23.
Chorrol: 25 Second Seed, 3E 433
Darius Lewontin left Castle Chorrol at precisely 1:25 A.M. He did so every night—it was his job, after all, as a member of the Watch.
It was a good job. He liked it well enough, even given his odd hours. Chorrol was a proper city, not given to excess frivolity, and so his patrols were almost always quite boring. That was fine by Darius—a contemplative fellow, he could fill the hours doing his own thinking and doing it on the city’s time.
That was how things usually were, at least. But only the night before Darius had the great misfortune of discovering the body of Francois Motierre. He felt a great sadness, a sag in his shoulders. Darius had not known Motierre well—indeed, hardly knew him at all—but had thought the Breton an amiable enough man.
How could someone so ineffectual, self-effacing, and fundamentally
harmless deserve such a fate? It wasn’t just murder, though that was bad enough. No, it was much more. It was sadism. Darius remembered the blood, the bruises, the smell, and he grimaced. If he never saw a murdered man again, it would be too soon.
It wasn’t until reaching the Grey Mare that the watchman could wrest the image from his mind. The tavern sounded of music, conversation, bottles of ale clinking together… warm sounds to protect against the chill Highland night.
Through the night Darius espied the approach of two figures, coming from the Chapel district, one supporting the other as they limped along.
“You folks need a hand there?” Darius called out, hurrying along.
An argonian’s face appeared from within a black hood. “No, thank you. My friend here just had a bit much to drink”—the scent of mead was, indeed, on the air—“and needs to get back to his room at the Mare to sleep it off. I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
The argonian smiled, sheepishly. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to keep you, anyway, what with all the crime going around.”
* * *
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Nine Toes sat quietly in the Oak and Crosier, drinking as always.
The assassin still wore the same sheepish grin as earlier. Finally, Nine-Toes lost his patience.
“What?”
“Damn lot of good I did myself, beating him like that. I practically had to carry him to the Grey Mare.”
“I saw that. It’ll make him easier for me to follow to Anvil, I guess. And he’ll be in no condition to resist arrest when the time comes, that’s for sure. You have any trouble that wasn’t self-inflicted?”
“Zombies.”
Nine-Toes set his glass on the table. “Zombies? In the Chapel?”
“Some sort of family curse, he said. To make a long story short, his Aunt Margaret is now resting in pieces. And I think one of his uncles, too.” The assassin took a drink and endeavored to change the subject. “Did you hear if the guard caught that enforcer?”
“I don’t think so. What did you say his name was?”
“Hides-His-Heart, I think, was the name. Seems so familiar…”
“Al, you don’t remember him? The hatchling who was always watching us train back in Black Marsh? Little fellow always looked up to you.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun froze, vacant eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular—a beer mug, a tapestry. Slowly those eyes narrowed, trembling with rage. With helpless outrage. And then finally with sadness.
“You okay, Al?”
This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM