rooms of the Tiber Septim Hotel were gaudy, to be sure, but they lacked character, anything of true character. They were simply gilt and cushions, meant to tack on an air of refinement.

Still, for a prisoner, she could be doing much worse, Siraaj reckoned. One of the dank, smelly cells of the Imperial Prison, for starters. No, she much preferred being shut up in a swank hotel than in jail. Although it was, she thought, looking pointedly at the Orc standing guard outside the door, still imprisonment. Only it was imprisonment with a plush velvety exterior. She could not leave the Tiber Septim; she could not leave the Imperial City. And she had not seen anyone recognizable for weeks. The lady who ran the Tiber Septim was pleasant enough to her most of the time, assuming she was the concubine of some discreet gentlemen who did not want his mistress wandering the streets, but she was no real company with all her fussing and pandering.

In fact, Siraaj had not had a real conversation in some time. Her Orc guard was pleasant enough – for a brutish, foul-smelling Orc, even if he was dressed in fine burgundy clothes – but he was most certainly not of the speaking variety. Or the thinking variety. He struck her as the drinking variety, although all her best attempts to get him drunk had failed miserably. Sighing, she realized the only mildly exciting thing that had happened since her arrival at the Imperial City was this mildly warm cup of tea. Frustrated, she set the porcelain cup down too hard onto the table, and it made a little tinkle when it broke. Hissing, the Khajiiti maiden bared her fangs at the dozens of little pieces; now she was going to have to clean all of this up…

“Do you enjoy the accommodations, Mistress Siraaj?”

Siraaj spun in her seat upon hearing the cool, almost mocking voice. Standing at the doorway was an Imperial, tall and self-assured, with the most infuriating smile constantly hovering on his smug face. He was not in Legion armor as she had last seen, and there was no huge mute to protect him, but Siraaj could recognize Captain Dauvian of the Red Spearhead at a hundred paces. He was the man who had put her here, and the man who had told her that it was only good fortune that kept him from ordering her death. But she let none of that show through, instead putting on what passed among humans for a Khajiit smile. “Ah, Captain Dauvian. It is well to have a visitor. I must say, it has been a while.”

Dauvian continued to smile and ignored the unspoken question, instead strolling over to Siraaj’s bedside. Feeling the coverlet between thumb and forefinger, he turned his slate grey eyes on her. She shivered at the emptiness they emanated. His eyes were a window onto an emotionless plane; he felt nothing for her. Not hatred, contempt, not anything. But that strange smile…

His voice jolted her, although his tone was softer than goose-down. “The Tiber Septim is such a lovely place, agreed?”

Trying to will her fur from standing on end, Siraaj simply nodded. Dauvian continued, voice silky. “But like all lovely places, there are unseen dangers. Why, you might slip, fall, and crack your head against a table corner, and that would be the end of that, wouldn’t it?”

Siraaj looked sharply at the man. “Have you something to say? Or are you just threatening me? I know you can do what you want with me; I’m already shut in here night and day. What do you want!?”

Dauvian’s smile took on a delighted turn. She realized he had been baiting her, trying to bring out her emotions. Well, no more of that, Captain Dauvian. You will find Siraaj more undreadable than the blankest book.

But the Captain did not let her resolve set; he swooped like a vulture for the feast, leaning on her table just an arm’s length away. Bending down, he brought his amused smile level with her; she wanted to claw it off. “Mistress Siraaj, what is your father’s name?”

She thought a moment before answering. On the one hand, he most likely knew. On the other, possibly he did not. She wondered whether he would kill her if he caught in her in a lie, when Dauvian suddenly straightened up and let his hand brush over the hilt of his dagger. “His name is Imraaj Dalr, and he is a merchant who sells wall hangings, fine luggage, and dates.”

“Ah, but we all know what’s hidden inside those wall hangings? And in the hickory chests? And underneath the piles of delicious dates?” Dauvian asked, although she could tell he knew already.

“And he also sells weapons – Bosmeri bows, enchanted Altmeri arrows, Imperial swords, Nord battle axes…he sells all that and more, in bulk, to people who do not want to be seen arming hundreds of warriors.”

“Yes,” said Dauvian, clearly pleased. “Now, I want you to tell me all the names of his buyers, and all you know about them.”

Siraaj shook her head. “I know nothing of his buyers. Father always tried to keep his business dealings separate from the family; I only learned of it because one of his caravaners dropped a wall hanging and nearly skewered me with a Redguard pike.”

She almost giggled at the memory, terrifying as it had been at the time, before seeing Dauvian’s. The smile, of course, was still stuck to him, but his eyes had dilated, and his fists were clenched. Bringing his face so close to hers that his breath condensed on her fur, the man hissed at her. “I know you know, Siraaj. You must tell me. Remember. I did not expect you to, but you must; or I will be forced to use…less pleasant means than simply asking.”

Dauvian stood again, control fully regained. He grinned at Siraaj; not a smile or a quirk, but a grin. “I will come again in the morning tomorrow. And then, you will tell me.”

With that, he exited. Siraaj was left with more questions than she could sift through. Why had he been so brief if he was as desperate as he seemed? Why wait until the morrow? None of it made any sense. Especially the part where he wanted to know about her father’s clients. They were criminals for the most part, and not likely to bother the Emperor. Taking an unsteady breath, she glanced at the Orc guard; he was still there. For the thousandth time, she ran her hands over her bodice, where she had managed to stow a small dinner knife. Siraaj wondered if the time was coming when she had to use it.

