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]

Has No Sail

The fire burns lowly and slowly, not giving off much warmth or light but providing some level of comfort and companionship. The Divines know I need it right now, reclining on the rock, gazing across the water to the faint light of Seyda Neen and its beacon lighthouse. How did I end up here? All sorts of vague feelings, associations, and memories swirl through my head, congealing into a great tower of… I don’t know. It is complicated, I suppose. The simple answer is that I hustled out of Ebonheart early this evening with most of my gear in tow. Before setting off in my little rowboat, Has No Sail, I barged into Sirollus Saccus’s smithy to purchase extra bolts and make minor repairs to my armor and weapons.

I think that it may be somewhat ironic that I now camp perhaps a bolt-shot west of the very run-down port in which I destroyed what little peace and comfort I had established in this life. A bolt-shot… hah! I pick up my crossbow, stand, and look to Seyda Neen. A solitary cliffracer hovers over the lighthouse. I aim, high, towards the star-mage. The bolt leaves my dwemer crossbow in pure piercing trajectory—I speak a low ‘thank you’ to the old dwemer smithcrafter and my repairman, Saccus—and flies true to the cliffracer, which drops ever so gently by the lighthouse door.

Then I turn back to the fire, and a bottle of brandy.

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Before the first rays of Magnus the sun could clear Seyda Neen I shove off. The little island is pleasant, but I have no intention to be caught near Seyda Neen in daylight. I harbor some doubt that Elone would have me pursued by the law, but what of the those fighting fools? They would want an accounting.

But I also have a destination in mind, something my old clanbrother Nine-Toes once told me about. A place that would be convenient, yet safe.

I row past the dunmer tomb just northwest of my camp. If I were some fool adventurer I might explore it, questing for gold or artifacts or excitement. But then, I am no adventurer. I have been fortunate in my time on Vvardenfell to never enter such a tomb and have no intention to start doing so now.

I keep rowing, maintaining an easy pace. This would be much easier with a sail, but I’ve never learned to use one properly and, in any case, sails are easily visible—they attract intention. There are countless smuggler’s caves along this Bitter Coast, and most of them are serviced by rowboats. The larger vessels generally stay off-shore, or they stay out of sight of towns and off the main routes of commerce, berthing at mysterious docks within the mystical, mystifying swamp. I had run into one of these ships once, south of Hla Oad.

It is still there. Near mid-day, sun now up and shining into my eyes, I pull harder upon my oars to work my way past the ghost ship. Her crew still lies dead under the deck, their throats opened wide. I shudder for a moment at my own handywork—why can’t I let being be? I had no contract, no mandate to kill those nords. Yet, I tell myself, they were smugglers, probably runners of slaves, and certainly aligned with the thrice-deposed Sixth House. Still, it was a dirty piece of work.

My progress is slow. I can only travel so quickly under my own power… might I take the ship? Absurd thought, of course. I could not possibly handle the craft on my own, and it sure would be a conspicuous way to pull in… and what of the bodies? Dragging them overboard would be such a hassle…

I pass Hla Oad hoping to avoid the eyes of the House Guard, for what is more suspicious to a thug dunmer guard than an argonian in a rowboat? Aside from any khajiit?

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I make my second camp on what little flat ground I can find amidst this pile of rocks jutting out of the water, just offshore. I hesitate to camp on this arc of barrier islands which I am astride, for they are littered with daedric and dwemer ruins, locales infested with creatures, daedra, crazed daedra-worshiping dunmer, and worst of all, adventurers.

My barren camp is immediately south of one of these daedric ruins; a flame atronach wanders about well within range of one of my bolts. But there is no point to molesting it, the elemental daedra will not cross the water to molest me, I don’t think, and I aim to stay out of sight and mind. For a while.

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The camp of dunmer is sundered and scorched. A single argonian crouches amongst the ruined remains. One dunmer male in chitin is punctured by iron arrows in heart, head, thorax, and throat. He clutches a steel sword close to his breast, perhaps because the hilt is inscribed in elegant script, “To Fardryn, with love…” Closest to the now-extinguished fire a dunmer in a fancy robe is perforated with still-more arrows; two in his heart, one in his eye. He clutches an ebony blade, a shortsword. The argonian works it loose from the mer’s grasp, which has been tightened by rigor mortis, and holds it up to the light.

“Find something you like, Heik-Auri?”

The argonian looks up, startled. Another argonian stands before him, maybe 15 feet away. He is smiling.

“Don’t go sneaking up on me like that, Nine-Toes. It’s not healthy.”

“I know it. But that’s a nice blade there.”

“It is.” Heik-Auri dropped his old iron wakizashi to the ground. “And I’m going to put it to good use.”

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I awoke with my ebony in hand. A mudcrab was trying to work its way onto my little isle—I arose and thrust my blade through the carapace, deep into the body core. I guess I’ll be having crab’s meat for breakfast again.

Today I heave off with the sunrise; I am close now, I need not hurry.

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I pull up to the near-crumpled dock at midday. Nine-Toes told me about this shack one time; he said he’d run into it once while mapping the impenetrable swamplands we are so adept at navigating. A few near-empty barrels sit atop the dock, just under the eaves of the old abandoned shack. The shack itself is a mess, but still features a comfortable hammock, many crates, barrels, and baskets for storage, and a very strange book which I proceeded to hurl as far into the Inner Sea as possible from my dock.

In the evening I watch the sun’s warming rays fade out upon the dwarven ruins which form my southeastern skyline. I think that it may be a chilly night.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 28 2007, 08:19 AM