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Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 07:59 AM

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.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:00 AM

The Contract


An Argonian, dressed in black, walks into the South Wall Cornerclub and eases his way down to the bar. He sits next to an Imperial dressed in a hooded robe.

"Buy you a drink?" asks the Imperial.
"Yes, if worth the price."

The barkeep places a jug of cyrodiilic brandy in front of the Argonian, while the Imperial stands and walks away. After finishing his drink the Argonian follows him outside the cornerclub. Under the shadow of night, the Imperial takes a furtive pull from his skooma pipe.

”Gothren is sending a ‘messenger’ to see Divayth Fyr. Normally we’d just dismiss this sort of thing as Telvanni in-fighting, but the Emperor is concerned.”

The Imperial passes an envelope into the Argonian’s scaly hands.

“The assassin met Gothren earlier this evening. It won’t take him long reach Tel Fyr; you must hurry.”

The Argonian steps off into the night.

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The sun is setting on Azura’s Coast, on the gentle waters of the Inner Sea. A small ship, not much more than a fishing boat, pulls alongside the sandy shore. Three Dunmer are aboard; two wear the rough rags of fishermen, and the taller of these two wears a tri-cornered hat. He likes to think of himself as a pirate, some sort of rogue. And the ladies love his hat. He turns to the third Dunmer, whose form is concealed beneath the plain brown robe of a monk.

“I’m sorry, sera, but I can take you no farther. The waters south of here are full of giant dreugh, and I’ll not risk my catch or my boat to them.”

The third Dunmer lowers his hood, revealing his wizened, scarred visage. “Very well. I thank you.” He passes the captain a modest pouch of gold. He steps off from the vessel, not to shore, but on the water, where he stands. A water-walking spell.

“I shall walk from here.”

He turns and walks south, over the infuriated slaughterfish and perplexed dreugh. It is good to be here on the coast, he’s thinking. I’ve had too many town jobs of late, relieving the petty jealousies of minor nobles, ignoble work for insufficient coin. But now Gothren was paying well; he must feel oddly threatened. Since Fyr had returned from Artaeum, the Archmagister knew he was no longer the most powerful mage in the Telvanni district.

He did not care for Gothren, or any of his clients for that matter, but he appreciated a job well-done. It irritated him that no boat offered passage to Tel Fyr overnight, and only that slow, pathetic skiff dared to navigate the shallow, rock-riddled waters during the day. He wanted to get the deed done immediately; clients like that, pay extra for it, even if it makes no practical difference. But he wouldn’t dare to water-walk all the way from Tel Aruhn; he wants to be fresh when he sneaks into the Tower of Tel Fyr. He knows enough about the wizard to be a little fearful. He will take Divayth Fyr in his sleep.

The sun is nearly gone. The veteran assassin scrambles onto a small prominence jutting out of the sea. Tel Fyr. The dying sun casts a soft amber glow onto the tower’s west side, while the east is cast into shadow, the friendly shadow from which he’ll approach the front door. The entire assassination is set in his mind, as if he had already done the deed. He can see it all: the spell of silence cast upon each door, the furtive climb up the tower shaft, the blade of his dagger drawn across Divayth Fyr’s throat, and the spell of recall that will spirit him away unseen, without a trace. Fyr’s wives won’t discover the body until morning.

Suspicion and blame will be cast about, threats made, more assassins hired. That’s all these political vendettas really are, he thinks; work programs for assassins.

He eases down from the pillar of stone, and slips down into the water. That’s funny, he thinks, I don’t recall dispelling that water-walking spell. He starts to recast the spell, then pauses. He doesn’t resurface.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:01 AM

One Night at Desele’s


Zabarbael, the Molag Mar slave trader, stepped out from the warm confines of the siltstrider into an uncommonly gloomy, intolerably rainy day in the prosperous port city of Suran. He pulled up the hood on his simple brown robe. Though he had grown moderately wealthy renting slaves to wealthy pilgrims, the merchant dressed simply, as befitted a humble and pious temple-goer. He had business in the local slave market, but it could wait for tomorrow. He intended to stay for a few days, as he had grown tired of the sere landscape of Molag Amur.

No, as soon as Zabarbael descended the stair he made for the light of the red lantern, Desele’s House of Earthly Delights.

It had been at least a month since Zabarbael last patronized his favorite tavern; the caravaner’s strike had been most inconvenient, and service was just now returning to normal. But the crowd in Desele’s was undiminished. The Breton in the corner, collapsed with his skooma pipe in hand; the drunken Nord ogling Runa from the front table. Zabarbael felt immediately at home, and why not? The merchant may have made his money in Molag Mar, but he preferred to spend it at Desele’s.

The rains had driven in some unfamiliar faces as well, travelers holing up until a break in the weather. Three young Dunmer sat at a corner table, nearest Marelle, the fine young Breton dancer. Between pulls of greef they would speak into each other’s ears and laugh, as one. Zabarbael concluded that this was their first time in Suran. A pair of Imperials sat at the bar, locked in animated conversation. Their attire was elegant yet conservative. Agents of House Hlaalu perhaps; dealmakers, not nobles.

Finally Zabarbael spotted the right table. Occupied by two fellow merchants, acquaintances from Vivec City, and situated neither too close nor too far from the dancers.

“Zabarbael, friend, take a chair! How’s business? I don’t suppose the strike hurt you too badly?” inquired a middle-aged, somewhat corpulent Dunmer.

“I cannot lodge any great complaint, Tiras. I managed to reduce my stocks before the worst of the strike hit,” the slave trader replied, taking a seat between his friends. “Now that the strike is ended business has rebounded quickly. I’m in need of more slaves.”

“How about those two across the room?” the third Dunmer chimed in. He was younger and dressed more extravagantly than his elders, and a good deal more inebriated.

“Keep your voice down, Foryn! Those lizard-men are free!” Tiras, a tactful fellow, quietly rebuked his friend.

Zabarbael could not help but look across the room, at the Argonians. They stood at the end of bar, exchanging a few quiet words but looking off into space. One he recognized; Hides-His-Eyes, a tracker of some local repute who sometimes met clients at Desele’s. He could not distinguish the other Argonian’s face; he wore a black hood.

The slurred smoky Dunmer voice carried on, “I’m celebrating, Tiras! Come now, I just bought out the most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles!” He called across the room, “Ho, lizard-men! My friend needs some cheap labor! Come ‘ere!”

Before either Zabarbael or Tiras could apologize for their friend the hooded Argonian had closed half the distance across the room, knocking over three very confused patrons in the process. A glowing dagger seemed to throb in his grasp.

“No!” Hides-His-Eyes hurried to the hooded Argonian’s side. “Remember your honor. We’ll go back to the tradehouse.”

This did not seem to satisfy the hooded Argonian, for hatred still burned in his eyes, but he sheathed the dagger and started for the door, followed by the tracker.

No sooner had the door shut than Foryn ordered another round of drinks, for himself and his friends. He declared ‘Happy Hour’, and ordered lap dances for every patron in the tavern. It was like nothing ever happened.

-----------------------------------------------

It was late, perhaps 3 AM. No one had left Desele’s. With Foryn buying drinks, there could be no foreseeable end to the party. But Zabarbael was tired; he’d learned it was quite impossible to drink the younger Dunmer under the table. If he left now he might be lucid enough to buy the needed slaves by afternoon.

He stepped out the door. The red lantern cast an oddly powerful glow, it seemed to nearly light up the night. It hurt his alcohol-racked brain. Then, squinting, Zabarbael looked up toward the mountains. The most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles was burning to the ground.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:03 AM

By the Sea


Chun-Ook pulled into her home port, the Imperial fortress of Ebonheart, with a single passenger. Usually her owner, Nevosi Hlan, wouldn’t sale with fewer than four, but this Redguard paid well, and he had been eager to see his wife again anyway. A few younger Dunmer, new to the island, had taken a shine to her, and made her nervous when he was gone for more than a few days. He had been at sea more than a week, ferrying a load of Imperial fat cats to Raven Rock—a special fare, but tiresome. It didn’t trouble him much to leave Seyda Neen a few hours ahead of schedule.

The Redguard hadn’t said much as they sailed, but he knew that she worked at Arrille’s place. It seemed odd that she would pay so much for such a short trip—she could only be saving a few hours—but Nevosi wasn’t one to pry. Besides, the Redguard looked like she had enough on her mind, pacing the boat as she had been.

As Nevosi tied up to the great stone dock the Redguard hopped off Chun-Ook, but not before slipping the shipmaster a generous tip. A big spender, indeed.

“Thank you for your haste, shipmaster.” The Redguard spoke curtly.
“My pleasure, sera.”

At that the Redguard smiled, and strode briskly into the plaza, to the great dragon. Nevosi’s eyes followed her for a moment, and then returned to the task of securing his ship.

--------------------------------------

Just south of Castle Ebonheart, on the beach, the Argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was doing credit to his name. He was naked from the waist up, lying on his black robe, watching the few wispy white clouds as they drifted by. Five bottles of cyrodiilic brandy stood beside him; another five, empty, were strewn about on the sand.

“Elone, what the hell are you doing here?”

The Redguard, who had been observing the Argonian from behind a tree, just laughed. “Dead drunk and I still can’t sneak up on you. No wonder Caius sent me here.”

“Caius? What the hell does he want with me? The s’wit kicked me out the order two months ago.”

“Yes, I remember. After that incident in Suran.”

“Are you going to lecture me, too? I did it, and I’d gladly do it again.”

“They’re rebuilding.”

At that the Argonian grinned, as only an Argonian can.

--------------------------------------

Night had come to Ebonheart. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Elone shared a table in the back corner of the Six Fishes, while the other patrons, a smattering of common folk and off-duty Imperial guards, gathered around the bard.

Elone looked, and spoke seriously. “Come now; let me tell you what Caius needs. We’re wasting time.” She cast a look over her shoulder, at the merry crowd.

“No, let me buy you another drink. I’m commemorating the two month anniversary of my dismissal, after all.”

Elone seized him by the shoulder. “Do this and all will be forgiven. Everything you threw away, we’ll return. Your pay, rank, papers—everything.”

“What could be so important? I’m damaged goods, a security risk. If the slavers had seen my face…”

“Don’t worry about that, Al. Let me tell you a story.”

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Chun-Ook plied the Inner Sea once more, this time bearing for the mainland. Nevosi Hlan loved the sea, but for once wasn’t happy to be underway. Yes, it was a perfect day for sailing; the sky was painfully clear, and scarcely a wave broke Chun-Ook’s bow. But today Nevosi was carrying those same young Dunmer who had taken a liking to his wife. He had found even more reason to dislike them; not only were they loud and obnoxious fools, they were mercenaries in the employ of Orvas Dren. Apparently, they had some sort of important cargo to pick up, and they needed to bring it into Vvardenfell personally.

The sun was nearly set as Nevosi guided his ship into a small, secluded harbor. One of the younger Dunmer called gruffly from the bow, “You see that manor house to portside? Pull up to the dock.” Muttering, Nevosi followed the order. He could see the stinking light. But they were paying well, these buffoons, 2000 septims up front and another 2000 upon arrival back at Ebonheart. “Yes, yes, very good, shipmaster. Nethyn, jump down there and tie the ship up. Alright, shipmaster. You’ve done well for us. The five of us will go inside and gather the crates, there’ll be 10 in all, enough for a host of mercenaries.” At this, he looked at his fellows and grinned. “Let’s earn our wages, boys.”

As the mercenaries entered the manor Navosi took a moment to recline against Chun-Ook’s cabin door. He was thinking of the 2000 septims already in his pouch, and 2000 more to come. He thinks; I might take a vacation, a nice stay-at-home vacation. Make my wife happy. We’ll carouse at the Six Fishes, or perhaps join that drunkard on the beach. I’ve been working too hard, spending too much time at sea. Maybe I can get a job in the East Empire Company—I could handle logistics, coordinate shipping. And I shouldn’t have to leave Ebonheart, I don’t think…

Suddenly he is aware of a tremendous silence. Moving those crates should be noisy work, and hey, shouldn’t they have a couple of them out here by now? How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? And what happened to that light?

Nevosi started to call out, but decided against it. No, that wouldn’t do. Instead, the shipmaster pulled out his cutlass, walked quietly across the deck, and cut the line securing Chun-Ook to the dock. A warm breeze kicked up out of the southwest, and Chun-Ook drifted away from the darkened manor house and mainland Morrowind.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:04 AM

The Unwinding


It was near midnight at the South Wall Cornerclub, in the Hlaalu center of Balmora. For once the tavern was quiet—the arena in Vivec was hosting a fortnight of combat, and tonight the Hlaalu champions were headlining. While Phane Rielle served a pair of customers at the bar an Argonian and an Imperial coversed quietly at a corner table. The Imperial, a stout man of about 45 years, wore the plain garb of the commoner; the Argonian a black robe. The Imperial took an occasional pull from a fine skooma pipe, while the Argonian nursed a bottle of flin.

“The work is done, I take it?” The Imperial glanced up at his companion.

The Argonian kept his gaze upon the open bottle. “I killed the watchman and waited in the manor. The merchandise was there; weapons and armor for a host of mercenaries. The delivery boys never saw me in the corner, of course. I slit their throats as they lifted the crates.”

“Any witnesses?”

“The ship was gone after I cleaned it up. I think he may have figured out what happened; a working-mer is not nearly so foolish as a bunch of thugs in tin suits. But he didn’t see anything, I’m sure of that.”

“Dren is very rash. He thinks the Emperor is a doddering old fool. Perhaps this will be a lesson.”

“You don’t want me to take action?”

The Imperial chortled, “Knowing you, I imagine that Dren Plantation would burn to the ground. No, Dren is too well-connected. Relations with Hlaalu would be irrevocably strained. No, we’ll keep him contained, for now. I think he’ll have a difficult time attracting addition mercenaries, at least in the short term. But enough of that. Let’s talk about you’re future.”

The Argonian finally pried his eyes away from the drink. “What’s the next job?”

“Patience, friend. I need to process some paperwork, and return you to the good graces of the order. And we need to see how Dren responds. Take a few days off. Your orders will wait.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The Vivec arena was a veritable cauldron of sound. The crowd lived with each swing and strike of sword and axe, and each mighty spell cast commanded the audience’s admiration and wonder. The present duel was of particular interest—it was unusual for Telvanni to participate in the games, and these two young wizards were rising stars in the House. Unfortunately (for one of them, at least), they both desired to serve as Master Aryon’s mouth.

Rethyas Reloth, a Dunmer of perhaps 100 years age, was the favorite. He had insisted upon a duel to decide the matter, and had convinced Aryon that it such a duel would reflect favorably upon the House. Reloth had gained some notoriety as a conjurer of minor daedra. It was said that he had once summoned a cadre of fifteen Dremora to defend the town of Vos from pirates.

Galos Mathendis was not so well known, but all agreed that he was quite shrewd; it was rumored that he once tricked an underling of Master Neloth into surrendering the key to Tel Naga. The next morning, it was said, Neloth awoke to find his tower stripped of its valuables, his guards expertly drugged. The Master’s famed irritability was not soothed.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, Argonian, was in the bleachers, comfortably drunk.

Reloth opened the contest by summoning the servent of Sheogorath, a Golden Saint. The daedroth sprinted forward, carrying a glass shield and a dark, wicked katana. Mathendis countered by downing a potion, evidently to fortify his speed, as he began to sprint rapidly around the arena perimeter, followed by the Golden Saint. Reloth grinned, and recited the incantation to summon a Dremora, his favored servant—but did not finish, as Methendis launched a massive shockball on the run. It was difficult to see much of what happened next—the shockball had nearly filled the battle pit, and the light had momentarily blinded much of the crowd. Such was the risk of attending a battle between mages. But Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had been concentrating more on the bottle than the battle.

Reloth was gravely wounded; he pulled a vial from within his robe and downed it hurriedly. Then he froze, a look of terror carved onto his face.

Galos Mathendis turned and cast a spell upon the still-pursuing daedroth. The Golden Saint stopped. Then Reloth’s daedric servant walked calmly over to its paralyzed master and hacked him to pieces.

Much of the crowd was utterly confused, having been unable to see the denouement. When they recovered their vision, they saw Reloth dead, Mathendis alive. Those patrons who had seen the unfolding events, who had perhaps even wagered upon the dead mer, booed lustily.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled, and lifted another bottle of flin to his scaly lips.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:05 AM

Clinging to Life


A lilting western breeze pushes my little rowboat a short ways back toward the shore, slightly altering but in no way marring my view of the immaculate buff-colored clouds hovering over Ebonheart. My father used to say that the sea had no memory. I think that’s why, after escaping Vvardenfell, he set sail for Stros M’kai. He wanted to forget the eastern provinces.

I come to the sea to be alone in my dreams. There is something about these peaceful lapping waves of the southern coast… I remember better things.

The few storms are exciting. Not two years ago a squall carried a host of dreugh over the walls of Castle Ebonheart, and I myself saw a slaughterfish impaled atop a flagpole. It was as if the sea were expunging so many decades of bad memories, and the morning’s sunrise was all the brighter for it.

The breeze picks up, a little stronger. I sit up, and look to the west. A few gray clouds are gathering; nothing worrisome, but it will likely rain tonight. But what is that whistling?

I dive into the hull of my little boat, flipping it over but avoiding the arrow. I’m underwater—no reason to panic, even the dullest of my kin can breathe the sea without harm. But my robe is soaked, and weighing me down. Tear it off!—but don’t forget the dagger. It throbs as I seethe—no one interrupts my vacations.

I can’t see, but the scum must be on shore, waiting—no direct assault. The bridge! I swim for it, quickly; he’ll see my shadow but that’s alright. Excellent, in fact.

-------------------------------------

Run, run, run. The lizard mustn’t escape. Leap over the stone wall—there’s a guard watching but he won’t interfere—and up onto the bridge. He won’t be able to hide forever, the n’wah! Breathe, breathe; draw it back, yes, yes, the water shallows up, the arrow will penetrate.

-------------------------------------

“Where is that lizard?” The bowman whispers to himself, almost involuntarily. It’s been near two minutes, and he hasn’t seen or heard his mark. He leans over the wall, trying to look under the bridge. His eyes open wide.

“Been right here, friend.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun slashes his assailant across the throat. His left hand clings to the underside of the bridge.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:08 AM

Friends and Brethren


It was quiet yet in the Black Shalk Cornerclub. The arena games would not start for several hours. Most of the club’s expatriate clientele were still nursing hangovers, and would not emerge to drink again until the evening battles. Still, a hardy few were scattered around the tavern: a half-sensible Nord in the corner; the young bard reworking his repertoire of poems, tales, and songs; three Dunmer playing cards near the door, and an Argonian at the bar. He nursed an open bottle of cyrodiilic brandy, exchanging the odd word here and there with the publican, a well-dressed middle-aged Dunmer. The Argonian started a bit when he felt a hand on his armored shoulder.

“Huleeya, let me buy you another drink.”

“Ahh, friend Lingers-in-the-Sun. You startled me. What brings you into Vivec at this hour? And where is your black robe?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was instead wearing the dirty brown cotton robe of a commoner, with the hood drawn over his head.

“One of your brethren forced me to abandon it.”

Huleeya raised an eyebrow. “We should discuss this somewhere… more private. Let us go to Jobasha’s.”

“Very well. But first I want my drink. Riral, could you spare a bottle of brandy for each of us?” Riral Giral, publican, nodded and brought up two bottles from beneath the counter. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of gold. “Now, shall we?”

The door, unfortunately, was blocked. “Hey, two filthy lizards! Where do you think you’re going?” The three young card-playing Dunmer were all standing, and not nearly so drunk as would be desirable.

Huleeya turned to the racists, “Gentlemer, please—”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled two blades from his robe and quite suddenly had one of the Dunmer against the wall; the flat of an ebony blade pressed to the elf’s midsection, a gleaming daedric dagger at his throat.

“I go wherever I please, softskin! Neither you nor the whole Dark Elven race can stop me!”

With that the Argonian brought the hilt of his shortsword down upon the Dunmer’s skull.

“Your friend will need a drink when he wakes up. And perhaps a healer. I suggest you attend to him.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode between the two stunned Dark Elves and out the door.

“Come Huleeya. We can speak now.”

---------------------------------------------

The two Argonians sat at a small table at the bottom of Jobasha’s Rare Books, drinking quietly. The proprietor was up front, haggling with a customer, a Breton carrying an armload of cheap-looking texts. The guard, a ‘gift’ from the Duke, stood in the corner, watching none-too diligently, waiting for his shift to end.

“You know, Lingers-in-the-Sun, it is those rash acts which are responsible for our problem. If you had not burned down the slave market…”

“Was it not the right thing to do? I am not ashamed of what I did. And if Caius would let me kill the softskin… there would be no problem.”

“The slaver has a wealthy family. It would become their problem. You know how this works—a murder leads to an assassination, which leads to another assassination…”

“Yes, I know. Perpetual employment for assassins… except those who get killed, anyway….. So what can be done?”

“Your spymaster could transfer you out of Morrowind. My order has a long reach… but it does not often leave the province.”

“No. My honor forbids me to leave. You know this.”

“Yes… this is troublesome. Let me speak with my Grandmaster. We may be able to make… an arrangement.”

---------------------------------------------

A couple of Redoran were dueling in the arena, arrayed in bonemold armor, armed with silver claymores. Booze and money flowed freely throughout the stands, but for once Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun wasn’t drinking. But he wasn’t really watching the fight either; he was just… there. After a few moments parrying one of the Redoran’s caught his counterpart cleanly across the chest—he went down, sword falling to his side. Healers rushed to the arena center as victory was declared. The crowd cheered the victor, and two new combatants took the floor. It was all so sudden, simple, and clean.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:09 AM

I Am Deceit


A flash of fine polished silver pulses through the air like a shooting star, ephemeral yet lodging itself into your cerebrum, becoming part of your dreams. It strikes yet another improbable mass of metal; it is sliding down to the hilt then pulled away, over the left shoulder. The atmosphere flees before the blow, so many subatomic particles fleeing into the dust and gloom. Somewhere the balance must be recalibrated, somewhere something, someone, is slipping. The flash of silver flows to gold in the torchlight, carrying an infinitesimal fraction of the sun into another man’s eyes. Did a man blink, or did the Alduin the world-eater flinch? Perhaps nothing happened at all, just a parry missed; the flash of silver-gold rakes across molded bone and rests.

Thus another arena contest ends.

-----------------------------------------

For a moment, I’m contemplating the Redoran. Yes, they know the value of honor and codes of conduct; to a Hlaalu they may seem irrational, but then the Hlaalu thrive on nuance, politicking, deceit, and suspicion. I envy the simpler ways of the Redoran, the way of the blade against blade, looking into your adversary’s eyes. I have more in common with the Hlaalu, resist as I might, lurking in the shadows. I am deceit.

I need a drink. There is no point to sobriety, in Vivec, at the arena. I can’t escape my dreams, but I can drown them out of my memory. Past the top step an aging Dunmer is offering booze to the unwashed and noble alike. I lay down a few drakes for a hefty bottle of greef; it seems appropriate today, and I deserve to suffer in the morning. The liquor is scandalously bitter; and for a moment I can’t breathe. Someday the sensation will last for an eternity—perhaps that’s why I keep taking another pull.

A Nord with a booming voice—an aspiring graybeard?—calls out the next match. It will be a few moments; neither of the Hlaalu combatants wants to be the first on the floor—they’re trying to find that final advantage.

That’s fine. I content myself to stroll around the perimeter of the stands. Spectators are making their bets, or tossing a few back. In one corner of the arena a group of young Dunmer lounge about, arms embracing the hips of their scantily clad escorts. Ah, there he is. The slaver. I can end this problem.

One of the nearby booths is unoccupied—the vendor sold moon sugar to one of Vivec’s buoyant armigers—I slip inside. The fight is beginning, the crowd’s fervor is building, the liquor flows, the Nord shouts. I take one last pull of greef, bracing for the burn, then extract my crossbow from inside my robe. One viper-bolt already sits in position. I set a couple more on the cool stone floor beside me—just in case. I’m a little drunk now. I rub a little dust on the Dwemer metal cradled in my arms, to absorb and diffract the torchlight. Then ease the sight over the countertop. He’s still there, the softskin, surrounded by women, lackeys, liquor, and a single Khajjit slave. Let’s adjust a little bit for the distance—I want to place the bolt right in his throat, so the s’wit never speaks another word, then perhaps a shot to the heart to finish him off. But one will be enough, I think—he’s never done a day of honest labor in his life, and his hardest living is crawling out of the tavern in the morning. Oh, will the poison make him suffer, yes, yes, yes! Ah here it is, easiest shot I’ll ever take, another Dunmer dead. Yes!, place that finger on the trigger, pull it back pull it back… ease off. Honor, for once. Honor forever.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:11 AM

Breakfast in Balmora


Balyn, get up. Open your eyes. Get up!

Balyn looked up from bed. It was morning; he could see the diffuse dawn’s light through the window. Then he remembered. The man in the bar. A bag of gold changing hands. An appointment he must not miss. No, it couldn’t have happened, he thought, I must have been dreaming. Yet the sack of gold sat on his bed table, right by his head. The deal had been struck, and there was no going back.

