Killing in the Emperor's Name, A collection: An argonian assassin's world Options

[canis216]

Here you, the reader, will find works associated with Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's life and work all together. His future stories will be found here, primarily. I think it's appropriate, as his tales have taken on a more serialized form--if not strictly so. I still intend to experiment with different perspectives and styles within his general narrative, so don't expect every installment to flow perfectly into the next--that isn't what I'm going for. I'd like to think that I'm using Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's stories as a medium--evocation of the rough existence that is life on Vvardenfell.

[canis216]

Distasteful Business

“Don’t they have guards in Dagon Fel? Why can’t they just arrest him?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of brandy, and was disappointed to find the bottle nearly empty. “Do you have another one, Elone?”

“Here. I’ll put it on your tab.” The redguard pulled another bottle of brandy out from under the bar. “The guards can’t arrest Sorkvild. Necromancy isn’t actually illegal.”

“They could make his life harder, though.” He took the proffered bottle. “Don’t they do that everywhere else?”

“Well, they’re a little afraid, I think. There aren’t many guards in Dagon Fel, and the Empire isn’t about to devote more to such a backwater. And necromancers are so creepy.” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Alright, I’ll take care of it. But I can’t say I’m too crazy about necromancers myself.”

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Dagon Fel is indeed a backwater, even by the standards of Vvardenfell. Or at least, this is what I’m thinking when I step off the boat and gaze over a town with one main street overgrown with grass, lined with dirty wooden shacks. And nords. But who am I to talk, born and raised in Black Marsh? Still, this is surely the only place in the province in which the damn dark elves could possibly tolerate such a large contingent from Skyrim. A couple of guards patrol the streets, imperials. Cowards. Maybe I could accomplish this job, I think, by isolating one of the guards and blaming his death on the necromancer. Then the softskins would have to take action against him. Ridiculous thought, of course. It couldn’t work—I have no skill in conjuration—and I wouldn’t really be doing my job, would I?

As I step off the gangplank I accost the nearest nord, a red-haired female. “Where’s the tavern, here?”

She looks flummoxed for a moment, but then points to the west. I suppose my kind is not seen here particularly often. “End of the World. It’s next to the guard tower.”

“Thank you.” I will have to stop in, after my work is done. It would be remiss of me to not inspect all the local drinking establishments.

But first, business. I make my way out of the village, to the southeast, between a gap in the hills, and into the evening shadows. It isn’t much more than a minute’s walk to Sorkvild’s Tower—an old brass minaret of dwemer origin, with a rat loitering about the door. I cast a fireball, and the rat scurries away. So far, so good. I’m up at the door now—I’m sure that it’s creaky, so I cast a short spell of silence so I can open it quietly, slowly. Thankfully, no one is in immediate sight of the door. I creep down the stairs a short way, blades at the ready.

The layout—ahead of me is large room, a hulking figure in bonemold standing next to a grand central support beam, facing away from me. Probably a nord. I hear a footsteps to my left and right also, from opposite ends of the hallway, I think. They are not approaching, which suits me just fine—I’ll look them up shortly. But first, the nord. He must be thirty paces distant. I think of my crossbow, but the falling body will surely be noisy, armored as it is. No, I creep forward, synchronizing my footsteps with the creaking and moaning of the tower as it is buffeted by the wind. I am upon him; I reach around and cover his mouth with my right hand—my ebony blade now sheathed—as I rake Kills-You-Dead, my daedric dagger, across his throat. His body stiffens for a moment, resisting, crying to call out; but he goes limp, and falls into my arms with nary a sound. One down.

I make my way to the far side of the room, where it connects the hallway, it appears. At the far end of the corridor stands a youngish female dunmer, in a robe—it looks enchanted, like frostguard or something of that ilk. She’s probably a mage, and she is surely unarmored. She’s not quite looking this way, but not quite looking away, either… now it is time for the crossbow, its dwemer metal blending so perfectly with its surroundings, as it should. I ready a pair of viperbolts, and nose the sights around the corner, probing for her throat. I’ve got an oblique shot at it—it’ll have to do. The first bolt flies; it cuts straight through the throat, probably severing the jugular, but she still stands, clutching at it, desperately trying to heal. My second shot finds her heart, and she slumps against the wall, the life silently leaving her. Two down.

