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! My goal when I started writing this fan-fic was to have an expanded version of the Permanent Retirement quest in the DB. It seemed like a cool quest at the time that I completed it and I am happy enough with the way it has turned out. The natural follow-on was to have a manhunt for the assassin and it also allowed me to (hopefully!) put some building tension into the storyline.

SubRosa - So Aradroth will kill Pashan, eh? We shall see about that! During my early days of D&D I had tremendous fun killing off many a Playing Character, so believe me when I say that Aradroth had best be on his toes in the coming chapters. Ha! Thanks for your support for the dark atmosphere in my story. I do not have the talent a write a well rounded story like the other writers at Chorrol, but the brooding stuff seems to come easily enough. Crazy. It must be me.

Acadian - I really appreciate the work that you went to in your last post here brother. Cheers!!
The head of the hunter of heads. I love that line that you have come up with. Brilliant!!
The Pashan and Count scene helped to set the stage for the storyline, something that was probably needed. Aradroth could easily just wallow in the swamps of Black Marsh without somebody to give him depth and direction, and it was best if his antagonist is the one to force him into shape! I have plans for two more characters to appear soon that Aradroth can also lean upon.

Olen - Pashan does seem to be a cool character to set against Aradroth. The deadly Captain of the Head-hunters has alot going on beneath the surface. He will be desperate to keep the Count happy and there is the death of his family that will ride over everything. Thanks for your continued support.

Destri Melarg -Thanks brother!! I really wish I could write at the speed of Haute, Rosa or mALX, but it is not going to happen. I feel that my writing style is like a VW that bops along in the slow lane of the freeway. LOL. Oh well, such is life. The end of this fan-fic (around two dozen chapters) is already planned, so please be rest assured that I shall get there eventually.

mALX - Welcome back oh mALX. It is great to see you here. Make sure you get plenty of rest before you tackle the other fan-fics, please?!? They are huge stories, not like this little puppy. I suppose the great thing about my writing is that you can go away for 6 months and find that I have only written 4 chapters, ha ha!!


**


CHAPTER 8 –


Vance Seer passed through the murmuring crowd like a whisper. A small man with inquisitive eyes, he moved with the lightness of a hare as he slipped between the numerous housewives and beast folk of Leyawiin. Dressed in a dark cloak that only allowed a few tuffs of coarse hair to poke out at the buttoned up cuffs, he blended smoothly into the rolling background around him.

The voices all about spoke of fear and death, a siren’s call that reached deep into his heart. The tone was frantic and breathless, like the bleating of sheep from a closed up pen. It brought an involuntary flush to his face.

Pausing at the edge of destroyed marketplace he scanned the area. Sweating workmen could be seen moving in all directions, carrying lengths of timber and numerous tools as they rushed to rebuild the wooden structure that Dar Jee had brought down in his moment of madness.

Hammers banged and saws threw wood chips into the humid air.

Vance was not impressed.

It had looked so much better with the bodies and the blood soaking into the greedy soil. There was always something poetic about the lifeblood of a town flapping on the ground like a broken bird. It was a fragile moment of rare beauty. He knew that it would occupy his mind for weeks to come.

His nose sniffed the air as he watched the labourers sweat away in the morning sun. They were destroying everything, bringing order to the lovely chaos and he couldn’t help but feel a maudlin tear slip from his eye. Thankfully it was not only his memory that embraced him, the scent was all around him as well, keeping him alive.

It was the shroud that hung over everything. It was in the ground, it was in the walls, it was an anticipation of what the world might become.

His only regret was that nobody else adored it.


**


The sun burned from behind the curtain of mist that shrouded the land. Everything was quiet and dark. Overhead the birds sat quietly in their branches and gazed down suspiciously at the Wood Elf beneath them.

Sitting beside the damp fire in a tight bundle of rags the assassin did not even notice them. Brushing back a mop of brown hair from his eyes the Bosmer was simply relieved to see that his work was almost done. Placing the last green colored vial of poison onto the ground he only glanced up sharply at his surroundings when the single cry of the White-throated Treecreeper called from the branches above.

Wiping his stained fingers upon his greaves he rose stiffly to his feet and collected his pack together. The bird was a reminder that it was time to go. Like everything these days part of him was keen to hit the open road but another side knew what sort of pain the trip would bring. The recovery sessions were beginning to take longer and longer and he was never one that could fall back on the restorative skills of the healers. The Nine just didn’t seem to see the world the same way that he did.

Muttering under his breath he kicked a handful of soil over the remains of the fire and gathered his poison and arrows together.

