Interviews with an Assassin, From the journals of Martinus Serruq - Professional Author and Mage Options

[Ahrenil]

Introduction

I arrived in Morrowind from Cyrodil in the year 427 of the Third Era and was immediately struck by how exotic the place was, in the heartland you could stand on the plains and see for miles upon miles, to the great snowy peaks of the North to the steamy Nibenay bay and Leyawin. But after I emerged from the hold of the Pelagius, which had agreed to take me to Ebonheart before it unloaded it’s prisoners at Seyda Neen, I was immediately struck by the dense fog that lurked over the waters behind me, and the great hills and trees that blanketed the land, blocking off the horizon and permeating the land with a strangely claustrophobic feel.
I came to the volcanic island to try and make a book out of the local customs and institutions in the land, some of which bore a keen resemblance to those of the Imperials and other human races, and some that seemed completely alien to me. My journey led me to Vivec, perhaps the most spectacular city I had seen in my travels. Saying that the city is situated on the coast would be a lie, it is built directly out of the sea, the fat multi tiered cantons rising out of the muddy waters and mist like elegantly carved mountain peaks.
Unfortunately on arrival I was struck by how tired I was, as sailing had never sat well with me. After getting off of one cramped wooden prison ship and onto a cargo ship I was completely sapped of any will to begin my studies, or so I had thought. I had sat down to a strange meal in the first inn I found, a plate of the largest egg I had ever seen and some tough local tubers and plants mixed into salt-rice, when I noticed the Bosmer.

I had sat down at a table I had thought was deserted, but upon carefully examining the large “kwama” egg and not deducing any obvious way to eat it I had looked up to try and observe the locals and found myself staring directly at the man sitting opposite me. I hadn’t seen or heard him sit down and he was posed to an extent that spoke both of comfort, but also of constant awareness, that made me realise he had been here long before I had arrived. I chastised myself inwardly for being so rude and introduced myself.

“Sorry friend” I apologised quickly, smiling sheepishly at the man “I hadn’t seen you there, my names Martinus Serruq, do you mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all” the Bosmer replied, his eyes flicking to me. “I’m Threndafel”.
There was something about the man that put me on edge; he had a bluntness and carefulness you don’t usually associate with the “Tree Sap” people. He never seemed quite relaxed, his eyes moved constantly around the inn, as if he was trying to absorb as much information from his surroundings as possible, and the way the staff watched him made it seem like they expected trouble.
I coughed nervously and returned to my egg, carefully poking it with my knife while contemplating the idea of the lovely imperial barmaid who’d served me snickering in the stockroom at the stupid foreigner.
“Slice away the shell”, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the elf spoke, his voice was surprisingly hard with a hint of either boredom or annoyance in his voice. “Then section up the inside and mix it in with the rest, it’s all bland together but the tastes on their own will make you retch until you get used to the dining”
“Um, thanks” I replied, while following his advice, he was right it was quite bland, but something didn’t sit right with my palate that suggested I’d regret my order in the morning. “Could I get you something in return? Maybe a plate of, what was it, Hackle-Lo?”
The elf regarded me coolly for a moment “You don’t know much about Bosmeri do you?” he declared in a manner that suggested no matter what I thought he was right. “We’re carnivorous, or at least we Valenwood natives are.”
“Ah, well perhaps something else, maybe...” he cut me off quickly with a slight motion of his hand
“A flin would be good though”

A few drinks later we’d opened up to each other as only two and a half flasks of sujamma and a mutual dislike of mudcrabs can make you. I was busy stuttering out my plan for my book, how I’d visit all the cantons and try and get interviews with the highest ranking, and some of the locals, to learn about how the influence of Imperial guilds was changing Dunmer tradition when he stopped me in my ramblings.
“I can help” he muttered, taking another swig of the potent drinks we’d ordered “You don’t get much more traditional than my institute”. He declared, perhaps a tinge of pride creeping into his voice.
“Lemme guess” I blurted out “Telvanni, magicka and mischief righ’?”
“Do I look like ah mage?” he grinned. His eyes flicked towards a dunmer staggering out of the door in that disconcerting manner of his. As soon as the man was gone my Bosmer friend straightened, and I realised he had been acting drunk this whole time. “You don’t get more Dunmer than the Morag Tong” he said before standing, and it was only now I noticed that under the loose fitting cloth shirt and leggings he wore was a dark set of leather armour, and around his waist was a selection of knives. Then he was gone, following the man out of the door.
When I finally left in the morning I was confronted by an Ordinator, one of the elite guards of the city and of the local religion. “Sir, do you have any information regarding the assassination of a male Dunmer last night? By the name of Feruren Oran?” he growled at me, one hand resting always on the hilt of his sword.

