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]

Serious Business

Nine-Toes and I sat around on the porch for a few days, sharing my brandy and flin and commiserating upon the sunset.

“I think,” I said, in between sips of brandy, “that Magnus must be hanging over the Imperial City right now.”

“You think either of us will ever see it? Do we want to?”

“I don’t know. You’re a hunter—I don’t know if they have much use for that, there. It’s a big city. I’m told that it dwarfs even Almalexia.” I paused to open up another bottle. “An assassin like me I guess they could use, though there are already so many. All those petty nobles and frustrated city folk—I’m sure they have no end of work for assassins.”

“Not that you want to do that anymore.” Nine-Toes took a pull and grinned.

“Right. Hah! Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion, either, I’d think. Pathetic fools… but nonetheless, fools to be reckoned with, if only for their numbers. Well, they won’t have to worry about me intruding upon their business anytime soon.”

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Nine-Toes had to hustle back to Balmora to file a report, and I needed to restock my liquor cabinet, so to speak. I ferried us over to Gnaar Mok in Has no Sails, and hoped that I might go unrecognized. Fortunately the town fits the archetype of a ‘backwater’ perfectly—the Hlaalu guards showed no signs of recognizing me. I wonder if they would even care, here on the Smuggler’s Coast.

I must admit that I haven’t spent much time in Gnaar Mok—the only mer who have are the smugglers, the poor, the guards, and the resident nobles—who must have offended somebody.

“I don’t suppose they stock brandy at the tradehouse, do they?” I asked Nine-Toes, just before he set on his way up-trail.

“Well, they do and they don’t. Druegh-jigger’s Rest doesn’t officially sell brandy—they smuggle it in, to keep it off the books.”

“Thieves Guild?”

“Of course. They’re not advertising, but Wadarkhu the khajiit hangs around there; he’s very serious business—the Guild’s big-shot smuggler, I hear.”

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“What can khajiit do for you?”

The question came from a green-robed suthay-raht who looked rather self-assured. Seeing as how the only other occupants of the tradehouse were redguards, I guessed that this was Wadarkhu. And I was right.

“Do I come to the right place for brandy?”

“You come to the right place for many things, marshwalker. How much do you need?”

“How’s twenty bottles, for a start?”

“Twenty? Wadarkhu brings only twenty bottles in an entire shipment, if Wadarkhu is very fortunate. Wadarkhu only has fifteen bottles in his entire stock now.”

Just my luck. A backwater town, indeed. But I had little choice.

“I’ll take them all,” I said, holding out a substantial bag of drakes out to the khajiit. “And please, think of me first when your next shipment comes in.”

“Do that, Wadarkhu will. Wadarkhu has only heard of one marshwalker with such an appetite for booze before…”

“No, you haven’t.” I passed over another sack of gold—500 septims. He took the proffered gold with a smile, “Wadarkhu’s memory has been known to be a little faulty. But you are generous, so Wadarkhu instead remembers this; the smugglers working out of Shurinbaal lost their contact in Balmora. Wadarkhu hears they’re working now with someone in Ald’ruhn.”

I nodded. I didn’t particularly care about smugglers and smuggling, at the moment, but it pays to know the local news.

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I awoke in the middle of the night, my cross-bow in hand. So very strange, I thought, for all was quiet. I heard no footfalls upon my porch, no strange noises emanating from the dark—yet something didn’t feel right. Someone was trying to sneak up on me, I could feel, as it seemed I could always feel it.

The smallest light flashed outside my door; like someone was casting a spell. A spell of silence. Of course, I thought; it makes sense now, everything but why. The door opened slightly; one inch then two, and as soon as I saw a head appear I released the bolt—the spell of silence died with my would-be assailant, and he fell loudly and heavily to the floor.

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Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun

The afore-mentioned has been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild. The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.



So I would have to pay another visit to Eno Hlaalu.