The Dark Operation, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun is back for more... in Cyrodiil. Options

[canis216]

18.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Blackwood

The landscape feels vaguely familiar. It is not quite home—the swamp is much thicker, darker, and more menacing in my part of Black Marsh—but riding through Blackwood, the unsettled territory along the border between Cyrodiil and Argonia, makes me prone to flashbacks and daydreaming. So it was that I rode along, remembering my (thankfully brief) time spent training with the Shadowscales.

“You know how it is in our homeland. Those born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood. A Shadowscale hatchling is trained in the arts of stealth and assassination, and lives a life in service to the mighty kingdom of Argonia.”

Teinaava’s words, of course. Words for which I had no response, and for which no response was needed. He knew my story—it had become part of Shadowscale lore: the ragged resistance fighter who didn’t fit in, the arrogant master, and a precious artifact stolen. The artifact I’d wielded for more than fifteen years now. I’d not rendered much in the way of service to my homeland.

“When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate, a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail. The three of us were inseperable. When our training was completed, we reluctantly parted ways. But now... Now, the unthinkable has happened! Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh and refuses to fulfill his duties as royal assassin! This is an act of treason! This treachery must be punished! Just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale. That is why you must go to Bogwater and eliminate that treacherous snake! Please kill Scar-Tail, so Ocheeva and I can put this matter behind us.”

Of course. One traitor deserves another, after all. As one might expect, I was not enamored of this particular ‘favor’. There had been a time when I admired the Shadowscales, but that was long past. The order of assassins may have once served some useful purpose, but the organization as I knew it was blind to reality, like Teinaava. “Mighty kingdom of Argonia”. Ha! Black Marsh is no kingdom, and as I far as I know never has been. Centralized government has little meaning in a land of impenetrable swamps and isolated clans. The empire itself has only nominal control over the province. To serve the “Mighty kingdom of Argonia” is to be a plaything for the imperialized city-states of the exterior—Gideon, Soulrest, Lilmoth, Thorn…

It was with such thoughts that I was occupied when Outruns-Bandits and I rode into the camp at Bogwater. I didn’t bother with stealth—for Scar-Tail to attack me on sight would have been an intolerable violation of Argonian courtesy. Visitors are so infrequent in Black Marsh—one might not see a fellow clansman for months or even years—that marshwalkers are predisposed to generosity toward guests. (Our persecution over the eras, sadly, has made it so such generosity is seldom extended to foreigners anymore. Such is life.)

Scar-Tail bade me to dismount and sit beside his fire. He cut right to the heart of the manner, as is our way.

“I guess I've been expecting you, assassin. Don't try to deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Dark Brotherhood, right? Let me guess, it was Ocheeva, right? No, wait. Teinaava. Yes, he put you up to this, didn't he? Ocheeva was always too busy to even be bothered. Well, you can kill me if you like. I'm afraid I won't make much of a challenge, though. The Duke of Blackrose already sent an agent to do the job,” he paused, nodding to a body, another of our countrymen, lying in the marsh. “He failed, of course. But he got in a pretty good hit. If I don't get some rest I'm probably dead anyway. So maybe I can appeal to your sense of good will, huh? Ha ha ha ha! You let me live, and I'll tell you where I stashed my treasure. Is it a deal?”

I waited quietly, for a moment, thinking of Blackrose. I’d been there once, two years before, tracking an escapee from the big imperial prison. A horrible place ruled by despicable men. I could imagine what sort of work Scar-Tail had been doing.

I stood up, walked to my horse, and pulled a healing potion from my saddlebags. I tossed the vial over to Scar-Tail. “You can keep your treasure, and your life. But you’d better clear out of Cyrodiil, fast. If the wrong person sees you, it means trouble for the both of us.” I stopped, thinking. “I suggest you try Stros M’kai. There’s a tavern there.”