Balyn eased his way out of bed and picked up his cheap green shirt and dusty pants from their place atop the storage chest. Soon, ALMSIVI willing, he might be able to afford something a little better. He pulled on his battered shoes, after briefly examining the ever-widening hole in the right heel. His profession took a remarkable toll on shoes, in spite of his efforts to walk softly. Finally, Balyn opened the chest and pulled out his prized flameblade. It was one of the few things he had left that truly worked.

As Balyn ate breakfast—a single serving of scrib jelly—the landlord slipped the monthly rental bill beneath the front door. Was it that time already?, he wondered. Damn. He took the paper from the floor and looked over the scrawlings—the rich lout must be losing at dice still; he’s jacked up rent the last 4 months. For a moment Balyn was tempted to rip apart the document cradled in his hands, but he reconsidered. He would have the money soon enough.

Ready now, Balyn climbed the ladder and out his trapdoor, atop his roof. It was why he wanted the place to begin with; the pursued assassin needs all the secrets he can muster. Today he didn’t wish for anyone to see him leave the house. By Vivec it was a lovely morning—soft sunlight cresting over the eastern hills of West Gash, not a cloud to be seen, and the Odai as placid and clear as ever. And standing above the city, Balyn could see his mark stumbling out of the Lucky Lockup, bottle in hand. The time has come. Balyn downed his last potion of invisibility, leaped down from the roof, and dashed to the Odai bridge.

The mark, a burly but well-dressed Imperial with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, paused in front of the Council Club to take another pull of brandy. Quite suddenly an ill-dressed Dunmer, Balyn Omavel, appeared in front of him.

“Pardon me, sera. Do you have a moment?”

The Imperial looked at first confused, then vaguely angry. “Out of my way, elf. I haven’t any time to talk.”

“On the contrary. You have an eternity.”

At that Balyn seized the man and threw him into the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll show some courtesy, n’wah!” Balyn slashed open the Imperial’s throat, spilling rich red blood over the walk. Passengers disembarking the strider would be appalled, no doubt. But the outlander was dead.

Balyn’s glance circled about. No one had seen—Balmora was still just waking up. The assassin mumbled a few words and found himself back in his home, like nothing happened. Save the blood on his hands.

He found his washbowl and began cleaning off the victim’s blood.

May Mephala forgive me.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:12 AM

Only in Dreams


Fine late afternoon light plays off Lake Amaya, casting low shadows under each ripple. Eno sat upon the beach, fishing pole in his hand. A pair of small slaughterfish sat in the creel by his side. A pair of mudcrabs shambled about on the other end of the beach; he might look them up later. Crab meat would make a fine complement to his fish dinner. Eno smiled; that bottle of brandy would be a fine complement, too. At that a moment a modest breeze came gently across the waters, stirring yet another slaughterfish to the surface. This was big one; it approached the baited hook, and Eno’s eyes lit in anticipation. Now! He pulled in a fine ten pound snaggle-toothed slaughterfish. Dinner would be excellent.

The breeze eased, and the warm fading sun played on Eno’s back. He could scarcely ask for a finer day.

-------------------------------

“Wake up, Grandmaster. We need to talk.” The voice was quiet, yet harsh. Eno opened his eyes. A hooded figure glared at him through the dark, and held a black ebony blade to his throat. “Yes, a nice quiet talk. No shouting. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand… Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. We were to meet in the morning. At the cornerclub.”

“Yes, Grandmaster, I did not forget. But you must understand, I was not inclined to allow you to…make arrangements... before our meeting.”

“You think we have no honor?”

“Honor… yes, I see your point. I am sorry. But I am inclined to paranoia, of late.”

“So you came to our headquarters instead. I fail to understand your thinking, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.” Eno lay still for a moment. “No matter. Take a seat, assassin, and we will discuss our business.”

--------------------------------

Two assassins sat quietly at a table, faces faintly illuminated by a solitary candle. An Argonian in a dark brown robe sat with his back to the wall; a wizened Dunmer in a fine red robe sat opposite. The Dunmer spoke, quietly, “I know that the situation is inconvenient to you, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. But the Morag Tong is not merely a business. Once we have accepted the contract, we must satisfy it. Mephala demands no less.” The Argonian’s raised his eyes from the table and looked into Eno Hlaalu’s face, “So, your honor demands that the Morag Tong continue to pursue me? On behalf of a foul, drunken, mother of mine-besotted slaver? What honor is this?”

“It is our way, Lingers-in-the-Sun. Our tradition. I fail to see why we should violate for you.”

The Argonian’s hiss rose to a growl, “I will tell you my way, Grandmaster. I will kill you, here and now. I will kill all your brethren in your sacred headquarters, and display their corpses right next to yours. Then I’ll let the rats inside. That’ll be fun. Then, I’ll go to your outpost in Balmora. I’ll kill every last one. Then I’ll go to Ald-ruhn. You can guess what I’ll be doing there. While I’m at it, I’ll stop in Sadrith Mora. I hate the Telvanni, but I’ll be killing Morag Tong.”

Silence.

“Would you like to talk some more, Grandmaster?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:13 AM

Freelancers


It was a merry evening in the Eight Plates. A tall, handsome young Dunmer—one of the newest members of the Balmora guard contingent—was performing a traditional dance atop his shield, surrounded by a clapping and giggling group of revelers, keeping time, drinking brandy. The troubadours played in the corner, an improvised band featuring the trader Ra’virr on the guarskins, Fast Eddie Theman on the lute, and the tailor Milie Hastien singing a fine old tune. Their music filled the dim space of Balmora’s finest tavern.

Balyn dearly wished he could join the revelry—Milie’s voice wasn’t the only fine thing she had going on—but he sat at the bar, and waited. This was business.

His client was late. Balyn consoled himself by nursing a bottle of mazte, taking a sip whenever he felt he needed to flee. After Balyn had nearly convinced himself to stand up and go, or join the party, a middle-aged mer smartly attired in a custom tailored shirt came down the stairs and made his way to the bar.

“I’m glad you waited for me, Balyn. I had some business to attend to. I’m sure you know how that goes.” Feigning agreement, Balyn nodded. “As you no doubt have guessed, I require your services once more. I’m concerned that one of my neighbors is watching me a little… closely. In my line of work I find such a trait worrisome, if not downright inconvenient. You know this man as an old skooma addict, but everytime I see the man I feel his eyes following me… I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but I can take no risks. My peace of mind is worth 2000 gold. What do you say?”

Balyn mulled it over. 2000! It was more than he had ever earned working for the Morag Tong. But, he thought, I must not seem too excited; no, I can negotiate, get a little more. But 2000!

“2500, Helas.”

“Impossible. 2100. No more.”

“Surely your peace of mind must be worth at least 2250 drakes.”

Vorar Helas smiled, and nodded. “Yes, it’s worth that much.”

The Dunmer shook hands. Vorar Helas ordered a bottle of brandy. Balyn Omavel joined the party.

-------------------------------------------------------

The sun was sending the first shafts of morning light over eastern hills when Balyn stumbled out of the Eight Plates. What a glorious night! He had taken his own awkward turn upon the shield, impressing no one, but his grace in poking fun at his own dancing had won him a peck on the cheek from Milie Hastien. It seemed that Balyn was finally finding his niche in Balmora—fewer Tong jobs meant more free time, and the opportunity for a social life.

But now it was time to head home, and off to bed. He would need to be well rested if he were to properly earn his gold. Balyn was not the most conscientious of the Morag Tong, perhaps, but he still believed in a job well-done, even when freelancing. Freelancing! The idea still sent a pulse of ice down Balyn’s spine, but a few more nights like this would ease the trauma. He smiled as he thought of his brother—Taren did not support his younger brother financially, nor would Balyn ask him to, but it gave Balyn some comfort knowing that he was safe from open retribution.

Balyn crossed the Odai and turned the corner around Hecerinde’s place, then started to jog. A figure in a dark brown robe was hunched over the trapdoor, on the roof. He shouted at the interloper, “Hey you! What are you doing? Get out of there!” The figure stood up, and then Balyn stopped, turned, and began to run. The trespasser cradled a crossbow in his arms. Balyn had almost reached the corner when he felt the white-hot poison bolt lodge itself in his back; he screamed. Staggering forward again, almost to the corner, almost to safety—he digged into his pockets for the healing potion he always carried—almost….. Another bolt struck him, in the neck. Balyn collapsed.

------------------------------------------------------

Eno Hlaalu and Huleeya were sharing a corner table at the Black Shalk Cornerclub when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode briskly through the door.

“Back so soon, assassin?” Hlaalu looked him over.

“The freelancer is dead, Grandmaster.”

“That bittergreen works quickly indeed,” murmured the Dunmer.

“No bittergreen, Hlaalu. Not my style. Viper-bolts.”

Eno Hlaalu stood up; he nearly shouted, “What! Not your style! His brother will know! This is unacceptable!” Then he looked into a drawn crossbow.

“Unacceptable for you, perhaps, but I think I’ve done more than enough to satisfy our agreement, unless you want me to kill his brother, too. Or would you rather I kill you instead?” The Argonian did not lower the crossbow.

“Fine, assassin, have it your way. The writ on your head will…fade away. But tread carefully, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. Next time could be different.”

Posted by: canis216 Nov 26 2006, 08:14 AM

Regrets


Caius Cosades and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat quietly at the corner table of the South Wall Cornerclub soaking in the scene. A Bosmer and a Khajiit sat at the bar loudly debating which of their respective races made better thieves; the remaining patrons, also thieves, sat at tables adjacent to bar, inserting their own bawdy commentary into the discussion between drinks. Phane Rielle kept the liquor flowing liberally, as always, and put in a few good words for Bretons.

“But you must admit, Aengoth, that it is much easier to steal when cloaked in a spell of illusion”, he interjected.

Aengoth burst out laughing, “Come now, Phane. Even Breton magicks run out sometime. But I never have to worry about running out of stealth.”

“But what about picks and probes, friend? You wouldn’t be much of a thief without that hardware.”

“Not even little kitties forget their tools, good friend Phane Rielle! Habasi tells you that only the dumbest thief could do such a thing, an embarrassment to Habasi’s profession.”

------------------------------------------------

And so it went, on and on. It seemed to Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun that all these thieves did was drink, smoke, and talk.

He tossed back another brandy; Caius lit his skooma pipe.

------------------------------------------------

“Am I in the clear now, Caius? I am tired of waiting.”

Caius passed a small brown satchel across the table. “You’ll find some money and paperwork in there. Your license to kill has been restored. Also, your next mission is this envelope.” Caius passed an unmarked gray envelope to the Argonian. There’s no need to hurry on this one. I expect your mark won’t be in the open for a few days, anyway.”

“Then I think I can take care of something else. Take a look at this note—I found on the body of one of the locals.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun passed a crumpled piece of paper to the Imperial. “An unfortunate side job I had to take. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, of course…” he murmured—then Caius Cosades’ eyes opened wide. “Vorar Helas hired someone to kill me? I knew he was dirty, still….. Very well. You can eliminate him. Assassination may be legal in Morrowind, but this is a crime against the Empire.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded. “I expected as much. He’ll be dead by morning.”

-------------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun exited the South Wall at about 2:30 AM, under the eternally vigilant masses of Masser and Secunda. The night was clear, cool—only a few burning lanterns gave warmth to the streets. The assassin checked his blades—ready. He threw the hood of his robe on—he was wearing black once more—and made his way up the stairs, to highest Labor Town. No movement graced the street, and the only sound came drifting up from the South Wall—the argument had not yet ended, indeed, when could it ever end?

Vorar Helas lived in a modest two story house at the end of street, next to the spymaster. The hooded Argonian crept up the back stairs to the rear door—locked of course, but no problem, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled a pick out from his robe, smiling as he thought of debating thieves and little kitties breaking into homes in Elsweyr or the Imperial City—anywhere and everywhere really. Reverie took the assassin nearly to Iliac Bay, until he heard a muffled scream inside the very home he was breaking into.

He jerked the pick, and the lock was undone.

Inside—he stood in the bedroom, blades at the ready. Helas was not in bed. But someone was downstairs, shuffling about, muttering.

Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was barely breathing, staying quiet, concentrating at the task at hand. He eased his way down the stairs—he smelled blood.

A trim Dunmer male, dressed casually, stood over a gutted, bleeding Khajiit slave. A bloody dagger lay on the stone floor.

“Helas!” The assassin leapt down the stairs at the wide-eyed Dunmer, raising his ebony shortsword. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought the hilt down upon Vorar Helas’ skull.

“You barbaric scum! I was just going to kill you! Now you suffer!”

Helas, just conscious still, struggled to rise. “Wha… what are you going to d-d-do, lizard.”

At that the Argonian struck Helas’ face with the flat of the blade. “The better question, scum, is what won’t I do. My skill in destruction magic is modest, Dunmer, but I think you’ll come to regret it nonetheless. But I think I’ll start with a few ‘noise’ spells—just as a warm-up. I assure you this will hurt quite a bit. You’ll beg me to slit your throat before I’m done.”

------------------------------------------------

The sun was high over Balmora when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat down on Caius Cosade’s bed and stared down the stony floor. “It’s done Caius. I think I may have exceeded my orders…”

Cosades stood across the room, leaning against the wall. “I thought I heard a few screams, Al. I won’t ask what happened. I don’t really want to know—I've seen too much on Vvardenfell already. My superiors seem to think so, too. I’ve been recalled. It’s just as well—Helas may have told his Camonna Tong superiors about my interest.

“Recalled? Where will I get my orders?”

“The Nerevarine will be ranking agent on the island, but you’ll get your orders through Elone, for a while. The Emperor still has need of your services here.”

“Wait, wait… the Nerevarine? The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar, the Temple saint? You’re joking, right?”

Caius Cosades said nothing.

“Damn…”

Then the Imperial smiled.

“Caius? Damn, I thought you were serious for a minute there. The Nerevarine! Good one, old friend! Heh, I hope you keep your sense of humor back in the City. I’m heading back to Ebonheart—I need the rest.” With that the Argonian saluted his spymaster and stepped out the door.

Caius Cosades stood and smiled.

Posted by: canis216 Nov 30 2006, 07:15 AM

An Accident

Early in the afternoon a tall argonian in a fine red and gold robe strode into Ebonheart’s Six Fishes and after a brief glance about the near empty tavern, made his way to the one occupied table, in the far corner.

“Drinking already, Sun-Lingerer?”

“I never stopped drinking, Im-Kilaya. I was in here at eight last night, and I have no immediate plans to leave today.” Several bottles of brandy sat on the table in front of the black-robed assassin.

“It is an awfully expensive habit, friend. I don’t know how you can support it.” Im-Kilaya took the seat opposite Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.

“I get by. I’m not buying expensive robes—unlike you.”

“It is business, Heik-Auri. I must represent our home to these dark elves—you know better than I what they think of us.”

The assassin took another drink. “Don’t remind me. I get into enough trouble.”

“Is it worth it? We could offer you… more satisfying work. And the pay…”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pounded the almost-empty bottle down on the table. “Stop it. We’ve had this conversation before, Im-Kilaya. I can’t. I would be… an outlaw. It’s too risky. I do well by the Empire.”

A sigh escaped Im-Kilaya. “I’m sorry, friend. It’s just… No, I won’t burden you. Let’s drink.” He ordered his own bottle of brandy.

-----------------------------------------------------

Nevosi Hlan was pointing Chun-Ook into the west wind when his passenger began pacing about the deck. “Sera, it’s a long way to Gnaar Mok yet. You might find it better to wait in my cabin. I have a few books.”

The passenger, an older dunmer man dressed in a plain yet tasteful blue robe, stopped a moment and gazed up at the shipmaster. “No thank you, captain, I’m afraid I’m entirely too on edge to get any enjoyment from literature today. I’ve not seen the inside of my manor for some years, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’ve been in hiding too long.”

At that Nevosi could not help but raise an eyebrow. “In hiding, sera?”

The older dunmer grinned ruefully, “Yes, hiding. I am Radryn Arenim, and I dared to barter for my Lord Crassius Curio’s death. Foolish of me; I could have just waited the man out—it would have been my turn soon enough.”

“Sera, even I know it isn’t wise to offend a Councilman.”

Arenim chortled, “Yes, I was being a fool—but I learned my lesson.”

“Indeed.” A third had joined Nevosi and Arenim on the deck, emerging from the captain’s quarters. “This time you hired the Dark Brotherhood. I’m sure they’ll be much more discreet.”

The newcomer, an argonian in a black robe, leapt across the deck, daedric dagger drawn. Before Radryn Arenim could draw his sword the argonian slashed him across the throat and shoved him overboard, into the Inner Sea.

“Master Arenim fell overboard in rough seas, shipmaster.” The argonian watched the floating body drift away—he did not look up. “You will drop me off in Seyda Neen.”

Nevosi stood still, eyes wide, trying not to look overboard. “Yes sera, I understand. Accidents will happen.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Nov 30 2006, 08:56 PM

Hehe, poor guy, guess you should've kept to hiding.

Nice stuff Canis!

Posted by: jack cloudy Nov 30 2006, 09:41 PM

I haven't commented here yet. The compilation is a nice idea.

As for the latest installment, I definitely liked it. Linger has some style, even though he uses it to kill. Famous last words are everything.

Posted by: Black Hand Dec 2 2006, 05:38 AM

haHA! i like this Argonians style more and more!

Posted by: canis216 Dec 17 2006, 08:38 AM

Thug Life

Everyone knows Nolus Atrius, the Balmora magistrate, is on the take, right?

Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering about. Can’t the Legion just arrest him? Why bring me into this?

Atrius has powerful friends. His greatest patron is on the Elder Council. How do you think he got where is?

So how can we go after him at all? Who gave these orders?

Who else? The Emperor.

Atrius isn’t that important.

Orvas Dren is.

-----------------------------------------------------

I set the bottle back down upon the bar. “Dren? Is there anything he isn’t behind on this gods-forsaken island?”

“OK, Elone, just tell me what I need to do.”

“Like I said, Atrius has power behind him, so this can’t look like a Blades job. Getting involved in Council politics wouldn’t be good for us. There’s no way the Morag Tong could take the job—dark elves only. So, you need to make it look like he made someone angry. It needs to look like the work of Cammona Tong thugs—like one of his clientele murdered him.”

I took another sip of brandy. “So… brutal, sloppy, a complete amateur job. It won’t be easy—I’m too good.”

“Don’t get full of yourself, Al. You’re not exactly subtle yourself. “ Elone’s voice was rising now, “Have you forgotten about Suran…?”

“Don’t remind me dammit! And that wasn’t a job! That was just… oh hell…” I sighed, “Just let me do the damn job.”

-----------------------------------------------------

The silt strider arrived in Balmora just after 10; perfect timing so far as I was concerned. I hesitated just a moment before making my way down the steps. I couldn’t help it; whenever I take the silt strider into town I’m immediately confronted by the Council Club, the local Cammona Tong hangout. I’d never entered it—even I’m not that crazy—but I’d often contemplated what I would do if were to go inside. It made me shudder, the way the thought appealed to me. I didn’t want to go in there, yet it was all I could do to resist the impulse.

Instead, I walked toward Balmora’s manor district, headquarters to House Hlaalu, home to a few nobles and wealthy merchants, and branch office for the local Morag Tong. Nolus Atrius lived catty-corner to the assassins. I wonder if they made him nervous. In any case, the magistrate’s home was my destination. Still, I loitered around the alchemist’s shop for a few moments before making my approach—assuring myself that the Hlaalu guards were not gazing down upon me from their towers.

Fortunately, the guards were being lax in their duties, as is their wont. I walked right up to Atrius’ front door and kicked it in—like any thug worth his salt would. Of course it made a terrible noise, but I slipped inside as quickly as I could, shutting the door behind me, and drawing my ebony. I heard the sound of footsteps upstairs—he must have been in bed—and curses that could only fly from the mouth of a rich imperial snob.

“What the hell is going on down there? Which one of you fools is interrupting my sleep now?”

He’s coming down the stairs—is it steel that I hear? He must have grabbed a blade—he may not be as foolish as I thought. Quickly, I flatten myself against the wall, next to the doorway. But no, he is a fool; he comes charging down off the stairs caution to the wind. “Where—“

That was when the flat of my shortsword met the back of Nolus Atrius’ head.

------------------------------------------------------

Nolus Atrius, a silver-haired imperial man of about 45 years, awoke in his bedroom, tied to his own chair. I stood before him, my ebony shortsword in hand.

“Nolus Atrius, magistrate of Balmora, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that by order of His Majesty the Emperor Uriel VII, you are to be executed—“

“Executed by a lizard? Scum, you couldn’t execute a…” Before he could go further, I interrupted the magistrate with the flat of my blade.

“Silence! Now, normally I’d just cut your throat and be done, but circumstances demand that your death be rather slow and extremely painful.”

“Consider this a reward for your many years of faithful service.”

Posted by: minque Dec 17 2006, 09:34 AM

Nice! I like your interactions between charachters....especially those we "know" from in-game, makes them alive!

Good work!

Posted by: jack cloudy Dec 17 2006, 11:18 AM

Crap, I've looked for Nolus Atrius myself but could never find him. Crap again! *storms off into Balmora, waving a rather large Claymore.*

*Comes running back.*

By the way, I love the dialogue here. Al knows how to choose his words.
*storms off again*

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 17 2006, 08:57 PM

That Argonian can just be plain nasty! I love it!

I can't wait to see what his next duty will be...

Posted by: canis216 Dec 21 2006, 10:22 AM

Marshwalkers

Three argonians sat around a table at the Suran Tradehouse, a short distance from the bar. The one closest to the bar dressed in the manner of a nightblade, a black shirt and black pants, and was drinking shein. The one to his right wore the plain brown shirt and pants of a commoner—a bottle of greef accompanied his plate of roasted crab meat. The third, to the nightblade’s left, wore an old brown robe. Two bottles of flin, one empty, sat on the table in front of him.

The nightblade was speaking, “I can’t believe you dared return to Suran so soon, Sun-Lingerer. The town guard has not threatened to arrest you?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun grinned ruefully. “You should know better, An-Zaw. They don’t have any real proof, do they? No witnesses, right? Hides His Eyes saw to it that none of the slaves were recaptured, yes?”

The commoner nodded. “Im-Kilaya arranged their return to Argonia.”

“I’m glad to hear that. That leaves only you two. You’re not telling, right?”

An-Zaw grinned, “Of course not. I’m as guilty as you are.”

Hides His Eyes put down his drink. “As am I. And we don’t have the Empire covering for us.”

“I take care of my own business, friends. The Blades… well, let’s just say I was persona non grata, shall we? But enough of that. How is life, marshwalkers?”

“I should be promoted to journeyman next week” announced An-Zaw. “It’s about time, too. I was afraid the fools in the Balmora guildhall might actually get promoted first—Skink is a much more demanding guild steward, but the rewards are worth it.”

“How is Skink? I haven’t been to Sadrith Mora since that incident with the guard.”

“Which incident?”

“Those silly hospitality papers.”

“Oh… that one. Skink is as well as one can be in Telvanni territory. He is trying to study the Sixth House, I think.”

“The Sixth House… I’ve seen something of it. But that can wait. Is the Council of Mages going to wise up and appoint him Arch-mage?”

“No, the imperial flathead is still in charge, for whatever that’s worth. You’d think some Telvanni hedge wizard would have roasted him by now, but they’ve shown unfortunate restraint.”

“I could just kill him.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took a big pull of flin. “Come on, friends, I’m only kidding.”

Hides His Eyes broke the silence, “How can you jest about murder, Heik-Auri? How do you sleep at night, in your profession?”

“I don’t. Not usually. But I don’t want to talk about that. What have you been up to, Haj-Ei?”

“The usual. I lead that damn fool Daric Bielle up and down the Ashlands for the last week or so. Idiot is still looking for his ‘slave’. I should just leave him out there, but he pays surprisingly well.”

“And you think me bold? You think he will never recognize you?”

“Oh, he would, if he was sober. But he never is. I make sure to pack plenty of mazte on our ‘slave-hunting’ expeditions. I don’t worry much about myself. But you, friend, why must you always court trouble? What have you been up to, anyway?”

“I freed four slaves yesterday.”

Hides His Eyes smiled, “Fighting the good fight, eh?”

“I killed thirteen smugglers, too. Eight in the cavern of Zainsipilu—that’s where I found the slaves. My crossbow took the redguard just inside the door, and the dunmer shortly after. I surprised the she-bosmer, so she died by my dagger. A nord was guarding the slaves. I filled him with bolts. I did the same to the orc female—she came charging right at me, but from too far. I drank some sujamma after that one—I don’t know why. I just picked it and gulped it down. I don’t really remember how I killed the next two—dunmer, they were; the male was a thief, I think, because he carried a nice pick. The female… I don’t know. The ringleader was an imperial, at least I think so. They all sound so haughty, even the paupers, so it’s hard to tell. But he was sensitive to viper-bolts.

"Later, I walked along the coast. I found five nord smugglers and their ship. They didn’t have any slaves, but I’m sure they must run a few—everyone on the Bitter Coast does it. I cut all their throats—the bigger they are, the harder they fall, right? It wasn’t hard. I don’t regret killing them, I think. They were carrying ebony—a crime against the Emperor—and ash statues. The Sixth House, friends.”

