Darkness Calls, The story of a Bravil assassin Options

[Winter Wolf]

Hi folks!!

I have finally gotten around to posting here at Chorrol. This story first appeared at the unnameable forum but I only managed to post the first chapter before the site fell head first off the cliff.

Hope you enjoy and dont forget to shout out any nitpicks you see.


**


CHAPTER 1 –


A Bravil watchman moved along the rampart in the gathering dark, his footsteps sounding on the wooden landing. Flickering light from the wall sconce danced across his heavy armor and surcoat, outlining a face that was crowded under lines of tiredness. Leaning over the railing he glanced downwards.

The dilapidated shacks of the town below pushed upwards through the dark like a set of broken teeth, the jagged eaves clashing against each other in the impoverished silence. The watchman’s eyes scanned the backdrop for any sign of alarm, but few signs of movement could be found.

A moment later a shadow detached from the left hand wall and another guard appeared beside the rail.

“Well met, my friend, how goes it?” he asked.

“Four bells and all is well,” the first man replied and stifled a yawn.

The replacement guard nodded. “Yes, it does seem as quiet as a church mouse out there. But as we know, that always the most dangerous time of all. The town may look like a slumbering animal, but the heartbeat is still ticking.”

“Yes, do keep a sharp eye out,” he noted, glad to be moving away slowly.

“Sleep tight, darling.”


**

The night was warm and humid. Tucked within their beds most of the citizens tossed fitfully in their sleep. It was the moment just before dawn when dark dreams gave way to the memories of youth, sweet impressions that spoke of a former time. Outside the mullioned casement footsteps could be heard, the sound mingling with the faint, snatched cries of the stall sellers that drifted across from the other side of town. The air was heavy with expectation, panting like a giant hound.

A figure headed down a quiet lane. Soft light teased across his pointed ears and dark outfit. It framed a neatly folded letter that poked surreptitiously out of one tiny pocket.

In part it read:

Oh beloved assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, let us, the ruling council, grant you this most important mission. We have word that the old fool, Adamus Phillida, has finally taken up his residence at the City Watch barracks in the southern town of Leyawiin.

The pest of the Brotherhood has made the one fatal mistake of thinking that we would ever forget his past. Fate has now delivered him into our dark loving embrace, an opportunity that we cannot let slip by.

Dear brother, we need you to pay him a visit and make sure that his new home also becomes his permanent place of retirement.

Your loving benefactor-
The ruling council of the Black Hand.

Aradroth smiled to himself. It felt good to be wanted again. Clutched like a greedy piglet to the teat he could feel the warm milk of the Night Mother running down his lips and throat, a gluttonous thrill that was paramount to death in its intensity. Her loving bulk provided all the sustenance that he needed, a clan love that would forever define who he was and leave the cretin world around him living in a bland, colorless land of emptiness.

Opening the front gate he stepped outside.

A member of the Bravil watch stood at the far end of the front bridge. Clad in sooty armor turned dark by the cloaking shadows of morning, he reminded Aradroth of that futile blockade that sheltered upon the edge of Kvatch.

As a man accustomed to studying the fortification and defence of people he was paid to kill, the small assassin was always mystified by the false assumption that the cutting of the bridge ropes would protect and seal off the town from the waiting horde of Mehrunes Dagon. Just how many people did the foolish Count of Bravil think would be able to slip unannounced through the secret tunnel to the tower of Fathis Aren? And how many would die under the harsh conditions of a siege?

The Bravil guardsman did not notice the assassin until it was too late. Spinning around his gloved hand came to a belated rest on the pommel of his steel long sword.

“Oh Aradroth, it’s you,” the guard said in shock, his heart beating rapidly inside his steel chest. “I didn’t realize that you were there.”

The Bosmer assassin stood silent and cold, a contrast to the humidity around him. Small and slight; his gray eyes shone with a feverish light from the shadows of his black hood.

“Sorry Gladius,” he replied, his voice soft and raspy, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The meandering eyes of the guardsman looked the assassin up and down.

“Are you out on a morning hunt, sir?” he asked, putting his hand out.

Aradroth shook his head. “No, not this time,” he answered, slipping two septims into the guard’s hand. “I am taking a little trip to Skingrad.”

“Are you there on business or do you have family or friends?” he asked curiously, pocketing the coins.

“I have enrolled myself into therapy,” came back the simple reply.

The guard’s eyes blinked. “Sorry?”

