Anima Di Nerezza (soul Of Darkness), My oblivion story. Options

[Sirin]

the very first story that i truly have high hopes for. enjoy and comment

Chapter 2

Anima di Nerezza
Chapter 1

The End. Not what one was expecting? Alas, most stories begin with such lines as, ‘Once upon a time’, or even, ‘Once there was a happy little family.’ I speak the truth, though, when I say that this story begins with the end. Or, more accurately, this story begins with MY end. I do not lie in saying that I journeyed through Death itself. Don’t mistake me though; my journey was a long and painful one. Such a journey would cause any adventurer to weep for a second death. This is not a tale of glory or a happy ending, but rather two lives wasted searching for wealth, power, and happiness. I found one of these (power), but only for a short time and after years of work. Working for the wrong people and doing the wrong things.

I was an assassin in the employ of the infamous Dark Brotherhood. Not an easy job, but a very satisfying one. I was unmistakably the best they had, with the exception of the Night Mother, who headed the Brotherhood. I also, again bested by the Mother, was the most respected female in the Brotherhood. It wasn’t rare to encounter female assassins, but maybe some thought it odd?

Several names were at my disposal, usually for deceptive purposes, but only one of them was my “true” name: Mabriel Tan’yadiel. The little that I recall of my long deceased family was their name, which was Tan’yadiel. Mabriel, I believe, was also my mother’s name. Therefore, it was as good as mine. It wasn’t a special name, though; it was nothing celestial, merely a traditional Dunmer name that was passed on through the women of the Tan’yadiel lineage.

I never felt love, for I was never taught it. Soon after my parents died, I was cast into the street. I was young, yet it mattered not to any other. A parentless child is a child cursed by the gods; no one would bear a burden like the one involved in raising me. While, roaming the streets in Brumo (my hometown), however, I was found and brought up by the thief J’shazzar, a Khajit. He taught me most of what I knew by the time I was, perhaps, seventeen. It was on the eve of my seventeenth birthday (or what I thought was it) that he introduced me to the Brotherhood. He was an assassin, as I soon learned, and had strong ties to the Assassins’ Guild. They brought me in as though I had been with them since the beginning of time. They taught me love: the love of the kill. Or maybe it was the hunt? Yes, I believe it was the hunt. As much as I enjoyed plunging a dagger into an unsuspecting victim’s heart, I enjoyed even greater following them. Shadowing their every movement and waiting for them to teach me the exact routine of their lives. Finally, after days, or even weeks, of hard fought patience, I was given a window of precious opportunity: a chance for attack. Ah, the sheer exhilaration was more joyous than any worldly pleasure. Something of an addiction perhaps?

I was blessed with long, black hair. ‘Blessed?’ one may ask. Indeed, I was. My long hair never got in the way during a hit, for it was bound behind my head. The little that strayed from braid or cord camouflaged perfectly with the dark night sky. Besides, my wardrobe consisted of a single outfit: a hooded black Brotherhood uniform. That hid my hair well enough, regardless of color. Again, one may question my choice of clothing, arguing that light armors would be better in a conflict. With this, I defend myself: “conflict” is the key word. I HAD been brought up by J’shazzar, the thief. I was well educated in the arts of nigh invisibility and escaping into the shadows. Being sighted was extremely rare. Conflict was rarer still. Besides, if I wore light armors, another would argue in favor of heavier armors. Heavy armors were the instrument of Death. Moving while weighted leads to fatigue. Fatigue blurs focus. Tainted focus gets your head taken off. I think I prefer the lack of protection to death.

I apologize, for I may seem to be contradicting myself and glorifying my past. While assassination is MOSTLY legal, I took things too far. Constant murder will undoubtedly destroy your soul. When my conscience was laid to rest, I desired to have more power than I currently did. It is one thing to control the life of a specified target, but to grip the throats of all in Cyrodiil, even Tamriel, became an obsession to me. I would’ve died to stand over all of Tamriel. And, eventually, I did die for it. But did I have the lands below me? No. And, when I was given a second chance at life, did I learn from my mistakes? Yes. But for long? No. The lust for power eventually ruled me again. So begins this tale:

This post has been edited by Sirin: Feb 27 2006, 12:39 AM

[Sirin]

Chapter 1, Part 2

I was executed in the Third Age of Tamriel, in the so called “Golden Age” of 404. I had plotted to assassinate the Emperor, Uriel Septim, but to quell the rising question: no. That is, no, I wasn’t killed for plotting against him. I kept my plans to myself and I alone, for this wasn’t a paid hit. This was something of a pleasure killing, and indeed the first straw in my grand scheme. No, I was executed by Imperial law for attempting to kill the old man. His life was just out of my reach. For some reason, some grave misfortune or miscalculation, I was expected.

On a rainy night, perfect for a killing if I say so myself, I had invisibly infiltrated the palace and sneaked around, searching for the path to the roof. When I found myself on the very pinnacle of the building, I was confronted by a small patrol of five guards. No worries from me, five was too small to stop me. One by one they met demise in the form of a rather sharp pat on the back. One by one, they took a swim in the moat, no more than two hundred feet below. I almost feared that a bolt of lightning might reveal my position, or the guards’, to another patrol man who might have decided to take a peek at the roof. No worries from me, Nature was not powerful enough to stop me.

