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]

Torches

“I say, Agning, could you serve up another round of brandy?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought yet another empty bottle down upon the bar.

The brawny nord publican grinned his widest, “Aye, be my pleasure Al. But are you sure you haven’t had too much already?”

“Oh, come on. I can drink any man in Ebonheart under the table, and you know it.” The argonian accepted another bottle from the nord’s firm grasp. “Speaking of drinking, I hardly ever see you take a round—you don’t want to partake in your product?”

“Oh, I’ll have a sip of brandy meself every now and again, but the truth be told, I have a hard enough time keeping up inventory as it is. These soldier fellows drink near as much as you, Al.” The nord grinned again, “Though if I had my druthers, I’d import some mead. That be the nectar of the gods.”

The argonian flashed a look of horror. “That swill? You couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

Agning crossed his arms.

“Oh, who am I kidding? I’d drink it. Its alcohol, is it not?” The two of them, argonian and nord, shared a quiet laugh. “Say Joslin, what songs are you playing tonight?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun called to the Breton.

“I’m breaking out a new one tonight,” she called back, “about the glorious savior of Morrowind, the Nerevarine. ‘Tis truly an epic tale!”

“Nerevarine? What—you mean there really is a Nerevarine?”

“You mean you haven’t heard the news? The Nerevarine went to Red Mountain and slew the devil Dagoth Ur, only last week! Have you not noticed the clear skies over Red Mountain?”

“Well, no. But I have been drinking a lot.”

--------------------------------------------------------

It was later, perhaps two hours past sundown. Six Fishes, the finest and only tavern in the fortress city of Ebonheart, was packed with off-duty legionnaires, thirsty traders in the East Empire Company’s employ, and lusty merchant seamen looking for a good time. Joslin, the bard, was playing her epic song, now into the twentieth minute, at times elegant, delicate, almost elegiac, but sometimes fast and fervent, preaching to the listeners’ hearts and feet.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun still loitered at the bar, drinking brandy and making sporadic conversation with the publican.

“Joslin’s really outdone herself this time,” he half-shouted through the music.

Agning nodded, “Aye, that she has. If this Nerevarine fellow is half the man her song makes him seem…..” He did not finish the thought; he kept on nodding his head, in time with the music.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned on his barstool, back to the music. It was a minute more until he noticed the hooded dunmer man sitting next to him, watching. The argonian spoke harshly from the side of his mouth, “I suggest you speak to me now friend, before I get even more drunk and mistake you for a training dummy.”

The dunmer lowered his hood, revealing matted and tousled black hair—he had done some manner of labor, the argonian thought. “My apologies, sera. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you. You see, I need some work done—someone removed.”

The assassin felt a cold pricking sensation up his spine, but betrayed nothing with his eyes. “You must be mistaken. I’m not in that business.”

“But I have it on good authority that you are.”

“You do now? I see. We should go outside, into the night. We’ll find a quiet place to talk. After you.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun motioned to the door.

Stepping out into the night was jarring, the cool breeze and quiet melody of flags in the breeze and torches burning bright a crude departure from the warmth and bustle of the tavern. A single guard patrolled the main avenue, the path to the docks. He was chatting with an attractive imperial lady who was overwise busy securing her fishing boat. The now-hooded argonian exited the tavern after the again-hooded dunmer; he drew his dagger and held it against the mer’s back. “I am not for hire, dunmer. And you shouldn’t know who I am, not at all. But you might yet survive this night. Walk down to the dock, and get on the big boat, Chun-Ook or whatever it’s called. And do be quiet.” The dunmer nodded his head and complied, walking slowly, easily down to the dock, where Nevosi Hlan was preparing to pull in his gangplank for the night.

The argonian called harshly, but quietly, “Shipmaster! You have passengers. Get ready to disembark!”

“But sera, I’m not to shove off until—“

“No, we leave now.” The argonian brandished his other blade, the shortsword.

“Yes, sera. I understand, I think. I—I—I’ll get us under way.”

-----------------------------------------------------

The good ship Chun-Ook sat far from shore, somewhere off the Bitter Coast, as the night drifted on. A pair of lamps lit the top deck, where one dunmer hung upside-down from the mast while another watched the argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun conduct his interrogation.

“Who told you that I was an assassin? Who sent you? You have the hair and hands and body of a laborer—you could not hire me on your own, nor would you. So who was it?”

“Nobody sent me…” the desperation was palpable even in the rough, ashen voice of a dark elf; “I just thought—“

“Liar!” The argonian slapped him upside the head with the flat of his ebony blade. “Who sent you?!” he roared at the captive. Still no answer. “Shipmaster! Bring me that torch, over there! Now!”

“Listen to me now, dunmer. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will be torturing you. First, let me assure you that I have some experience in torturing your kind, going to back to the Dres slave raids… but that’s shouldn’t interest you. But what I’m going to do here is set this flaming torch”—he took one from Nevosi Hlan’s hand— “beneath your head. While your brain cooks, I will be applying frost spells to your feet, legs, and torso. I assure you that it will be quite uncomfortable—most of the subjects, in the old days, either talked after a few moments or started screaming something awful. Then they go insane.” He paused to force the captive’s eyes onto his own, “And I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

“Arvel! I work at Arvel Plantation! It was my mistress that told me to go to Ebonheart!”

The argonian pulled away the torch. “Go on.”

“Ranes Ienith told her that—“

“Ienith? He works for Orvas Dren.”

The captive nodded fervently, “Yes, sera. Yes.” Then he passed out, hanging with his head to the deck of Chun-Ook.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned to Nevosi Hlan, a wry grin upon his face. “Shipmaster, we will deliver this unfortunate young fool to the mainland. He is to never set foot upon Vvardenfell again.”

“Yes, sera. What port should I make for?”

“Sail west. The nearest village, whatever it may be.” He paused for a moment, in thought. “Shipmaster?”

“Yes, sera.”

“You’ve seen me work before.”

“Yes?” A shadow crept into Nevosi Hlan’s mind.

“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw?” The harsh, raw tone resumed in the argonian’s voice. “Did anyone ever ask about me?”

“Well, no… maybe one time….. Yes. Someone asked about an argonian assassin, in robes, not more than two weeks ago. I—I’m—I didn’t know, sera…” the shipmaster’s voice trailed off.

“What’s your name, shipmaster?”

“Nevosi, sera, Nevosi Hlan. I’m sorry—“

“Shut up, Nevosi. You will never speak of me, or answer any questions about me, to anyone, ever. You understand? The consequences?”

The shipmaster gazed off into the distance, toward the not-yet visible rising sun. “Yes sera, I understand perfectly.”

He looked back at Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. “You don’t need to hold a torch under my head.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 7 2007, 07:57 AM