“I am hooking up with Else-Godhater and a few others. We are doing a seminar on ‘Righting past wrongs.’ I have decided that it is important to open up on those deep and personal issues. It revitalizes the spirit when you learn to love again.”

Confusion spread across the guardsman’s face. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Are you having trouble, sir?”

The assassin smiled. “I don’t know. I feel isolated and disconnected. Like something is not quite right.”

“Well that is great that you are doing something about it. I have always felt that the step to join the Bravil watch was the most important one I ever took.”

Aradroth paused. “Yeah, I suppose you are right. I envy that sense of connection you seem to have around you with every little thing. Especially the way someone has committed a crime on the other side of Cyrodiil, yet you still are able to pinpoint them exactly. It must be some form of clairvoyance.”

The guard seemed taken aback. “Have you noticed that? I have always thought that it was our commitment to duty that made us rise above the call of duty.”

The assassin headed away. “Yeah, maybe you are right. That is the reason I am joining therapy. I am hoping to regain my balance with the world again.” With a smirk he added, “Who knows? When I am finished I might end up looking just like you.”

“Well, good luck with that endeavour, my friend,” Gladius called out in blissful ignorance at the retreating figure.

Aradroth turned. “Care to place a wager on that?”


**


The road that headed to Leyawiin stretched out of sight as it weaved through the southern forests like a muddy snake.

His mind was still thinking cynically pleasing thoughts about the mediocrity in the world when he realized that something was wrong. Cursing bitterly for allowing himself to become sidetracked, his slate gray eyes quickly swept the sides of the grubby track.

The green foliage and tall swampy reeds around him looked normal enough, but something teased at the tattered edge of his senses, something indescribable. From his neck a salty bead of sweat slowly trickled downwards, running its meandering way over the lined folds of skin. As it hit his leather collar he realized what it was.

The landscape was quiet. Not a bird or insect could be heard.

The tall reeds on the left hand side suddenly exploded with movement and a large shape charged into the clearing. Brown and very large, the creature swiped at the Dark Brotherhood member with a fearsome claw.

Scampering backwards the assassin fell onto his rump, pain lancing his left hip where he struck a rock. His bow disappeared off to the side.

Towering over him the creature was massive, standing over seven feet tall, with a dark snout and coarse, bristling fur.

Fear spurred the prone elf to action at the next moment and the Bosmer opened his palm. Magic light coursed down the inside of his forearm, the magicka flowing like a river of light. The blue veins rippled down his fingers.

“Guulosh Torr,” he cried, and a purplish-black shape materialized to his right hand side.

The bear’s caramel eyes blinked in confusion and it paused in its attack. The coin of fate that spun with a decreasing speed finally caught a reflection of two opponents that hung suspended in time. Slowly, beyond thought, control or even reason, the creature’s eyes turned and focused on the skeletal guardian.

The relieved assassin watched as the bear charged forward with a speed that defied its tremendous bulk and a vicious paw smacked into the undead. Taking the impact on its steel shield, the skeleton was thrown backward through the air, bits of bone from his shied arm flying in all directions. He landed far off to the side.

“Damn it,” muttered Aradroth as he rose quickly to his feet. Tiny spatters of mud were kicked up as he moved.

Reaching under his cloak he withdrew Cat’s Eye from its scabbard. Glowing runes danced up and down the hilt of the sword as it emerged into the morning air. The weight of the weapon felt reassuring in his grasp, a pull of energy that went deep down into his core.

Stepping forward the morning light ran along the elven designed hilt as it swung downwards. The sword bit hard and chunks of fur and blood disappeared past the edge of his vision. The next moment the shock enchantment of the weapon mauled just as hard, the assassin struggling to hold on as the sword coveted the gore and death of his adversary.

Roaring in horror the creature flung its broad head around and droplets of blood coated the assassin in a ghastly, decadent wine. A moment later a retaliatory claw smashed into the assassin’s leather shield. The impact threw Aradroth bouncing onto the road.

Spinning around him the world turned in crazy circles, a hundred stars dancing back and forth before his eyes.

Not again! he thought haphazardly as he looked down at the mud. Gritting against the pain Aradroth charged back to his feet and renewed the attack. From the other side of the road the Skeleton Guardian clanked over to aid him from the rear.

A minute later the booming sound of Azura’s Star resounded in his ears as the mountain of fur crashed to the ground.

Aradroth collapsed onto one knee beside it.

Breathing in ragged gasps he glanced across at the bear and then down at the abject state of his dark travelling cloak in disgust.