I found a grated air shaft in the middle of the roof top. And though it was meant to provide fresh air on a stuffy day in the palace, it made for a lovely alternate entrance into what was to be the throne room of Fate. I swiftly removed it and cast it aside. A lovely drop indeed. Roughly ten feet down was a decently sized rafter, from which hung a chandelier. “Oh, how wonderful!” I spoke aloud to a pole bearing the Imperial standard. After tying one end of a rope that I had brought to the pole and the other to my waist, I slowly lowered myself down to the rafter.

I confidently slowed my breathing, calming myself for the chaos that was to come. Oh, when I pondered the scene in my head, I almost laughed. But upon catching myself, another darker thought tiptoed across the corner of my mind: What if they see you? Indeed, the candle light could easily give me away if the guards in the throne room chanced to glance up at me, but still, I begged to differ. Why would they even want to look up? They were most likely confident that the roof guards were doing their job to the fullest. Or taking a little swim. How, I enjoyed killing! My head swam with the most bizarre of thoughts, yet not obscene. Just crazy. The thoughts one can expect when greatly excited. See? Then, again, upon realizing what I was so close to performing, maybe I was crazy. While, crouching on the rafter, I contemplated this; I decided that a touch of insanity never hurt a soul. That is, if you have a soul.

Finally ready to carry out my self imposed mission, I cut the cords that cradled the suspended chandelier. As the circle of inferno plummeted to the ground, I dropped along side it. While falling though, I wondered if I made the right choice. The fall did look steep…. No, this was merely a whisper in my head. The drop was not more than ten feet or fifteen feet. The chandelier crashed and shattered an instant before I landed. I stood in the center of the now smashed chandelier and walked past the dying embers. I had marked Septim’s position and continued pressing on through the consuming darkness. As I stood in front of the man’s assumed location, I unsheathed my two daggers and raised them. Swinging downwards, however, I was met by a large, blunt object. Lifted off my feet and losing my breath, I soared through the air. As I crumpled to the ground, moaning in pain, I spotted in the approaching torchlight a Khajit male wielding a large, intimidating war hammer. Ah, so a nocturnal cat had been my downfall! Lovely, indeed. Darkness bled in.

Prison is hell. I yearned to roam about in the darkness once more, yet I was restricted by shackles. I quite honestly looked forward to my death. Until then, though, I slept in every light hour, and paced about my cell in the darkness. As they led me to the platform on which I was too be executed, I was surprised. Standing so close to death opens up one’s feeling to others’ emotions. Hate, fear, relief; all of these I could almost taste from the surrounding crowds. But as the blade fell, I felt one last feeling, if one could call it that: revenge.

Some fear Oblivion. Some worship it. Some spend their whole lives trying to run from it. Others can’t wait to get in. I didn’t give a second thought to it, and only thought that I needed to get out. As desiring as I was for Tamriel, though, this place was interesting to say the least. The sky was black, illuminated only by the constant flashes of lightning. The burning wind whipped across my bare face and skin. Realizing my current state of dress, I almost felt embarrassed, but I imagine clothing isn’t quite required in Eternity. Quite refreshing, I’d say. But still, I would have given what was left of my life for something to wear, for the wind was harsh and unforgiving.

I soon realized that I was on something of a prairie, a hellish one at that. A never ending stretch of land that was inhabited by lots and lots of creatures. I had once read a book on Oblivion. I had read that each of its infinite planes was inhabited by a Daedra lord and his minions. Everywhere I looked I saw “minions”, but there was not a lord...

Perhaps there was, or so the heavy footsteps behind me said. My natural battle knowledge as an assassin came into play: the Daedra was a big one and… right behind me. I dived, rolled, and wheeled about to face what I thought to be a Daedra in good standing with the rest. From my reading, I learned that the only four-armed, muscular demon who brandished a deadly battle axe was Mehrunes Dagon. I reached down, by instinct, to my waist, grasping for my daggers; but only to find that they weren’t there. I should’ve known that even if you could bring your worldly possessions to eternity, as demonstrated by my lack of clothing, my blades had already been confiscated in mortal life. Even dead, I wouldn’t imagine that anyone would indulge me by giving me back my tools.

“Sad little mortal!” exclaimed the Daedra,” Don’t you realize where you are?” I had intended to answer, but he didn’t seem to actually be seeking a response. “This is MY world,” he reminded me. “You wouldn’t be standing here without my approval. Or at least, without being consumed by agonizing pain. I know you can’t stay here, as I feel the hatred burning in your soul. You are evil, mortal, and I applaud you. So I am sending you back. Life is once again yours to live. But, before you leave, know this:. You are my tool of destruction. Don’t make me regret this. Oh, and, the daggers are my gift to you, little puppet.” I looked to my bare waist and saw the blades. Unsheathing them, I took in their remarkable beauty. They were as black and glossy as obsidian, yet sharp enough to be –

“A tool of the Daedra?” I whispered to myself, but I couldn’t question the monstrous figure, for I already felt myself lifting into the air, through the ground, and back onto the earth.

This post has been edited by Sirin: Feb 24 2006, 02:00 PM