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]

26.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

I slept in, for once. There was something comforting about the Newlands Lodge, beyond of course the fact that it is not the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary—which I refuse to sleep in, mainly to minimize the chances of getting my throat cut. I am not trusting.

But I digress. What I meant to say and was trying to say is that the lodge has the endearing quality of being, in spite of its typical Cyrodiilic construction, a Dunmer-run and Dunmer-patronized establishment complete with loud, profane music and the odd brawl. It felt like…home. Home? How strangely nostalgic! I have spent much of life hating Morrowind and the dark elves but now rather miss the blighters and their horrid home province.

After a late breakfast of bacon and kwama eggs I ambled over to Mach-Na’s bookstore, where I bought a copy of “Advances in Lock Picking” and listened to the proprietor complain about steep fines for minor offenses like littering and public intoxication for half an hour before I managed to ask her about strange goings on in town. Had she seen anyone wandering the street at odd hours? Was there anyone new in town? Had any copies of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes passed through her store? I got no answers. Well, that’s not true. What I got were a series of speculative non-answers—gossip—that made it clear that Mach-Na seldom left the confines of her bookstore.

Disappointed, I moved on to the beggars. Or a beggar, the one who called himself “Bruccius the Orphan”. Following common courtesy, before getting down to business we talked about the news, the city, the comings and goings of the Orum gang (a cult of a sort, I suppose, but one dedicated to money and the drug trade instead of Mehrunes Dagon), and life in general. Finally, I asked him (with aid of thirty drakes) where he thought I might find some Mythic Dawn cultists.

“I don’t know nothing for certs, but if I were looking for strange folks I’d start with the mage what lives in Willow Bank, the nice house near the guildhalls. Then I’d check out the parties that one rich fellow is always throwing at River View, the real big house by the creek.”

* * *

It was past midnight. The witching hour, I once heard it called. He was an old gray-bearded nord, Sigurd by name, and we sat across from each other at his tavern in Winter Hold trading stories and lies, the two being much the same. The witching hour was when the mists came over the lakes and rivers of that northern country—the few that weren’t frozen. Good cover for anyone that didn’t want to be seen, he said.

A good man, that one. I killed him, of course. He was bankrolling a gang of reavers, ship-borne bandits who’d been terrorizing the coast of some godsforsaken imperial colony out in the Sea of Ghosts. That must have been three years ago.

I shook my head—back to the present, Al. Starting to lose focus in my old age. In any case, it was past midnight and I was taking advantage of a misting off the water to skulk around the perimeter of the house called Willow Bank. A quick listen at the front door indicated that whoever was inside snored loudly—but nothing else. So far, so good. That just left with the problem of the locked door. Wait, did I say problem? My mistake; I had the door open in 20 seconds flat. I quickly rifled through the drawers, cupboards, chests, and dressers. I even pickpocketed the sleeping owner of the house. Found nothing; save a worn copy of Incident in Necrom and the sort of clutter one would expect in a hobby mage’s home.

River View, then, seemed likely to hold my Mythic Dawn cultists. Being careful, I stalked the entire perimeter of the manor. I found no alternate entrance to the front door. I listened; all was silent. No snoring, no nothing.

I found my quarry in the basement. Two dunmer women, two copies of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries. I cut their throats, made my notes, sketched the scene, and collected the evidence. The effort was probably unnecessary. After all, my meeting with the captain of the Cheydinhal guard was a mere formality—what kind of idiot would trouble an agent of the Blades?

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:37 PM