“Oh bull dust.....” he muttered.

On the other side of the road the skeletal axeman brought its remaining arm wide apart and hissed loudly. Aradroth could not tell if it made a victorious or mocking sound.

“Don’t you start,” he warned, pulling himself slowly to his feet.

The skeleton hissed at him again.

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Mar 29 2010, 04:52 PM

[Winter Wolf]

Haute Ecole Rider-
Thanks for your comment. Caelia is a very strange NPC in the game, I am never quite sure if she is as bad as the hierarchy around her at Leyawiin. I decided to use her as lesser of the two evils in the dungeon scene. I can relate to how you feel about Dar Jee, my heart is breaking too!

SubRosa-
Thanks for the support on the characterization of the two 'cops' in my story. Your own writing is heavily built on bringing the NPC's alive, and I am just happy to trail along in your wake. Thanks for spotting the nit!

Acadian-
Oh no! I ask the paladin for help and he spots 127 spelling errors in my writing. That is the last time I shall open my big mouth! Seriously, though, thanks! I was hoping to have the reader unsure about who was the prisoner for the first half and I am glad that it worked. My thanks for commenting on that.

Remko-
Please feel free to come across to Cyrodiil any time that you want. Drop in at Bravil, where we shall form an army of playing characters and then charge down to Leyawiin and lay siege to the place!

Olen-
Thanks for your comments! Nayon Camp, yes, my mind is already ticking over about that. I promise that it should be fun! The life of Dar Jee is riding upon it.

Destri Melarg-
Thanks oh King of Hammerfell. I was hoping to contrast the two NPC's in the dungeon scene, good cop and bad cop did seem to be the best way to do it. Thanks! The darkness and sensory deprivation does lend itself to a few cool metaphors in this part of the story, I was hoping that some of them worked.

**


CHAPTER 7-

The man sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his hands cupped around a goblet of mulled wine, his features hidden by a black hood. The room around him was dark and smoky, full of the odour of sweating bodies of men, cooked food and sour ale.

Lifting the goblet to his lips the middle-aged Redguard glanced at the motley assortment around him. His cold eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble that might breach his self imposed solitude. Not that any would try to disturb him. The snake tattoo that crawled out of his uniform and across his hand gave him a compulsory circle of fear and respect.

The mark signified him as a member of perhaps the most dangerous faction in the whole of southern Cyrodiil: the Head-hunter League of Leyawiin. Sixty men strong, they were the real backbone of the Leyawiin standing army, the vanguard that always did the job that others were too scared to do. They were the dark-cloaked spies that infiltrated Black Marsh and Elsweyr, solving each border dispute by using a subtle method of kidnap and torture. In fact, he was very proud of his track record and spoke lovingly of it to his family.

Not that there was a family, of course.

Well, there was one, but not one that he could see anymore. The cold, marble headstones had put paid to that. Like the mountains that towered above, pain was impartial to friend and foe alike. Shame really, but such was the nature of torture.

A shadow passed across the table as somebody moved into the light.

Pashan glanced upwards in surprise, his beady eyes shining with the meanness of a cornered alley-cat.

The figure above him wore the grey uniform of the watch. He could almost smell the newly pressed clothes. Numerous beads of perspiration lined the young man’s acne scarred face. Pashan couldn’t believe what he was looking at. They had sent a rookie to him....

“Yes?” he asked with a note of boredom.

“Sorry, Captain, but the Count and his lady have asked for your attendance at your earliest possible convenience,” the messenger replied.

“Why?”

“They didn’t say so, sir. But they did say it was important.”

Pashan touched the wine to his lips and let it roll around his mouth. Why did it seem that every spare night he had was always ruined by the demands of others? Couldn’t the fools just fix the world on their own for once?

He waved a dismissive hand. “Alright, tell them I’ll be there soon.”

The boy gave a curt nod. His boots made a tight, clipped sound as he departed.

Pashan went back to his drink and his solitude.


**


The land around the assassin was a bleak and swampy marsh. From the thin branches overhead the sound of strange birds could be heard.

Aradroth propped himself up on a moss covered log and dug into a quick meal of bland rations. Strangely enough he found himself playing with his food more than eating it. Beneath his shadowed cowl his hawk-like features lined a mask of concern. His heart felt satisfied that the mission was a success at Leyawiin, but disappointment sat deeply upon him.