I can still hear a few footsteps over the sound of creaking dwemer metal—and machinery. But they do not draw closer; I am still undetected. I draw both blades again, and sneak to the other end of the long hallway—I can see the light from what must be another room, casting a faint glow upon the caved-in rocks in the corridor’s corner. The sound of machinery grows louder, all the better for me to remain unheard. I steal a peek around the corner; a figure in chitin and netch leather armor sits fifteen paces ahead, playing a solitary game of cards at a metallic table. A very short figure; must be a bosmer male. It is quite the eclectic group that Sorkvild has assembled here, I’m thinking. But out comes the crossbow. Again, I aim for the throat; best to silence a foe, even if he doesn’t die immediately. I fire—and he shifts in his seat! The bolt grazes the back of his neck, and now he knows and he is up, ebony shortword drawn. He shouts and charges; I drop the crossbow and pull out my blades and move quickly into the room to buy space to maneuver. He raises the shortsword to swing, to bring down upon my shoulder, across my chest—I block it with Kills-You-Dead, the serrated blade locking it in place as I plunge my own ebony into his heart, straight through his chitin. Three down.

The deed done, I pick up my foe’s weapon. It is enchanted with a restorative of some kind. If I don’t use it, it will at least barter well. “I’ll be keeping this blade of yours, wood elf. My thanks.” I whisper to the air.

I walk back into the main room, and study the ladder and trap door at the rear. My target is surely up there, in the highest heights of the tower. I very much dislike trap doors; he could be waiting up there right now, with some blasphemous revenant ready to play ‘whack-an-assassin’. Still, I hear no stirring above, despite the shouts of my last victim. But it could be a piece of deception, he could be silently waiting for me… or I could be getting carried away by the overactive workings of my mind. There are few minds more paranoid than that of the assassin, I sometimes think… or it could just be me. Perhaps my history has lead me inexorably down the path of paranoia?

I study the room further; two metal tables grab my attention. The one nearest me, immediately north of the ladder, supports some limeware, including a most elegant platter. These necromancers live rather well here, I think. Or used to live. I pull the limeware off the table, and move it to the other table, on the opposite side of the room. It’ll be safe there. Returning to the first table, now clear, I lift one side off the floor; it is lighter than I expected. These dwemer were fine craftsmen indeed. It will suit my purposes well. I settle down beside it to wait—to wait for the Raven to leave his nest.

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An hour passes. A call comes from above. “Hlora, lad. Could you bring me those scarab plans? I wish to study them.” A minute passes. “Hlora?”

I wriggled underneath the table, hidden from the trap door. The old brass hinges cry in pain as it opens. “Hlora? Where the devil…” He must see the body on the floor; I hear him utter a faint curse, and draw… an axe, I think. Fine, no problem. I hear his footsteps now, going down the ladder—he is vulnerable. Now for the spell, the spell of sound…..

“Sorkvild!!!!!”

I throw the table up and out at the necromancer, knocking him off the ladder, down on the floor. In one bound I am upon him, blades drawn—he is trying to get up, to bring his axe into play—I kick him back against the wall, weaponless. Before he can recover, Kills-You-Dead opens up his throat; my ebony opens up his heart. The necromancer is dead; my mark, a red-headed face-painted robe-wearing axe-wielding hulk of a nord.

I take a couple steps back, and almost trip over his dwemer axe. Staggering, I look around me. Such an odd place… I wonder what’s up there? Past the trap door, I mean. I climb the ladder, take a peek inside. Red light, sickly red light is what I see. Skeletons. I feel vaguely ill—strange that I should feel this way, killer that I am. Maybe it is the prospect of an impermanent death that I find so distasteful—the idea that someone I kill might walk again? Ugh. I don’t know. This whole business is distasteful.

But my distaste does not prevent me from liberating a daedric dagger, and a rather curious helm, before leaving. It is a distasteful business, but it is my business. My trophies will buy many drinks. But never enough.