Pushing at a brisk early pace he soon felt the miles quickly disappear under the soles of his worn boots. Bravil came and went and the Green Road swung towards the Niben Valley and through the forests north of his home town.

The morning felt fresh, the land alive and awake. Drops of rain lay cupped in the upturned tree ferns, a vacant reminder of the overnight rain that had renewed the overland forest. To the east the vast expanse of the Upper Niben stretched as smooth as a mill pond. Following the path down into a gully the sunlight around the assassin sliced the green foliage of the forest into neat edible strips.

A woman’s voice sounded from a rise in the road ahead.

“Your life is mine!” she screamed at him.

Aradroth looked up. The sunlight caught her metal armor.

A smooth motion pulled the Vampire bow to half tension and he sighted the woman offset.

Quickly pulling the string to full tension the arrow was loosed and the wasp hiss of fletching called out across the crisp morning air. The bandit took the full impact of the glass arrow and was tossed into the air like a doll.

Aradroth ran to the broken body.

The woman was a native of Hammerfell, and was now laying face down and very dead, a long way from home. Blood ran from her broad lips and pooled onto the road beneath her. Placing his bare hand onto the warm skin the assassin spoke a pray of thanks to the Dread Father, a tear of gratitude slipping down his rugged features.

Bending down he gave the women a rough inspection, checking for signs of treasure. A small piece of coarse muslin, a tooth-comb, several lock picks and a packet that contained two small pills of moon-sugar appeared within his hand. Smiling at the irony of the comb he tossed it all aside.

Removing a dagger from his boot he spent the next five minutes digging the arrow from the body.

He held it up to the streaming light. The head was damaged beyond repair but that didn’t stop the assassin from giving a low whistle. The bodkin tip had penetrated the mithril much further than any other arrow he had used before. It really surprised him. One of his bugbears was trying to hit that weak spot on the opponent’s armor. Perhaps those days might be a thing of the past.

The next time that he returned to Bravil he must give a word of thanks to Buffy.

His deadly friend was, yet again, right on the mark.


**

The camp had been set for the night. Tired and hungry from the punishing ride during the day Vance was glad to have the solid feel of the ground beneath. His muscles ached from places on his body that he never even knew existed, and he would have given anything to be back in Leyawiin with a warm bath and a cheap hussy. Trailing at the back of the group he was one of the last to arrive.

Heading forward with a pronounced limp he pulled the dark cowl low against his face, shielding himself from the torchlight.

A dozen large shapes appeared out of the mist. They were phantom creatures with dark hides and rolling white eyes. Long plumes of breath streamed from their broad nostrils. The head-hunters around them reminded him of a scholarly convention of necromancers, silent and haunting as they tended to their business of unloading the packs.

Passing through the group the Imperial could feel his nose become ticklish. He did his best to ignore it as he headed across the center of the pentagram.

“What have we got, boss?” he asked.

The man he addressed stood at the edge of the camp. Silhouetted against the night sky he stared out into the pitch blackness. His reply had the calm edge of a knife.

“There is nothing out there. The scouts have reported that the land ahead is quiet, almost too quiet. There is no goblins, no wolves, nothing.”

“How long will it be until we arrive?” Vance inquired.

Pashan turned to the side. “I am hoping tomorrow afternoon. I should get some better feed back in the morning. Make sure you get some good sleep tonight. Please be available for the early meeting.”

“I look that bad, do I?” The small man grinned and ran his hand through his dark, greasy hair. “Horse riding has unfortunately never been my forte. Give me a swamp, a blade and an Argonian any day.”

Pashan smiled and looked back at the camp. The light had thrown a sharp angle across his gaunt face. It was a disturbing sight.

“I hear what you say, brother. Hopefully I won’t have to drag that Bosmer’s sorry carcass all the way back home. I hate getting spurs in my horse.”

The rodent-man gave a quiet chuckle. “It is an empty and wild land we are going to. The assassin must really want to avoid capture if he is staying out there.”

Pashan nodded. “Yes, and he is probably cowering under the ground like the weasel that he is.”

Vance considered the idea for a moment. “Just remember, though, that we are still hunting a member of the Dark Brotherhood,” whispered the small Imperial. “In all likelihood it will very much depend on how many resources he has access to. The last thing we would want is him to be hunting us.”

Pashan turned back to the faceless side of night. His eyes were devoid of passion.

“That is why we have strength in numbers, my little friend. One elf cannot hope to stand against a score of head-hunters.”

The small man turned away. “Let us hope that you are right.”

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Aug 15 2010, 08:58 AM