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]

Acadian-Thanks for your kind words on the feeling aspect of the story. I knew that my story would have to be centered on the Nibenay. Man I love that land, the rain and mist shrouded trees, the evilness of Leyawiin lurking behind each bough. It plays out perfect for the archer character like Buffy & Aradroth. There is no better felling than sniping from the shadows!Who is the elfin maiden? Time will tell!!

SubRosa- Thanks for picking up the phone. And also for spotting the nit. Fixed!! Your sharp eyes should be insured for millions!! I knew I had to throw the curve ball in about bones, realizing that you use it as a word for your skeleton. That made my day to see your reaction!

mALX- Thanks mALX! Rich descriptions are what it is all about. Sorry that this part of the story doesn't have much ES lore (I know that you are a junkie for all that obscure stuff ) but I promise to head my story in that direction.

Olen- Thank you for dropping in. Your support of my writing is highly appreciated. Your comments have always hinted that I resolve the finding of the camp, so here it is-


**


CHAPTER 10 –


The man ran along the overgrown path, his lean legs moving as fast as he could through the cloying mud. Driven by the dark uncertainty of death and the loneliness that would soon follow, he soldiered on begrudgingly, only stopping when a fork in the trail loomed up before him.

A scowl swiftly lined his features as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Pashan, you son of a goblin’s rat, slow down,” he wheezed. Bending over his hands rested in defeat against his thighs.

The forest that circled was lonely and quiet, the branches of the trees crowding like silent sentinels, protecting, or perhaps preventing his passage. Around him the misty rain drifted into bunched pockets down each hillside, a subtle grey cloak that rapidly enveloped the winding track.

Hopelessly lost and undecided, Vance Seer pushed his way quietly into the trees. Working his hand within his damp, leather gauntlet he was trying patiently hard to alleviate his feeling of frustration. But nervous tension had already wound its way up the base of his neck like a group of climbing spiders, casting him on a desperate edge. Using a sleeve he tried unsuccessfully to wipe away the rain that clung to his forehead in the unsettling feeling of greasy sweat.

To the left he finally spotted the numerous dark shadows that could be seen fitting on each side with weapons drawn. Unsheathing his own sword he pushed carefully onwards.


**


Pashan raised his gloved hand and settled down on his haunches.

Set in a small clearing on the edge of a deep lake, Nayon Camp sat like an overturned bowl. Hilly land rose in all directions and the Valus Mountains towered above it to the east. Accustomed to the swamp and marsh land to the south Pashan was surprised just how rugged the land was. Perhaps Vance was justified to suggest caution in this wild and extreme landscape.

The camp site had several rough tents and a camp fire, and had a large, scorched area on the ground. It was as if the inhabitants had let a fire get away from under them. What did it mean? Had the assassin tried to burn evidence that tied him to the crime? Or was he part of something even more devious, cannibals perhaps, or even vampires? He was suddenly keen to find out.

Leaping to his feet he advanced on the camp. His eyes widened as a big, mean dog advanced out of one of the tents, its ears laid back. It volleyed barks at him.

“Hello, boy,” he said in a low and pleasant tone. “Where is your master?”

The animal could not have cared less about his friendliness. It kept coming, jet black and huge, like the prow of a ship that bore down upon him.

Stepping backwards he moved into the scrub at the edge of the site. The grass was wet and tangled around his feet. Typical! It was always the loner types, those who commit murder without the approval and voice of the people that also seemed to be the dysfunctional ones, those who kept wild animals for pets. Still, it was not the bite of the dog that scared him, but the bark. The cover of surprise could easily be unbalanced by one of these mutts.

Pashan smiled as a thought dawned upon him.

Stepping up the incline he advanced on the animal again. Experience always said that you could tell a lot about a master of an animal by observing the pet. This dog was big and unfriendly, but it was also old. Closer inspection revealed that his fur was missing in a few places, and the tip of one of his ears was missing.

He couldn’t contain his smile. “Come here, doggie.”

The dog, which had settled down on its haunches, immediately got up again and began to close upon him, growling. Spittle flew from its barred teeth. He could see that the animal was coiled like a spring.

His smile had turned into a hard and bitter grimace as the beast leaped upwards.

