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]

Another short one, I hope to get a nice long update this weekend or so.......
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The first arrow flew true, and impaled the clanfear in its tiny chest. The little repilian creature, fell to the ground, thrashing in agony. Ian turned back to the deadroth, expecting it to simply act frustrated by some powerlessness....... But the Imperial only managed to see it spit a fireball from its great jowl.

What!? Was all he could think before the flames splashed over his chest. The pain was excruciating, and Ian's breathing was ragged as he stumbled on the branch. He lost his balance, and landed hard on the ground.

But this was both good and bad, good because he landed in a small pond, which weakened the flames and the suffering they wrought. Ian struggled to his feet, his entire body hurt with every twitch, but through his hazy vision Ian saw a large grey shape moving closer.

The deadroth roared as it charged at its prey, eager for the nourishment of this man's flesh. It opened its mouth wide and tilted it nearly horizontal, giving itself more of a chance to grab the food before it. Ian, though disorientated, thought otherwise, and he ducked under the lethal fangs and claws.

Firmly planting his hands and knees, the agent, pushed upward against the monster's bulk. In spite of the intense protests of his body, Ian (plus the deadroth's forward momentum) lifted the giant crocodilian of its feet and flipped it over.

The fiend slammed head-first into the mud, the rest of its body hit against a nearby tree, its massive inertia splintering the small sapling. The top of the young tree, as though in retrobution, fell on to the crumbled form of the deadric crocodile.

The sickening crack! clearly stated that the beast was dead, head smashed by the wieght of a falling tree. With the sound Ian fell to his knees, exhausted by both the task of throwing something of a deadroth's size, and from the pain that still raked his body with every breath.

He licked his lips, still gasping for air, and tasted blood. With that he remembered how serious extreme burn wounds could be when not treated. Opening his satchel, being as careful as possible not to get too much of his blood on the bag, his burned, blood-caked hand hand pulled out a healing potion.

Ian drank heavily, causing some to drip onto his chest. He threw it to the ground, smashing the vial, when there was nothing left, and he felt the sensation of full-body healing that made one's skin crawl (in this case literally!).
Only when his skin was finished shifting and rejoining did Ian get up and look at the ruins of the city on the hill. Kvatch, Martin septim's last known location...... He let out a heavy sigh. Why am I even doing this? But, ignoring the unanswered question, Ian began to walk down the road.........