He gave me a weak smile—a smile of relief mixed with a bit of confusion. “You have my thanks, marshwalker. Now, I imagine Teinaava wants proof that I'm dead, right? Let me guess -- my heart? I suggest you take the heart from that fellow”—he gestured to the dead agent—“over there. He doesn’t need it anymore, and Teinaava will be none the wiser. I wish you luck.”

A few minutes passed, and Scar-Tail was gone. I lingered on, watching him until he disappeared into the evening. It was only then that I pulled out my ebony and got to work carving out the agent’s heart, marveling at what could have driven all of us—me, him, Scar-Tail, Teinaava—to this madness.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:34 PM

[canis216]

I liked this update. Who is this mysterious Bosmer? If I'm supposed to know, then oh well I have no idea . Hey wait! I do believe I get first comment.

Next update you'll meet the Bosmer. Sort of. He's not real fleshed-out in game, but he's there. Walk around Leyawiin long enough in game and you're sure to meet him.

And thanks again to everyone for the praise.

[Olen]

Nice. This is as good as ever, the style is a joy to read.

I await the next installment with trepidation.

[canis216]

19.

Leyawiin

Cingor was not especially worried. He was not the type. He was a Fighter, a good one, and he carried the confidence that comes with that knowledge. But he had noticed that someone had tampered the lock on his door, and that made him a mite uneasy. Sure, it was only a thief—his little stash of gold was missing—and thieves don’t talk much, but surely his copy of the Commentaries would have been noticed. It was an unusual book, as Cingor knew all too well.

Probably nothing would come of it. Only someone interested in the arcane arts, or a cult scholar, would realize the full implications of the book. Very few men or mer had any inkling of the Mythic Dawn’s existence. A thief would surely know nothing of them, or Mankar Camoran. Would they?

He shook his head—useless paranoia. He slept poorly enough as it was, what with his preparations to open a gate outside the city walls. The ritual was tricky if not complicated, and his guild duties had been getting in the way. Probably he should take some leave.

Leave. Cingor wished that the Argonian would go. He’d rode in on a black horse wearing a black robe and immediately gone to speak with Dar Jee, who was himself a bit of a shady character. The argonian stranger had seemed interested in Cingor, which only fed the bosmer’s paranoia.

Cingor paced about in the gathering darkness. What to do? He had wanted to go off into the forest a bit and practice the incantation, but that seemed too risky with the argonian about. It would be wise, he thought, to lie low for a day or two, maybe catch up on some lost sleep. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and it was wearying, so wearying…

For Lord Dagon!

The bosmer woke with a start. He’d almost falling asleep on his feet, and then the vision… he saw himself, or not quite himself, slaying some sort of hero… so wearying…

Cingor shook his head. No time for sleep yet. First he would walk back up the avenue and see if that argonian was still showing interest. He’d see if he needed to do something about it. The bosmer smiled, happy at the prospect of getting some practice with his warhammer. It would be a nice reprieve from the helplessness he lately felt.

He walked, passing into and out of torchlight, looking all about. Where was the fetcher? He looked at his own house, then to the one across the street. Nothing… no, there was someone on the rooftop. Someone now standing, bow in hand, with a whistling on the wind.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:34 PM

[jack cloudy]

I found the whole thing with the prison key hilarious. All that trouble, and the game railroads you into taking the sewers. Now that was just unfair.

As for Cingor, assume that he's the one meant to open a big gate like the one that led to Kvatch's destruction? Well, unless Al misses (not a chance), or the inevitable poison is of the paralyzing sort instead of the killing one, our buddy won't be opening any gates soon.

[canis216]

20.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Leyawiin and Chorrol

When I get brought in on a job, it usually isn’t for the purpose of arresting folks.

This is what I had to tell Dar Jee, shortly before I launched an arrow into my mark’s brain. He hadn’t known me in the old days, though he had some vague association with my clan, and I with his.

“What’s with the bow?”