Sweeping his arm downward a short bladed knife slashed across the eyes of the animal. Blood spurted into the air and smeared his dark cloak. The angry bark immediately transformed into short, agonized yips.

Pashan’s face had darkened. He stepped forward and rapidly kicked the dog several times in the flank. The dog gave a high, wailing sound and rolled in the mud at his feet. He advanced on the dog again and gave it another kick. The dog, one rib broken, and another badly sprung, realized that it faced a crazy madman, but it was too late to do anything about it. It writhed on the ground like a snake.

The knife flashed again and blood went everywhere. His boots were stained in red.

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing rapidly, and tried to relax. Why did the arrogant ones always run these camps as if they were the Imperial Watch? What would his dearly departed Mother have to say about this? Control was a virtue, she had always said, given to us by the Nine. How we choose to return that gift of love will determine who we are.

It was a shame that the mother of the pooch had never taught her offspring the value of love.

He opened his eyes. The dog still lay dying at his feet. Its broad tongue lapped at the edge of his boot, as if to acknowledge that it had been bested.

Suddenly, a voice called out, from lower down in the valley.

“Missy, are you there, girl?”

Pashan crouched down and patted the flank of the animal. Using his left hand he reached into his coat pocket for a piece of tobacco leaf.


**


Two men appeared from the far side of the camp.

They were dressed in fur and leather breeches and carried a couple of freshly caught fish. The sound of whistling carried on the morning air. The moment was surreal and spiritual.

The men came up short when they saw him. He could see that they were desperately trying to sum up the situation. Had the unfriendly pooch suddenly found a new friend and wanted its belly scratched?

“Where is your leader?” Pashan asked in a quiet tone.

One of the men dropped his fishing rod. “Missy, are you okay, girl?”

Pashan waited a moment. “Where is your leader?” the Redguard repeated.

“Who is to say?” the man replied, “A leader is a man, and a man is the one who follows the leader.”

Pashan closed his eyes and stroked the animal again. The warmth in the furry flank was only matched by the weight of his green lodestone that sat around his neck, the one that was given to him by his mother. He could feel it beat against his chest with unrequited love.

“Give me the answers I wish to know or your screams will sing long into the night.”

The men stared at him in disbelief.

Stepping forward the head-hunter’s polished boots kissed the wide pool of blood that had spread from the muzzle of the dead dog. He didn’t even notice. Instead, he was focused on the moment of indecision that cost the bandits their very lives.

It was a bow string that signalled the start of the battle. It rang out across the morning air and the bandit on the left disappeared in a shower of gore.


**


Screaming in fright the burly bandit quickly charged down the embankment. Dropping the stick with the skewed fish he was frantically trying to pull his blade from its sheath. All of his senses cried out in desperation. Underneath his feet the water splashed in the bottom of the northern gully.

His mind spun in a crazy circle. What was happening? Why had the stranger killed everybody? What had he done to deserve it? The man wasn’t part of the Watch, was he?

Lamenting his old and overweight condition his heart was pounding within his chest as he crawled under a fallen log. Branches and leaves snapped against his face as he plunged deeper into the foliage. At some point he noticed that his sword was lost in the dark.

Running as long as he could he finally collapsed against a trunk. His brown eyes scanned the trees as he panted like a broken dog.

A bird sound called out to his left. It was high pitched and unlike anything he had heard before.

Turning towards the sound, he saw a dark shadow flit past a tree trunk.

Crying out, he charged off again through the foliage like a blind-man. This time he could hear footsteps sound from behind him, closing rapidly. He panicked and spurred himself onwards. He knew that he only had to reach the safety of Lost Boy Cavern.

Suddenly something struck him in the back. He felt himself falling. The soft, cloying scent of moist, dirt and flowers invaded his nostrils. Several voices sounded above him. He hoped it wasn’t the Imperial Watch and then suddenly wondered why he had that spurious thought? Could it be that this was even worse?

Rough hands grabbed him by his feet and he felt himself being dragged back towards the direction of the camp site. His hands left claw marks in the soil as he tried to resist.

Screaming hoarsely, a wave of fear washed over him as he realized that the men sounded foreign.

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Jan 6 2011, 11:44 PM