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]

Sort of a short update today. I have an idea for something that could have been appended to this, but I wanted to keep the mood of this post intact. Once again, I'll be out of town during the week, so don't expect another update until next weekend. After that I ought to be posting more frequently again.
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Odd Hours

A-

In the name of Emperor Uriel VII, you are hereby authorized to execute Lorbumol gro-Aglakh. He can be found at the Vivec branch of the Guild of Fighters. The subject is an orc of height about 5 feet 10 inches, weight of about 215 pounds, and usually goes without a shirt. The subject is an armorer and weaponsmith by profession. He is known to leave the guildhall each evening at about 9:00 on his way to the Black Shalk Cornerclub. He returns at odd hours.

Possession of this Imperial Writ of Execution authorizes you to dispose of the subject in any way you see fit, and is legally binding.

-E

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It was late, perhaps three in the morning, when I entered the grand plaza of Vivec’s Foreign Quarter. A single ordinator stood watch, at the opposite end of plaza, by the Guild of Mages. He was not looking my way, thankfully, as I had opened the door as quietly as I could in my drunken state. Quickly, I made my way to Ralen Tilvur’s shop, opposite the Guild of Fighters. Slinging my crossbow around my back, I slowly scaled the outer wall of the shop building, pressing my tail against the inside wall of the canton for a little boost. Digging into tiny pockmarks in the masonry I eased up to the top, where I was able to conceal myself admirably. Then I made myself comfortable, laying out a spare robe upon which to lie. I was in no rush—I needed to sleep off the brandy anyway.

An argonian runs through the swamp, easily finding the few patches of dry terrain even as the alternatively spiny and sticky vegetation tears at his clothing, a now-shredded brown robe. He looks over his shoulder, and sees and hears the undergrowth behind him moving, tearing, being stomped upon, even as he cannot see his pursuers. A dark glowing daedric dagger is clutched between his scaly fingers in a death grip. He trips and falls.

A cacophony of voices rouses me from uneasy slumber. Briefly a wave of panic washes over my mind, but I fight it back and instead of sitting up I merely turn my head and look to the windows. The sun shines from the east—it is morning. I still have some hours. Since I’m up anyway, I have a little breakfast—a fistful of scrib jerky I pull from a pouch within my robe.

Peaking over the parapet, I spied upon the multitudes crowding the plaza; redguards, dunmer, nords, imperials, bretons, khajiits, a pair of ordinators. One of the redguards passed out fliers; a female khajiit had the shifty eyes of a thief or assassin, always taking in the sightlines. Of course, khajiit always look like that, possibly because they are almost always thieves or assassins. Cause and effect, confused.

No orcs out right now. He’s probably in there right now, Lorbumol gor-Aglakh, hammering out a sword or club or cuirass. But his time will come; in the mean-time I have a bit of a headache, which I need to sleep off. I duck back behind the parapet, and lay my head back down upon my robe.

Rain, hot as guar’s piss, falls upon Tear. It drives the slaves into the ground as surely as do their masters; off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, I think, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. I take aim with my bow, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. I release the arrow.

I wake again, very suddenly, unpleasantly. What the hell is the time? I look to the windows—the sun is down—and quickly pull my crossbow in close, readying a poisoned bolt. A door is opening across the way—I can hear the hinges and the wood protest just a little—and I know that it must be time. Quickly I roll over upon my stomach, bring the crossbow in front of my face and just edging over the parapet. An orc, looking a little sweaty, steps out the door and pulls on a dirty white shirt. His hands are very rough, his eyebrows are singed. He looks up right as the bolt is released, and I think I see the faintest beginnings of a look of surprise and rage upon his face when the bolt lodges itself in his skull and the poison begins to race through his arteries. He falls, heavily.

Quickly, quietly, I gather up my tools while a dunmer woman below shouts in surprise and horror, and the gruff voices of dunmer ordinators issue orders and proclamations of much authority but little meaning. A simple hand gesture and I sit at the bar of Six Fishes.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 15 2007, 06:02 AM