For a few moments, quiet reigned. The publican, Ashumanu Eraishah, cleaned a few glasses in the back of the bar, while the bard in the far corner tuned his lute, preparing for the evening crowds. A slow, sporadic drumming on the roof was audible—it was starting to rain.

An-Zaw was the first to speak. “Really, my friend, how can you sleep at night?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of flin, then stared into the bottle. “I really don’t, friends. Not anymore.”

Posted by: canis216 Dec 28 2006, 12:05 AM

Distasteful Business

“Don’t they have guards in Dagon Fel? Why can’t they just arrest him?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of brandy, and was disappointed to find the bottle nearly empty. “Do you have another one, Elone?”

“Here. I’ll put it on your tab.” The redguard pulled another bottle of brandy out from under the bar. “The guards can’t arrest Sorkvild. Necromancy isn’t actually illegal.”

“They could make his life harder, though.” He took the proffered bottle. “Don’t they do that everywhere else?”

“Well, they’re a little afraid, I think. There aren’t many guards in Dagon Fel, and the Empire isn’t about to devote more to such a backwater. And necromancers are so creepy.” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Alright, I’ll take care of it. But I can’t say I’m too crazy about necromancers myself.”

------------------------------------------------------

Dagon Fel is indeed a backwater, even by the standards of Vvardenfell. Or at least, this is what I’m thinking when I step off the boat and gaze over a town with one main street overgrown with grass, lined with dirty wooden shacks. And nords. But who am I to talk, born and raised in Black Marsh? Still, this is surely the only place in the province in which the damn dark elves could possibly tolerate such a large contingent from Skyrim. A couple of guards patrol the streets, imperials. Cowards. Maybe I could accomplish this job, I think, by isolating one of the guards and blaming his death on the necromancer. Then the softskins would have to take action against him. Ridiculous thought, of course. It couldn’t work—I have no skill in conjuration—and I wouldn’t really be doing my job, would I?

As I step off the gangplank I accost the nearest nord, a red-haired female. “Where’s the tavern, here?”

She looks flummoxed for a moment, but then points to the west. I suppose my kind is not seen here particularly often. “End of the World. It’s next to the guard tower.”

“Thank you.” I will have to stop in, after my work is done. It would be remiss of me to not inspect all the local drinking establishments.

But first, business. I make my way out of the village, to the southeast, between a gap in the hills, and into the evening shadows. It isn’t much more than a minute’s walk to Sorkvild’s Tower—an old brass minaret of dwemer origin, with a rat loitering about the door. I cast a fireball, and the rat scurries away. So far, so good. I’m up at the door now—I’m sure that it’s creaky, so I cast a short spell of silence so I can open it quietly, slowly. Thankfully, no one is in immediate sight of the door. I creep down the stairs a short way, blades at the ready.

The layout—ahead of me is large room, a hulking figure in bonemold standing next to a grand central support beam, facing away from me. Probably a nord. I hear a footsteps to my left and right also, from opposite ends of the hallway, I think. They are not approaching, which suits me just fine—I’ll look them up shortly. But first, the nord. He must be thirty paces distant. I think of my crossbow, but the falling body will surely be noisy, armored as it is. No, I creep forward, synchronizing my footsteps with the creaking and moaning of the tower as it is buffeted by the wind. I am upon him; I reach around and cover his mouth with my right hand—my ebony blade now sheathed—as I rake Kills-You-Dead, my daedric dagger, across his throat. His body stiffens for a moment, resisting, crying to call out; but he goes limp, and falls into my arms with nary a sound. One down.

I make my way to the far side of the room, where it connects the hallway, it appears. At the far end of the corridor stands a youngish female dunmer, in a robe—it looks enchanted, like frostguard or something of that ilk. She’s probably a mage, and she is surely unarmored. She’s not quite looking this way, but not quite looking away, either… now it is time for the crossbow, its dwemer metal blending so perfectly with its surroundings, as it should. I ready a pair of viperbolts, and nose the sights around the corner, probing for her throat. I’ve got an oblique shot at it—it’ll have to do. The first bolt flies; it cuts straight through the throat, probably severing the jugular, but she still stands, clutching at it, desperately trying to heal. My second shot finds her heart, and she slumps against the wall, the life silently leaving her. Two down.

I can still hear a few footsteps over the sound of creaking dwemer metal—and machinery. But they do not draw closer; I am still undetected. I draw both blades again, and sneak to the other end of the long hallway—I can see the light from what must be another room, casting a faint glow upon the caved-in rocks in the corridor’s corner. The sound of machinery grows louder, all the better for me to remain unheard. I steal a peek around the corner; a figure in chitin and netch leather armor sits fifteen paces ahead, playing a solitary game of cards at a metallic table. A very short figure; must be a bosmer male. It is quite the eclectic group that Sorkvild has assembled here, I’m thinking. But out comes the crossbow. Again, I aim for the throat; best to silence a foe, even if he doesn’t die immediately. I fire—and he shifts in his seat! The bolt grazes the back of his neck, and now he knows and he is up, ebony shortword drawn. He shouts and charges; I drop the crossbow and pull out my blades and move quickly into the room to buy space to maneuver. He raises the shortsword to swing, to bring down upon my shoulder, across my chest—I block it with Kills-You-Dead, the serrated blade locking it in place as I plunge my own ebony into his heart, straight through his chitin. Three down.

The deed done, I pick up my foe’s weapon. It is enchanted with a restorative of some kind. If I don’t use it, it will at least barter well. “I’ll be keeping this blade of yours, wood elf. My thanks.” I whisper to the air.

I walk back into the main room, and study the ladder and trap door at the rear. My target is surely up there, in the highest heights of the tower. I very much dislike trap doors; he could be waiting up there right now, with some blasphemous revenant ready to play ‘whack-an-assassin’. Still, I hear no stirring above, despite the shouts of my last victim. But it could be a piece of deception, he could be silently waiting for me… or I could be getting carried away by the overactive workings of my mind. There are few minds more paranoid than that of the assassin, I sometimes think… or it could just be me. Perhaps my history has lead me inexorably down the path of paranoia?

I study the room further; two metal tables grab my attention. The one nearest me, immediately north of the ladder, supports some limeware, including a most elegant platter. These necromancers live rather well here, I think. Or used to live. I pull the limeware off the table, and move it to the other table, on the opposite side of the room. It’ll be safe there. Returning to the first table, now clear, I lift one side off the floor; it is lighter than I expected. These dwemer were fine craftsmen indeed. It will suit my purposes well. I settle down beside it to wait—to wait for the Raven to leave his nest.

------------------------------------------------------

An hour passes. A call comes from above. “Hlora, lad. Could you bring me those scarab plans? I wish to study them.” A minute passes. “Hlora?”

I wriggled underneath the table, hidden from the trap door. The old brass hinges cry in pain as it opens. “Hlora? Where the devil…” He must see the body on the floor; I hear him utter a faint curse, and draw… an axe, I think. Fine, no problem. I hear his footsteps now, going down the ladder—he is vulnerable. Now for the spell, the spell of sound…..

“Sorkvild!!!!!”

I throw the table up and out at the necromancer, knocking him off the ladder, down on the floor. In one bound I am upon him, blades drawn—he is trying to get up, to bring his axe into play—I kick him back against the wall, weaponless. Before he can recover, Kills-You-Dead opens up his throat; my ebony opens up his heart. The necromancer is dead; my mark, a red-headed face-painted robe-wearing axe-wielding hulk of a nord.

I take a couple steps back, and almost trip over his dwemer axe. Staggering, I look around me. Such an odd place… I wonder what’s up there? Past the trap door, I mean. I climb the ladder, take a peek inside. Red light, sickly red light is what I see. Skeletons. I feel vaguely ill—strange that I should feel this way, killer that I am. Maybe it is the prospect of an impermanent death that I find so distasteful—the idea that someone I kill might walk again? Ugh. I don’t know. This whole business is distasteful.

But my distaste does not prevent me from liberating a daedric dagger, and a rather curious helm, before leaving. It is a distasteful business, but it is my business. My trophies will buy many drinks. But never enough.

Posted by: Black Hand Dec 28 2006, 02:11 AM

Good Work! I didnt comment at the last story, sorry. (Puts two thumbs up in the air.)

Keep 'em coming! There are plenty of marks on Vvardenfell!

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 28 2006, 03:54 PM

I always found it wierd that a mask that looks so scary/freaky would actually RAISE your personality. Enchantments are funny!

But as Black has said, great work with this update. You definitely write the psyche of Al very well.

Posted by: jack cloudy Dec 28 2006, 10:47 PM

Sorkvild and his gang were pretty mean most times around. The first time, I was still getting my bearings when Sorkvild cracked my skull. The next time I had Adrenaline rush going and went all-out. It was worth it though, Daedric helmets are cool. (though the masque is the least intimidating of the bunch)

And I liked the latest installment. If only we could do a waitingcontest in Morrowind, battles would be a lot more interesting (or boring, depends on who you ask.)

Posted by: canis216 Jan 1 2007, 07:59 AM

A New Year's gift, from me to you!

Divine Intervention

It was late, perhaps two in the morning, when I stepped into the End of the World. I had been informed that it was the local tavern. I was looking forward to a bit of brandy, and a warm bed. I approached the woman behind the counter, a blonde nord lass, with a smile on my face.

“Beg your pardon at this late hour, miss, but I could trouble you for a bottle of brandy and a room for the night?”

She frowned and replied saucily, “We’re all out of brandy, stranger. I’ve got a bottle of flin and a bottle of greef. And I don’t rent rooms this late. I was going to go to bed myself.”

My heart sank and my temper rose. “Flin, then. And good night.” I took my bottle and stepped out into the night, as the woman locked up. Well, this won’t do, I thought as I stood out in the cold night, drinking my flin. So, when I finished when I had downed the bottle, I pulled out a pick and approached the door. A very simple lock, of course—no one wants to prepare a completely pick-proof lock each night before going to bed. Once in, it was a simple manner to walk upstairs, find an unoccupied room, and break into it. I had my bed for the night.

----------------------------------------------------

A few stray rays of light penetrated my window. It was morning, time to get moving. I gathered up my gear and opened the window. No one in sight, and a fine fog caressed the landscape. I hopped out the window, then made my way to the door of the inn. Why not? I needed breakfast.

As I suspected, the morning shift was up, a brawny red-headed nord man. “Top of the morning, argonian.” he greeted me. “What can I do for you?”

I smiled. “Good morning, sera. I was looking for breakfast. Do you have crab’s meat and kwama eggs?”

“Of course. This is Morrowind!” He rummaged about behind the counter a moment, then set a skillet full of crab meat over the fire, followed soon by a skillet of scrambled kwama eggs. I took a seat at the bar, next to a red-haired nord woman in netch leather armor—she was having eggs herself.

“Oh, hey there! Another argonian.” She spoke, looking up from her breakfast.

“Another?”

“Yes, very strange. Don’t see too many of your kind around here. But just the other day I saw a veritable caravan of argonians and khajiit walking down toward Rotheran. With a bunch of dark elves.”

Slaves.

“I see. I’m sorry, but I’m new to these parts, miss—“

“Hreirek. The Lean.”

“Hreirek. As I was saying, I don’t really know my way around. Where exactly is this Rotheran?”

---------------------------------------------------

Just within sight of the old dunmer fortress of Rotheran I encountered a wooden door in the hillside, facing southeast—‘Surirulk’ carved into the frame. A smuggler’s cave—probably connected to the slavers, I thought. I cast a spell of silence upon the door—being cautious—and eased it slowly open. I saw a dunmer some distance ahead of me, but no one immediately by the door. I stepped inside the tunnel and pulled out my crossbow—crouching, aiming between my mark’s shoulders. I released the viper-bolt, and he released the life from his body. I continued through the tunnel, silently, cutting down two more dark elves, both unarmored. One was armed only with a lute. Something wasn’t right here.

But I was set on my course. I eventually came upon a large open chamber, stairs leading down to a walkway that spanned the room and lead into two smaller chambers. Past that, down another set of stairs, stood another dark elf. Still no sign of the slaves—but no time to think about that; I had a sharply downhill shot on my hands, always tricky. But again, my shot was true. I crept down the stairs, and dropped three more dunmer, one to each side, and one in another chamber ahead. They all fell on one shot, and made no sound—it was like slaughtering scribs.

No, not even like that. At least the scrib has the courtesy to fly apart in pieces, an entertaining, if a little gruesome, side-benefit. These dunmer just dropped, dead.

I found no slaves. Instead, I looted potions, gold, and gems from the wooden crates scattered about the cave. I found a bottle of brandy and drank it, sitting on a chest, not fifteen feet from one of the smugglers bleeding upon the stone.

---------------------------------------------------

“Please. Llaren Terano is a sorcerer and worshipper of Molag Bal. He is a terrible sorcerer, but he also carries a deadly sword. He stripped me and made me his prisoner. That's all I can remember. I can't recall how I got here, or why. I think he has poisoned my mind with spells. If you can recover my ring from Llaren Terano, I can use its enchantments to escape. Please, rescue these slaves, too, if you can. Llaren Terano has their slave key. Bring me my ring. Please.”

These were the words of Adusamsi Assurnarairan, when I encountered her deep within Rotheran. I already had her ring, of course, having killed Llaren Terano. I can’t say that I’m especially proud of how I did it, racing about the ruin like some kind of berserker—but let me start from the outside, and work my way in.

The slavers had stationed a pair of sentries atop the ruin, an archer and a warrior, both dunmer females. The archer was nearest, fiddling with her bow, when I crept up and put a viper-bolt through her heart. Thankfully the warrior, sporting a bonemold cuirass, was distracted by the flight of a cliffracer overhead. I aroused her from her reveries with a bolt, then sent her into an entirely different sort of reverie with a second, before she could close the distance.

Then it was a matter of choosing the right door. First I approached a sort of dome—I heard footsteps inside, soft, away from the door. I silenced the door, then gently pulled it open, blades at the ready. A solitary dark elf man was inside, facing away. I crept up behind and cut his throat.

The next door lead into the ‘arena’—that’s what was scratched on the door frame. Again, I managed to step inside unnoticed—my good fortune in this regard continues to amaze me. I was greeted by a ramp, angling down away from me, yet another dunmer man at the bottom. I crept down the slope a bit, blades again at the ready… to discover yet another dunmer was standing about fifteen feet from the first, at my left—and that I was in huge space, practically teeming with enemies. I counted at least four more enemies, at a distance, standing at vantage points over the arena. What had I gotten myself into?

Quickly, before I could be seen, I pulled out my crossbow and placed a shot into the mer to my left, killing him, and another shot into the one directly ahead. Not killing him. He gave a roar and charged at me with sword drawn, as I dropped the crossbow and pulled out my blades yet again. I ducked his swing, and thrust my shortsword into his heart. I heard shouts from all over the ruin, in all directions it seemed. Choosing to go left, I ran down the corridor, hoping to overwhelm my enemies quickly. A pair of dunmer females were coming up the corridor, my way—one readying a spell, the other a bow. I worried more about the bow—I plunged my ebony into her chest as it was being strung, while raking wildly at the sorcerer with Kills-You-Dead. I caught her—the sorcerer I mean—on the arm, breaking up the spell and seizing away her health with my blade’s enchantment. Almost reflexively, the next blow with my shortsword hacked away her head.

Still more shouting, more running. I sprinted down the corridor, to the bottom, where I met a single mer wielding a massive glowing claymore—Llaren Terano. He was just raising the huge blade to strike… so I tackled him, thrusting my ebony into the belly, bringing Kills-You-Dead to his throat. I can almost laugh about it now—the super-stealthy professional assassin rolling around on the floor with his mark! By Akatosh, if Caius ever hears of this…..

But somehow, in the chaos, I managed to kill the sorcerer, and not get cut up myself in the process. As I gathered my bearings and stood once again, an arrow flashed past my ear. The last two! Instead of facing the pair of dunmer racing down my way, I turned and ran around the corner, ran as fast as I could. Of course they would catch me, but as I suspected, the archer fell behind his compatriot. I made a quick stop around the next corner, and caught my most immediate pursuer in the heart with my shortsword as he made the turn. The archer tried to stop—I aided him with a spell of paralysis, and a slash across the throat.

In the midst of all the fighting a dremora and two scamps had been going mad down in the arena. I walked back toward the door, picked up my crossbow, and banished them back to Oblivion.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Yes! That is my ring! Please! It grants me Divine Intervention! Now I can escape! Give it to me NOW! I don't care about anything else... just let me out of here!”

The dunmer woman, an imperial cult member as it turns out, teleported from Rotheran nearly naked. I turned to the freed khajiits and argonians, ten in all. “I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 1 2007, 11:59 AM

Heh, I bet that with all the running around and the noise, the slavers thought they were dealing with ten Als.
And once again some nice words to end it.
,,I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”

Posted by: canis216 Jan 3 2007, 10:08 AM

The Off-day

An argonian lay on the beach just outside Ebonheart, sprawled shirtless upon a brown robe. A straw basket sat at his side, loaded with crab meat, saltrice, marshmarrow, and scrib jerky. A couple bottles of brandy stood next to the basket; another sat in the argonian’s hand. He was looking at… nothing in particular, it seemed; perhaps the few clouds passing lazily across the sky on their way to throw shade on Vivec.

A second argonian approached from the north, from the fortress-city. He fine robes woven from the very best silk that the province had to offer, arranged by its finest artisans. He was nearly upon the beach when the first spoke, not quite shouting but very loud, for such a clear and fine and calm day.

“Im-Kilaya, do you not have better things to do than to trouble me on my off days?”

Im-Kilaya did not stop his approach; instead, he eased his way down the beach, finally sitting next to his countryman. “Marshbrother, you know that I do not mean to bother you. I do come to try to understand you, and to put your mind at ease.”

“At ease? I was at ease, until now, friend.”

“You suspect that I am trying to con you? No, friend, never. Heik-Auri, I think sometimes that you are conning yourself. I think of those marshbrothers and desert walkers who arrived here yesterday, on the boat. I think of them, I wonder what you are doing, Sun-Lingerer, that is so different from what I have proposed.”

“I had nothing to do with them. Nothing.”

“Heik-Auri, my friend, I think it is now you who is trying to con me. Did you not think that I spoke with them, when they came to the mission? I know what it is that you have been doing, and I am pleased, but I am also confused. Why will you not join us? We can give you the support you really need.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun suddenly bolted upright; he held a glowing daedric dagger, viciously serrated, under Im-Kilaya’s throat.

“Enough! I’ve had enough! Just leave me… just leave me alone. Please.” His voice trailed off from savage to near-silence. The blade, he held in place. His eyes, he locked upon Im-Kilaya’s, burning with rage and fear and hope.

“I… I am sorry, Sun-Lingerer, my friend. I am sorry. I will go; I believe I have other business to attend to. I need to arrange passage for ten to Soulrest. I’m sure you understand.”

Im-Kilaya stood, looked about a moment, and walked back to the north. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun did not move for some time, holding the dagger out in front of his eyes, breathing heavily, not sure what to do. His eyes still burned, nearly so red as the slaving dunmer he had sworn his oath against so long ago. Then he looked up into the sky; it was completely clear now, a type of blue yet to be discovered when the clouds had hovered overhead. He dropped the dagger upon the sand, taking up his brandy instead. It was his off-day once again.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 7 2007, 06:36 AM

Torches

“I say, Agning, could you serve up another round of brandy?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought yet another empty bottle down upon the bar.

The brawny nord publican grinned his widest, “Aye, be my pleasure Al. But are you sure you haven’t had too much already?”

“Oh, come on. I can drink any man in Ebonheart under the table, and you know it.” The argonian accepted another bottle from the nord’s firm grasp. “Speaking of drinking, I hardly ever see you take a round—you don’t want to partake in your product?”

“Oh, I’ll have a sip of brandy meself every now and again, but the truth be told, I have a hard enough time keeping up inventory as it is. These soldier fellows drink near as much as you, Al.” The nord grinned again, “Though if I had my druthers, I’d import some mead. That be the nectar of the gods.”

The argonian flashed a look of horror. “That swill? You couldn’t pay me to drink it.”

Agning crossed his arms.

“Oh, who am I kidding? I’d drink it. Its alcohol, is it not?” The two of them, argonian and nord, shared a quiet laugh. “Say Joslin, what songs are you playing tonight?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun called to the Breton.

“I’m breaking out a new one tonight,” she called back, “about the glorious savior of Morrowind, the Nerevarine. ‘Tis truly an epic tale!”

“Nerevarine? What—you mean there really is a Nerevarine?”

“You mean you haven’t heard the news? The Nerevarine went to Red Mountain and slew the devil Dagoth Ur, only last week! Have you not noticed the clear skies over Red Mountain?”

“Well, no. But I have been drinking a lot.”

--------------------------------------------------------

It was later, perhaps two hours past sundown. Six Fishes, the finest and only tavern in the fortress city of Ebonheart, was packed with off-duty legionnaires, thirsty traders in the East Empire Company’s employ, and lusty merchant seamen looking for a good time. Joslin, the bard, was playing her epic song, now into the twentieth minute, at times elegant, delicate, almost elegiac, but sometimes fast and fervent, preaching to the listeners’ hearts and feet.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun still loitered at the bar, drinking brandy and making sporadic conversation with the publican.

“Joslin’s really outdone herself this time,” he half-shouted through the music.

Agning nodded, “Aye, that she has. If this Nerevarine fellow is half the man her song makes him seem…..” He did not finish the thought; he kept on nodding his head, in time with the music.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned on his barstool, back to the music. It was a minute more until he noticed the hooded dunmer man sitting next to him, watching. The argonian spoke harshly from the side of his mouth, “I suggest you speak to me now friend, before I get even more drunk and mistake you for a training dummy.”

The dunmer lowered his hood, revealing matted and tousled black hair—he had done some manner of labor, the argonian thought. “My apologies, sera. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you. You see, I need some work done—someone removed.”

The assassin felt a cold pricking sensation up his spine, but betrayed nothing with his eyes. “You must be mistaken. I’m not in that business.”

“But I have it on good authority that you are.”

“You do now? I see. We should go outside, into the night. We’ll find a quiet place to talk. After you.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun motioned to the door.

Stepping out into the night was jarring, the cool breeze and quiet melody of flags in the breeze and torches burning bright a crude departure from the warmth and bustle of the tavern. A single guard patrolled the main avenue, the path to the docks. He was chatting with an attractive imperial lady who was overwise busy securing her fishing boat. The now-hooded argonian exited the tavern after the again-hooded dunmer; he drew his dagger and held it against the mer’s back. “I am not for hire, dunmer. And you shouldn’t know who I am, not at all. But you might yet survive this night. Walk down to the dock, and get on the big boat, Chun-Ook or whatever it’s called. And do be quiet.” The dunmer nodded his head and complied, walking slowly, easily down to the dock, where Nevosi Hlan was preparing to pull in his gangplank for the night.

The argonian called harshly, but quietly, “Shipmaster! You have passengers. Get ready to disembark!”

“But sera, I’m not to shove off until—“

“No, we leave now.” The argonian brandished his other blade, the shortsword.

“Yes, sera. I understand, I think. I—I—I’ll get us under way.”

-----------------------------------------------------

The good ship Chun-Ook sat far from shore, somewhere off the Bitter Coast, as the night drifted on. A pair of lamps lit the top deck, where one dunmer hung upside-down from the mast while another watched the argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun conduct his interrogation.

“Who told you that I was an assassin? Who sent you? You have the hair and hands and body of a laborer—you could not hire me on your own, nor would you. So who was it?”

“Nobody sent me…” the desperation was palpable even in the rough, ashen voice of a dark elf; “I just thought—“

“Liar!” The argonian slapped him upside the head with the flat of his ebony blade. “Who sent you?!” he roared at the captive. Still no answer. “Shipmaster! Bring me that torch, over there! Now!”

“Listen to me now, dunmer. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will be torturing you. First, let me assure you that I have some experience in torturing your kind, going to back to the Dres slave raids… but that’s shouldn’t interest you. But what I’m going to do here is set this flaming torch”—he took one from Nevosi Hlan’s hand— “beneath your head. While your brain cooks, I will be applying frost spells to your feet, legs, and torso. I assure you that it will be quite uncomfortable—most of the subjects, in the old days, either talked after a few moments or started screaming something awful. Then they go insane.” He paused to force the captive’s eyes onto his own, “And I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

“Arvel! I work at Arvel Plantation! It was my mistress that told me to go to Ebonheart!”

The argonian pulled away the torch. “Go on.”

“Ranes Ienith told her that—“

“Ienith? He works for Orvas Dren.”

The captive nodded fervently, “Yes, sera. Yes.” Then he passed out, hanging with his head to the deck of Chun-Ook.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned to Nevosi Hlan, a wry grin upon his face. “Shipmaster, we will deliver this unfortunate young fool to the mainland. He is to never set foot upon Vvardenfell again.”

“Yes, sera. What port should I make for?”

“Sail west. The nearest village, whatever it may be.” He paused for a moment, in thought. “Shipmaster?”

“Yes, sera.”

“You’ve seen me work before.”

