Ian, I was thinking of something new..... Options

[Lord Revan]

Well, for anyone who's read Revan don't worry I'm not abandoning it. I just decided to do a story on my actuel oblivion character. So I'm hoping you guys like it.

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Prologue: Vice and Graft

It was "happy hour" in the Flowing Bowl of Anvil. Most of the patrons were sailers on leave, "leave" in drunk sailer meant: take a break and get broke by drinking 'til you pass out. Beanlorn glanced around the crowds, and saw a familiar shape stride through the door.
Beanlorn knew the man and had even expected him. Ian did favors for certain people, and those people often did transactions in the Flowing Bowl. It steered some paying customers Beanlorn's way, so he kept quiet about the shady work going on in his establishment.

Ian spotted Beanlorn at the bar, and approached him. He casually dropped a pouch of coins on the counter, which Bealorn peeked into (he never was very subtle) to check that those were septims not some trash before he gestured to the rooms. As Ian stood in front of the 'wall' a board slid aside to let two eyes appear and make sure it wasn't some drunk Nord or something. The board closed again, and then a crawlspace revealed itself. The small meeting room, which was was illuminated by four blue lanterns in each corner, was occupied by his Argonian client and his two handmaidens.

Ian distained such flaunty displays of wealth and power (although he himself was a wealthy Imperial), but this was an Argonian, after all most were poor or only slightly rich. The client -Hurmun- squinted at him, with his lizard eyes. "Have you recovered to artifact? Or are you just wanting a chance to annoy me?" touchy little lizard, he thought. Reaching into his satchel, Ian removed a spherical humming rock. Yeah I got the sigil stone for you, Hurmun. Now do you have my fee? Or are you trying to waste my time?" Hurmun stared at the deadric artifact in his hands, then nodded at Ian. One of the Argonian maids brought a huge bag of gold, and handed it over.
"Now, Ian, I have a little matter that you can help me with before we depart." Ian furrowed his brow and frowned, "What would that be, lounge lizard?" Hurmun gritted his teeth (he did that when he was losing his patience) "A few of the bar patrons here don't want me to leave the inn.... alive anyway. I want you to.... dispose of these drunks." "Fine, but this had better be worth it." Then as an afterthought, he said "If you got gutted, it would be no skin off my bone -I have other clients"

Ian made his way down the stairs, there were four target he would have to kill: two Nords, an Imperial, and a Redguard. They were all leering at him, as he strode out the door. There weren't many bystanders on the docks, but the four brigands followed him out. He spun on his heel and unsheathed his elven shortsword, which was met by three cutlasses. The drunks were bigger and stronger, but they weren't thinking straight, and were clumsy. The commotion caused all the other patrons to come and watch in earnest. Ian held his sword loosely before him; the two nords tripped when they met less resistence than expected, and were caught between the hammer and anvil. Suddenly shouting came from the city gates and five guards charged toward them. The Redguard and Imperial, in a drunken frenzy, charged screaming at the watchmen, but were stabbed by the Anvil guard. Not eager to make a similar mistake, Ian sheathed his blade and set it on the ground along with his bow and arrows. "You have been found illegally brawling in the city limits, but you surrendered without conflict; that will be recognized by the judge, come with us...."

[Lord Revan]

Chapter 7 (cont.):

The night air was cold enough for Ian to see his breath waft from his mouth, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He left the Temple District behind and entered the Arena's domain, for a moment he stood before the enterance but it was too late to place a bet, so he continue on.
As he walked toward the center of the market the wind picked up and Ian shivered. Tommarow, I'm getting a better coat. Fortunatly the Merchant's Inn was reasonanbly warm and hospitable. The proprieter was a cheerful, middle-aged man in middle class clothes. Ian managed to get a room for fifteen septims.
The room was up to standard, it was small, but practical. Suddenly a crippling exhaustion crept through Ian's body, and he collapsed into the bed without bothering to take off his clothes. He slept deeply, but not peacefully.

The sky was blood red, thunder clapped but there was no lightning. Smoke swirled from below, and a burning city came into view. It was sitting atop a large butte, there were three gates standing before the town's gates. A fourth one formed, this one much larger then the first three. Staring into its crimson depths, Ian could pick out a huge shape.
The blob marched forward and emerged from the portal, its armor was vaguely similar to a mud crab's, the thing had to be fifty feet in length. It continued forth, and released a rain of fireballs at the walls of the village. As they fell several dark shapes charged through the new hole, Ian could see the blurry shape of men and women running and being cut down by the attackers.
Suddenly there was a flash of light and Uriel Septim strode across the scorched ground ignoring all the destruction. He stopped in front of Ian, his face solemn, and his words were hallow, an echo. "Take the Amulet of Kings to Juaffre, and he will lead to my last son. Find him and close shut the jaws...... of Oblivion."
The scene blurred out of view.......

Ian fell onto the floor, gasping and sweating heavily. "Find him......." As the voice of the late emporer faded, Ian lost consciousness. This time he did not dream of a nightmarish scene........

The next morning Ian opened his eyes to find himself on the floor, and his winter cloak moist with his perspiration. He glanced at them and shook his head. Despite his fowl mood, Ian felt oddly rested and rejuvenated.
Putting on some normal clothes and putting his dark Brotherhood armor inside his satchel, and didn't say a word to any of the commoners that had filled the bar. He walked aimlessly for what seemed like days, but in truth was only a few minutes. He was so absorbed in his head that he didn't realize where he was going until he slammed head on into a stone pillar.
Rubbing his head, even more angry then before, Ian looked at the nearby shop sign "The Mystic Emporium." On nothing else then simple restlessness he went inside.

The shop was filled with shelves upon shelves of scrolls, books, and other magical items. Two Altmer were conversing, both about seventy by human standards, one was male while the other was female. Ian could guess that they were married, and both owned this shop......
Ian began to inspect the various soul gems arranged in a small display case. One gleamed more vibrantly then the rest, Ian picked it up and studied it for several minutres. From what he knew about these objects this appeared to be a top-quality grand soul gem.
So absorbed by the gem, Ian didn't notice that the conversation had ended and the room was silent. At least, not until someone tapped him on the shoulder. Ian gave a start and spun to glance at the male Altmer, who had apparently been watching him closely.

"Do you want to buy that soul gem?" He asked in a well-mannered voice. It took a few moments for Ian to realize what he was talking about, then he cast a glance at the soul gem. "Oh, wait your a new one to enter the Mystic Emporium. Allow me to introduce my self, I'm Calehndil, owner of the most complete magic shop in Cyrodiil."
Ian raised an eyebrow. "Every merchant can try and boast something like that to get someone to buy their wares." He had an edge of condesension in his voice.
Calehndil didn't take any offence. "Well, if you want me to prove it, then come back by next Loredas, I'll sell something special for you."