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]

Marked

Arrille’s Tradehouse is as lively as ever tonight, which is to say that all the regular customers are in, with a couple of relative strangers wandering about the combination shop and tavern. The conversation flows at a dull roar, not quite squelching the slow soporific ballad emanating from Tandram Andalen’s mandolin. He did not sing; his rough dunmer voice would suffocate all the usual numbers played by the bards of Tamriel. Occasionally Elone, the scout and barkeep, would join him in song—she preferred the traditional hero-songs of Hammerfell but could carry all but the fastest tunes—but tonight she was occupied at the bar, speaking earnestly but quietly with an argonian dressed in a hooded robe black as the night sky.

“He’s dead” she spoke, looking hard at the argonian.

He was turned away from her slightly, and so he did not catch her full meaning. He answered casually, “Of course. When have I failed?”

“That’s not what I mean Al. I know you killed the orc. We trust you to do your work.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Orvas Dren. He was assassinated, along with his entire guard. Your extracurricular activities—“

He cut her short. “I had nothing to do with that. You think I’m that reckless?”

Elone stood, her voice rising slightly, “Reckless? Yes, I do think you’re that reckless! Why—” She stopped herself, sighing. “Fine. If not you, who killed him?”

“How should I know? I was preparing for the job with the orc.”

“Preparing! Do you really expect me to believe that? You’re always ready for a job, you’re so paranoid! If I asked you to kill half of town within the next hour you’d be plenty prepared! Stop lying to me!”

“Fine!” he shouted, “I was there! I killed his Cammona Tong thug guard! I roasted him over a fire! I watched him beg for death! I did everything but cut his throat! But listen to me Elone, listen just this once! I had no choice! They were on to me! Dren, Arvel, the slavers! Should I have just waited for him to come for me again? Would that better serve the Emperor?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was standing now, standing and shouting over everyone around. The bard no longer played and no drinks were being downed. A big, armored nord stepped over to the bar and placed a powerful hand on the argonian’s shoulder.

“That’s enough, lad. Get out of here before you do something you might regret, lizard.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun whipped around and struck the nord upside the head with the flat of his broadsword. “No one can call me lizard!” he screamed. A second nord drew his broadsword, but was sent reeling across the room in the same manner as his countryman. Halfway up the stairs a female dunmer prepared to cast a spell; likewise the imperial battlemage standing in the upstairs corner. The argonian flung throwing stars their way, first striking the imperial on the left shoulder and the dark elf on her right hand, interrupting the spells.

“Stop! Everyone!” Elone stood atop the bar, cheeks red and eyes welling up in rage and sorrow.

Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spoke quietly, “Elone, I’m sorry. But there’s something else you must know. I wasn’t alone. Orvas Dren was a marked mer.” He looked around the room at the wounded. “Now I suppose I am, too. Please send my regrets to Caius.”

He stepped around the prone bodies of nord and dunmer and past the fuming altmer Arrille, out into the night.