“Yes?” A shadow crept into Nevosi Hlan’s mind.

“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw?” The harsh, raw tone resumed in the argonian’s voice. “Did anyone ever ask about me?”

“Well, no… maybe one time….. Yes. Someone asked about an argonian assassin, in robes, not more than two weeks ago. I—I’m—I didn’t know, sera…” the shipmaster’s voice trailed off.

“What’s your name, shipmaster?”

“Nevosi, sera, Nevosi Hlan. I’m sorry—“

“Shut up, Nevosi. You will never speak of me, or answer any questions about me, to anyone, ever. You understand? The consequences?”

The shipmaster gazed off into the distance, toward the not-yet visible rising sun. “Yes sera, I understand perfectly.”

He looked back at Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. “You don’t need to hold a torch under my head.”

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 7 2007, 08:59 AM

Oooohh...VERY Assassiny!

Keep it up!

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 7 2007, 09:11 PM

Al's definitely not an assassin one would like to anger. As his techniques sound quite effective.

Excellent work canis!

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 7 2007, 09:18 PM

Eh, I don't like getting my brains cooked so I think that staying on his good side is a good plan.

Nice update again, with Al investigating the rumours about him.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 13 2007, 06:42 PM

Burning the Midnight Lamp

I sat in my apartment in Ebonheart, candlelight burning low, burning the midnight lamp. Arvel and Dren. What was their game? Trying to smoke me out, be sure of who I was, what I was doing? I remembered the words of that sorry young dunmer, as I prepared to leave him on the mainland coast, near the town of Omayni, not far from Septim’s Gate.

I was to hire you to travel to a cave for a job, along Lake Amaya, near the plantation. I don’t know what was going to be waiting there, they didn’t tell me… honestly, that’s all I know.

A trap, probably, I was thinking. Perhaps they were waiting in that cave even yet, but I doubted it. They would have guessed by now that their ruse had failed. What to do?

I could leave, stay and wait, or stay and fight. My rucksack, loaded with food and booze, sat under my table. I could leave for the mainland, or Cyrodiil, within two hours. I could track down Caius, find a different task, a new province in which I might be of use. Surely there are some imperial nobles who need to be put in their place. Morrowind has its Nerevarine, whoever the hell that is.

I took a sip of brandy. Then there is that letter from Elone, another job I’m sure, but not the one I need, the one I really want. We are always nibbling at the edges here in Vvardenfell, afraid of upsetting this Great House or that, this crime lord or that, this god or that god. It can go on that way forever, it would seem, and it would be prudent. At the very least it means constant work for me, if never very important work. The Blades are always busy, but we never seem to matter. Or so it seemed to me.

I eyed my weapons and armor upon the bed. My ebony shortsword, finely polished and blacker than midnight, in which I can see the pure negative image of myself, I think. Kills-You-Dead, serrated edge clean and sharp, vicious and precise, glowing with its dark light, the weapon upon which I staked my life so many years ago. My crossbow and bolts, calling me to my silent, empty, personal war. Use me, it calls. My blackened chitin sits inert, shapeless, waiting for a decision. War! War! WAR!

By the Nine, I am tired. There was a time when I thought the assassin’s life might be simple; do a little training to keep sharp, take the job, kill the mark, rest and repeat. What a fool I was. Those who live by the blade, whether mighty sword or delicate dagger, are liable to die upon one. And it is seldom simple—the assassin and the warrior are both tools of the powerful, of the political. When we hope to be playing checkers, they are playing chess. And the powers-that-be are always willing to sacrifice their pawns. Even their knights.

The lamps and candles burn low, save one. It suddenly flares, casting its strange blue light upon the rucksack sitting under my table. Then it burns out entirely, fading to black. Its midnight oil is expended.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 13 2007, 06:50 PM

Nice, you get a good look at Al's state of mind. And of how the Blades operate. Granted, as the Nerevarine you never got a taste of real Blades work. I never thought they would be that careful or stick to the little stuff but it sounds reasonable. If any of the Houses (safe Hlaalu perhaps, and only the not so corrupt elements then.) found out that the Blades have been poking in their bussiness, they would come down on the spies like a Sixth Bell hammer. Any excuse to take down some of the hates Imperials is a good one.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 13 2007, 06:52 PM

Wow, the sense of mood in that post was crazy good! You can sense the burden on Al and his bitterness.

Great work; I intend to read your next update with earnest!

Posted by: canis216 Jan 15 2007, 06:00 AM

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.
===================

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

-----------------------------------------------------

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.

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 15 2007, 06:20 AM

Hmm, some recollections there, eh? Al is both quite the sleeper and the assassin it would seem! Curse that brandy! Or not...

Posted by: canis216 Jan 21 2007, 02:27 AM

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.

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 21 2007, 08:07 AM

He marked now? Oh no! Hmm..I wonder who the other guy was at Drens plantation....

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 21 2007, 11:06 AM

Oh, don't pretend not to know, Black.

It looks like Al is slowly but surely loosing it. If this keeps up, he'd better leave Morrowind before everyone comes down upon him.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 21 2007, 10:25 PM

I wonder how much Al had to drink that night? Probably a bit to not keep his voice down when discussing murdering the head of the Commona Tong. Looks like it's going to be problems for him here on out.

Posted by: Lord Revan Jan 21 2007, 10:41 PM

Yeah, it looks that way. Great story Canis, I've failed to post here before, but I hope to remedy that problem.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 28 2007, 06:00 AM

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.

--------------------------------------------------

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?

------------------------------------------------

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.

------------------------------------------------

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.”

------------------------------------------------

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.

-----------------------------------------------

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.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 28 2007, 08:56 AM

An Obsession- Part One

“Where did you get that?” The argonian, arrayed in netch leather armor, asked his compatriot. The other, a slightly taller person-of-the-root wearing chitin, glanced down to the dagger in his grasp.

“It’s a souvenir from Shadowscale training, Nine-Toes. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone about it.”

“I see. Does this mean I can have that ebony blade of yours, Heik-Auri?”

Heik-Auri laughed. “No, clanbrother, I’ll be keeping that one. I intend to use both.”

“Yes, we’ll be needing your blades, friend. The time is nearing.”

“So Gei-Tekri means to go through with the plan?”

Nine-Toes grinned ruefully. “Yes, he does. It’s been his dream—his obsession really. It’s only gotten worse since you’ve been gone. This last raiding season was devastating. Whole families were lost. Some of our own band were taken. We’ve been trying to recruit more fighters, but times are difficult.”

“Do you think raiding Tear will help? We stand to lose a lot if it fails.”

“Either way, I think the situation is untenable. I’m not sure that it is the best approach, but I know that we cannot just sit and wait for them to come to us.”

Heik-Auri held his new blade before himself, rotating it, checking the balance absentmindedly. “No, no we can’t. Tell Gei-Tekri that my blades have returned to seek their vengeance upon the Dres.”

----------------------------------------------------

The encampment, buried deep in the swamp north of Chasecreek, was not more than a scattering of moldy shacks, mud-brick huts, and yurts loosely arranged around a central firepit. The main building, if you could call it that, sat between the two old hist trees which gave the encampment its shelter. A smattering of argonians solemnly wove their way between the shacks and tents, looking to fix their arms or armor or just for a good nourishing meal; whatever was needed to sustain their meager fighting force. Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri emerged from a yurt on the outskirts of camp, discussing the campaign to come.

“It’s the biggest slaveyard in Morrowind” Nine-Toes explained, “so we have a bit of a force problem. We thought about hiring on some mercenaries to augment our forces, but they’re untrustworthy and we really can’t spare the gold anyway. We’re going to recruit best as we can internally and arm ourselves with whatever we can get. You’ll probably have the finest weaponry in the entire raiding party.”

Heik-Auri nodded, “ My blades are good, that’s for sure, but I’d like to upgrade my bow. I think the wood is getting a little moldy and brittle.” He held up a bow hewn from the wood of the hist tree.

“You should have taken better care of it, friend. That bow was your father’s after all.”

“That’s the problem, it’s old. I need something modern, like that crossbow of yours.”

“Ah well, it’s a bit of high maintenance weapon itself. Still, it works well; I picked this steel off the body of a dead legionnaire.”

“A legionnaire?”

“Drowned in a mudslick west of Thorn. I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t really want to know. Took me long enough to get the mud out of the trigger.”

They reached the main building, a low log structure chinked with mud, peat, and whatever else was available, just as a stocky gold-skinned argonian in chainmail stepped out.

“Good morning, Gei-Tekri. How can we serve?” The two younger hist-men bowed their heads.

“I am glad that you are here, Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri, for we are to discuss our final plan of attack this night. You will both be needed, and badly.” He paused, in thought. “Tell me, Heik-Auri. How was Shadowscale training? Might we receive more aid?”

“I regret to inform you that the training did not go as planned, Gei Tekri.” Heik-Auir hung his head. “I think our relations with the Shadowscales may be quite damaged. I am sorry.”

“That is unfortunate. But we haven’t time for regrets or recriminations. We will speak of this again at a more appropriate hour. Right now I need you two to be ready to fight, and soon. Tonight, you will see that this is true. Now I must go. We have reinforcements coming from Tenmar Wall and they must be attended to.”

When the battlechief had gone his way, Heik-Auri turned to his friend and clanbrother. “Tenmar Wall? Just how big a force are we putting together?”

“One does not take on the Dres slavers, in Tear, with just raiding party.”

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 28 2007, 09:52 AM

Ah-Ha! Youre post machinng it up!!

I like both updates. Soul Searching is a difficult thing.

The last one, showing a connection between Heik-Auri and his weapons, reminds me of the Samurai Tradition of considering ones Sword to be both alive, and an extension of ones soul. Likely, it was to blame the sword for taking lives, for psychological reasons, as I imagine many Assassins would do.

Great Stuff.

P.S. I see someone has killed Nine-Toes to see what he has in his inventory before! (Guilty!!)

Posted by: canis216 Jan 28 2007, 10:05 AM

Actually, since I play on PC, I just looked into his inventory via the Construction Set. The CS makes writing the story go a lot smoother, I find, because some things are a pain to play-test (especially if you need to go back and check something) and because it's possible to copy-paste dialogue (like in the case of Adusamsi, in Rotheran).

I should also give some praise to The Imperial Library, which has maps of Tamriel that make it possible for me to reference place names outside of Vvardenfell.

And thanks everyone for your comments and praise, which I will strive to live up to here. You can expect this little foray into Black Marsh to last for at least a few posts, I think, and I hope to really make it live.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 28 2007, 09:06 PM

Yeah, the CS is a fanfic writer's best friend. At least when the story takes place in Morrowind. I don't have the Oblivion CS and I don't plan on getting it without the game.

I like the 'flashback'. Insight in a character's history is never a bad thing.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 29 2007, 12:06 AM

An Obsession - Part Two

The encampment grew by the hour, swelling with ranks of the hist-folk from across Argonia’s northern marshes. By evening the lonely patch of earth within the dismal swamp supported a force of 70 or 80 betmer. They all gathered around the central fire pit, craning for space and a glimpse of faces both familiar and not. The battlechief Gei-Tekri stood closest to the fire, nearest the mid-point of the great circle.

“I am pleased that you could all make it, friends and comrades, in this time of great need. We have resisted the Dres slave raiders for as long as we can remember, and even longer still. This is what the Hist tell us, and what we all know in our hearts. Is there not one of us who has not known one taken into brutal servitude?”

No one spoke, for there were none present who had not experienced such loss, the inexplicable vanishing of brother or sister, mother or father, son or daughter. Most of the assembled stared down at their feet. Eyes boiled and burned in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire and hate and vengeance.

“There is no one. I myself have lost my entire family to the Dres, as you all know. I returned home from my hunting to find my family stolen, my home leveled and burned, my entire village despoiled. The elderly, the sick, those who could not make slaves were instead killed. You know of what I speak. You have all seen it.

“I know that a few of you have been enslaved and escaped, only to return to fight here. I thank you now for your courage and strength, and for the information which you provide. Your sacrifice will be repaid soon! I swear it!

“We cannot undo that which was done, but we can ensure that it will never be done again. Not here! Now we take the fight to the Dres! Now we make them feel our pain four-fold! We will free our people, and Tear will burn to the ground!”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 29 2007, 07:56 AM

This recollection of yours is going really well so far canis. It has been an enjoyable read so far and I hope that the next update continues that way (all the rest have, so it's very likely ).

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 29 2007, 08:35 PM

Oh, nice speech. And so true, so true. The Argonians really suffer at the hands of the conservative Dunmer.

Posted by: Malpense the Dark Jan 31 2007, 05:09 AM

ok, I actually printed your story out last night and had a read away from the computer and first thought- 'Wow' Seriously you have set yourself a huge challenge in your writing styles, third person, first person, present tense, past tense- It makes for interesting reading and as the storyline progress I just get sucked in even more. Can't wait for more!

Posted by: canis216 Feb 1 2007, 07:01 AM

An Obsession - Part Three

“He means to burn Tear to the ground with just eighty men?” Heik-Auri was walking ahead of the raiding party, along with Nine-Toes. They were to be the scouts.

“We’re relying on surprise and stealth. We’re not going to be able to burn the whole of the city, but we’ll try to take out the centers of power, and the slaveyard. It’s not like we’re going to try and occupy the city. We sneak in, we strike, and we get the hell out of there.”

The two argonians stepped over a fallen log. “Yes, I know how the plan goes, Nine-Toes, but I worry. Eighty just seems wrong. If it were more we might overwhelm the city guard, for a while. If it were less we could sneak in easier and burn the city with no one ever knowing we were there.”

“We need the extra men to assault the slaveyard. It might take just a few of us to set the fires, but we need to free the slaves too—and it can’t be done so easily.”

“Yes, the slaveyard—say, did you see something move ahead?” Heik-Auri became quiet, and held up a hand.

“Just on the other side of that clearing ahead. You take the left, I the right.”

Heik-Auri nodded his response, and readied his bow. The argonians crept through the trees, each using every shadow to his advantage. They skirted the edge of the clearing, Heik-Auri on the west, Nine-Toes on the east. As they crept along a party of eight dark elves broke abruptly into the clearing, walking single file but not being especially careful; the one in the rear stopped briefly to roll and light a hackle-lo leaf while the two in the lead appeared to be engrossed in some sort of bawdy story-telling; the argonians couldn’t quite tell what.

“So then the filthy khajiit said…”

Heik-Auri took out the leader with a bow shot to the throat while Nine-Toes shot bolts into the rear of the party. Those who didn’t fall immediately broke into a running retreat, as they could not see their assailants. Two more, a male and female in chitin armor, fell at the edge of clearing. Two made it to the trees; one had an arrow stuck in his shoulder, one was somehow unwounded.

“No survivors! Come on!” Heik-Auri shouted as they took up the pursuit. He placed a running arrow shot in the back of the already-wounded elf; Nine-Toes finished him with a bolt.

The other dunmer, a female, kept running, fast. Nine-Toes snapped a shot off that sailed by her shoulder and lodged into a tree. Heik-Auri kept running, bow in hand, sending another running shot off that missed low, at her feet. The trail took a sharp turn to the left—to run straight through the marshy woods was to invite disaster—and she tried to take it too fast, slipping and falling. She tried to scramble up, but was pierced with an arrow shot, then another. She still struggled, but now Heik-Auri was on her, with his new daedric dagger drawn.

“She’s a tough one, Nine-Toes.”

“That she is. Lot of good that’ll do her. Let’s finish this and report to Gei-Tekri. He’ll want to know about this.”

Heik-Auri raised the dark elf’s head and raked the dagger across her throat, letting the blood spill freely and easily upon the sodden black earth.

“Shall we report to Gei-Tekri now? It’s about lunchtime. What do you say we have a bite to eat first, Nine-Toes?”

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 1 2007, 07:49 AM

Bloody Wonderful

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 1 2007, 11:10 PM

I personally wouldn't feel like eating anything after spliting a mer's throat wide open, but I guess Al's got a strong stomach, or that stuff simply doesn't effect him.

Great work as usual.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 2 2007, 12:14 AM

Well, by this point in this life he's already far too familiar with death and murder--it usually doesn't affect him too much. And what assassin worth his salt doesn't have a strong stomach?

And as always, thanks for the compliments. I'll keep trying to live up to them.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 2 2007, 02:10 AM

An Obsession – Part Four

The scouts emerged from the thinning marsh-forest onto the edge of a broad plain strewn with rough farm shacks and great far-flung manors of fired mud-brick. They had scarcely spoken since slaughtering the party of dark elves—the border patrol—and reporting to the Battlechief.

“Have you seen it before, Nine-Toes? The Deshaan Plain?”

“Yes, once. I was out hunting and got lost—I was still young then, and didn’t know my way as now. I crept around for a few hours, then fled back into the forest as the sun rose and I saw our kin working in those fields. I think it was over there” he pointed off to the west. “You see that manor house, two miles distant?”

“This is my first time, Nine-Toes. I approached the edge of the trees once, perhaps four years ago. I couldn’t bear to get any closer. I was afraid of what I might see. You know about my mother—“

“Don’t speak of it, friend. I know it was hard.”

“Oh, I guess I’m alright. I’ve seen too much now, I think. Father took it much harder.”

“Have you heard from him since he sailed for Hammerfell?”

Heik-Auir shook his head, slowly. “Another of our clan met him in Stros M’kai, or so he told me when he returned to the village. He’s tending the bar at a tavern there, or he was. Apparently they have a tradition of our people serving drinks in that city. That was two years ago.”

“Why didn’t you go with?”

“Unfinished business, Nine-Toes. Unfinished business.”

They stood there for another moment, silently taking in the scene.

“How are we going to lead our force through here, Heik-Auri?”

“I’m wondering myself. I don’t know. It’s so… open. I’ve never seen a place so open before. I think I can even see the lights of Tear itself…”

“Tear… if we are very fortunate we shall see it ever the more brightly on our way back.”

“Fortunate indeed. Nine-Toes, the way I see it we have only two options, and they’re neither very good. We can race by these plantations fast as we can and hope to reach the city before the alarm can be raised, and try to overwhelm the initial resistance. Like the fires they say can race through the dry brush in Elsweyr. Or, we wait until dark, try to sneak through these plantations with eighty hist, and maybe reach Tear by two or three in the deep night. Maybe. Then we might be able to do our work and flee town by sun’s rise, when we hope the Dres guards and the Legion aren’t cutting off our retreat.”

“Only those two options?”

“You have a better idea?”

Nine-Toes thought for a moment, then a moment longer.

“We get the hell out of here?”

------------------------------------------------------

“What is our course, Gei-Tekri? There isn’t a single tree on those plains to hide under, nor a single hill to slink behind.”

The band—it could hardly be called an army—had settled down within the last sheltering grove of trees before the opening of the grand Deshaan Plain, and Nine-Toes was consulting with Gei-Tekri while Heik-Auri kept up the watch.

“You don’t think we could fight our way through, Nine-Toes?”

“No. The manor guards alone, out on that plain, could outnumber us. The slaves might join us and rebel, but with what would they fight? They are sickly and weak, most of them. We all know the stories—some of us have lived them. Worse still, if a few survive and teleport away to the city, or ride off on their guars, or entire mission would be stunted before it could even start. I don’t know how many guards and legion troops there are around Tear, but they would all be sent our way.”

“And even if we could successfully fight through the plantations and to Tear, we would lose half our number along the way. Yes, I understand. Thank you Nine-Toes. So we must wait until dark, and take much care.”

“Wait!” Heik-Auri shouted from the edge of the forest. “I have a better idea.”

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 2 2007, 04:51 AM

Hmm, whats the better Idea?

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 2 2007, 10:19 PM

Oooo! A plan! What could it possibly be!? I'd like to know, but nooooo, you have to tease me with this cliffhangers!

I'd also like to point out how fleshed out the comraderie between Nine-Toes and Al are going. Nine-Toes seems to be one of the few to get a decent discussion with the Argonian; pretty neat.

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 2 2007, 11:20 PM

Ok, I have a feeling that this raid will turn out to be a fiasco and cost a lot of lives. Still though, I'm sure that you'll be able to make it a good read. Fine as always.

Note: I really like the way this series has turned out. At first the stories all seemed loose without anything to bind them apart from the fact that the same character made appearances. Now it has involved into this subtle exploration into the depth's of Al's soul with a well-progressing recount of his past.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 3 2007, 07:03 AM

An Obsession – Part Five

“Fine idea, Heik-Auri. Now we take all the risk.”

Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri slinked through the saltrice fields, perhaps fifty yards from a complex of mud-brick manor buildings and slave shacks.

“Three-and-a-half hours to sundown, Nine-Toes. And ten miles to cover with eighty hist, undetected, through three of these damned plantations. How else are we going to do this?”

“We could have taken a few others.”

“No, you and me. It’s the most discreet way to do it. If there weren’t so many Dres to take on I’d do it all myself.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That WOULD be crazy. Now you’re with me, so it’s fine. We clear the place up, send the signal, and the others advance. We can even arm some of the slaves, if they’re willing. Here, give me a boost.” The two argonians had reached one of the manor houses; it looked like a guard tower. After receiving a bit of push from Nine-Toes, Heik-Auri began to scale the exterior wall. “I’ll lower the line when I’m done.”

Nine-Toes waited at the bottom of the tower, crossbow ready in case he should be discovered. A few moments after Heik-Auri disappeared over the tower parapet a thin gray robe dropped down beside him, which he quickly ascended. At the top he found Heik-Auri, a trap door into the tower, and a figure in bonemold lying prone in a rapidly expanding pool of blood, chitin short-bow at the side.

“You didn’t hear me from down there, did you?”

“No, Heik-Auri. I believe that you were as silent as the dead.”

The assassin grinned. “For both our sakes let’s hope that continues. Care to silence the door? It would be a pity if we were detected on the way in.”

Nine-Toes cast a spell of silence upon the door, which Heik-Auir gently opened as his friend readied his crossbow. No one was waiting below.

“I’ll lead” Heik-Auri whispered as he lowered his body through the opening.

----------------------------------------------

The pair encountered four more guards in varied states of preparedness. Heik-Auri killed the first three by creeping up behind, clasping a free hand over the guard’s mouth, and slashing the throat with his new daedric dagger. The fourth turned immediately before the attack but died before he could bring his sword into play. Nine-Toes watched.

“That dagger... it is enchanted, yes? What does it do?”

“It absorbs health, Nine-Toes. A lot. And it never fails.”

“Never fails? You mean...”

“Yes, I stole it from the Shadowscales. And yes, they’re probably still looking for me right now, trying to take my head. No more questions, no more answers.”

Silence reigned, for a moment.

“Alright Nine-Toes, let’s move on to the next building. Once we’ve cleared the main buildings we’ll take out the exterior guard. That might be a little harder. We’ll need your crossbow.”

“Back to the top of the tower?”

“Yeah, we can’t risk going out the front door. We’ll work outside in. No one escapes.”

----------------------------------------------

Three more guards patrol the grounds, unaware of the fate of their mercenary companions. Nine-Toes crouches behind the parapet atop the shipping house; Heik-Auri stalks the courtyard below, two blades drawn, edging up behind a fair-haired nord in heavy armor. He must be sweltering, Nine-Toes is thinking; Heik-Auri is thinking about a helmet-less skull. He spirits himself forward, bringing the hilt of his ebony blade hard down upon the nord’s skull. He is down, the nord; Heik-Auri cuts his throat and raises a free hand to the air. At the signal Nine-Toes launches bolts at the other two guards—the first is struck in the throat and falls, the second is struck in the shoulder and charges forward to the shipping house, totally unaware when an iron arrow launched from a hist bow strikes him from behind.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 3 2007, 05:10 PM

Ahhh, so they've decided to systematically assassinate all the guards to allow safe passage of the "army", interesting. It definitely looks like it's working so far, hopefully the plan continues to be a success.

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 3 2007, 10:23 PM

Hmm, well it does sound like it can work. On the other hand, that's a lot of guards to kill. I bet that at least one of them will be able to get a warning out.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 3 2007, 10:27 PM

An Obsession – Part Six

The rain began to fall, warm as guar piss, as Heik-Auri thrust his ebony through the heart of the lord of the Mastarzas Manor, at the edge of Tear. The sun had been down an hour-and-half. The argonian rifled through the dark elf’s robes.

“Nine-Toes! Here’s the slave key!” He tossed a tiny mass of iron his companion’s way.

“Excellent. I’ll free the slaves, you signal Gei-Tekri.” He took a step, then paused and looked back at Heik-Auri. “Did we just kill seventy dunmer in five hours, the two of us?”

“I guess we did. By the gods, we did kill seventy mer… I think I need a drink.” He took a bottle of mazte from the nearby table, and opened it.

Nine-Toes found a second bottle. “Yes, I think I need one too.”

-------------------------------------------

“Well done, scouts” Gei-Tekri scanned the manor courtyard, gazing over the figures in bonemold lying dead in puddles of their own blood, now diluted by the rain. “I’m glad that you are on our side.”

“It is a half-hour walk to the slaveyard, Gei-Tekri. Northwest. The administrative center of Tear is northeast, perhaps forty minutes walk. I would say that now would be the time to split the force, but I worry. It rains; how are we set the city aflame?”

