Family Matters, The second part of my Assassin's story. Options

[Ahrenil]

Well here we go for part 2, I would suggest you read Interviews with an Assassin first, as some of that will become important later. But for now, let's deal with some...Family Matters


Part 1

On the choppy waters off the Gold coast, a small wooden boat rocked silently amidst the waves. On board hunched a group of figures, hoods pulled up against the rain that drove in almost horizontal sheets against them. Occasionally one taller figure amongst them would throw out his arm in an overly dramatic gesture, and a light spell would flare amidst as particularily suspicious collection of rocks, or some dense long grass on the coast.

The local mud crab population was not pleased.

A hundred feet further down the coast, lying flat behind a sand dune, two other figures lay. One was checking a collection of rings and amulets, and was dressed in simple leathers in dark earthy colours. The other was clutching at a broken nose, and nursing an ego that, if real, would have been sporting a quite vivid purple bruise.

“Ipff depfinately brokthen” the second figure moaned “You coulbdof warned meh”

“How was I supposed to know your grandfather gave you a water walking ring when I tossed you overboard” the first figure hissed. Poking its head above the dune to check the progress of the party in the boat.

“Anyway, that pirate stopped long enough to laugh at you that I could kill him, be grateful” The figure dropped back down and pulled out a small ring with the name “Fargoth” engraved on it. “Hold still”
The healing magic washed over the over man, knitting the broken bone and sealing up blood vessels. “It still doesn’t look right” sulked the man, attempting to wring out the hem of his robe. The other figure glared at him and grabbed the nearest silence charm he had.

“Don’t worry, i’ve got a better one here” he muttered “just let me have another go”
“Don’t both, it’ll be fine” whispered the other man. “We should get out of here in case they search a shore.”
“Fine, but you owe me one. You know this place better than me, which way to Anvil?”
“Down the coast, as long as we follow it we’ll get there.”
“Right then, stay low and behind the dunes, that search party’ll head back in a few moments.”
“I still can’t believe we were robbed, by pirates!”
“Technically on you were robbed, and it wasn’t worth much anyway.” Muttered the other man, a Bosmer in his mid 20s, dark brown hair curling around and framing his face.
“Yeah...I guess so” whispered the other man, a Breton in his mid 30s, dressed in a fairly simple brown robe. “Anyway, you never did finish telling me how that story ended, my book would be worthless without it’s ending.”
“Who knows” whispered the elf, positively sliding between shadows like some form of jaguar covered in oil...and a chameleon spell. “Maybe i’ll finish telling you some day.”

Martinus Serruq watched him go, and attempted to follow as stealthily as a man in a water drenched robe could, which roughly equates to a one legged guar. He was still not sure why Threndafel, the Bosmer assassin he had met in Morrowind had saved his life, he also wasn’t sure why the Bosmer assassin was in Cyrodil, beyond the likely chance of assassinating people, but the man’s attitude on the few days they had been on the boat the “Racer’s Beak” had implied there was something infinitely more personal about the matter...

-Four Weeks before the pirate attack-

Eno Hlaalu was a quite, friendly faced man, he also killed people for money, though less and less these days. He was getting older, and a bit bored with his line of work. Still, he knew that the God Mephala had plans for him, and for someone who was on their way, someone he would know when they arrived. But first, he needed someone to leave the province, to help with some family matters...And he knew just who to ask.
Threndafel had been with the guild for a good few years, and he was good. Not the best, but he was very good. What’s more, he had nothing much to lose, not that he was looking for death, he just didn’t mind the idea. Not many people knew how he had made his way to Morrowind, or why, he didn’t talk about it much and none felt like asking. But Eno Hlaalu knew, he had made sure of the man before offering his place, and so he knew exactly why this job would appeal. And a man with a cause was always more likely to get the job done than a man fulfilling a contract.

The Bosmer stood before him now, dressed in leathers the colour of rich soil and vibrant plants. He had a youngish face, creases around his mouth seemed to allude to someone that loved to smile, but his eyes were always watching, always moving, and had that haunted look of a man who’s seen more than his share of the darker side of life.

“Cyrodil?” the Bosmer asked, a slight hint of tension in his voice.
“Cyrodil yes, it’s that big province in the middle” replied Eno Hlaalu, as he rummaged in a small chest he had on his desk. “I need someone there to help with the movement of some items, they all need to reach Vvardenfel in the next few months, they’re very important to the Tong.”
“I see, but...why me?” the Bosmer asked. “Surely Edward, or Garrok would be better suited, they’ve both lived there for longer, know the terrain...”
“I also need someone to deal with some...family matters. You could say a matter of brotherhood” Eno replied, turning to watch the Bosmer’s expression. As he had expected it darkened instantly. The man’s hands, that had already been resting on the bone handles of his long knives tightened, and the blades shifted a fraction of an inch out of their sheathes.
“You...you know why I can’t...won’t...do deals with them” the Bosmer hissed.
“You misunderstand me” replied the grandmaster, and set out a roll of several scrolls on the table, they bore no seal, but were tied with grey ribbons. “I want you to deal with them”

A dark light crept into the Bosmer’s eyes, the kind of fire that had been waiting for a spark.

