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]

Part 6

Threndafel’s footsteps rung out clear and determined on the wooden jetty, he was no longer wearing his leather and assortment of knives, but instead wore loose fitting trousers with an open shirt. He wore an ornately decorated belt, the leather patterned and entwined to look like a sea serpent, from it swung a cutlass, the blade resting against his thigh like it belonged. No one had looked at him twice since he had changed, though the pirate he’d stolen it from would likely notice if they woke up, though with the amount of drink Threndafel had supplied he doubted whether the man would even be able to rouse himself for another two days at least.

He had spent the early evening watching the Fo’c’s’le, it wasn’t a busy inn, even when the workmen from the main town had drifted down to the docks they seemed to avoid the place. Those who did go in were obviously sailors, many of them sporting the dark tans and multiple scars of pirates used to a long journey at sea, likely back with plunder from far coasts or unlucky merchants. The point of interest to Threndafel was that he had yet to see any of the men leave, and it was mostly men who entered, meaning that there must have been a multitude of rooms.

Relaxing his shoulders and lengthening his strides to better mimic the swagger of the sailors he had seen enter Threndafel boldly opened the door and stepped inside the building, feeling the well oiled door open and close with barely a whisper, if all of the doors were as well tended it would likely make his job far easier, but life was never that easy, and he couldn’t help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise with unease.

Inside the building was dark, not just dark as in the absence of light, it was positively gloomy, as if the few lanterns had been placed to provide pockets of deep shadow and half light across the entire entrance. Somewhere further inside the building wood creaked like a ship on the water, and to Threndafel it didn’t sound like floorboards or settling roof beams were making the noise. The back wall was taken up with a long worn counter, the faint purple wood attested to years of spilt wine and an establishment that didn’t take the bar to be it’s main draw. Behind it leant a young looking Breton woman, her long blond hair spilled down around her shoulders and back, framing a plunging neckline and lightly freckled face. She stared at him intently; something about her eyes stirred his wild instincts. The primal part of his mind, always more prominent in Bosmer, told him that he was in the lair of a predator, and that his next few minutes would determine whether she would abide him or pounce.

With a quick glance around the room to check the corners Threndafel approached the bar, flashing the girl a smile that drew no response, rather she kept studying him, searching his face for something only she knew was there. He untied his money pouch from his belt and dropped it on the bar, ensuring to make the gold inside rattle and clink as much as he could before the action was finished.

“Evening miss” he greeted her, sliding onto a stool in front of the bar and leaning on it. “I’ll take a bottle of whatever’ll knock me from this stool and a glass for my mate whenever the lazy bugger gets down here”

The barmaid watched him carefully and then pulled a bottle of a dark brown spirit from under the bar, passing it over to him without a word. Threndafel poured out a ludicrous amount of gold in exchange for the drink, making sure to not care about how much. He poured himself a glass and drank it down quickly; it burnt his throat like fire though it did have a pleasingly smoky aftertaste. The barmaid watched his reaction carefully, before leaning down on the bar opposite him.

“You’re definitely not a sailor, and you’re not some workman trying to get in Mirabelle’s shift or you’d have asked me about her by now” the barmaid said, no hint of a question in her voice. “You’re not a local that’s clear, and you’re not a softy, you work for a living and it tells. Finally you have absolutely no idea what this place is or you’d not be at the bar.” She continued “So that just begs the question, who exactly are you? And what do you want here?”

Threndafel cursed to himself, the girl was good, and he should’ve expected a barmaid at the docks to have her wits around her. “Alright, you got me; I’m a hunter by trade, but my mate Thurindil’s trying to get me a place with his buddies on their next outing. He said that this is where the sailors hang out, and that if I could convince them I was worth it I’d be able to get aboard” Threndafel explained “He was meant to meet me here and give me his lucky belt, I got a good haul from the some mountain lions out in the fields and he promised to sell it to me”

The barmaid laughed a soft chuckle that clearly told Threndafel that he was an idiot and should be ashamed. “You’ve been had friend, Thurindil’s already been here, boasting about this magic belt he found.” She chuckled again as Threndafel let loose a line of perfectly innocent words in his native tongue, though to an observer they’d seem like the foulest collection of syllables possible. “Tell you what though honey, perhaps we can help each other out. I want out of this dump, the men here all think they can do what they like and you’ll swoon over them, they’re a bunch of stupid louts. There’s apparently a much better class of boarding house opening over in Kvatch, give me whatever you were gonna pay Thurindil and I’ll take you over to the room next to his. Head in alone and he’ll know something’s up, no one gets a room alone here.”

Threndafel grinned, sliding the money pouch across the counter. “It’s all there, and then I’ll be gone and you won’t have to hear from me again, unless I swing by Kvatch someday”

The barmaid smiled and took his arm, leading him through a dim doorway into a long hall lined with many doors. The Breton girl lead Threndafel to one of the furthest, pointing to the one next to it and then tugging on Threndafel’s belt to indicate it was Thurindil’s. The Bosmer nodded and allowed himself to be lead into the room, as he walked in, taking in the single piece of furniture, a large worn bed next to a single window that opened onto the alley behind the building. He turned as the door clicked shut to find the barmaid still there, she smiled at him, and he once again felt his primal instincts stir at her hungry gaze. She crossed the room in two strides and wrapper her arms around the Bosmer, she leant in close and as they fell back onto the bed she whispered softly into his ear.

“Wouldn’t want him to get suspicious”

A while later Threndafel carefully cracked open the window and slipped outside, he didn’t mind if the breeze disturbed the sleeping barmaid, he knew she wouldn’t tell of his deeds to the guard. Luckily for him the gap between the next window and his was short, and the low hanging roof gave him something to hold on to as he edged his way across. He had left his boots off inside the room, and carefully prised open the window with his feet, a skill he had learnt from a Khajit years ago. A carefully swing and a prayer that there wouldn’t be a discarded cutlass on the floor like in his room had him inside.

Thurindil slept soundly on the bed, around him discarded bottles and clothes littered the floor. Picking through the items Threndafel found the one he had been sent for. It was imediately obvious, a simple piece of cloth, delicately woven but very plain, something about it just drew him, like a whisper at the edge of his mind. Carefully wrapping it around his arm Threndafel turned to the question of how to get the pirate to drink the potion the Orc had handed him. This wasn’t something to be left to chance, and so the elf turned to a tried and tested method, brute force. Clapping a hand over the sleeping sailor’s mouth Threndafel popped open the cork on the bottle and held it in front of Thurindil.

“I’ll make this simple, you drink this, I leave, and we both walk our separate ways. You call out, try to get help or struggle and i’ll have to throw you out the window and cut your throat with a shard of glass. It’s not pretty for either of us and I’d really rather not have to do that, so be a champ and drink the damn potion” Threndafel hissed “It’s not poison because if I wanted you dead you would be by now, you’ve got everything to lose if you don’t, so what do you say?”

Thurindil hastily grabbed the potion and Threndafel moved his hand, allowing the pirate enough room to drink it. Once he was sure the man had swallowed the last of the purple liquid Threndafel moved back to the window, turning one last time to see the other man’s eyes glaze with a purple fog as he began to twitch. Jumping down into the cobbled back street Threndafel straightened and headed back to the barrel he had stuffed the unlucky sailor who had lent him his clothes in. Reclaiming his own belongings and changing the Bosmer quickly headed around the city walls and into the hills, one drunken sailor and one traumatised elf the worse.