Uleni’s Collections Options

[Uleni Athram]

—
00:
Purple Prose (1):
Gangster Glamour
YLENNO
—


Skin the color of amber; hair the color of smuggler’s gold; cabochon eyes as glittering and as unfeeling as the grey-iron surface of a prison knife ready to wound. Born from metal, the way he bends light around him; his entire being is liquid imperfection, chrome fire tamed and beaten into a seamless vessel worn by this thug, this lowlife who recalls the repugnant beauty of those exiled kings and cruel kratocrats.

Pale-snake trophies openly on display; across his nose, below his left eye, just above his lip, a hundred more in other places— medals, he says to himself, medals gifted to him by the underworld through endless gang feuds, alleyway bushwhackings and urban war-waging he openly embraced before the age of fifteen.

He is proud of these scars. They tell his courage and story.

His every movement is wild lightning. His every smile is cut with poison; it shines like baby diamonds in the dark and carries a thousand different secrets. When he speaks, he speaks with the weighted wisdom of the street-meats and the demonic persuasiveness of the drug dealers; he can talk you into tying the noose around your neck, he can talk you into snorting the white sugar off the table, he can talk you into selling yourself for strangers — and you’d do all these things with a smile, if you let him.

Ink. He wears his victories on his skin. On his back sprawl the Prince of Cats and the Goblin King, locked in eternal combat and hateful intercourse— his reward for four hundred straight wins in the underground fighting pits of the Cheydinhal Orums. Across his chest rise the spindly Towers of Miscarcand, five wretched things with Stars at the top of each; one Tower speaking for a year in prison, one Star signifying a successful escape. On one side of his neck, a decapitated Boethiah; on the other, a Fleur-de-Lis pierced with a dirk; on his throat a cracked Amulet of Kings — sigils. Sigils of syndicates now extinct by his hand. Under his right ear a Dragon pierced with eleven arrows; his quota of assassinated legion captains. Under his left a Rose with four Crying Eyes for petals; the number of whôres he liberated from abusive pimps. A smiling mouth shaped like a tear just under his right eye — a gift from his inmates when he turned eighteen inside.

He is proud of these tattoos. They proclaim his power and authority.



This post has been edited by Uleni Athram: Jun 24 2018, 01:18 PM

[Uleni Athram]

ーーー
04: Pest Control
Location: Chorrol
Characters: YLENNO, LLEMORYN, CYLAISE, MYTHIC DAWN SLEEPER AGENTS
ーーー

The Grey Mare was loud in the way only Chorrol taverns ever were. Not riotous, not cruel. Just layered. Voices stacking atop one another, laughter colliding with argument, mugs striking wood in punctuation. Even the hearth seemed invested, logs cracking sharply as if offering commentary.

They had claimed a corner table beneath a faded hunting tapestry. A stag mid-leap, eternally escaping the spear. Close enough to hear the room breathe. Far enough to be ignored.

Ylenno tipped his chair back, boots hooked comfortably on the rung, already deep into his seventh mug.
“So,” he said, foam clinging to his lip as he grinned, “which one o’ these fine, god-fearin’ townsfolk d’ya reckon’s secretly burnin’ babies fer Mehrunes, eh?”

Llemoryn flinched and almost choked on his own mug. “Could you—gods, could you maybe not say that so cheerfully?”

Ylenno blinked at him. “Say what? Mehrunes?” He raised his voice just a hair, mischief sharpening. “Prince o’ Destruction, Red Lad o’—”

Llemoryn’s boot connected with his shin.

“—Ow! Ya spiteful scrib,” Ylenno hissed, folding forward before straightening again, grin returning like a bad habit. “Relax, Blue. If half these folk knew what Mehrunes Dagon was really up to, they wouldn’t be here drownin’ sheep-price woes in piss-watered ale.”

Cylaise hadn’t touched her drink.

She sat very still, hands folded loosely, gaze drifting over the room. Faces. Shoulders. The way weight shifted when names were spoken. She looked less like a patron and more like a butcher taking measurements that wouldn’t be written down.

“There,” she said softly.

Llemoryn straightened at once. “There where?”