“We can still set fire to the building interiors, can we not? Can we not still see the Dres Council consumed by flames?”

“Maybe we could just assault the slaveyard, and not bother with the rest. Or I could sneak into the councilors’ quarters and slay them…

“No Heik-Auri, Tear must burn!” the battlechief shouted. He stopped himself, and spoke more quietly, “I’m sorry… we could not have reached this point without you, and Nine-Toes. But could we not use magical fire? Could it resist the rain?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Perhaps a powerful mage… say, weren’t there a couple of bretons amongst the slaves?”

-------------------------------------------

“You say you can cast a fire spell that will outlast the rain?” Heik-Auri stood before a slightly built old breton man with long, unkempt gray hair and beard and dressed in a tattered brown shirt and pants.

“Aye. The trick is to cast a spell of ‘weakness to fire’ concurrently. But I’ll need a little help regenerating my magic—I’m still a bit drained from those bracers, y’know.”

“Comberries. We need comberries. Nine-Toes, wasn’t there some of that inside the manor?”

“Indeed. I’ll go fetch them.”

“Thanks. Oh, and pick up a decent robe for our wizard here while you’re at it.” Heik-Auri turned back to the old breton. “Say, if you’re a wizard, how’d these dunmer enslave you to begin with?”

“Well, it’s sort of embarrassing. I had two rather unpleasant habits in my middle-age; drinking and gambling. They don’t go well together.”

-------------------------------------------

One half-hour later Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri guided a detachment of forty hist through the dark, to the northwest and the infamous slave pens of Tear.

“It’s a good thing we found that breton, if he’s a talented as he says he is.”

“You think so, Nine-Toes? I’d rather we hadn’t found him; wizard or no wizard, burning Tear is a fool’s errand. I just hope Gei-Tekri realizes that before it’s too late.”

“You think his party won’t succeed? I must admit, I also have my doubts.”

“His anger blinds him. He is no fool, but he is not himself. Are we even ourselves? We killed so many back there… we’ve both killed before, you and I, but not like that. And now we are off to kill again. How many mer do you think guard the slaveyard?”

“Our spies say perhaps forty dunmer and almost as many mercenaries. But we have the darkness and the surprise in our favor.”

“Yes, that evens the odds, I think. I hope. Still, this will not be like the plantations. Now we have an army. This isn’t going to be an assassination—it will be a battle. I’ve never fought like this before.”

“Nor I.”

“I don’t think we will again, either.” They kept walking for another moment, quietly, before Heik-Auir spoke again.

“Nine-Toes?”

“Yes?”

“You think we’ll survive?”

He thought a moment. “Yes. You and me both. Why not? What do you think?”

“I think that we won’t be seeing Gei-Tekri again.”

Posted by: minque Feb 3 2007, 11:02 PM

Interesting.....I never cared much about those Lizzards before, but now after reading your story...hmmm

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 4 2007, 12:24 AM

Niiice Build-Up here!

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 4 2007, 12:38 AM

I sense some foreshadowing going on here... Excellent update.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 9 2007, 01:14 AM

An Obsession – Part Seven

A tower, pieced together from fired bricks of marsh mud and a few wooden beams harvested from the swamps or from the north, stands at each corner of the slave compound. If you were standing at the top of the tower, seventy feet above the muddy ground below, you would see an unending procession of slaves being moved in and out of cages strung together with marsh reeds and thin wooden poles. The slaveyard of Tear never rests, for there is always a deal to be made in the largest slavemarket in Tamriel. On another night it might have been possible to see one of the reclusive sload touch down in his airship, purchasing chattels for necromantic experimentation. Tonight it was raining, so it was not quite so busy, but the slavers still liked to march their captives about from cell-to-cell, if only to enjoy their power over the assembled argonians and khajiit, even the occasionally human or elf.

Tonight, up on the tower, you would also see a slumping figure in bonemold reclining against the parapet as the blood flows from his throat and pools down to his feet, trickling down to the open trap door. Go down into the tower, down the stairs, and you would see two more bodies in bonemold lying upon the floor, force of life ebbing away. At the tower bottom you would find two argonians propping crates and tables, anything they can find, up against the door.

“We should use the bodies, too, Nine-Toes. A lot of extra weight on the tables, armored like that.”

“Sounds good. Let’s haul them down here.”

------------------------------------------------

“I’ll take out the archer on the northeast tower, you can take the southwest, and whoever gets the northwest first can have it” Nine-Toes announced, placing a bolt in his steel crossbow, “Then we open up the one’s below. They probably won’t even notice us taking out the archers, so we can take out a few more of them before the fight really begins.”

Heik-Auri nocked an arrow and took aim to the west. He could scarcely see the other tower through the rain, yet it was there, a lit lantern revealing yet another figure in bonemold, this one seated on a stool. As he drew back, he heard the crack and whistle of Nine-Toe’s shot and thought, “I guess he’ll be getting the northwest tower.” Then he released the arrow and the figure in bonemold fell back, tried to get up, then stayed down as it was pierced by another arrow. He turned to north, Heik-Auri, but he had beaten by Nine-Toes, as he had thought.

“I really need one of those crossbows.”

Nine-Toes just smiled, a bit sheepishly.

“I’ll give you a head start, this time. Pick your shot.”

Heik-Auri nocked another arrow and gazed out over the slave compound below. 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, Heik-Auri thinks, 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. He takes aim with his bow, Heik-Auri, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. He releases the arrow.

The khajiit slave looks up as the dunmer falls, but no one else notices. Then Nine-Toes releases a bolt, then Heik-Auir another arrow, and soon half a dozen dark elves are fallen and bleeding and now everyone notices. The slavers and mercenaries either scramble for cover or make for the tower door.

Forty argonians shouting for blood and revenge and for sheer madness charge into the compound.

------------------------------------------------

How long had the fight been going? They didn’t know, neither Heik-Auri nor Nine-Toes. They just leaned over the parapet, firing projectiles in the muddy, writhing monster below whenever they could distinguish foe from friend.

“Look, Heik-Auri! What the hell is—“

“Levitation!”

A pair of dark elves dropped from the sky onto the tower, swords drawn, while a third hovered in the air, cradling a crossbow. Heik-Auri dodged a bolt and drew his blades to engage the swordsmen, raking one across the chest with the dagger while blocking a blow from the other with his shortsword. Nine-Toes dodged behind the first, wounded and weakening swordsman and placed a dagger in his back. The crossbow-wielding dunmer searched for a target amidst the scrum—until he was struck by a bolt from Nine-Toes, while Heik-Auri sliced open his own combatant’s throat. Two dunmer fell.

A dwarven crossbow fell at Heik-Auri’s feet.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 9 2007, 01:54 AM

The battle begins! And what a battle! Great work canis.

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 9 2007, 07:06 AM

So the fabled Crossbow arrives. I knew there was some crazy background to it...just didnt think it was that crazy!

Well Done Canis.

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 9 2007, 10:58 PM

Wow, the situation sure has become hectic. And another souvenir to add to our assassin. Yippee!

Posted by: canis216 Feb 10 2007, 05:41 AM

An Obsession – Part Eight

“Spare a few more bolts?”

The question came as Heik-Auri and Nine-Toes steadily launched the tiny steel projectiles into the crowd below; there were perhaps twenty-five of their own band still fighting, along with whatever slaves had been loose within the compound—a motley crew of argonians and khajiit perhaps twenty in number still stood fighting with claws and weapons taken from the dead. Nearly fifty slavers and mercenaries still stood and fought; one more fell to a bolt before Nine-Toes responded to the request and passed over seven bolts.

“I’m running low myself. We’ll have to get down there soon.”

“Yeah… hey, is that lightning to the east?”

“I think it was. But no thunder. And no fires.”

“Damn.”

“No use worrying about. We’ve got fifteen bolts between us—let’s make them count.”

Two shots Nine-Toes used to bring down a big nord in chainmail. Heik-Auri used one from his powerful new crossbow to bring down the imperial crossing blades with two khajiit slaves, a second to fell a spear-wielding slaver sitting atop a plain strider—the dunmer tumbled off to face the wrath of the slaves and saviors. It took Nine-Toes three more shots to drop a pair of bonemold-clad mercenary guards swinging great axes. Heik-Auri was sizing up yet another shot—targeting a huge, claymore-swinging figure resplendent in orcish armor—when he heard Nine-Toes shout, “The Legion is here! Run!” He looked up, almost annoyed—until he saw a phalanx of one hundred imperial spearmen marching from the south. Blocking the way back to Argonia.

“Come on Heik-Auri, we must flee!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here!”

------------------------------------------------

The streets of Tear were mostly empty, which Heik-Auri supposed was reasonable considering that it was long after midnight and still raining. Still something wasn’t right—hell, nothing was right, and everything was completely opposite of what he and Nine-Toes could have hoped. There was no panicked populace racing through the streets, no fleeing of burning buildings, no desperate screams. Instead, they heard the sound of armored footsteps to their rear, to the fore, in any and all directions. The House Guards and the Imperial Legion were everywhere, Heik-Auri thought.

“We can’t keep running! They’ll catch us!”

Nine-Toes pointed to his right, a little south. “That alley. I think I see a door there. At least we might be able to steal a change of clothes—that might throw them off a little.”

They ran into the alley—and there was a door, locked. Heik-Auri quickly pulled out a pick from within his robe and jammed it into the lock. One… two… three…

“We’re in.”

------------------------------------------------

“I guess I’ll need to find a better lock-maker. That was supposed to be a ninety-point lock.”

“Um… it was.” Those were the only words Heik-Auri could expel from his mouth. What stood before him was, if not quite an anachronism, rather unusual. The imperial man standing before him, shirtless, showed no fear, no anger. He took a puff from a skooma pipe.

“So it was. Is that why you sought fit to break into my safehouse?”

“Safehouse? Oh shi… would you excuse me while I consult my friend here?”

The imperial nodded.

“Nine-Toes, what the hell did I just break us into? I swear I won’t do it again, any of this—I just want to lie on the beach and drink and linger in the sun, forever and ever—“

“Get yourself together! We’ll deal with it!”

“Times up” the imperial interrupted. “I hope you had a nice conversation, but I’m afraid that we have a problem. You, obviously, are involved in all this ruckus about town. Can’t say I’m surprised, what with all that activity down in Black Marsh lately—“

“You knew? Who—“

Heik-Auri was cut off. “Who am I? I’m with the Blades, of course. You didn’t think that we wouldn’t pick up on this little stunt of yours, did you?”

“It was none of your business! It was between us and the Dres!”

“Morrowind IS my business, young marshwalker.”

Nine-Toes stepped forward. “So you told the Legion to be ready for us, eh? But,” he said, looking over his unarmed foe and the bare room, “you didn’t get ready yourself.”

“Is that a threat, marshwalker?”

“Absolutely. But my honor compels me to fight you upon even terms. Are you prepared to fight hand-to-hand, to the death?”

“Let the first blow be yours.”

Nine-Toes dropped his crossbow and his dagger, and raised his scaly fists, moving forward for the first strike. He missed; or rather the blow was dodged expertly, as a dragonfly might elude an ogrim’s grasp. The imperial ducked low and delivered a savage blow below the argonian’s ribcage, dropping him to the floor.

“Stop it!” Heik-Auri called. “This fight is unfair; Nine-Toes is no master of unarmed combat, and you, Blade, clearly are. There can be no honor in such a mismatch. Will you fight me instead?”

The imperial considered, scratching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “As you say, I have some skill in unarmed combat, and this one” he said, referring to Nine-Toes, who was just staggering back to his feet, “is clearly not. You think you are good enough?”

“It is not my strength, but neither is it my weakness.”

“I would rather see your strength.”

Heik-Auri raised his two blades, of ebony and daedric metal.

“You pack some rather fancy hardware for a guerilla, marshwalker.”

“Would you like to try one out?”

“Short blades aren’t my own strength I’m afraid. My greatest weapon is no weapon at all. And I hope you would rather see my strength, as well.”

“Indeed. Shall we?”

The imperial nodded and eased back into a defensive position. Heik-Auri held the dagger in his left hand, the shortsword in his right—the dagger he held in back almost like a shield, ready to block. The argonian stepped forward easily, with almost imperceptible effort; he feinted a thrust with the shortsword but brought the dagger down at a diagonal across the imperial’s chest—or where the chest had been but a split-second before. The imperial dodged the slash and instead brought his right fist down upon Heik-Auri’s shoulder, which accepted the blow easily, slipping away. Heik-Auri slashed with the shortsword, missing but pulling into a spin, bringing the dagger back around only to be blocked by his foe. The Blade delivered a kick; Heik-Auri intercepted it by bringing the hilt of his ebony shortsword down upon his opponent’s knee. Hard. Both went sprawling as the man somehow managed to kick Heik-Auri with his other leg.

The two combatants struggled to get up. Heik-Auri was first—he leaped upon the imperial and brought his dagger up to the man’s throat.

“Any last words, Blade?”

The Blade was remarkably calm, considering that a dagger was held to his throat. “Yes, as a matter fact. Do you want a job?”

Both marshwalkers’ eyes opened wide. “What?”

“I’m assembling a team of Blades to work under my command, on Vvardenfell. I could use you. Both of you.”

Heik-Auri frowned, then grinned. “And what if we say no? I could just kill you and be done with this business, head home.”

“That would be rather short-sighted of you, I think. You still have the Dres and the Legion looking for you. You’re good; but they’ll be out in force—and blocking the way back to Argonia. You have no choice but to head north.”

“Even if we join you, Dres still wants our heads. Are you just going to cast a fancy little spell, Blade, that will make that problem go away?”

“Well, I could invoke the Emperor’s name, but that attracts attention. No, I have a secret way out of here. And you can use it, if you join the Blades.”

Heik-Auri pulled the dagger away from the imperial’s throat and looked up at his clanbrother. “What do you think?”

“Let’s take the deal and get the hell out of here.”

“Done. We are at your service, sera—“

“Caius. Caius Cosades,” he accepted a hand from Heik-Auri, “and you are?”

“He’s Nine-Toes,” Heik-Auri said, gesturing to his friend. Then he grinned widely, thinking of… something.

“You can call me Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.”

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 10 2007, 07:58 AM

Nicely Done! So Caius had something to do with the Dres disaster, eh? Makes you wonder....

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 10 2007, 03:59 PM

Brilliant addition of Caius into this whole mess. Nice was to see the origin of Heik's "Blades Name" I'll call it. Superb job canis!

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 11 2007, 07:15 PM

Caius! Oh, good old Skoomie is one of my favourite characters. I mean, who's ever seen a master spy without a shirt? And James Bond doesn't count because Caius is cool even without a woman in his bed. (Actually, he's cooler without a woman than he'd be with one.)

SGM.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 18 2007, 09:00 AM

Bad Memories

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun awoke with Kills-You-Dead in hand—the floorboards were creaking, out on the dock, in the characteristic rhythm of sneaking footsteps. He sat up in the hammock and quietly swung his feet down to the floor. Crouching low, the assassin moved forward to the door, ready to strike—if he needed to. The footsteps had ceased—in front of the door, he thought. The door opened. “Nine-Toes?”

“Sun-Lingerer?”

Nine-Toes stood up from his crouch, as did Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. They smiled and laughed—how ridiculous it was, two old friends getting the jump on each other.

“What are you doing here, Nine-Toes?”

“What am I doing here? Wasn’t it I who told you about this place? I’ve been using it as a rest stop while I’m out mapping the Bitter Coast, of course. It sure beats laying down in the swamp. But what the hell are you doing here?”

The assassin sat down upon one of crates piled inside the shack. “So you haven’t heard. Elone got upset about that job with Orvas Dren I pulled, and then all hell broke loose in Arille’s. I think I sent half of that fool altmer’s customers to see a healer.”

“So you figure that’s enough to kick you out of the order?” asked Nine-Toes, pulling up a barrel upon which to sit, “I mean, that job with the slavehouse was a lot worse, if you ask me. They let you back in after that one.”

“Hell, I don’t know. How much trouble have I caused the Blades now?”

“Well, there was that Sadrith Mora job, for one. The guard in Blacklight—though I fought that was more fun than trouble. Suran. This. Am I missing anything?”

“That one time in Ghostgate.”

“Oh yes, the Armigers. Sore losers, if you ask me.”

“Yes, well. The point is, I think this one was the last straw. The imperial guard is looking for me, I’m sure. I had to get out of Seyda Neen faster than a guar on moonsugar.”

“So what are you going to do? You aren’t just going to sit around in this shack all day and night, are you?”

“I don’t know, Nine-Toes. I need some time to think about my situation. I need to clear my head. You know what I mean?”

“The dreams?”

“Yeah, the dreams. It was Tear, again, last night. I don’t know how often it’s run through my head, but I thought it would have been more than enough times by now. But I can’t forget it.”

“Tear isn’t exactly the sort of thing you forget.”

“I still wonder what happened to Gei-Tekri. We got out of there so fast…” The words hung in the air; as the two argonians hung their heads.

“I think that your premonition was right. It troubles me to think of what the Dres must have done—so I try not to think of it much. Those were bad times, clanbrother.”

“I’m not sure they’ve improved much.”

“We’ve made lives here on Vvardenfell, haven’t we? What did we have then? I tell you, we had hate, hate and fear.”

“Nine-Toes, I do not fear anymore but I must say it. I still have that hate.”

“Yes, yes I know. What can I say? Your trade keeps you close to those bad memories, I think. Do you agree?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. All we knew, those years ago, was killing dunmer and saving our own skins. Now you kill all the races, but how has your life really changed? You rented a nice room, you drink brandy instead of greef, and you work for the Empire instead of the clan. Is that it?”

“That’s it.” His eyes burned, slightly, from anger or sorrow—perhaps both. “And there’s no way out, is there? What can I do besides killing people?”

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 18 2007, 09:44 PM

It looks as if Al is about to make up his mind. Even if the Blades want him back, he might leave. He's obviously sick of the endless killing.

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 19 2007, 07:42 AM

The deep scars of pain and regret, how they seem to sharpen us into,...interesting beings. As I wrote once: "Who we are, is not neccesarily connected to what we do."

Posted by: canis216 Feb 23 2007, 10:47 PM

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.”

---------------------------------------------

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.”

---------------------------------------------

“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.

--------------------------------------------

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.

---------------------------------------------

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.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 24 2007, 12:56 AM

The Grandmaster

“Ulmesi, have you heard from Yatuse?” the orc’s voice boomed. If Ulmesi had not seen the concern on his face she would have thought that Rogdul was angry with her somehow. She sighed, “No, I haven’t heard from him yet. But that’s no reason to worry; Gnaar Mok is far away, and such a backwater, and I did tell him to be careful with this one.”

“Careful?” the orc nearly shouted. He composed himself before continuing, “I know I’ve said it three times already, but this should have been a writ for the Grandmaster. The mark is too dangerous for Yatuse. Look at what happened to—“

“I know what happened Rogdul, and I appreciate your concern. But I think that this writ is not worthy of the Grandmaster’s attention, and anyway, he isn’t anywhere on Vvardenfell right now. And Yatuse is a very promising assassin. His grasp of the school of illusion is unprecedented for a mer his age.”

“I’m sorry Ulmesi, you are right. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Still, I hope he can make it back tonight. I worry about him… he’s a little arrogant in his use of nightblade magick.”

“We’ll work on his strategy when he returns. Perhaps he can see Master Andarys.”

------------------------------------------

Long past midnight a faint sound, close by her bedside, roused Ulmesi from her slumber. She tried to look around, but she found she couldn’t move at all.

“Yes, Miss Baryon, I’ve paralyzed you,” a masculine voice hissed into her ear, “the better for you to listen. It would be a shame if you cried out before I have my say. Your… cult here just last night made a second attempt upon my life—in spite of an accord I made with your Grandmaster, Eno Hlaalu, some time ago. I would talk to him directly, but he doesn’t seem to be here. I want to know where he is, so I’m going to un-paralyze you, and you are going to answer me quietly—or I’ll kill you and every one of your associates. I hope you understand.”

Ulmesi felt restorative magic flow through her—a great pressure upon her chest vanished, and her muscles all relaxed at once. She whispered, “E-E-Eno retired, he’s gone.”

“Then who is the Grandmaster now? Surely it isn’t you.” She thought she heard a mocking quality enter the hiss in her ear.

“I can’t tell you.”

“What? Don’t be foolish, Miss Baryon.” She felt cold, jagged daedric metal pressed to her throat—but she didn’t dare look. “Feel that, dunmer? That is your fate, unless you tell me what I need to know.”

“A Morag Tong assassin does not fear death. I will go to my ancestors, with honor.”

The hiss grew harsher, if that were possible. “Don’t try to feed me that guar dung, Baryon. I know assassination—far more than you. When was the last time you struck another living, breathing soul down? When was the last time you faced death? We fear death, all of us assassins. Any who don’t are guar-dung crazy. We overcome fear, fight through it—but we don’t forget it.” The hiss paused, but its dagger continued to press firmly down upon Ulmesi’s throat—and then it spoke again, “But death is not the worst. No, Miss Baryon, before I kill you and everyone else here, I think I’ll torture you. Have you ever been treated to a barrage of destructive magicka, while paralyzed? It can be quite brutal to watch. I can’t imagine how it feels. You have fifteen seconds to tell me what I want to know, or you won’t need to use your imagination. One…two… three… four…five… six…”

“The new Grandmaster is Sethyas Velas!” Ulmesi croaked out, eyes wide and brow sweating.

“Ah, I know this mer. Yes, I believe you. But where can I find him?”

“I think—I think he went to Mournhold.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 24 2007, 01:28 AM

Oooooo the plots are being woven here quite intricantly; I'm certainly enjoying it. Just when you think Al might be making a career change, the Morag Tong comes along and gets our Argonian pal angry. I wonder if Sethyas knew anything about allowing this writ to be done.... We'll have to see.

Amazing work canis!

Posted by: Black Hand Feb 24 2007, 08:29 AM

Probably not. I doubt that the Grandmaster is aware of anything in the Guild right now. Nice work here as usual Canis! I look forward to seeing what you can do with Sethyas. (If he even appears. I mean, how many stories can one character guest-star in?)

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 24 2007, 04:34 PM

I wonder who pushed forward that writ? Not Sethyas, I'm sure of that. I don't remember it perfectly, but I wouldn't be surprised if the deal Al made with Eno was a private one. In other words, once Eno was gone no one knew about the 'don't try to kill Al' deal and so no one thought twice when seeing the new writ.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 24 2007, 04:50 PM

Well seeing how often Trey is mentioned among other's fan fics, I would say that we could potentially see Sethyas in a few stories. Let's see, he's all ready in yours, mine, canis', and minque's. I'd say that's quite impressive.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 24 2007, 09:59 PM

Note: I might edit a little more into this post later, or just put up a new, short post... I've got to run off to ultimate frisbee practice soon, though, so I couldn't add in all I wanted. That's real life for you.

On the Trail of the Black Hand

The swirling of magicka—and my stomach—finally stopped, and I found myself in the courtyard of the Royal Palace, in Mournhold. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable teleporting in amongst all those guards and tourists, but no one really pays attention to folk materializing outside the Imperial Cult shrine—they just assume divine intervention. I’d placed a mark—I sometimes needed to do business in the capital of Morrowind. Business of all sorts.

First I needed to visit an old friend.

“Hello, Effe-Tei. Been a while.” I spoke, from under my hood. I had eased up quietly next to my elegantly attired acquaintance.

“Heik-Auri? What brings you to Mournhold today? I had heard that you were lying low.”

“I still am, so keep our meeting quiet, eh? I need some information. Have you seen a dunmer with a black hand tattooed upon his face recently?”

Effe-Tei lowered his voice, “I had one teleport in just the other day. We chatted for a while—he’s new to Mournhold. And he said he’s been marked by the Dark Brotherhood.”

“That’s most irregular… but regardless of why he’s here, I need to find the mer. Any idea where he might have gone?”

“I suggested The Winged Guar. It’s the only place to say in this part of Almalexia.”

“Yes, naturally. And Velas could certainly afford it, I think. I’ll talk to Ra’Tesh. Thanks, friend.” I turned to the door.

“Hey, hold up Heik-Auri. Why do you need to find this elf? He a mark of yours?”

“Well, you could say that I’m a mark of his, actually.”

----------------------------------------------

“Brandy, please… Ra’Tesh.” I spoke quietly to the bartender’s back. The khajiit turned around—he was smiling.

“Ra’Tesh had wondered when he would see you again, Al. Ever since you drank Holmar under the table, that one time. Ra’Tesh has never seen anyone put so many away. What can Ra’Tesh do for you?”

“Aside from the brandy?” I returned his smile. “Actually, I need something else. Have you seen a dunmer with a black facial tattoo?”

The khajiit passed me a bottle. “Yes, Ra’Tesh has seen this one. The dunmer rents the room just across from the bar.”

“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No, Ra’Tesh knows not. The dunmer asks Ra’Tesh last night for the Dark Brotherhood, so Ra’Tesh tells him to look in the sewers, because they smell of death and waste.”

“Where’s the nearest entrance?”