But as the afternoon wore on, her courage to take action faltered. All her time was spent thinking and little else, and on all sides she could only see danger if she should try and escape. That Orc guard would most likely kill her, firstly. Secondly, the city guard surely had her name and description in case she ever evaded that one – she would never get out undetected. And Dauvian undoubtedly had eyes and ears all over the Empire…she could never truly escape.

Soon, the light from her window was all but gone, and the Orc was closing her door so she could change and go to bed. The key slid into the lock, and turned with an ominous click. She dejectedly stripped out of her simple wool dress until she wore just her shift, before lying down to sleep. Happy oblivion came to her swiftly, thankfully, and her eyes drifted shut.

And snapped back open again what seemed like a second later, although the pitch blackness meant the hour had gone past midnight. She could not say what had awoken her, until the noise came again – a clicking from the door. It was the sound of a key being turned in its lock, but slowly. So slowly that the sound might have escaped any but a Khajiit’s ears. Moving silent as only one of the cat folk can, Siraaj grabbed her knife from beneath the pillow where she had placed it, and rolled off the bed. With a final click, the lock was fully disengaged, and the door opened.

Siraaj had near perfect night sight, of course, and her eyes adjusted very quickly. The person who crept into her room was a woman, probably a Breton by her size and stature, and bore a Glass dagger. The wickedly curved blade had a reddish tinge to it – a sure sign of enchantment. Siraaj’s grip on her knife tightened. Assassins with enchanted weaponry cost a great deal of money – and meant that the one who hired them placed a great deal of value on silencing their target.

Her throat constricted, but Siraaj pushed away all fear. She did not mean to die hear, in some chintzy hotel room provided by a man who was most likely going to kill her too!

Snarling silently, she leapt over the bed, knife slicing through the air at the assassin’s shoulder. But the killer was not so easily taken, as the woman smoothly grabbed hold of the wrist bearing the knife, while her other hand brought the dread dagger up to slice Siraaj’s throat.

The Khajiit though, are not idly named some of the fastest creatures in existence. Siraaj chopped at the Breton’s wrist with such speed and strength that her paw cleanly knocked the dagger out of her hand, and then brought her palm into contact with the woman’s face. That sent the assassin sprawling, and Sirraj was on top of her instantly, dinner knife just breaking the tender skin on her throat.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she looked towards where her dagger had fallen; well out of reach. They widened further when Siraaj increased the pressure from her blade, causing a rivulet of blood to trickle down the sides of her neck. “Tell me!”

“I – I – I am Sacharissa.”

“Who sent you?”

Sacharissa smiled like a death’s head. “I will not say. The Night Mother would have my soul.”

Siraaj sucked in air before she could help herself. Dark Brotherhood? “I will have your soul, and more besides, if you do not tell me, Sacharissa. I will use your essence to imbue this mere kitchen knife with fiery death, and murder everything you love if you do not tell me!”

The death’s head grin never wavered.

The Khajiiti sighed. She would have to do something that she loathed. There was one way she knew to get anyone to tell her anything – the Rej‘daar. Ignorant Imperials called it the Khajiiti Eye of Terror, and it was said to entrap the souls of the living, but those were stories told to scare old women and foolish young men into going to their chapel more often. No, the Rej‘daar was an ancient means of extracting information, known only to a few Khajiit. Her father was one of them, and he had taught it to her.

Breathing as deeply as she could, Siraaj channeled every scrap of anger, remorse, pity…every emotion she felt or could feel into one tight ball. Everything else inside her was a void, empty of thought, empty of intelligence. Some said this was the animal nature of the Khajiit; every scrap of being attuned and focused to one goal.

With a shudder, she released it.

The sight might be described as coming face to face with a demon for the first time, and realizing that you are not imagining it; it is real, and standing right in front you. Everything it him radiates malevolence; the saliva-slick fangs, the stiff bristles of fur, the glowing green eyes whose slits for pupils look like cracks into eternal pits of damnation. And you know – you just know that the only way to survive the encounter is to tell this demon everything.

For Sacharissa Breslan, Slayer of the Dark Brotherhood, the sight was no different. She could not scream, so instead she answered. “I GET MY ORDERS FROM DEMESTO, AN ALTMER WHO LIVES IN SKINGRAD! Oh gods, please spare me…please Sithis, pardon my failure, allow me to live…”

Siraaj saw no reason for letting Sithis enter into it. The dinner knife rised up and slammed down into Sacharissa’s chest. A spurt of crimson blood spurted into the air and hit Siraaj in the muzzle. The Rej‘daar shattered, emotion once again flooding into every nook and cranny of her mind. She sat dazed for a few moments as she tried to sort out what had just happened. Slowly, she remembered what the assassin – Sacharissa, she had said her name was – had told her. And then, after that, she had…

The maiden touched paw to face, felt the blood, and looked down to where the knife was still jammed firmly into the woman. Sacharissa’s eyes had the glazed look of death upon them. A thump came from the hallway, and Siraaj dimly recalled that the Breton had not shut the door behind her. Hot tears of shame flooded her eyes; this was why every Khajiit who knew the art refrained from using Rej‘daar. Sometimes, you did things you could not control. Even though this Sacharissa had been a murderer, Siraaj had never wanted to kill her.

Trying hard not to sick up, Siraaj stood and faced the doorway. The Orc lay stretched across the floor; his fall must have woken her originally. The proprietress lay stretched out nearby, but her chest rose and fell. She had only passed out from the shock. Siraaj noticed how detached she was about all this suddenly; one moment there had been tears, the next…nothing.

She quickly washed herself up and got dressed. Stuffing a few changes of clothes into a traveling bag and reluctantly grabbing up the enchanted dagger, Siraaj turned and left her room for the first time in many days.

The future did not look bright, but at Skingrad she might get some answers.