I think that, in a way, he now regretted telling me about Cingor. I doubted that he would lament the mer’s death—he was indisputably Mythic Dawn—but he would feel responsible. What could I tell him? I muttered something about the inevitability of me finding the dirty kagouti out, but it was little consolation and I knew it. He walked meekly back home while I went over the evidence and the writ with the city watch captain, a woman named Draconis. In secret of course—I couldn’t afford to be seen in public chatting with the law.

Ah yes, one of the great sacrifices of this damned Dark Brotherhood operation. In Vvardenfell I associated with whoever I damned well pleased. Maybe I wasn’t going around singing about being a Blades operative, but I think I could have if I bloody wanted to. Anyone who reads this—future children, I dare hope?—will no doubt respond that the Dunmer hate imperial agents. This is true. But it is also true that as an argonian, the Dunmer already hated me. A little more hate could have hardly have impacted my safety much. In any case—and this is my point—public knowledge of my status as an imperial agent could hardly have impacted my work as the Emperor’s black hand. In my free time I could (and, much to Caius’ chagrin, did) do more or less whatever I pleased.

But now I’m undercover. A bloody covert operative.

A tiresome business, this is.

Meeting Nine-Toes in Chorrol was a relief, to say the least. By prearrangement we had drinks at the Grey Mare, the more homely of Chorrol’s two drinking establishments. It wasn’t quite the South Wall—it had none of the lively Thieves Guild banter I missed so badly, for instance—but what the joint lacked in action it made up for with a distinct unpretentious atmosphere. Everyone was blistering drunk. It was 10 A.M.

We drank quietly for perhaps half an hour, just enjoying each other’s company, before getting down to business. Nine-Toes, always the practical sort, spoke first.

“It goes down tonight, yes?”

I nodded. “Tonight the enforcer is supposed to pay Motierre a visit, yes. I’ll be there first, of course, to play at being a Dark Brother. You know, I’m bloody tempted to substitute Kills-You-Dead for the languorwine sleepy-time poison.”

“You mean kill Motierre? Blow the whole operation?”

“It’s tempting. Sooner this covert mess ends, sooner I get to have a life again. Anyway, he offered his own damn mother to Sithis. He deserves it.”

He thought about it. He thought for a long while. I downed half a bottle of the Surilie 415, waiting.

“I doubt they’d kick you out on the first screw-up. Mostly they’d just stop trusting you. Anyway, better to let Motierre rot in jail. And he will rot. We can’t lock him up in Cyrodiil—it would ruin your cover. So we’re sailing him off to the prison in Blackrose until this job of yours is done. You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.”

I think I smiled at that.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:34 PM

[treydog]

As ever, an enjoyable read. I like the idea that the Gates don't just pop up "randomly," rather someone from Mythic Dawn has to perform a ritual and "invite them in."

Al's weariness at the whole "undercover" business is typical of our favorite Argonian- "Why can't I just kill everybody and let the gods sort them out?"

[canis216]

21.

Chorrol, The Grey Mare

“Have you heard the odd noises coming from Eugal Belette's place?”

The words seemed to come from nowhere, but were clearly directed at the two argonians engaged in quiet conversation. They looked up into the face of Reynald Gemane. He was, as is his custom, completely blazed from a mix of brandy and mead. The argonians were not nearly so drunk—and suddenly very interested in what Gemane had to say.

None of which occurred to the imperial, sodden as he was. He did not perceive that both his listeners were well-armed, for instance—a steel crossbow slung over one’s shoulder, the other one carrying two wicked blades and an ebony bow. Nor did he notice the map of Chorrol, beer-stained and cluttered with marginal notes, sitting between them. No, he only noticed that he had an audience.

“I haven’t,” replied the one dressed in black. “But why don’t you pull up a chair”—the argonian proffered a bottle of wine—“and tell us about it?”

* * *

New to town?

Check.

Strange behavior?

Check.