-----------------------------------------------

I entered the Residential Sewers of Old Mournhold via a trap door in an empty corner of Godsreach. I could have waited in The Winged Guar for Velas, but I was feeling impatient. There is something about this city that doesn’t feel quite right—I might sell some goods here, on occasion, and I might do a job here and there, but I refuse to stick around for long. The people of Mournhold call it a city of light and magic but to me it is a city of suffocation, watched ever-so-closely by a king and a god. So much authority thrown together in such a small space cannot be healthy.

Down in the sewer I found myself greeted by the smell of swamp gas, rich in decay. It was not an unfamiliar smell—any home-bred argonian knows it well—but it was one that I had been happy to leave behind. Before I could go very far I spied a few goblins, which fell from two shots apiece by my crossbow, two viper bolts. They are tough creatures.

Across the way I encountered three dunmer—well armored and armed—holding a naked Breton hostage. I wasn’t interested in what they were doing but I need information, so I approached, carefully. The apparent leader—a mer wearing glass boots and greaves—called a greeting, “Welcome to MY world, where we do things MY way.”

He continued, “Well, well, look what the scrib dragged in. I suppose you're here to rescue our little Dilborn, eh? Then I suggest you don't make any sudden moves. You see, when people owe me money, I get a bit touchy. Attack me, and my men have orders to kill Dilborn first -- poor, naked, defenseless Dilborn. But if you're here to settle Dilborn's debts, we may be able to work something out.”

“I’m not interested in the breton.” I noticed Dilborn’s face fall, but I continued, “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen another dunmer crawling around these sewers, maybe a black hand tattooed on his face?”

“Huh.” He seemed a little disappointed himself that I hadn’t come to barter for the breton’s life. “Only folk I know crawling around here are some fool adventurers. Other places you might run into a dark brother or the Black Dart Gang, but I don’t consort with them. I haven’t seen your mer.”

That was disappointing, but I didn’t show it. I mumbled a grudging thank-you to the thug and moved on to the west—and ran into a ladder leading to, as the scratches on the trapdoor indicated, the West Sewers. It appeared that the door had actually been used fairly recently—perhaps Velas had simply avoided the thugs.

-------------------------------------------

Inside the West Sewers I was immediately greeted with a choice—left or right, elegantly constructed sewer-way or tunnel carved out of the rock. I chose the tunnel, and found the way clear of any opposition, until I spied a nord decked out in steel up ahead. It appeared that he had been camping here in the sewer—he had a bedroll laid out adjacent to a roaring fire, and bottles of booze scattered about. I decided to take a direct approach, but kept my blades ready at my side.

“Ho there, nord! Mind if I join you? I’ve got brandy!”

“Brandy? Aye, ye can join me lad. What brings you down here? Don’t want to pay for rent, like me?”

I handed the nord a bottle, which he accepted eagerly. “Not exactly. I’m looking for someone, a dunmer.”

“Ah, well, there’s that Drathas Nerus in the Residential Sewers—“

“No, I’ve already talked to him, if you mean the thugs and the naked breton.” I paused while the nord took a swig from my brandy. “No, I’m looking for a mer with a black hand tattooed upon his face. You seen him?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Damn. Sorry I bothered you then.”

“No need to be sorry—I’ll have brandy with you anytime.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. I prefer not to share.”

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 24 2007, 10:09 PM

,,Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him."

Now that's cold, just cold. I love it.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 24 2007, 10:42 PM

The hunt continues! Wonder how ole Sethyas will react to find his Dren murdering buddy hanging out in the same sewers as him?

Posted by: canis216 Feb 25 2007, 03:59 AM

Survival

After my brief conversation with Hloggar the Bloody (for that was the nord’s name), I moved on into the more finished sections of the West Sewers. I crept up an incline and found myself looking upon four enormous figures—what looked like three huge goblins—the size of ogrims, they were—and some creature that was a bit like a nix-hound, only if a nix-hound had gulped down thirty-thousand bottles of sujamma. The beast wore a spiked collar, as if it were some kind of madman’s pet. Still, I had faced an ogrim or two before—they look a lot tougher than they are. I figured that these creatures would be much the same. I shot a viper-bolt into the hound-creature, and I found myself immediately regretting my rash action. The beast charged at me, with the giant goblins fast at its heels. I launched a few more bolts but they barely seemed to hurt the massive monsters—this was a problem.

I drew my blades and prepared to defend myself. It helped that the monsters couldn’t quite see me clearly—the light was scarce, I was crouching low, and I was wearing a dark brown robe. I got in a few blows with Kills-You-Dead as the creatures bit or swung at me wildly. One of the goblins finally made contact, striking down upon my right shoulder—I dropped my ebony and staggered backwards; I think my shoulder may have been separated or broken. The hound-creature dived in, to try to bite my head off I think, but I raked it across the eyes with Kills-You-Dead, sending a wave of healing into my own body as it stole the life out of the monster. Blinded, the creature ran; restored, I dodged a blow from one goblin as I raked my dagger across another’s torso. Dodging another blow, I rolled right and picked up my shortsword, just in time to take a crushing blow across the ribs.

“Ahhh!” I screamed; involuntarily—but the whole fight must have been echoing all through the sewer now; my pain, the goblins’ battle-cries, and that other creature tearing through the corridors blindly bumping into everything.

Another strike from Kills-You-Dead dulled my pain and sent a goblin to the ground, clutching a severed throat. Then I ran.

I ran as fast as I could, almost as blind as the creature who’s sight I’d stolen. Bounded may be the better word; I’m not a fast runner but I am a long leaper. I leapt and ran past still more goblins and another of those creatures until I was once-again face-to-face with Hloggar.

“How do you survive down here?” I asked, trying to regain my breath and my steadiness.

“Me?” The nord held up an enormous hunk of steel. “I’m pretty handy with a warhammer.” He continued, “Those goblins and durzogs aren’t dumb—they know to leave me well enough alone.”

“Durzogs?”

“The goblins use them as mounts, sometimes.”

“Oh, those hound-ish creatures.”

“Those are the ones. Sounds like one’s coming now, actually.”

Indeed, one did come around the corner. I put two bolts into its face, which Hloggar promptly smashed with his warhammer.

-------------------------------------

After regaining my equilibrium I crept quietly back into the sewers, being sure to keep my distance. I was not going to fight these beasts in close quarters. Instead, I inched along, filling my enemies with bolts—the larger goblins fell only after I launched half-a-dozen poisoned projectiles into their bodies. Finally I cleared the West Sewer, but I wasn’t about to continue my exploration beyond that. Not yet.

I was going to need a lot more viper-bolts.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 25 2007, 08:33 AM

Excellent update canis! Those goblins can certainly be a handful, especially if there's Durzogs around. Looks like finding Sethyas will be tougher than it seems.

Keep it up buddy!

Posted by: minque Feb 25 2007, 12:58 PM

Ahhh....haven´t commented this one for a while, but it´s just so good! Maybe I will try out the Tribunal expansion....some day..after reading all your stories of course...so there will not be so many nasty surprises...

It seems our Seth appears in many stories.....that´s one famous Dunmer!

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 25 2007, 01:57 PM

Well, I'm thinking of getting a job during summer and scrounge the shops for GOTY. All I can say about Tribunal (and Bloodmoon.) Is, I can't wait! Chrysamere needs a new challenge. Dagoths are too easy. Bring on the gods!

And umm, keep writing, Canis.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 28 2007, 11:04 PM

Bazaar

I lurched through the door of the Craftsmen’s Hall looking a terrible mess. My robe had been nearly cut to pieces by the beasts of the Mournhold sewers, my armor was terribly scarred, and I was covered in dried blood—my own and that of the beasts. I needed to restore my armor and my arsenal. I was in the right place—I staggered up upon a dunmer and an orc working at their respective forges. I decided to talk to the dunmer first—the orc was working furiously upon a sword—I didn’t care to interrupt him.

“Bols Indalen, at your service.” He looked up from the piece of glass he was working over.

“You the armorer?”

Indalen pulled out a hankerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. It was hot in there—I started to pull off my now tattered robe. “Of course. What can I do for you—my, that chitin is battered, isn’t it? I reckon I can fix that up for you, if you like.”

“That was my plan, yes. I also need my weapons fixed.”

“Weapons?”

I set my crossbow, my ebony, and Kills-You-Dead on the near table, and Indalen let out a low whistle. “You arm yourself well, sera. I think only Her Hands can boast of superior arsenals.”

“Um, thanks. Don’t go talking about it too much.”

“Oh, of course not, sera. I’ll have these fixed up by sundown.”

“That soon?”

“Sera, I don’t I’m being immodest when I say that I am the finest armorer in Morrowind… in spite of that damn apprentice of mine, Ilnori—“

“Don’t talk about me, plebe!” I heard a shout from somewhere in the building, upstairs maybe.

“—Faustus. Damn idiot.”

--------------------------------------------------

Bols Indalen was good as his word. I retrieved my gear that evening, after whiling away a few nervous hours in The Winged Guar. I never do enjoy being without my weapons or armor. Still, the time was uneventful. I chatted up Ra’Tesh for a short time, and learned that my quarry’s exploits as a bouncer might have cowed the usual violent drunkards into enjoying their drinks more quietly.

But as I was saying and meant to say, I gathered up my armor and weapons from Bols Indalen and made my way over to the Great Bazaar, at his recommendation. He carried steel and silver bolts, but none enchanted to poison my foes. Since I’m lazy by both temperament and practice, I don’t enjoy poisoning my projectiles personally. Therefore, I decided to seek viper-bolts elsewhere in Mournhold—and the Great Bazaar does have a reputation as the greatest market in Morrowind. It all made sense, for once.

It was raining, so activity in the Bazaar was rather muted. I don’t much care for rain, usually—reminds me too much of Tear—but this rain was cool and rather pleasant, a respite from the usual heat of the city. I made my to a booth occupied by young redguard man—I guessed his age to be about thirty. Still, he's strong, thick in the arms and chest. An armorer.

“Greetings, redguard. Do you sell viper-bolts, by chance?”

“I’m afraid not, friend. I’ve got iron and steel bolts, though. You could get them enchanted.”

“No, thank you.”

Idiot. I wonder if he’s ever tried to enchant a couple hundred bolts before—each would need its own soul. But I concealed my contempt, smiled, and moved on. Perhaps someone else carried them. As they say, ‘if you can’t find it at the Bazaar, you won’t find it anywhere’.

A pawnbroker had his booth opposite the armorer—he didn’t carry bolts at all. I again concealed my disappointment and bought some marhsmerrow and saltrice—I’d be needing some more restorative potions, and it was cheaper to make my own. I also found a cheap broadsheet lying around the dunmer’s booth—something called The Common Tongue:

"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition." -- Lord Vivec

I have a little list. They never would be missed.

Appearing at the top -- three names... Anhar, Khajiit male -- Martyrius Arruntius, Imperial male -- Jusole Asciele, Breton male. What do these three names have in common?

All three at one time or another represented an inconvenience to a Western noble prince named Helseth.

Anhar was an agent for Eastern ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural

Martyrius Arruntius was a city alderman of Wayrest. Prince Helseth's liaison with the alderman's married daughter was potentially embarrassing to the Prince -- especially when Martyrius Arruntius forcefully pressed his suit for 'predatory adultery' in Wayrest's courts. Many thought it strange that Martyrius Arruntius should suddenly fall ill and die of 'exhaustion' on the eve of the trial. The suit was settled out of court, and charges dismissed. The Imperial coroners ruled that Martyrius Arruntius had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, admittedly, but natural.

Jusole Asciele was a diplomatic attache at the High Rock embassy in Wayrest. Widely rumored to be an intelligence officer, Jusole Asciele was often seen at court, taking a great interest in the affairs of Queen Barenziah and her family. It is said that Wayrest can be a beastly uncomfortable place in high summer. Perhaps the Breton's constitution was ill-suited to the relentless heat and pestilential swarms of the southern Iliac. Jusole Asciele took suddenly ill one evening, and within three days he was dead. Once again, Imperial coroners ruled that Jusole Asciele had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, yes, but natural.

And these, The Common Tongue notes significantly, are only the 'A's on the list.

Some have quietly suggested that Prince Helseth was the most accomplished and subtle poisoner in the West. But The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. [Admittedly, the absence of such proof could count as qualifying towards the title of a 'most accomplished and subtle poisoner'.]

And, further, The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner, or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan's was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.

----------------------------------------------

“No, I don’t. Have you tried the Craftsmen’s Hall?” I was answered by the imperial woman at the armory. I could only shake my head.

----------------------------------------------

The trader, Sunel Hlas, carried an amazing variety of bolts; bonemold, corkbulb, iron, silver, steel… but no viper-bolts.

“Almost as hard to find as a good woman, eh?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Dispirited now, and showing it, I stumbled out into the cool evening. The rain had finally stopped, and activity in the Bazaar was slowly picking up again. I stopped to chat with another of the horde of young dunmer populating this city (Mournhold—its women especially—attracts young mer like moon sugar draws khajiits). This one was at least well-informed, if still not very bright.

“You hear about that fella who laid out the Velas wizards?”

“What?”

“Aye, some fellow named Sethyas, I hear. Killed one of the wizards right here in the Bazaar. It was exciting!”

I shook my head—exciting, for the sake of The Nine. Still, I needed to know more. “You haven’t seen this fellow—Sethyas you said his name was?—around again, have you?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in a couple days, I think."

“Oh… well, thanks.” I started to walk away, but decided to pose one more question. “You know where I can find some viper-bolts around here?”

He smiled, happy to be helpful, I think. “I’m not sure, but the pawnbroker always has some weird stuff. Maybe he could find what you need.” He pointed to another storefront. I thanked the mer—and went to see this pawnbroker.

The modest sign over the door beckoned, “Ten-Tongues Weerhat, Pawnbroker Extraordinaire”. That slime! I hadn’t seen him since…

I burst inside, blades drawn, and leapt across the counter—knocking my countryman over. He shielded his face with his hands.

“Ten-Tongues, you scum! I should have killed you back in Argonia!”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Mar 1 2007, 01:43 AM

I've been enjoying your subtle weaving of Al and Sethyas' lives so far canis. Really neat way of doing things. It also appears that Al knows Ten-Tongues. Looks like their meetinigs were very civil.

Or perhaps he could be making a aggressive jest. But that would seem to be out of Al's character somewhat. We shall see I guess.

Posted by: Black Hand Mar 1 2007, 08:44 AM

Ooooo! Ten-Tounges and Al have a history, eh? This should be good.

Posted by: canis216 Mar 11 2007, 06:22 AM

Short update. It's a busy weekend.

Shady Characters

“You, and the rest of Shadowscales!” I raged over the cowering pawnbroker, Ten-Tongues.

“I was following orders! We all were!” he hissed out between his hands. “I have nothing to do with it anymore!”

“Liar! Always a liar! Why are you here? Why are you in Morrowind? Did you send you to find me?” I raised Kills-You-Dead, ready to strike.

“No! They kicked me out when—when—“

“When you couldn’t run me down and kill me.”

“That’s over now, Heik-Auri. Look at me… I sell cheap trinkets, scrolls, curiosities! I can’t even cast a decent chameleon spell anymore!”

I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard that last. “Hah! So you’ve finally learned that magick is fickle, eh? Ha-hah!”

Ten-Tongues finally lowered his hands. “Have a good laugh, will ya? Well, at least I’m out of that dirty business. I never wanted to be an assassin, anyway. Just because I was born under the Shadow… but from the looks of you, I’d say you’re still deep in it. You—you still carry Kills-You-Dead. Damn, and Sneaks-in-Shadows always said it wouldn’t stay long with someone unworthy—“

“He was the unworthy one. I don’t regret his death.” I looked at the blades in my hand. This was ridiculous—he wasn’t even armed, Ten-Tongues. “Alright, get up.”

“You’re—you’re not angry anymore?”

“No, I’m still angry. But I’ve got more important business than settling old scores. Like settling new scores.”

“New scores? Heik-Auri, you may be good with a blade, but someday you’re going to need to learn to stop making enemies.”

“Shut up. You know nothing of my business, these days. What you do know, as you say, is the acquisition of odd goods. And I need a somewhat uncommon item.”

“Ah, now we are speaking on my terms. What do you need? How can I atone for the wrongs of the past, marshbrother?”

I held up my crossbow. “I need viper-bolts. A lot of them.”

“Viper-bolts? Sounds unpleasant… I don’t carry them—but I can get them for you, I think. It might be a couple days.”

My face fell, I think. And I was disappointed. “A couple days? Damn… alright, I’ll have to lay low a few days, but we can make a deal.”

Ten-Tongues started to make a note in his ledger, and asked almost as an aside, “Where will you be staying? I can alert you when the bolts have arrived.”

“No need for that. I’ll stop by in a couple days, check on your progress.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“You did try to kill me once.”

He made a face as if to protest, but I turned abruptly and stepped out the door, into the cool dewy evening.

---------------------------------------------

Later I lay on my bed in The Winged Guar staring up at the ceiling. I had spoken once more to Ra’Tesh—still no sign of Sethyas Velas. I was having very little luck. He had mentioned something about Velas Manor, the abode of one of the wizards killed by the new Grandmaster of the Morag Tong. Perhaps I would investigate it, come morning. He may have left some sort of sign—beyond a dead wizard, I hoped.

I thought also of Ten-Tongues. He had earned his name for a reason—he went beyond having a forked tongue. What if he were still connected to the Shadowscales? He himself was a pathetic pawnbroker—I could kill him anytime I chose; if the need arose. But what if—what if he knew others still in the business? Pawnbrokers know all sorts of shady characters.

People like me.

Posted by: jack cloudy Mar 11 2007, 09:17 PM

I was convinced that Al would kill Tongue. Guess I was wrong. The conversation was nice though. Next one, please.

Posted by: canis216 May 29 2007, 05:08 AM

Alright, I've finally returned to this forum. I can't say how often I'll be updating in the future, as my job this summer will be taking me into the backcountry quite a bit. All I can say about these last couple of months--my absence--is that I was both busy, busy writing RL stuff (somewhat autobiographical in nature) and that I was a bit burned out from Morrowind and my character, a situation somewhat akin to Black Hand's past hiatus. I'll try to avoid staying away for so long again--I mean, I missed the beginning of a new tale from Treydog! It's good to be back, as inconstant as my being back might be. Here is my update.


Collecting Debts

Mournhold, it is said, is a city of light and magic. Gavis Velas had been drawn by its magic—the power within those indomitable walls. He had meant to put out the light, it would seem, or whatever light was left. Now all that was left of the powerful conjurer was blood, dried and drying. It pooled on the floor of his elaborate manor or it splattered on the walls—art, of a sort, if you look at the world from the hilt end of a blade.

An argonian crouched by the door, surveying the scene, reading the story of the battle, murmuring to himself.

“The wizard stood here… here was an ogrim, look at the size of that print…ooh, one of Sheogorath’s minions…”

He moved about easily and quietly in his dark brown robe, finally to opposite side of the room.

“Impressive leap… daedra spreading… the wizard turns to face…”

He looked up at the blood splattered on the manor walls.

“Long blade. Not bad, not bad at all.”

The argonian walked up the stairs, and found it undisturbed. The scattered chests, large and small, were still locked. The argonian opened them, yielding a smattering of septims and a few restorative potions of quality.

Seeing nothing else of interest, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made his way to the front door, letting out a sigh before taking the knob in hand.

“Where are you now, Sethyas Velas?”

------------------------------------------------------

I stepped out of Velas Manor and right into the path of a hulking nord. Any hope I had that he might know where to find my quarry disappeared as he blurted out, “Hello, nice man! You see Dilborn? Dilborn my friend! Dilborn gone three days now, and Thrud sad.” I had stumbled upon the dimmest bulb in the city of light. Thrud continued, “Dilborn big and mighty wizard. Dilborn read books to Thrud... all the words, big words, two, maybe three times. Now Dilborn gone, no one read books to Thrud. Thrud sad. Thrud miss friend Dilborn. You help Thrud find Dilborn?”

Dilborn, I now remembered, was the name of the naked breton I’d seen being held hostage down in the sewers. I felt a small pang of guilt as I remembered his face, crestfallen, as I practically told the thugs, “Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him.”

“Oh, all right Thrud, I’ll go find your friend Dilborn. You just stay up here and wait—I’ll go get him.”

I left the nord standing there—he tried to come along, but I distracted him by pointing away at a “dragon”—and hustled over to the sewer entrance. Thankfully the goblins had yet to repopulate that stretch of sewer, so I was able to make my way back to Drathas Nerus and his captive with relative ease. He greeted me warmly.

“Oh, the lizard again. Come to rescue your little debt-ridden friend, perhaps? How are you doing down there, Dilborn? Not so well, eh? Well, that's what happens to people who owe me money and neglect to pay.”

“Don’t call me…” I stopped myself. “Nevermind,” I sighed, “yes, this time I’m here to cover Dilborn’s debt.”

The thug smiled, and talked as only those who love the sound of their own voices can, “Excellent. That's right, lizard. We indulge in a bit of gambling down here from time to time, away from the prying eyes of the guards, you know? Dilborn is one of our best customers. He currently owes... if my memory serves me right... yes, Dilborn owes me the sum total of 3,000 septims. And he's not leaving here until he pays his debts.”

“Can you knock that down at all, Drathas? Professional courtesy, perhaps?”

The mer looked me over, smirking. I hate that. “Not for you, my little lizard friend. If they owe me money, even my closest associates have trouble persuading me to back off a debt.”

“Alright Drathas, I’ll pay you your 3000 drakes. Here.” I pulled out a small bag of hundred-septim coins and tossed it over, containing my frustration with the thug.

“All right, he can go.” The thug waved a hand to one of his lackeys. “Alam, remove his bracers. Dilborn, never show your face to me again, or I'll slice it off with a rusty spoon, you hear me?”

-----------------------------------------------------

“Thank you, argonian. I am in your debt. Alas, in my present financially embarrassed condition, it is a debt I cannot repay. I hope that, under the circumstances, your own virtue will be sufficient reward. I assure you ... I'm everlastingly grateful to be united with my faithful friend Thrud.”

“I figured as much, Dilborn. But I’ll deal with the loss of my gold a lot better if you take this robe of mine, too. You’re pathetic to look at, you know.” Dilborn hung his head, but he accepted my brown robe, after I emptied its pockets and pulled my other robe—the black one—on over my armor. “Now get the hell back to the surface, Dilborn—Thrud is waiting for you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drathas owes me 3000 septims. And he’s not leaving here until he pays his debts.”

As I pulled out my crossbow I added, “Assuming that somebody collects his body.”

Posted by: jack cloudy May 29 2007, 06:52 AM

Excellent dialogue. I loved the rusty spoon comment and of course the final bit.
,,Yeah, I just paid. But I'm going to get it back anyway so why should I care?"

I know what you're thinking. Did I say Lizard two, or three times? Well, what is it? Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

Sorry, I always wanted to say that. Don't mess with the Argonian assassin.

Posted by: canis216 May 29 2007, 07:41 AM

The rusty spoon comment is actually original game dialogue. Rogues like Drathas get great lines...

And yes, our argonian is definitely not one to be trifled with.

I like playing the encounter in-game in a similar way to what I've depicted here. Pay up, get Dilborn and Thrud reunited, then kill the thugs. It's a sort of "five-finger" discount if you will, although it might be more appropriate to call it a "many viper-bolts lodged in the chest" discount.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet May 30 2007, 03:00 AM

Yay! Al's back!

Oh yea, and canis as well. I won't forget about you.


Fun update. It seems that there's always something in between Al and his goal to find Sethyas. I wonder what'll actually happen once they meet?

Posted by: canis216 Jun 3 2007, 10:44 PM

A Fist Full of Septims

An argonian in a black robe sat at the bar of The Winged Guar, the most exclusive inn of Morrowind’s most exclusive city. He was sharing a drink with the bartender, a nattily-attired khajiit—the argonian drank brandy, the khajiit drank flin. They seemed to be discussing the bag of gold that sat between them—not an argument, it seemed, but more a trading of stories.

Ra’Tesh remembers that one…

The little cloth sack of gold appeared to be stained red. Blood, perhaps? The two betmer are smiling though, laughing even. If that is blood on the sack, there is none to be found on the argonian, the one who produced it.

Ra’Tesh, the bartender, turned away from his friend to assist another customer, a young redguard man. He does not appear to be as well off as either the bartender or the argonian—his dress is drab and he orders shein. The redguard starts to chat up the black-clad argonian—he speaks loudly; snatches of conversation can be heard over the usual tavern clamor.

Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment… I got laid off from my job… the market for pillows has really bottomed out… 25 pillows per person…

The argonian made some sort of response, inaudible over the din. He seems a bit annoyed, but the redguard is a little sauced so he doesn’t notice.

It didn't take long for the money guys… all our pillow venture capital…1500-septim chairs… scamp skin… crafting pillows… creating the perfect pillow…days are over… need to find work.

The argonian said something else to the redguard—something like “I’ll let you know if I hear about anything” and then turned back to his drink and the bloody bag of gold. Ra’Tesh sat across from the argonian once more and they resumed their conversation, but more quietly, with none of the smiles and laughs of before.

An orc sitting at the far corner table is staring at the conversation but trying to look like he isn’t staring. He is trying to read the lips, trying to write something on a little notepad sitting on his knee, under the table. He is mumbling a little; whispering to himself.