My mind reeled with the possibilities as I politely lied my way past the masked guard and made for the balcony outside. Had I spent the last evening talking to an Assassin? A legalised murderer? Little did I know as I made my way towards the Redoran canton that I would meet the man again, and that he would form the basis of what may be my best work?.

This post has been edited by Ahrenil: Jan 18 2011, 01:58 PM

[Ahrenil]

Mid Essay Update activate!

-----Continued-----

I had booked my passage back to Cyrodil, dejected and defeated by the wonderfully barbarous country I could not bring myself to love, nor hate. I was broke, I was heartbroken, and I was worried. Living in Morrowind is not easy, and it is not cheap, and I am far too easily brow beaten for the ruthless haggling the vendors and merchants all across the land so loved. What’s more, I had been given a taste of greatness. For a time, I had entertained the notion that I would become famous, a household name, rich leather bound tomes on noble’s shelves would bear my name in fancy gold type on the spine. But instead I had lot it all due to whim and fate, just the way I had gained it. And now I was getting more and more worried. I had not heard from the Bosmer for another month, during which I had found all my leads fading away as the temple cracked down around rumours of some form of heretical champion rising away. Now I was seeing shadows where there shouldn’t be, and within those shadows the slightest hint of movement, was I to be silenced? My body found deep within some ancestral tomb or picked apart by cliff racers on some forgotten path? Maybe I had annoyed a noble with my questioning, and they had paid for my removal...

Still, I could not bear myself to throw away my half finished work, even if I could have saved myself by destroying such evidence. It had me mesmerized, and I could not explain why. It felt heavier each day, like it was trying to anchor me to the island of Vvardenfel, begging me to finish it, to let it be what all it could. I could never do this justice though; it required the truthful heart of the story teller, not the whimsical pen of a scholar. I loathed and loved it.

My boat was not a fancy thing, plain imperial build, manned by a crew of red guards and Nords, each one seeming more scarred and bitter than the last. The captain charged me an outrageous price, the last of my remaining coin gone for a meagre hammock in the bowels of the ship. It stunk of over ripe produce and rotting wood, and echoed with the creaking of the great strained timbers that kept the ship from collapsing in on it self.

As I lamented my sorry situation, I heard the hatch at the far end of the ship open. The gruff voice of the hulking Nord who owned the ship rang clear down the hall, seeming to argue with another who I could not hear. The meagre lantern that lit my small corner of the hold was not bright enough to illuminate the figure that entered down, the hatch slamming shut barely after his head had cleared it.
My heart fluttered with hope, perhaps this trip would not be as dismal as I thought, perhaps I would have a travelling companion, a well spoken Dunmer noble, travelling to the Imperial City to capitalise on his success! Perhaps he would help me in writing a half decent book to publish, something that would save me face and help recoup my losses. Then we’d set up our own small printing company, his money and my talents allowing us to flourish, we’d become the toast of the town! Invited to functions with princes, meeting lovely elegant noblewomen, causing scandal, daring chases and risky plans that always work!

“Hail friend” I called to him as he approached the flickering light of my candle. “Welcome to the humble abode of Martinus Serruq!” He paused briefly, his cloak’s hood shadowing his face lifting like a wolf that smells a rabbit. I could feel the eyes from within, staring out at me, judging me. My hopes dashed, I pressed on, desperate to at least be on civil terms with the man I’d be stuck with for a week. “What brings you to a boat destined for Cyrodil?”
There was a pause, the hooded figure reached up and unpinned the simple clasp that held his cloak around his shoulders, before stepping into the light of my lantern. Dark, simple leathers adorned with a multitude of knives and blades, a pouch bulging with what appeared to be various amulets and rings, almost glowing with the power of the magicka within, and a pale, sharp face, framed by dark curls.

The Bosmer Assassin stared down at me, his hands resting on the handles of his long knives.
“Business” he replied softly.

The last entry in the journal of Martinus Serruq, found next to his belongings in the hold of the Racer's Beak cargo ship. Found floating adrift off the Gold Coast, all hands dead or missing.

This post has been edited by Ahrenil: Mar 25 2011, 02:04 AM