A creepy entryway into the house, including cobwebs, no carpet, and a filthy, unwashed bed? In an upscale town?

Check.

The stench of death and decay wafting up from the basement?

Double-check.

* * *

Chorrol, Eugal Belette’s Basement

A dark figure crept about in candlelight. He was talking to himself.

“…time to do inventory. Several portions gravedust, plus bones. A novice’s alchemical equipment. Could just be a necromancer, which is bad enough. But no. A red robe… let’s see… ah yes, just like Baurus described. And the 2nd volume of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes…”

The figure scribbled a few lines in a small notebook, pocket-sized, and turned for the door… which was opening, accompanied by a stranger’s voice.

“Bloody hell, why is the door unlocked? I could have sworn…”

The figure made no sound (though surely he must have thought, shiiit) but instead pressed himself up against the wall, a pair of blades drawn.

“Damn it all, Raven will have my head if…” the voice, attached to a tall, balding Breton, trailed off, sensing a presence. Sensing it too late. A strong, scaly hand suddenly clamped over Eugal Belette’s lips, accompanied by the sensation of cold daedric metal pressed against his throat. This was soon followed by the last words the Breton would ever hear, delivered in a cold, whiskey-scarred rasp. It was almost exactly what Eugal Belette expected.

“Eugal Belette, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that, by order of the Imperial Chancellor Ocato, you are to be executed immediately. Congratulations.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM

[Olen]

Great stuff, lots of intregue but with enough payoffs to really hold interest and Al is such an awsome character. I'm loving this.

Where can I read more Al? I've read Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Telvanni affair, is there any more I haven't been able to find?

[canis216]

Great stuff, lots of intregue but with enough payoffs to really hold interest and Al is such an awsome character. I'm loving this.

Where can I read more Al? I've read Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Telvanni affair, is there any more I haven't been able to find?

More Al? This is it, I'm afraid. I'm only so prolific, after all. And my next story (in progress, and likely not to appear for a fair piece of time) is going to be all the way over in Hammerfell. No Al to be found.

[canis216]

22.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Chorrol

When I re-entered The Grey Mare my friend was still holding our table.

“No trouble, I take it?” he asked, passing me a bottle.

“Not much,” I replied. “What is this?” Not knowing didn’t stop me from popping the top.

“Beer. A porter, to be precise. They brew it over at The Oak and Crosier. So everything worked out with the guard captain?”

I didn’t answer for a moment—I was taking a deep draught of the rich brew. Very nice. That settled, I answered, “Yeah, Bittneld understood. From his face, I don’t think he was too thrilled about having me skulking about in his jurisdiction, but then he doesn’t have any choice in the matter, does he?”

I sucked down some more beer.

“I walked him through the evidence, and he agreed with my conclusions, no problem. He also agreed to dispose of the corpse nice and quiet like, so hopefully word won’t spread too quickly among the rest of the Mythic Dawn.”

Nine-Toes nodded, looking off into space. “Sounds good. So now we wait here until it’s time for you to deal with Motierre?”

“Now we wait.”

* * *

“Oh! Well... um, hello. You must be the one Lucien Lachance told…”

“Lachance told you nothing!” I roared. “Nothing that counts, anyway. Just shut up and let me do my damn job, s’wit!” I glared at Francois Motierre fiercely, and he was frightened. He should have been. Kill him! My blood boiled. But his naked fear served to modify my rage—I still thought him a monster (he offered his mother to the Brotherhood!) but he was a toothless monster, animated by cowardice.

I unsheathed the languorwine blade and waved it in front of Motierre’s face.

“Listen up. As soon as that enforcer steps through the door, I’m slashing you across the chest with this—a touch’ll do the job, but then it wouldn’t look fatal, would it?”

A pause, and a thought.

“I’ll try to miss your heart… but no guarantees, eh?”

It was at that moment that Francois Motierre soiled himself.