“The Nord by the bar,” she replied. “Brown jerkin. Scar on the jaw. He has not lifted his cup.”

Ylenno leaned sideways to look. “Mebbe he’s broke. Like your conscience.” He then leaned sideways further so his face was closer to Cylaise’s bosom.

“His hands are steady,” Cylaise said, ignoring Ylenno. “Too steady. And he recoiled when you said Dagon.”

“Half o’ Tamriel recoils at that name,” Ylenno snorted. “Even without the Dawn involved, dig.”

Cylaise finally turned her head to look at him.

She smiled.

Ylenno cleared his throat and took a long, thoughtful drink.

Llemoryn followed her gaze back to the man, tension creeping into his shoulders. “All right. Let’s say he noticed. That doesn’t make him a sleeper.”

“No,” Cylaise agreed. “It means he fears being overheard.”

“And that means…?” Llemoryn prompted.

“That fear still governs him,” she said calmly. “He has not been fully hardened.”

Ylenno rolled one shoulder, stretching. “Hear that, Blue? She says he ain’t ready ta die yet for Mango or Moncler or whatever the piss their chief’s name is—“

“We are not killing anyone,” Llemoryn said immediately. “Not here in Chorrol. Not anywhere.”

Ylenno lifted both hands in surrender. “After that right mess at Hackdirt? Didn’t say we were. I just like knowin’ where lines are drawn, how soft his bones are, dig? But he or his ilk touch me, I pull self-defense.”

Cylaise’s gaze moved again. To the stairs. To two women whispering too intently, heads bowed close.

“There are at least three,” she said.

Llemoryn’s stomach tightened. “Three what.”

“Faithful,” she replied. “Unawakened. But close.”

Ylenno let out a low whistle, hands already gripping his trench knife. “Busy little choir-boys, these, hey-bey?”

Llemoryn rubbed his temple, thinking. “All right. Then we watch. We listen. We don’t provoke, threaten, or”—he glanced pointedly at Ylenno—“antagonize.”

Ylenno pressed a hand to his chest, eyelids fluttering rapidly, mock-offended. “Blue, my whole life’s about antagonizin’.”

“That explains a great deal,” Llemoryn muttered.

Cylaise leaned closer, voice dropping. Not conspiratorial. Intimate in the way a blade is intimate with skin. “Observation will not suffice.”

Llemoryn met her gaze without flinching. “It has to. Am I the only one here who actually remembers what Aureliana told us? No killing. Just watch.”

“Secrets decay when left untouched,” she said. “Pressure reveals truth.”

“That isn’t pressure,” he replied quietly. “That’s blood.”

She tilted her head. Not confused. Curious. “Is it?”

Ylenno felt the shift and leaned forward, forearms on the table.
“C’mere a sec, both o’ you. This ain’t Kvatch. No fire. No chants. No destiny makin’ speeches.”

Cylaise’s eyes slid to him. “You distrust subtlety.”

“I distrust fallout, dig,” Ylenno shot back. “We seen what comes after the clean solution. Just lookit how Lugruash almost got mobbed by these purty-purty citizens after Hackdirt. Ungrateful pricks.”

Llemoryn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you.”

Ylenno smirked sideways. “Don’t thank me yet, Blue. Good ol’ me’s got a plan.”

Llemoryn closed his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“Simple,” Ylenno said, already shifting his weight. “I get drunk and rowdy. Louder than usual.”

“That’s not a plan,” Llemoryn said. “That’s your natural state.”

“Exactly. Folk be relaxin’ when they think they’ve clocked the idiot in the room. Someone’ll slip away. They always do.”

Cylaise considered this. Slowly, she nodded. “Chaos as camouflage. We follow, then, the ones who escape during your idiocy.”

Ylenno grinned. “See? She be understandin’ me.”

“She tolerates you,” Llemoryn corrected, then sighed. “Fine. But if this turns into a brawl—”

“—then I lose spectacularly,” Ylenno said, already on his feet. “Blame the ale. The floor. Maybe the Empire. Probably my sister issues. But trust me.”

As he swaggered toward the bar, Cylaise watched him go, eyes bright with something sharp and appraising.