“The hunter was here last night.” Who’s he talking about? Velas? Okay, so now the argonian asks “Where is he now?” This spook is looking for that assassin? Why? “Ra’Tesh thinks you should look around the palace.”

--------------------------------------------------

“Alright, so you tell me that The Winged Guar is this mer’s hangout, so I go there to scope it out, see who he might be dealing with. I don’t see the dunmer there—“
“You should have stayed around longer.”

“Could you let me finish please?”

“Go on.”

“I don’t see the dunmer, but I come back here because I see someone asking about the dunmer, some argonian dressed all in black. He sits there talking to the barkeep—I think they must have known each other already—with this sack of gold in front of him. The sack is bloody, like he might have killed someone for it. They were talking about it and laughing, and I think the barkeep said something about whoever was killed being a good customer but not so good that he’d be missed. I couldn’t tell exactly what the argonian was saying most of the time ‘cause he was wearing a hood and kinda facing away from me.”

“You’re a spy, Bakh, not a guard. What does this argonian have to do with Sethyas Velas?”

“I was getting to that! Ahem. So eventually they started talking about the dunmer and they get all serious. The argonian was trying to find out what Velas had been up to, trying to find out where would be. He said something about an “invalid contract”, whatever that means. I couldn’t catch all of what he said. But then the khajiit, the bartender, he told the argonian to check around here, around the palace. He said that Velas was doing some sort of work for the King.”

“The bartender knows too much.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, bartenders always know too much. I’d worry more about the argonian.”

“Why? So he killed somebody. I can have the guards keep an eye out for him.”

“I did some more asking around. I think the argonian is an assassin of some sort. A dangerous sort.”

“You think?”

“Well—and this is just what I hear—he trained with the some sort of elite assassination group in Black Marsh. And he keeps himself better armed than even you. But this is just what I hear.”

“Another assassin in our city.”

“Yes sir.”

“And he’s going to be sneaking around the palace.”

“Sounds like it, sir.”

“We may need to import some aid from Cyrodiil.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jun 4 2007, 04:22 AM

Ooo, lots of mystery in this update. You leave us wanting more canis! I want to know who are these mysterious talkers. Though I do wonder if the first part of this update was taken from an outside perspective or of another character perspective? It kinda has the feeling of both but I'm leaning to an outside perspective.

Anyways, keep up the solid work!

Posted by: treydog Jun 4 2007, 07:22 PM

I really enjoy the way you portray Mournhold. I also like Al's increasing frustration as he finds himself stumbling into various Tribunal quests during his search for Sethyas. The perspective shifts add a layer of complexity and detail that brings the story even more vividly to life.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jun 4 2007, 07:30 PM

I think the first part was taken from the palace's informant's viewpoint.

Anyway, it was quite an intriguing update. Hmm, I wonder what the help from Cyrodiil is. New DB dudes? Hmm, DB=Dark Brotherhood. Let's see.......Dudes in Black. Sorry, couldn't help myself. Hey, this is how Luper is going to call them. Thanks for the inspiration, Canis!

Posted by: minque Jun 8 2007, 02:38 PM

Hmmm this really is some piece of good work! It´s always very interesting how different writers interpret Mournhold! (City of fear, city of deceit)

Posted by: canis216 Jun 15 2007, 07:27 AM

Many thanks for the praise, friends, and for the inspiration your own stories provide. It was Trey's stories, in fact, that kept me coming here (lurking, for so long) after I was first lured in by Sinder Velvin's parody.

Yes, I've been messing around with perspective, and I'll continue to do it. I might even have a couple of new characters to bring in soon to this strange cast Morrowind provides. Might even screw around with time some, like here (ever so slightly). But enough foreshadowing! I've got an update to provide, and more to write, since I'm on an extended weekend (5 blessed days!) in my Missoula home after working and camping out for a couple of weeks near Bozeman. The ideas are bursting forth!
================================================


Assassins, Spies, and Smiths

“He’s working for the monarchy now? That doesn’t make sense.”

Ra’Tesh nodded his head and flashed a toothy, rueful grin. “Ra’Tesh hears that Tenius Delitian is very persuasive, in his way. Ra’Tesh hears that the hunter had little choice.”

I nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. No choice. But it complicates matters. Tracking someone who is being tracked is...” I glanced about the room, “risky.”

“Yes, Ra’Tesh understands. You don’t want to bring attention to yourself.”

“Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin.”

------------------------------------------------------

I downed my fifth brandy of the night and briefly scanned the roomed before turning back to the bar. “I don’t think he’ll be coming tonight, Ra’Tesh.”

“Hunters keep odd hours.”

“Yes. But you said he’s been coming in regularly, staying in that room… I just have a feeling that he won’t be tonight.”

“Ra’Tesh is getting a feeling, too.”

“What?” I set my bottle down on the bar.

Ra’Tesh nodded towards the upstairs. “The orc in the corner, he just leaves. Ra’Tesh thinks he was writing something under the table, looking this way a lot.”

“A spy.”

“You think so, Al? For Helseth?”

I barely caught the words—I’d made my own conclusions. I was already up, walking briskly way from the bar. In pursuit.

-------------------------------------------------------

Of course he was working for Helseth. I usually don’t spend much time in Mournhold—I consider it unhealthy—but I’d heard the rumors. And more. A Blade hears many things.

Still, I wanted to know precisely where this spy was going. Just in case.

I made my way out to the balcony of The Winged Guar just in time to see the orc duck inside the Craftsmen’s Hall, next door. If he was suspicious of me—and I’m sure he was—he’d be trying to chat up the local merchants to see what services and goods I’d been buying. The good spy, trying to confirm his intuitions. None of this surprised me—my work with Blades saw to that. But what to do? Should I kill him now, or later? From my perch on the balcony I had a good view of the elite ordinator patrols below. I spotted three, plus one of Almalexia’s Hands. Later. I would kill the spy later.

Who among the craftsmen would talk to the spy? Bols Indalen, of course, knew how I kept myself outfitted, knew that I was looking for viper-bolts too. He had also readily assented when I suggested I keep it quiet. He could be tricked into talking, but probably wouldn’t talk about me openly—the armorer was extremely impressed with my arsenal, and surely would have guessed my profession, and the consequences of speaking openly about it.

The apprentice—the “damned idiot” Indalen had spoken of—was too busy shirking his duties to take much notice of me, I thought. Though it would be a pleasure to gut, er, silence the arrogant young imperial, it wouldn’t be necessary.

I hadn’t used any other services in there… but there was that mad weaponsmithing orc wailing away at his force not five paces away while I did business with the armorer. And orcs are very clannish; most of the orcs on Vvardenfell are at least acquainted with each other, and in the rest of the Empire the pattern generally holds… and perhaps the weaponsmith would remember me. Perhaps I was in big trouble.

Posted by: canis216 Jun 15 2007, 08:09 AM

Overheard

I see a lot of folks in here. Yeah, argonians sometimes. Black robe? Shady type? Uh no, I don’t remember anyone like that. No, I really couldn’t say…

-------------------------------------------------

Argonian? Do you mock me, plebe? I’m too busy preparing for life as a free adventurer too bother with such trivialities—I aspire to heights greater than you've ever dreamed of. Do you think monsters and evil men will stand any chance when they behold this majestic specimen of humanity striding toward them? No! They will quail and faint at the sight of me. I will wave their corpses aside with a swipe of my hand…

------------------------------------------------

Well, I don’t get too many argonian customers. I think Effe-Tei, the palace mage, is my only argonian regular. That ‘Ten-Tongues’ fellow used to pester me a lot about how I did certain scroll enchantments, but I haven’t seen him lately…

------------------------------------------------

I was wondering when you’d get around to me, Bakh. Been a while since I’ve seen you slinking around here. What is it this time? Huh? Shady argonian character, some kind of killer? Yeah, I think I’ve seen somebody like that. Needed armor repair, had some exotic weapons…

Posted by: canis216 Jun 15 2007, 09:28 PM

Keeping to the Shadows

How long has he been in there? Ten minutes? Twenty? He must be getting some answers. I could burst in there, I think, spray him and everyone else with viper-bolts, escape the ordinators, and get the hell out of Mournhold.

No, no. I shake my head. One single spy isn’t worth it, isn’t worth all that. Crazed thought. I think I’ve had too much brandy this evening. No, the way is to wait for him to enter a nice shady spot and then strike, from behind, with one hand over his mouth and the other raking Kills-You-Dead across his throat. Or maybe I could perch on the roof of one of these manor buildings, put a bolt in his heart as soon as he steps outside the door of the damned Craftsmen’s Hall, let those elite ordinators frantically search the plaza for the shooter while I lounge around above them.

Too late; the orc spy is out the door and making for the Temple courtyard—maybe he’s on his way to the palace already, or maybe he’s heading for the Great Bazaar to so he can find more information. I don’t know—I have to follow. I eased my way over the balcony’s edge just as the spy went out through the gate.

It is getting darker by the moment in Mournhold, so I have little trouble following the orc even as he seems to grow ever more nervous. Perhaps he feels like he is being watched or followed; he takes cursory glances back but I blend easily into the shadows. But it may just be the spy’s normal paranoia. I too, know this feeling. Every Blade does. Even ex-Blades. In any case, he doesn’t see me. He does pause by the giant gate-door leading into the palace complex, but not long; he moves on to the way to the Great Bazaar, and enters. A moment later I follow.

The orc is making a beeline for Ten-Tongues’ shop. Of course. He figures that one of Mournhold’s few hist folk would remember if he ran into another, one who just happened to wear dark hooded robes and carry the tools of an assassin’s trade. And he figures correctly, more than he could have possibly guessed.

He doesn’t leave Ten-Tongues’ shop until forty minutes have passed.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jun 16 2007, 01:49 AM

Ohh the subtleties of espionage. So very fun to read. It'll be interesting to see how Al will finally get his hands on this orc. Perhaps the orc will convince Al to spare him? We'll see I assume.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jun 16 2007, 01:40 PM

Postmachine alert! What Mallet said, this is fun to read.

Now with the forty minutes, I assume that Ten-Tongues let all ten of his tongues do their work well. Too bad for him, but Al is in a sensitive mood right now and rather easily provoked to 'silencing' the talker. The fact that they aren't exactly friends doesn't help the tongued one either.

Posted by: minque Jun 16 2007, 03:52 PM

Good read Canis! And as a matter of fact it was Trey who inspired me as well! Well I´m suffering from writer´s block, so I just try to catch up on the other stories here, and yours is a very enjoyable read!

Posted by: canis216 Jun 16 2007, 08:17 PM

Post-machine alert indeed! I told you the ideas were bursting forth!

An Old Friend

‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat was just about to put away a considerable sack of gold when a familiar figure, dressed in black, strode into his pawnshop. The pawnbroker took a deep breath before speaking. “This is unexpected, Heik-Auri. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another day.”

The newcomer, Heik-Auri, shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, but his eyes flashed red. But his voice was icy calm. “One tires of waiting around at the tavern, so I figured I'd stop by and see if my order came in early.”

“Well… you are in luck, Heik-Auri. I just picked up your viper-bolts this morning.” Ten-Tongues rummaged around below his counter until he could produce a cylinder full of the deadly projectiles. “Two hundred fifty bolts, Heik-Auri.”

“Excellent. How much?”

“For you, twelve hundred septims.”

Heik-Auri rummaged about in the folds of his robe until he could produce a number of fifty- and hundred-septim coins. He set them firmly on the counter and took up the cylinder of bolts. “Now we have other business, Ten-Tongues. Like the spy.”

Ten-Tongues went white. Or as close to white as an argonian can get.

“I—I swear I told him no—“

Heik-Auri interrupted. “He was in here for more than half an hour, Ten-Tongues. You told him everything, didn’t you. For how much? That sack of gold, there?”

“Five thousand septims.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Ten-Tongues. You always did have a way with words. I’m going to put a stop to that.”

Ten-Tongues pulled an old iron longsword up off the shelf—Heik-Auri burst into laughter. “You mean to fight me with that old thing? You couldn’t cut crab meat with that. Don’t you have anything better?”

The pawnbroker kept the sword raised. “I told you, Heik-Auri, that I am a Shadowscale no more. I haven’t been in a fight since—“

“Since you failed to hunt me down and kill me?” Heik-Auri interrupted.

“No. After they kicked me out I—I did a bit of freelancing.”

For a moment Ten-Tongues fell silent, and looked down to his feet.

“No one likes an unaffiliated assassin.”

“Yes, Heik-Auri, and that includes the assassin himself. But then I hired on with the Dark Brotherhood—I thought it was the burden of working alone that weighed most heavily upon me, but the Brotherhood was worse. I don’t care to speak of the things I did.”

“So you got out of that business. Why couldn’t you leave me to my own, Ten-Tongues? You’ve made trouble for me, and it will mean trouble for you.”

“I am sorry.”

Heik-Auri drew both his blades—the vicious glowing daedric dagger Kills-You-Dead and the simple, elegant, black shortsword of ebony. “I am impressed by your contrition, Ten-Tongues. And believe me; I know much of what plagues the assassin’s conscience. I too, have thought much of leaving the trade.” The assassin’s voice suddenly took a harsh turn. “And you have made that harder for me, here in this city of the damned.” He flipped the ebony blade around, thrusting the hilt Ten-Tongues’ way. “You will fight me with this.”

“A fine weapon, Heik-Auri. I’m afraid I’m no good with one of these anymore.”

“Take a moment to feel it out. I can do no more for you. If we weren’t of neighboring clans—if we hadn’t known the same hardships, the same suffering—I’d just have cut your throat. I don’t like to fight fair.”

“Yes, Heik-Auri, I understand. I thank you for the honor.” Ten-Tongues waved the blade about a little, getting a feel for the balance, how it might best be used. He thought of the sparring sessions deep in the swamps of interior Black Marsh, the occasional weekend rambles through Greenglade, the stern lessons of Sneaks-in-Shadows, and one drunken, stumbling student who tore it all asunder. Was it all for naught? Or for the best? He shook his head, and his thoughts returned to the blade—the heft felt inexplicably comfortable now, like the weight had never left his hand.

“I’m ready now, old friend.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jun 16 2007, 08:47 PM

Hmmm, Al is acting honourable for a change. I guess he really respects his race, an admirable trait given his Argonian race. It'll be interesting to see if Ten Tongues can handle Al. He's currently has the reach advantage and an ebony weapon certainly provides some bite. Then again, with Kills-You-Dead it doesn't take long for it to live up to its namesake.

I look forward to the oncoming duel!

Posted by: jack cloudy Jun 16 2007, 09:31 PM

Yeah, the honour surprised me. Honestly, I thought Al would just take the viperbolts, pay and then do a 'try-out' by shooting one in ten's heart. After that, he would retrieve his money and the sack of gold.

Still, it is a good update. Good dialogue.

Posted by: canis216 Jun 17 2007, 04:12 AM

The Old Ways

Two hist-folk faced each other on the bottom floor of the pawnshop, standing eight feet and eight years. On the east side of the room stood a figure wielding a daedric dagger, fearsome with its serrated edge and sickly glow of enchantment. The figure had just pulled off his black robe, revealing the chitin armor beneath—normal save for its blackened appearance. This argonian looked very fit in spite of the nicks and scars that could be seen in the few spots where his red-brown scaly skin was exposed. He took an aggressive stance, holding the dagger menacingly before him. His left hand he held back to his side, closed around a viper-bolt. He was accustomed to fighting with two blades, so carrying the bolt in his off hand was a comfort. It could also be brought into play in the fight to come, though neither combatant had to fear the venomous enchantment—they were both immune to poison.

The other combatant stood to the west, holding an ebony shortsword in a defensive position. He wore an exquisite shirt and his muscles were soft and undefined, in stark contrast to his opponent, who seemed hard as ebony yet limber as well-watered wickwheat. Yet the soft, unpracticed merchant was smiling almost serenely while his battle-hardened foe’s face was grim and rigid like stone.

The assassin, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, dressed dark as night—he made the first move, two syrupy stutter-steps forward. The merchant, Ten-Tongues Weerhat, managed to block the assassin’s dagger, slashing rightward, but could not defend himself from the viper-bolt planted in the soft flesh just beneath his right shoulder. He winced in pain and tried to push his assailant away. The combatants separated; blood dripped from the bolt clenched in the assassin’s left hand and trickled from the wound in Ten-Tongue’s chest.

“I had forgotten what it felt like to be stabbed.”

“You won’t forget again.”

The combatants assumed the same positions as before, and it was incumbent upon Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun to initiate the action once more. He darted in, feinting another slash with Kills-You-Dead but instead planted his left foot against the pawnbroker’s chest, sending Ten-Tongues flying into the wall. He, the assassin, did not press the attack—he resumed his fighting stance across the room.

“So you aim to punish me, Heik-Auri?” the merchant asked as he finally staggered to his feet.

“You need to get your bearings.”

Ten-Tongues assumed his defensive stance once more. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun dashed in the suddenly, made a quick leftward spin—Ten-Tongue’s attempted hack skidded uselessly off the assassin’s hard chitin armor—and brought the hilt of Kills-You-Dead down upon the merchant’s skull. Hard. Ten-Tongues collapsed in a heap.

-----------------------------------------------------

No, Weerhat, you need to really believe. If you do not believe that you cannot be seen, than how can you expect your opponent to believe it? Better, better—but you cannot forget your belief during the course of attack. This is difficult, but all born under the Shadow must learn to do so. Yes, excellent…..

You have come along way, shadowkin. Now we spar. Here is a new one. He thinks he is something special with that ebony blade, but we shall teach him some humility, eh? Go…..

Hmm… we must work on that blade work. Watch his arm tense there, but watch those hips all the more and you will see from where the strike is really coming. Let us make those strikes of yours really hit home. Do not just hack and slash—that is to be expected from any novice swordsman, is easily avoided. The thrust—quick, well-placed—is harder to see coming, difficult to block. Find the holes in his armor, Weerhat!

------------------------------------------------------

Ten-Tongues staggered back to his feet, grinning widely.

“Again.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun looked a little puzzled now. He discerned something of a wild look in his opponent’s eyes—it didn’t worry him, but it was curious. A little bothersome. But he assumed his offensive stance once more, this time with a small flourish of his daedric dagger—it cut the air with a whistle. He moved in once more, spinning with the aim to place a great rent across Ten-Tongue’s chest—but the merchant was no longer there, had vanished almost in front of his eyes. The assassin heard a whistling blade distinct from his own; he dived to floor, rolling away. The slash caught Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun on the side, a glancing blow that still cut a slit along the length of his cuirass. The assassin stood up out of his roll. He could hear his opponent’s footsteps approach but not see. He heard the soft rustle of a silken shirt… he spun quickly away, took the attempted thrust to the heart on his left bicep, and came out of the spin with a savage swipe at what he thought was his opponent’s back.

“Ahhh!” Ten-Tongues Weerhat materialized before the assassin, his fine shirt torn across the middle of his back and bleeding through. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun threw him against the wall.

“I see you remember your old skills now—I toyed with you perhaps a bit too long. Still, your lack of training—weak muscles, dulled senses—betrayed you. But in a way, I suppose, that bit of remembrance has salvaged some of your honor. Or maybe just bad memories from bad times.” the assassin hissed harshly into Ten-Tongues’ ear.

“I remember… hate.”

“Isn’t that all they really taught us, Ten-Tongues? And isn’t that why you quit the business? I’d like to do that too, but not just yet. Not at your hand. Goodbye, old comrade.”

The assassin drew Kills-You-Dead across Ten-Tongues’ throat. An ebony shortsword fell to the floor.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jun 17 2007, 07:25 PM

Brilliant battle. That flashback added a nice touch. Now hopefully that scuffle won't bring the Ordinators along.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jun 17 2007, 08:30 PM

I have to agree with Mallet, you've done it again.

The last sentence only served to increase the impact of the whole scene. Good work.

Posted by: canis216 Jun 18 2007, 03:40 AM

Inquisition

“Fedris ought to hear about this.”

“Sir?”

A pair of high ordinators stood at the door of Ten-Tongues Weerhat’s pawnshop, contemplating the pawnbroker’s corpse. The dead mer lay at the base of the stairway, in a pool of his own drying blood. One of the ordinators, the apparent leader of the two, dropped into a crouch over the balls of his feet, moving his gaze from side to side across the tiled floor. He murmured to himself, “Scratches. Clawed feet.” Then he spoke more loudly, “Liodris, check the wounds on that body. I want to know what kind of weapon did this. Be careful where you step.”

“Yes sir.” Liodris Aramel walked carefully across the floor to the body. It lay face down. “Slashing wound to the back, pretty deep. Not a totally clean slice—some ripping. I think the blade may have been a little jagged or serrated, sir.”

“Daedric dagger, Liodris?”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. A hard swing.”

“Any other wounds on the back?”

“No sir. But I do see a contusion on top of the head. Yes, it looks like the hilt of that dagger.”

“Alright, flip him over.”

“Well sir, I think we can pin down the cause of death. Weerhat’s throat is open wide. Same weapon, I’d guess.”

“Was it cut open from in front or behind?”

“Judging from the cut and the position of the body, behind. There’s some blood up on the wall there too—looks like the killer got the lizard up against the wall and finished him execution-style.”

“I can accept that. Any other wounds?”

“A few bruises—there was definitely a struggle—and a puncture next to the arm pit on the right side. Looks like… a bolt? Odd use of a bolt. Looks like he was stabbed with it and the assailant pulled it out. Like he was using it as a second blade or something.”

“Let me run this by you, Liodris. What I think we have here is a duel. Weerhat stood over there”—he pointed to a spot a couple paces north of the body—“and the killer stood opposite. The killer was the aggressor—I don’t see any sign of Weerhat advancing west but I see the killer dancing over his way. And the killer was toying with Weerhat; these moves are too fast for any pawnbroker to counter. Look at those marks.” He pointed to some indistinct scratches. “That’s a fast spin. Could you counter that? This killer was some kind of professional.”

“Pardon me sir, but who would send an assassin to kill a pawnbroker? And why the duel? Why not just take him by surprise and cut his throat?”

“The killer was an assassin, but this wasn’t an assassination.”

Liodris gaped at his commander from behind the silver mask. “Sir?”

“The killer was another argonian. And he knew Weerhat. It was duel, but do you see Weerhat’s weapon? No. And Weerhat didn’t have any proper dueling weapons anyway. I’ve visited this shop before—his blades were terrible. You couldn’t fight an honorable duel with one. So the killer loaned him one.”

“What? Sir, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Not much about argonians does, Liodris. But hear me out. The killer was using a bolt in his left hand because usually he uses two blades. The one he didn’t prefer, he let Weerhat use. Argonians are funny like that; even if they hate one of their countrymen they think it dishonorable to duel one unfairly.”

“How do you know all this, sir?”

“My family lived in Tear for a few years when I was not much younger than you, Liodris. I was glad when we moved to Vivec, but you never forget Tear, no matter how hard you try. Enough about that. Let’s follow this blood trail outside. It probably just leads to the canal, but maybe this one got careless.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jun 18 2007, 04:25 AM

Hmm looks like we're dealing with a fairly intelligent (or at least observant) ordinator here. Perhaps his experience in Tear will give this character a certain demeanor on the Argonian race. I guess it all depends on his stance on slavery as I bet he was sure to see some terrible things down there.

I sense a very engaging hunt is bound to happen. Lots of hunting going on in Mournhold it appears...

Posted by: treydog Jun 18 2007, 07:26 PM

Exciting continuation to the story- I really enjoyed the back-story you created for Ten-Tongues- and the duel. You make Mournhold into a seemingly real place- everyone has a story, nothing happens in a vacuum, and people tend to notice dead bodies.... Great work.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 2 2007, 03:30 AM

The Morning After

A faint strumming noise compliments the usual morning quiet in the downstairs bar of the Winged Guar, save for the occasional dull clang of a missed note. It is not unpleasant, but it is enough to rouse Ra’Tesh, the khajiti bartender. He steps out of his small back room to take in the typical early morning scene—a few stray bottles left sitting on the tables, a few dirty plates scattered about—and the less typical but still-familiar shape of Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun seated at one of the corner tables in his black robe. The argonian is carefully plucking the strings of the lute sitting in his lap. The tune he massaged out of the lute was slow and unsteady, soporific like a smoking leaf of hackle-lo. Ra’Tesh spoke first.

“The Sun-Lingerer returns. What happened?”

The argonian looked up from his playing, mildly surprised. “Five in the morning. I figured you’d be deep in sleep by now, after the night shift. You cut off the tap at three, right?” Ra’Tesh doesn’t answer. “So, what happened? Things that shouldn’t have, friend.”

“The kinds of things that Ra’Tesh does not want to know about?”

“You could say that.” For a moment Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun went back to playing the lute, hitting the notes a little better now, half-whispering half-singing the words in a tongue utterly unfamiliar to Ra’Tesh.

“So the orsimer is dead?”

The argonian hit a stray note, but kept on playing, shaking his head. “No, not him.”

“The pawnbroker?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun stopped playing and looked up at the khajiit. “How’d you guess?”

A faint grin spread across the khajiit’s face. “Ra’Tesh has seen that lute in Ten-Tongues’ shop in the Great Bazaar; the lute with the sloppy finish and bad tuning. Ra’Tesh wonders why one such as you would kill one such as him.”