“Well...” he whispered “It’s about time...”

This post has been edited by Ahrenil: Mar 25 2011, 10:28 PM

[Ahrenil]

Cheers for the feedback, now my exams are over i'm gonna really crack on with this.
I've tried to model my writing a bit around Neil Gaiman's, he has a way of just throwing in little jokes and humour into the relations between his charcaters, and that's what I tried to go for with Martinus and Threndafel, though I am no where near as successful as I hoped.

Anyway, lets do this!

Part 5

Threndafel followed the orc into the cottage, the old hinges creaking with the effort of shifting through the years of salt water rust that had coated them. Inside the cottage was a simple affair, old worn wood warped by years of sunlight and salt, twisting the once smooth floor into a sea of ripples and ditches that threatened unseen splinters, with gaps between the planks allowing small amounts of grasses and weeds to push into the room, creating small fields of life amidst the barren furniture.

A simple table stood beneath a series of shelves, cluttered with dusty jars of dried leaves and reagents, aging alchemical equipment, and an array of other tools used to extract the maximum use from whatever plant was placed within their vice like teeth and serrated blades. Sunlight streamed in through a thousand small pinpricks in the curtains, starring the walls with spots of light, lighting the gloom with a soft glow that felt like a constant dusk. Underneath one window was a large worn trunk, thick bands of unpolished iron secured with padlocks, large enough to fit a fully grown ram, though the fit would be tight.

The orc gestured to a chair that rested next to a small writing desk as he sat down at his work table and began to shake varying herbs and leaves out into a mortar and pestle. As he carefully began to crush the varying plants, their sweet smells filling the cottage, he began to speak.

“You’re here on the Grandmasters orders, and we respect that, but you must understand that you’re a risk to us.” The orc began, adding small measures of clear water from a cracked jug on the desk to the mixture in the mortal. “We don’t enjoy the freedom that you do in Morrowind, we must hide who we are for fear of the Legion. We don’t know you, we don’t know your skills, and we are hesitant to risk ourselves only for you to give us away”

“I assure you, I am no amateur” Threndafel replied. “I’ve served many years, completed every contract, and I have not been caught since my early days”

The orc didn’t turn; instead he lit a small fire under a tripod, and placed the mortar onto it. “We understand you would not have been sent unless the Grandmaster believed you were capable of completing this task. But, we have to be careful, and so I have been authorised to test you. Understand that this test is not a slight on your skill; it is a reassurance for our fears, it is related to your purpose here, so it will not be wasted effort on your part.”

“I understand the need, though I do resent the lack of trust” Threndafel muttered, watching vicious purple steam rise from the mortar, the mixtures scent had changed from one of sweet summers to an acrid smoke that made the bosmer’bs bile rise. Something was definitely unnatural about whatever concoction the orc was brewing.

“As long as you complete your task, we have nothing to fear” the orc replied, taking the mortar from the heat and mixing it with a measure of a spirit from a bottle on the shelf. He shook the mixture carefully before bottling it in a small vial. “A boat recently came to shore, one of its crew, a Wood Elf named Thurindil, recently acquired an item we need. A belt that the Grandmaster requires sent to Morrowind. You are to retrieve it, and ensure that the bosmer drinks this potion.” The orc said, walking over to Threndafel, his eyes intent as he watched for the bosmer’s reaction. “It will cause him to forget the past few weeks, and thus the item in question, we would not want him to try and reclaim it.”

Threndafel eyed the potion carefully; it swirled like violet smoke inside the vial, clouds of darker liquid sliding lazily across the glass like fog trapped close to the ground. “Very well, though it has been a long time since I was a Thief.” Threndafel said, taking the vial and carefully slipping it into a pouch on his belt.

“Very good, the man currently lodges in the Fo’c’s’le, it is likely the belt is with him, good hunting brother” The orc replied, opening the cottage door which complained once more with a long slow creak. Threndafel didn’t reply, just slipped out into the darkening evening, loping off down the hillside towards Anvil’s walls. The orc watched him until he was out of sight, and then moved around to the back of the cottage. A single pidgeon box leant against the back wall of the cottage, and from it the orc withdrew a hooded bird with a small tube on its leg. Into the tube he placed a single nightshade petal, and then set the bird to fly. As it winged its way north east away from the sun the orc smiled to himself, it was always nice when a plan came together.