“He is effective,” she said.

“He is a social disaster,” Llemoryn replied.

“Yes,” she agreed evenly. “But a controlled one.”

Llemoryn looked back at the room. At the scarred man. The whispering women. The laughter that came a beat too late after certain words.

He swallowed.

“Let’s just hope,” he said softly, “that control holds tonight.”

The Grey Mare did not quiet when Ylenno stood.

It should have. There are men who carry silence with them. Ylenno was not one of them. Noise followed him like a bad habit. Laughter. Slurred curses. The scrape of his chair deliberately loud as he lurched toward the bar, mug already raised in greeting to no one in particular.

“Aye-up!” he called, voice bouncing off rafters. “Another round fer me an’ whichever poor bastard’s brave enough ta drink alongside destiny!”

A few laughs. A few rolled eyes. The room loosened.

That was when Cylaise’s posture changed.

Not her expression. Her weight. She shifted as if the floor had tilted and only she noticed.

“They are moving,” she said quietly.

Llemoryn followed her gaze. Five men peeled away from the room in small, casual increments. Too neat. Too rehearsed. Unnoticed until now. They did not look at one another, but they converged all the same, angling toward the narrow passage that led to the privies and the back door.

“Ylenno,” Llemoryn said under his breath, already rising.

Cylaise’s hand closed around his wrist.

“Do not,” she said.

“He’s walking into it.”

“Yes.”

“He’s drunk.”

“No,” she replied. “He is ready.”

From across the room, Ylenno laughed too loudly at nothing, clapped a stranger on the shoulder, and staggered precisely where they wanted him.

The passage was dim. Narrow. Smelled of piss, old soap, and damp straw.

The door shut behind him.

The first cultist drew steel.

Ylenno did not turn around.

“Five,” he said conversationally. “Bit greedy, hey-bey? I’m flattered.”

The blade lunged.

Ylenno pivoted. Not fast. Casual. The knife kissed air where his throat had been. He smashed his mug into the man’s face instead.

Ceramic shattered. Teeth followed.

He seized that cultist by the hair and smashed his head into the wall. Once. Twice. Let him slide down bonelessly.

The second came in low with an uppercut. Trained. Too trained.

Ylenno grinned.

“Oh, I like you.”

He let the punch land. Let it rock him. Then he laughed and headbutted the man so hard it echoed. Blood sprayed the wall in a painterly arc.

The third cultist screamed Dagon’s name and charged.

Ylenno met him halfway.

They collided. Ylenno hooked an arm around the man’s neck and kept going, ramming him spine-first into the door. Wood cracked. The cultist gasped. Ylenno whispered into his ear.

“Wrong god.”

He twisted.

There was a sound like wet cloth tearing.

The body dropped.

The fourth hesitated.

That was his mistake.

Ylenno closed the distance in two steps, seized the knife hand, bent the wrist until bone popped free of skin, and then used the man’s own blade to open his belly. Slow. Deliberate. He leaned close enough to smell fear.

“Smile, bítch,” he said. “Issa holy moment.”

The man collapsed, trying desperately to hold himself together.

The fifth bolted.

Ylenno let him get three steps.

Then he grabbed a loose plank from the shattered door and hurled it like a spear.

It took the cultist in the back of the skull and drove him face-first into the stone floor. Silence fell into the passage like a held breath.

Ylenno stood amid it, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his grin wide and feral. He looked happy. Not righteous. Not grim. Joyful.

He wiped his hands on a cultist’s jerkin and sauntered back into the tavern.

The noise resumed in pieces. Confusion. Shouts. Someone retching.

A quick look confirmed that Llemoryn and Cylaise were already gone. So were their first, earlier targets; the Nord and those two women. Job well done, Ylenno thought to himself.

He reached the bar, leaned over it, and called cheerfully, “Innkeep! Ye got a mop? Slipped in somethin’ religious back there, dig?”

Guards were coming. Boots. Voices. Mail armor.

Outside, the bells of Chorrol rang, calm and indifferent. Inside, five less voices would ever speak Dagon’s name in praise again.

Ylenno smiled like he had just been given a gift.