We stood there a few moments, surely a more incongruous pairing than anything even Sheogorath himself could conjure up—the lean, hardened argonian assassin and the paunchy, pampered, piss-stained breton. The smell of urine was just beginning to saturate the room (tasteful, well-appointed, obviously expensive but not opulent) when the enforcer rapped on the front door. He spoke with the voice of one of my countrymen. Another marshbrother wrapped up in this business.

“Motierre! I know you're in there! My employers are most displeased. I'm coming in and you can beg for your life. Not that it will do any good! Ha ha!”

I could clearly hear the little *tink* of a lockpick at work—it would be any moment—and a tiny whisper from Motierre—“Hides-His-Heart”—and… where had I heard that name before? The question was immaterial, however, as the enforcer burst through the door—where have I seen that face?—and I slashed the exceedingly and gratifyingly terrified Motierre across the chest, clearing his heart by a safe and sane three inches. I threw down the pathetic poisoned blade, drew Kills-You-Dead, and faced Hides-His-Heart. I saw… recognition, in his face. Then surprise. Then abject, open fear.

“You? It can’t… but…”

Hides-His-Heart dropped his blade and fled out the door. Most strange…

But it gave me time. Time for what? Time to remember Nine-Toes’ words. To wit: “You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.” I looked at Francois Motierre, prostrate, sodden, bleeding, and helpless, and then imagined him with the addition of several broken ribs. Plenty of time to prove my dear old friend wrong.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM

[Olen]

Great stuff. It's good to see Al returned.

[Black Hand]

Mmm. Another Marshbrother with a mysterious connection to Al....this will be good.

[canis216]

23.

Chorrol: 25 Second Seed, 3E 433

Darius Lewontin left Castle Chorrol at precisely 1:25 A.M. He did so every night—it was his job, after all, as a member of the Watch.

It was a good job. He liked it well enough, even given his odd hours. Chorrol was a proper city, not given to excess frivolity, and so his patrols were almost always quite boring. That was fine by Darius—a contemplative fellow, he could fill the hours doing his own thinking and doing it on the city’s time.

That was how things usually were, at least. But only the night before Darius had the great misfortune of discovering the body of Francois Motierre. He felt a great sadness, a sag in his shoulders. Darius had not known Motierre well—indeed, hardly knew him at all—but had thought the Breton an amiable enough man.

How could someone so ineffectual, self-effacing, and fundamentally harmless deserve such a fate? It wasn’t just murder, though that was bad enough. No, it was much more. It was sadism. Darius remembered the blood, the bruises, the smell, and he grimaced. If he never saw a murdered man again, it would be too soon.

It wasn’t until reaching the Grey Mare that the watchman could wrest the image from his mind. The tavern sounded of music, conversation, bottles of ale clinking together… warm sounds to protect against the chill Highland night.

Through the night Darius espied the approach of two figures, coming from the Chapel district, one supporting the other as they limped along.

“You folks need a hand there?” Darius called out, hurrying along.

An argonian’s face appeared from within a black hood. “No, thank you. My friend here just had a bit much to drink”—the scent of mead was, indeed, on the air—“and needs to get back to his room at the Mare to sleep it off. I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

The argonian smiled, sheepishly. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to keep you, anyway, what with all the crime going around.”

* * *

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Nine Toes sat quietly in the Oak and Crosier, drinking as always.

The assassin still wore the same sheepish grin as earlier. Finally, Nine-Toes lost his patience.

“What?”

“Damn lot of good I did myself, beating him like that. I practically had to carry him to the Grey Mare.”

“I saw that. It’ll make him easier for me to follow to Anvil, I guess. And he’ll be in no condition to resist arrest when the time comes, that’s for sure. You have any trouble that wasn’t self-inflicted?”

“Zombies.”

Nine-Toes set his glass on the table. “Zombies? In the Chapel?”