The flight from Leyawiin had been, like everything else so far, an easy enough affair. A couple of invisibility potions and the quick scampering into a hollowed out tree trunk meant that the watch had no idea where he was. The hiding spot was one that he had used on numerous occasions and he had simply waited out the confused guards. The color and fall of the land played into the hands of the Wood Elf. Lucky for him the escape had happened so quickly that they did not have a chance to organize the search with hunting dogs.

The card of fate may have fallen down in his favour. But what had happen to Dar Jee? The sight of the flying Argonian kept playing over in his mind. Was he crushed or injured, or perhaps captured by the guards? Or did he escape unscathed?

The assassin closed his eyes for a moment and pushed his hands to his temples, as if the posture would shut out the barrage of questions. Disassociation with others had always worked well for the Bosmer and he had no idea how to sort and file his conflicting emotions. He knew that he had left the bad, uncontrollable part of his former life behind. Yet the feelings he now experienced felt more akin to the covetous longing of his youth than the cold detachment of the profession he chose to pursue in recent times. He understood longing more than he cared to admit and it didn’t sit well with him.

He shook away the sensation and rose stiffly to his feet.

For some people friendship and laughter were an easy thing, an embracement and acceptance of others that some acquired straight away. For people like him; however, it was a relaxing of the guard that one simply could not afford to do in his line of work. Satisfaction instead came from knowing and seeing things that others would never experience, like holding a person’s fate in one's hands, watching the life in the eyes slip away to the void of Sithis, the play of blood upon faded lips.

It was a life that had worked out great for him in the past.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. The thought circled around his head like a moth. It wouldn’t leave him alone.

Moving over to his bedroll he positioned everything on the ground. He angrily shoved the remains of his meal inside his pack and lay down to catch some badly needed sleep.


**


“You may enter now.”

“Thanks,” Pashan replied in a soft whisper, and slipped through the concealed door and into the plush study. The person who had addressed him stood with his back to him, and was clad in a full-length velvet robe and slippers. There was something in the posture of the man that Pashan spotted straight away, a slumping of the shoulders that could easily become a bargaining chip if need be.

“I appreciate you coming at short notice, Pashan. Please, take a seat.”

Moving to his right the Captain of the head-hunters flopped down into the newly upholstered chair, his hands resting casually upon his lap.

Turning around the older man leaned upon the back of a chair and stared down at him.

“I need your help,” the Count of Leyawiin said with a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

“I thought as much,” Pashan replied, “The watch seemed highly agitated when I saw them this afternoon.”

The man nodded. “Yes, it has been a disaster. First, we have had to deal with the uprising of the Argonian insurgence, and now this, the murder of Adamus.”

“Is this what this meeting is about?”

Sweat glistened across the bald head of Marius Caro. “Yes, and this has to be done quickly and efficiently.”

“As always, my liege.”

“Yes, as always.”

“What are the particulars?”

“As you know we captured an Argonian who was connected to the murder. The assassin as yet has not been caught. I need you to find him. And I need this resolved before the Elder Council becomes involved.”

The eyebrow of the Redguard raised a little. “I thought the Elder Council was concerned with the extinguishing of the Dragonfire and the opening of the Oblivion Gates?”

Sitting down behind the broad, wooden desk Marius Caro pushed aside the numerous papers that littered it. “Yes, my friend, but how long will that last? The death of Adamus has created a scandal that my spies are telling me is running like a wild-fire across the Imperial City. As soon as the Council has sorted out its current dilemma they are bound to put their scrutiny straight onto me. I cannot allow that to happen. Who knows what effect the power vacuum of Uriel and his sons will have on the realm of Cyrodiil? This must not look bad for me.”

Pashan nodded. “Yes, I see the problem. This Argonian you have, would you like me to pay him a visit?”

Horror breached the vivid, blue eyes of Marius Caro.

“God’s breath no! I cannot afford to have him die at this point. He is all I have.”

Pashan smiled a devious grin. “You offend me, my friend. Well, what then?”

“Decentius and Caelia have already interrogated him. The assassin is staying at a camp site in the Upper Nibenay. I want you to go there and see if he is still there. Bring him back alive and transport him back here. We must have the opportunity to find out who ordered the contract.”

“And if he refuses to come quietly?”

“Do what you need to,” the Count replied and raised a warning finger. “But he must still have his tongue in his throat. A mute elf is no good to me.”

Rising to his feet the head-hunter slipped quietly back into the dark alcove. By the time the concealed door slid back into place his mind had already planned the man-power and provisions that he would need for the journey ahead.

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Jul 24 2010, 07:42 AM