“Some sort of family curse, he said. To make a long story short, his Aunt Margaret is now resting in pieces. And I think one of his uncles, too.” The assassin took a drink and endeavored to change the subject. “Did you hear if the guard caught that enforcer?”

“I don’t think so. What did you say his name was?”

“Hides-His-Heart, I think, was the name. Seems so familiar…”

“Al, you don’t remember him? The hatchling who was always watching us train back in Black Marsh? Little fellow always looked up to you.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun froze, vacant eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular—a beer mug, a tapestry. Slowly those eyes narrowed, trembling with rage. With helpless outrage. And then finally with sadness.

“You okay, Al?”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM

[canis216]

24.

Journal of a Blades Assassin

I left Chorrol before sunrise on the 26th, hoping to reach the little inn at Aleswell before the tyranny of mid-day. There I would rest, take lunch, and decide if pushing on to Cheydinhal would be worth my while.

The ride was relatively peaceful, or as peaceful as one can be while tearing along on Outruns-Bandits, my black mare. Aside from outrunning a highwayman at Fort Ash and a minotaur outside Fort Nickel we hardly needed to break from an easy trot.

Normally on such a ride I would pass the time by admiring the scenery—the rolling hills, the delightful mix of aspen, white pine, and white oak, babbling brooks, deer dancing through sunny glades—but all I could think of was the foul mess that I continued to make of my life. The encounter with Hides-His-Heart was only the most recent exemplar. In the long run disappointing the youngster-turned-thug who once idolized me means little, but then in the long run we are all dead. Here’s what matters: his hero is now a Dark Brother.

No, he thinks his hero is a Dark Brother, I want to say. But what’s the difference between me and them? I’ve been hitting for the Blades since I was 25, after all, and killing slavers since I was little more than hatchling. What makes me so different from them?

I could retire. I have enough money. The Legion likes to say that crime doesn’t pay, but what am I but a direct refutation of the old aphorism? Crime pays, all right—as long as you’re doing it with the Empire’s backing. That’s the difference between me and the Brotherhood—when all this is over and the dust is settled they’ll be dead or in lockup and I’ll be hung over in some nameless tavern listening to the bards sing the glories of some prophesied hero. Maybe if I’m lucky and not too drunk they’ll let me play lute.

My morose mental monologue notwithstanding, I reached Aleswell without incident. I snubbed my horse’s reigns around a fencepost and ambled into the inn to take my lunch.

The publican, Diram Serethi, was full of the usual complaints—not enough rain for the crops, wolves getting at the sheep, local wizard causing the odd plague of rats—but he was happy to serve me roast mutton and a couple bottles of ale while we traded news and kept out of the sun. His sisters, on the other hand, just glared at me.

“They ever smile?” I quietly asked, casting a furtive glance at the two Dunmer women.

“Never,” he said. “Sometimes I wish they would just disappear.”

* * *

I arrived at Cheydinhal late, just short of midnight. I had my reasons—mostly I just wanted to not overwork Outruns-Bandits. I also stopped a few times to assist waylaid travelers fighting off brigands or beasts, which was really just a matter of letting loose a few bowshots. Just doing my measure of good for the day, and I didn’t even need to dismount.

Riding slowly also gave me more time to think. Cheydinhal would have Mythic Dawn cultists. But who? I admittedly did not like to linger long in the city—such is my distaste for the Dark Brotherhood—and had not taken the time to observe how its residents spent their time. My “brothers” would have perhaps noticed some odd behavior, but I was not about to risk blowing my cover by asking them. After some rumination I decided that I would first speak to Mach-Na and then, if necessary, speak with the beggars. Mach-Na ran the local bookstore, and perhaps didn’t get out much, but as a fellow marshwalker I felt certain that she would at least keep our conversation in confidence. If she knew anything, she would tell me. Probably she didn’t. But at least she wouldn’t tell anyone about my inquisition.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:35 PM

[Olen]

Yay, more Al! As ever it was a joy to read, you style is very easy to read and works so well with the character.

Still no answers though, I'm fascinated to see what he does next. I think that's a large part of what makes it so enjoyable, Al is always unpredictable and fresh.

[canis216]

25.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

First things first: I walked over to the east side of town, into the “abandoned” house, and down to the basement lair of the Dark Brotherhood.

I ran into Vicente Valtieri almost immediately.

“Ah, so Motierre has escaped? Well done! As payment, I am pleased to award you this amulet, Cruelty's Heart, as well as another advancement in rank.” The vampire handed me a heavily enchanted amulet, which I pocketed. Like everything else I received from the Dark Brotherhood, I intended to dispose of it. Valtieri continued on, saying, “I hereby bestow upon you the title of Eliminator. Your blood is cold, your heart hard. You exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for.”

Exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for?! I felt an impulse to vomit, though I did my damnedest to remain impassive on the exterior. My eyes nearly glazed over as Valtieri droned on, awarding me a key to the well that served as the quick-and-easy entry into the underground sanctuary. The vampire spent a full minute standing before me, smiling beatifically, waiting for my (no doubt grateful) response to the honor. Finally I asked about my next contract. That made him even happier, it seemed.

“Well now, you are an ambitious one, aren't you? I'm afraid I have no more contracts for you. Our time working together has come to an end. Instead, you must report to Ocheeva, here in the Sanctuary. She will be providing all your contracts from now on, and is waiting for you as we speak. Before you go, however, I intend to make good on an offer I made some time ago. As a vampire, I may pass my gift on to others as I see fit. You have served me well, and I choose now to extend that gift to you. Shall I use my dark powers and turn you into a vam…”

I interrupted, holding up my hand. “The answer is no, Vicente. No and never, as in I’ll never do it and you’ll never ask me ever again.”

And I left him standing there. Strangely, his smile seemed to grow wider than ever.

* * *

After a brief rendezvous with Teinaava to hand over the “proof” that I had killed Scar-Tail, the rogue Shadowscale, I stepped inside Ocheeva’s quarters.

“I’ve come for orders,” I announced. “Vicente told me to see you.”

She looked up from a sheath of papers, still carrying a look of mild scorn on her face. She still didn’t trust me—a reasonable stance, considering how I had betrayed and nearly torn apart the Shadowscales. If I weren’t now a member of her organization she would have attacked me on sight. She glanced back down at the papers, then finally said, “Hmph. Your target is a High Elf named Faelian. He lives somewhere in the Imperial City, and fancies long walks. Unfortunately, that's all we know. We don't know which district he calls home, which establishments he frequents, or anything about his schedule. This contract will require a bit of detective work. I suggest you speak to your fellow Brothers and Sisters and see if they can offer any advice.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Ah yes, there is one more thing. The Imperial City is also home to an Imperial Legion captain named Adamus Phillida. Do you know who that is?”

I shrugged my shoulders, but otherwise remained impassive. I remembered, however that he was a big shot in the Legion—

“Heed my words. Phillida has dedicated his life to eradicating the Dark Brotherhood. He will not tolerate our operations within the Imperial City.”

—and that he was pursuing a vendetta against the Brotherhood. I pick pocketed him, once. Why was I now getting the feeling that our paths would cross again?

In any case, Ocheeva continued on. “When that happens, he tends to make our lives uncomfortable. Let's not give the good captain any reason to go poking around in our affairs, hmm? If possible, do away with Faelian someplace out of the way. Definitely indoors, with no other people around. A secure location, with no witnesses. This will make it look like a simple murder—you can do simple, right? Now get out of my sight.”

Happy to oblige. I spent another hour lurking in the sanctuary, gathering what intelligence I could (not for the contract, but for my report to Caius) before leaving the foul dark of the lair for the warmth, comfort, and familiarity of a glass of ale at Newlands Lodge. My remaining business would have to wait for the morning.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:36 PM

[minque]

Sorry I'm not so good at commenting nowadays...but that doesn't mean I'm not reading, because I am! And I'm pretty fond of Al....yup I am.

As always, a very impressive work Canis!!!!

[canis216]

26.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

I slept in, for once. There was something comforting about the Newlands Lodge, beyond of course the fact that it is not the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary—which I refuse to sleep in, mainly to minimize the chances of getting my throat cut. I am not trusting.

But I digress. What I meant to say and was trying to say is that the lodge has the endearing quality of being, in spite of its typical Cyrodiilic construction, a Dunmer-run and Dunmer-patronized establishment complete with loud, profane music and the odd brawl. It felt like…home. Home? How strangely nostalgic! I have spent much of life hating Morrowind and the dark elves but now rather miss the blighters and their horrid home province.

After a late breakfast of bacon and kwama eggs I ambled over to Mach-Na’s bookstore, where I bought a copy of “Advances in Lock Picking” and listened to the proprietor complain about steep fines for minor offenses like littering and public intoxication for half an hour before I managed to ask her about strange goings on in town. Had she seen anyone wandering the street at odd hours? Was there anyone new in town? Had any copies of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes passed through her store? I got no answers. Well, that’s not true. What I got were a series of speculative non-answers—gossip—that made it clear that Mach-Na seldom left the confines of her bookstore.

Disappointed, I moved on to the beggars. Or a beggar, the one who called himself “Bruccius the Orphan”. Following common courtesy, before getting down to business we talked about the news, the city, the comings and goings of the Orum gang (a cult of a sort, I suppose, but one dedicated to money and the drug trade instead of Mehrunes Dagon), and life in general. Finally, I asked him (with aid of thirty drakes) where he thought I might find some Mythic Dawn cultists.

“I don’t know nothing for certs, but if I were looking for strange folks I’d start with the mage what lives in Willow Bank, the nice house near the guildhalls. Then I’d check out the parties that one rich fellow is always throwing at River View, the real big house by the creek.”

* * *

It was past midnight. The witching hour, I once heard it called. He was an old gray-bearded nord, Sigurd by name, and we sat across from each other at his tavern in Winter Hold trading stories and lies, the two being much the same. The witching hour was when the mists came over the lakes and rivers of that northern country—the few that weren’t frozen. Good cover for anyone that didn’t want to be seen, he said.

A good man, that one. I killed him, of course. He was bankrolling a gang of reavers, ship-borne bandits who’d been terrorizing the coast of some godsforsaken imperial colony out in the Sea of Ghosts. That must have been three years ago.

I shook my head—back to the present, Al. Starting to lose focus in my old age. In any case, it was past midnight and I was taking advantage of a misting off the water to skulk around the perimeter of the house called Willow Bank. A quick listen at the front door indicated that whoever was inside snored loudly—but nothing else. So far, so good. That just left with the problem of the locked door. Wait, did I say problem? My mistake; I had the door open in 20 seconds flat. I quickly rifled through the drawers, cupboards, chests, and dressers. I even pickpocketed the sleeping owner of the house. Found nothing; save a worn copy of Incident in Necrom and the sort of clutter one would expect in a hobby mage’s home.

River View, then, seemed likely to hold my Mythic Dawn cultists. Being careful, I stalked the entire perimeter of the manor. I found no alternate entrance to the front door. I listened; all was silent. No snoring, no nothing.

I found my quarry in the basement. Two dunmer women, two copies of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries. I cut their throats, made my notes, sketched the scene, and collected the evidence. The effort was probably unnecessary. After all, my meeting with the captain of the Cheydinhal guard was a mere formality—what kind of idiot would trouble an agent of the Blades?

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 4 2009, 06:37 PM

[treydog]

Al should learn never to ask rhetorical questions- especially of the "How hard could it be?" variety....

I look forward to his dealings with Cheydinhal guard- which I predict will be short, sharp, and fatal.