“It’s complicated. Goes back to Black Marsh. I can tell you about it. But first I need some food. Got any crab meat?”

-------------------------------------------------------

At 7:30 Mitanne Limax stepped out of her rented room to the sight of a black-clad argonian and the khajiti bartender conversing quietly over plates of crab meat, scrib jerky, and scrambled kwama eggs. She dabbed on a little bug musk—the Cyrodiil had some bartering to do—and left the otherwise empty inn to the betmer.

“So you got out of there and the orsimer was gone?” Ra’Tesh asked, pouring himself a little flin.

“Yeah. I was kind of hoping he’d stick around the Bazaar a little longer asking questions, so I could keep tracking him, but I must have messed around with Ten-Tongues too much. Wishful thinking, anyway—I’m sure the son of a guar told him everything he needed to know.”

“So what’s next?”

“Ideally, I’d just find Sethyas Velas and get the hell out of a Mournhold. I’ve already got a good hiding place back on Vvardenfell, if I can just get the Morag Tong to leave me alone. He still hasn’t come back?”

Ra’Tesh shook his head.

“I may have to start asking around about him, again. But that brings attention.” The argonian swore softly under his breath. “Dammit, nothing is ever simple in this town.”

“Are you thinking that killing Weerhat was a bad idea?”

“I don’t regret killing him—but it does interfere with my larger goals. I don’t think I should be seen around Mournhold any more than necessary. Do you know a place to get armor repairs outside the Holy District?”

“In Almalexia? There’s the Fighter’s Guild in the Moraelyn Plaza. A few smaller armorers scattered about.”

“I’ll try the Fighter’s Guild, then. My chitin got a bit torn up in the fight.”

“So you said. And your arm.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. I took a couple potions. And I’ve been hurt worse before. But I should get some sleep.” the argonian said, finishing his breakfast and washing it down with a pull of brandy.

“If you see Sethyas Velas don’t hesitate to wake me. Otherwise, I’m not here.”

With that Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun marched over to his rented room, locking the door behind him.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 2 2007, 04:44 AM

The Searchers

The guard captain sat easily in the Hall of Ministry as he waited for the Temple steward to finish some business out front—some talk about goblins beneath the city. But what went on beneath the city was hardly his concern—Varus Heleran was much more interested in Mournhold’s mundane problems. These were the sorts of things he was familiar with, the problems that plague all large cities. His father had worked the streets of Tear; Varus knew the cantons, plazas, shops, and manors of Vivec and Mournhold.

He sat easily. Fedris Hler made many ordinators uneasy—not an easy thing to do—but Heleran was secure in the knowledge of his own competence. It was what had brought him to Mournhold to begin with—Fedris Hler had personally seen to his promotion. Finally the Temple steward appeared—tall, bald, and scarred; Heleran could understand how Fedris Hler intimidated others.

“Captain Heleran, it is good to see you. Now, what thing has happened in our fair city that you deem worthy of my attention?”

“There has been a murder, Sera Fedris. I know that murders do occur in our city from time to time, but I think you will see that this is an unusual case.”

“Very well, Captain. Please continue.”

“The pawnbroker Ten-Tongues Weerhat was found dead in his shop in the Great Bazaar. Even as pawnbrokers go he was shady, so this isn’t too surprising, but the manner of his death is odd. It appears that he was killed by an assassin, only this wasn’t an assassination, it was a duel. He was killed by another argonian.”

The Temple steward sat for a moment, thinking. The look on his face, Heleran thought, was rather curious—like Hler had just thought of something brilliant and was trying to suppress a triumphant grin. His eyes shown an even brighter red and he struggled to keep his lips from parting—very odd, the guard captain thought. Finally Fedris Hler spoke—slowly, with care.

“I share your concern about this assassin in our city, Captain. Do you think he was very skilled?”

“I have reason to believe so, Sera Fedris. And I believe he was also well-armed.”

“Do you think you can track down this assassin?”

“He left a blood trail, but it stopped when he washed himself off in the canal. Still, there aren’t all that many argonians in Mournhold. If he doesn’t leave the city we ought to be able to find him. Of course, you never know with assassins.”

“Yes, yes. That’s very true. But I would like you to pursue this case, Captain Heleran. With great care.”

“Of course, Sera Fedris.”

“And when you find this assassin—and knowing you, he will be found—I want you to bring him immediately to me.”

Posted by: jack cloudy Jul 2 2007, 09:36 PM

And so the hunt has begun. Will Al be able to escape the clutches of everyone who has an interest in him? Or will he be shackled and brought before the steward? Will the steward get a viperbolt up his nose? Only the next update can tell. Good work.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jul 3 2007, 10:07 PM

I share Jack's same sentiments. Seems like there's a lot of pursuers looking for our oftentimes drunk assassin (though it seems that this city has been keeping him sober for the most part, probably a good thing too). I fear though that with some many curious people looking for him, the snare will be too large for Al to escape. Nice work as always, canis.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 9 2007, 02:37 AM

The Alleys of Almalexia

When I awoke from my blessedly dreamless sleep in the early evening I discovered a note from Ra’Tesh had been slipped under my room door.

Ra’Tesh tells you that an ordinator has been around asking about one fitting your description. Ra’Tesh tells him nothing, and thinks that most people are too distrustful to tell an ordinator much, but Ra’Tesh also thinks that the Sun-Lingerer would want to know.

This city just keeps getting better and better.

I knew that I needed to get some work done on my outfit, and that I didn’t want to do it in Mournhold proper. I’d already used the services in the Craftsmens’ Hall, and while Bols Indalen was a superb smith I also knew that the orc weaponsmith he worked next to had already talked once and probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. And, I admit, I also feared that I might not be able to resist killing him.

Instead, after going through the motions of my typical fitness routine—forty push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, a few stretches, a bottle of brandy—I made straight for the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and the Gates of Symmanchus.

Naturally the plaza was crawling with guards—both the elite ordinators of Almalexia and the royal guards of King Helseth. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the high walls of Mournhold cast enough of a shadow for me to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. I’m sure Almalexia would have been most displeased that I didn’t stop to admire the statue of her fighting Mehrunes Dagon, but then, I had higher concerns—notably, self-preservation.

Lamentably, the Gates were manned by a pair of elite ordinators. I thought I might try to bluff my way through—I don’t need to use a blade to be persuasive—but I didn’t want to take any chances. I made for the nearest shadows and scaled the wall.

Climbing walls, I hear, is something of a lost art in the Empire. Rumor has it that guards in Cyrodiil will arrest any who care to try, and in Vvardenfell most folks cast a spell or down a potion—levitating wherever they wish to go.

Once atop the wall it was an easy matter to slip down into the shadows beyond, the alleys of Almalexia.

---------------------------------------------------------

“We’re closing, argonian.” The tall, lightly bearded redguard was about to shut the door—about to until I pulled out my bag of fifty-septim pieces. His eyes, already reflecting the nearest streetlamp, glowed brighter.

“Alright, you’ve got my ear. What do you need?”

“I need repairs—and a place to wait while they’re done.”

“Our smith left half an hour ago, so the repairs will have to wait until morning. But you can spread out a bedroll in the training room tonight, if you don’t mind the smell.”

“That’s fine by me.” I handed the redguard a few coins and stepped inside.

He murmured, “Welcome to the Almalexia Guild of Fighters.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jul 9 2007, 05:14 AM

Ooo, creative leeways! Me likely a lot!

I look forward to seeing how this angle goes...

Posted by: jack cloudy Jul 9 2007, 09:18 PM

So Al is going for a disguise. Good thinking. Err, at least I think he's going for a disguise. He mentioned work on his outfit. I hope that that means more than simply repairs.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 10 2007, 01:51 AM

Plans

A single man, dressed in black, sat at a table in the palace basement. He was an imperial; his hair was black with flecks of gray, his face weathered but not worn. He looked a little bored, but he was alert to his surroundings. He heard the footsteps down the stairs almost before they happened, and his expression did not change when a tall, stocky Cyrodiil in blood-red armor pushed open the door. He nodded a greeting, the armored man, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The armored man spoke first.

"You are prompt. I had not expected you for another two days."

The man in black let a wry smile escape his lips. "We were en route already, Captain." The armored man frowned until he added, "An internal matter, Captain, that's all. It's nothing to do with the monarchy."

"Very well, Parnassus, very well." The guard captain placed a sack of gold on the table. "Two thousand. The rest after the job is done."

"That's a load of drakes. Who's the mark?"

"Argonian, name of Heik-Auri. Might also go by an alias. He's an assassin, but as far as we know he's unaffiliated. Wears a black or brown robe, black chitin armor underneath. Carries a fancy daedric dagger, an ebony shortsword, and a dwemer cross bow. He uses viper bolts." The guard captain passed a sheet of paper--a writ perhaps--to the man in black, who smiled.

"Lizard keeps himself well-armed. Where do we find him?"

"He's staying at The Winged Guar. Go now."

The man in black nodded. Taking the gold and the writ, he vanished down into the sewers.

-----------------------------------------------------
"What do you mean, 'No sign of him'? Have you found nothing at all, Liodres?"

"Nobody will tell us anything, Sera Heleran. You know how it is."

The ordinator captain sighed behind his mask, then pulled it off to reveal a still-youthful face, but with bags under his ruby-red eyes. "Yes Liodres, I know. Have you any suspicions, though?"

"Folks in Godsreach were nervous. The Winged Guar, the Craftsmen's Hall--they seemed really uneasy."

"Alright. We'll increase our patrols in that area. We can pull a guard or two out of Brindisi Dorom--nothing ever happens there anyway."

-----------------------------------------------------

"These are some fine blades, stranger."

"Everybody says that."

"It's true."

"Yeah, just don't go telling anybody about 'em"

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jul 12 2007, 01:22 AM

Hmmm, it appears there's going to be a clash between pursuers coming up. Looks like it might prove to be an interesting meeting. I look forward to seeing where things might go from here....

Posted by: jack cloudy Jul 12 2007, 07:27 PM

Why oh why do I have the feeling he is going to tell despite the warning? Keep hiding, my friend.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 22 2007, 04:06 AM

The Ta'agra here can be figured out using http://til.gamingsource.net/obbooks/ahzirr_trajijazaeri.shtml.

Training Day

The smith—a middle-aged redguard with a frosting of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and a long scar on his left bicep—spoke without looking up from his work.

“I can fix up your weapons good as new, stranger. Material of this quality will fix up no problem so long as you don’t screw around with it. The armor will be trickier; chitin is what I like to call a ‘temperamental’ material. It’ll take little scratches and slashes just fine, better than most even, but a full-on cut might never fix up right.”

I swore, quietly, as I looked over the rents in my cuirass and my left pauldron. “I understand. What can you do?”

The redguard smiled, “Lucky for you I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing. I can patch it up pretty good once I get that resin all cooked up—you probably won’t notice much difference when I’m finished. But I got to tell you, this armor probably won’t stand up to much more abuse. How long have you had this chitin, anyway?”

Twenty years, I thought. All I said was, “A while, smith. A while.”

As the smith continued his work I drifted back into the training room, where a lone khajiit worked over a practice dummy using Rain-of-Sand style. He could have been dancing, such is the elegance of the form. I’d practiced it some myself. I settled on the opposite side of the room and began pelting one of the dummies with throwing stars in the heart, throat, and arms. After fifteen minutes of this practice I put away the projectiles and began striking the dummy with my fingers and toes—the Way of the Exposed Palm. The khajiit had begun practicing with his silver staff—again, a whirling dervish spinning about his center.

After half an hour of the precise, methodical Exposed Palm I switched to the more brutal, more pleasing art of Ahzirr Trajijazaeri. With a smile.

The khajiit ceased his practice with the staff to watch, a considerable grin also crossing his face. “The argonian has been to Elsweyr, yes?”

Breathing hard now, I shouted out answers between kicks. “Once! Years ago!” I slammed the dummy’s head off with my clenched fist.

“Dro’Zizhirr is impressed. You fusozay var dar, yes?”

I stopped almost in the midst of yet another kick.

“How do you know that?”

The khajiit’s grin widened—khajiit love secrets, it seems—and he said, “No need to worry. Dro’Zizhirr hears all the time that curiosity killed the khajiit, and Dro’Zizhirr is no foolish little kitty, so Dro’Zizhirr will speak of this no more.”

------------------------------------------------------

More waiting. I did sit-ups until my abdominal muscles burned like Red Mountain, or like it used to until the Nerevarine—Velas—destroyed Dagoth Ur. I practiced every form of unarmed combat I knew upon the helpless dummies, and wondered at the khajiit and his secrets. He left the guild hall after our conversation, before I could determine if he was a lucky guesser, or if he was just extremely perceptive, or if he actually knew something.

The assassin’s greatest weapon is not his blade, or his bow, or even his stealth. The assassin thrives on knowledge, intelligence, information—and all I seemed to have were questions.

It was late in the day when the smith finished with my gear. True to his word, my weapons looked pristine—a twisted mockery of the very idea of purity, I suppose, that I could think of these arms, blood-stained so regularly, in such a fashion. They looked clean but deadly. My chitin looked good, but I felt more give than usual in the side of my cuirass, where Ten-Tongues had come so very close to wounding me, wounding my armor instead.

I would need to be on the lookout for better armor.

Still, I didn’t feel so vulnerable anymore. With my gear fixed, I felt like I could at least stick it out in Mournhold a little longer. All I needed to do was avoid the guards and Helseth’s spies a little longer, and find Sethyas Velas a little sooner. He couldn’t avoid me forever, after all. Or could he?

I expelled the doubt from my mind. We’ll speak soon, I murmured to myself. And then I’ll be able to get the hell out of this city.

I paid the smith—with a five hundred septim bonus to ensure his silence—and then stepped out into the muggy evening air. It felt good, and so did I. A day of rest, meditation, and training made me feel stronger, faster, wiser—the best I had felt since leaving Vvardenfell.

I cast a spell to return to my room at The Winged Guar. When the haze of magicka cleared I found myself looking two Dark Brotherhood assassins square in the eyes.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jul 22 2007, 08:29 PM

That was cool to add that Khajiit lore. I do hope that when Sethyas and Al finally meet again they talk before delivering any blows. We'll see eventually. Excellent as always.

Posted by: canis216 Aug 1 2007, 10:43 PM

Fight Night

The dunmer was looking forward to bedding down for the evening, however restless his dreams might be within the high walls of Mournhold. The work with which he was presently occupied was not the sort to set anyone’s mind at ease. He would have to order himself a drink or two before hitting the sack, he thought, and there was no better place than The Winged Guar. It was just after sundown and already the action at the bar must have been in full swing; he could hear the dull roar of conversation and the clinking of glass bottles from outside those sturdy doors. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the palace either.

From inside his red robe he pulled out a three sheets of paper. The palace, indeed. He needed to figure out what to do with three Royal Writs of Execution. Such was Sethyas Velas' lot in life.

Inside, he slowly made his way downstairs to the bar, to the drink or maybe five he knew he needed. It really didn't matter how many--it would be a simple matter to stumble into his room mere paces back of the barstools.

Sethyas let loose a weary smile when he descended the last step. The bar was indeed busy; so loud that Ra'Tesh could scarcely hear when he ordered himself a bottle of mazte. He was just settling down to drink when the door to the far guest room burst open, and a Dark Brotherhood assassin went staggering to a brief repose upon nearest table--interrupting an arm wrestling match between a pair of giant nords.

The bar immediately rose into bedlam--a dark-haired imperial woman screamed, Ra'Tesh called for the bouncer (drunk in the corner, of course), patrons began running, the nords picked up the assassin and threw him against the nearest wall, and Sethyas Velas drew his katana. When Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and another assassin emerged from the room, parrying each other's strikes, Galms Seles began taking bets from the two dozen revelers who backed away from the fight but couldn't bring themselves to leave.

Sethyas was trying to push through the crowd--to get to the Dark Brothers. Old habits die hard.

The second assassin was up by now--he had his adamantium jinkblade drawn but was staring up at two burly, angry nords.

Sethyas Velas couldn't quite get through the crowd--he leaped up on a table to try to see over the crowd, to see what was going on. The argonian had his foe backed against the bar--the Dark Brother blocked the thrusted ebony and ducked his head beneath a raking slash from Kills-You-Dead. The Dark Brother tried then to duck out of the corner but Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spun out of his slash and--while butting his knee up into the Dark Brother's stomach--slammed the hilt of the Kills-You-Dead down upon his assailant's skull.

Then he opened up the man's throat.

The other assassin, meanwhile, was still being held at bay by the nords. They greeted his slashes with the steel of their claymores; he ducked beneath their wild hacks.

"I'll finish him." Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's shout temporarily hushed the assembled masses--the viewing audience had grown to forty now (Still no guards, naturally, Sethyas thought)--and the nords parted, reluctantly giving way. The assassin charged the argonian, who spun out of the way to deliver a kick to the Dark Brother's back, sending him sprawling over another table. When the assassin finally struggled up, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had his crossbow drawn.

"Tell me who sent you, assassin." The words were spoken quietly, but the accompanying glare was hard as stone.

"No."

A pair of viper-bolts found the Dark Brother's heart.

Posted by: darkynd Aug 1 2007, 11:51 PM

I've only read the first two or three chapters, but it's a good story so far, technically. It's impossible to tell about the plot and so on at this juncture, but I think I'll end up enjoying this a good deal. I'll be sure to read through the rest, although it'll take me a while - you've written a good deal.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Aug 3 2007, 08:14 PM

Hoo boy! It looks like their paths are crossing in real time finally! I can't wait until the next update now. Excellent work.

Posted by: minque Aug 5 2007, 02:18 PM

What Mallie just said! And the Khajiiji-thingy was awesome, there´s far to little Khajiijtis in this world....Now of course I want to hear more about the duo Seth-Al!

Posted by: canis216 Aug 5 2007, 04:06 PM

Interrupted

“Hmph. Cyrodiils.” I was searching the bodies of the pair of assassins who had beset me, muttering to myself. “Nice armor, though.” I began to remove the light, yet tough, black cloth—a worthy replacement for my own deteriorating chitin. How appropriate, I thought, that the assassins—sent by Helseth, likely—intended to kill me would instead augment my defenses. I just about had my cuirass of choice off the corpse of its bearer when I noticed Sethyas Velas—finally!—standing a few scant paces away.

I stood up from my work, then dipped into a mock bow. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to stop by—Grandmaster.”

Velas grinned—the type of smile that makes mer who don’t kill for a living uncomfortable—and responded, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“And you hear rightly. But first let us have a seat at the bar. I need a drink.” Now that I’d finally made contact with Velas, I figured that I needn’t hurry. It seemed that he was thinking along a similar line, for his smile broadened.

Seating was easy to find, as most folk had cleared out of The Winged Guar with the conclusion of the battle, save for the hardiest regulars. The two nords had already resumed their arm-wrestling.

We’d just taken our seats, but not quite settled in, when Galms Seles placed a hand upon my shoulder. I think I might have let out a sigh.

“You cost me a lot of gold tonight, lizard.” The archetypal raspy sneer of an irritated dark elf. I returned his kind attention by seizing the hustler by the throat.

“Then leave, lest I cost you your life as well,” I snarled. Then I threw Seles against the nearest convenient wall. I turned back to the bar, and the brandy so thoughtfully placed before me by Ra’Tesh. The Grandmaster of the Morag Tong was chuckling softly.

“What’s so funny, Velas?”

“No wonder the Brotherhood was after you. You do that enough and you’re sure to have some writs taken out on you.”

“You’re more right than you know, Velas. That’s exactly what I need to talk to you about.”

“Let me guess. You offended someone, and they hired my guild to assassinate you, so you want me to do something about the writ.”

It was now my turn to laugh, a little. “That’s about it. Eno told you about me?”

“Of course. But you must know that I hold the sanctity of a writ in high regard… what are you looking at, Al?”

I was looking up at the stairs. “Ordinators. compassion.” Two of them, making their way down those cold stone steps. I pulled my black hood overhead and looked down to my brandy.

“We can finish talking about the writ later, Velas. But listen, and listen well. It’s more than your Morag Tong that’s after me, and more than those Dark Brothers. For some reason the high ordinators have been asking around about me—I don’t know exactly why; I just settled some old business of little consequence. And I couldn’t find any evidence, but I’m sure it was the monarchy that hired those guys”—I nodded in the direction of the dead bodies—“to kill me. Everybody around here thinks I’m some kind of threat to somebody powerful.”

Sethyas Velas whispered back, “I know the feeling.” Then our conversation was interrupted, as rudely as guards are want to do, by harsh words from behind a harsh visage.

“You two see this here fight? Turn around and talk to me.” Rude, indeed. He sounded uneducated, uncultured. Probably didn’t know anything the Temple didn’t tell him. But we complied with the order nonetheless. One of the ordinators—the one who had not spoken, who was standing to the side and a few steps back of the other—drew his scimitar. “It’s him, Sandros! The lizard!”

After a moment of stunned silence, the other ordinator reached for his own scimitar, but didn’t draw it. His hand rested on the hilt, uneasily. Haltingly he growled, “You, argonian… are wanted for questioning… by order of the Lady Almalexia’s steward, Fedris Hler. Will you go with us to the Temple?”

“Wanted for questioning related to what, exactly?” I was not in the mood for this.

The ordinators exchanged fevered whispers. “Related to the murder of one ‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat, pawnbroker in Great Bazaar district.” He hastened to add, “And the deaths of those two,” referring to the dead assassins.

I sighed, heavily. “The pawnbroker died in an honorable, more or less, duel to which I freely confess. I can pay the fine right now. I killed those Dark Brothers in self-defense, of course, and I have several witnesses to that effect. But if you wish to charge me with that too I still have plenty of gold. There is no need to take me in for questioning.”

“We don’t want to charge you,” the ordinator growled, “We just want to question you.”

“And I wish to confess, pay my fine, and sob into my brandy while I meditate upon the horror and depravity of my crimes, sera.”

This only seemed to anger the ordinator—as I knew it would—as he began to pull his scimitar out of his sheath, if only a little. It was just enough to show a few inches of ebony, calculated to intimidate. I took a pull of brandy; once I finished it took another moment for the ordinator to speak, even more harshly.

“Are you resisting arrest, lizard?”

Sethyas Velas spoke up for me. “Don’t call him lizard. Trust me on this.”

“And why do you care, stranger?”

“S—Sandros, I think I recognize him from Velas Man—“the other guard tried to interject.

“Don’t interrupt my interrogation, Duls!” The first ordinator kept staring at Sethyas Velas. “What of it, stranger?”

“I am Sethyas Velas, Nerevarine, Protector of Morrowind. And you will not be so rude in my presence.”

The guard stood silent for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Nerevarine!? The Nerevarine is ten feet tall and has the strength of ten ogrims! By Almsivi, the Nerevarine…”

Sethyas Velas pulled off one of his black gloves to reveal a glowing ring. “Like I said—“

The guard continued to laugh, even more uproariously than before.

“He even got someone to make him a ring! Hah! The Nerevarine…”

“Sandros—“

“Shut up Duls! The Nerevarine…”

This was clearly going nowhere, but I waited for the ordinator to cease his laughter. Velas was clearly furious—his red eyes burning brighter than the Suran Tradehouse when I had set it aflame—and it must have taken great, and most unfortunate, restraint on his part not to slay the mer on the spot.

“Back to your question, sera—I’m not resisting arrest for, as you said, you are not arresting me. If you did arrest me, you would be required by Imperial law to present me with the choice to either go to prison or pay my fine. And if presented this choice, I would clearly choose to pay my fine and go about my business.”

“Fedris Hler demands to see you!”

“Tell him I’ll go see him tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy?” This, I think, was the proverbial wickwheat that broke the guar’s back, for the guard now pulled out and raised his blade.

“YOU WILL SUBMIT TO MY WILL!”

Before he could bring the hilt of his scimitar down upon my skull I managed to duck under his swing and spin away. I pulled out my blades; out of the corner of my eye I saw Sethyas Velas unsheathe a sinister-looking katana of daedric metal. The first ordinator—Sandros, evidently—was off-balance so I helped him find purchase atop the bar by applying the hilt of my ebony to the back of his ebony helmet. I suppose, then, that I could have killed him, but I had enough problems in Mournhold without becoming known as a killer of guards.

Velas, meanwhile, had Duls—I assume that it refers to the mer’s wit—backed against the wall. Duls did not look particularly prepared for a tangle with professional killers, so I eased his anxiety by flinging a bottle of sujamma at his head, a drink of which I can only hope would soothe his headache once he regained consciousness.

Velas turned to me, “We ought to find someplace more quiet to talk.”

“Right.”

We made for the stairs. Easy enough, since all the patrons were gone—in anticipation of the ordinators’ wrath?

We stopped. Half a dozen ordinators stood at the bottom of the steps.

Posted by: Black Hand Aug 5 2007, 04:10 PM

Man this is getting juicy. I am excited!

Posted by: minque Aug 5 2007, 04:26 PM

ohhhhohohooo, showdown at the WG? This is getting better and better, shame I´ll go on vacation tomorrow morning, have to wait until the 18th to learn more!

I clearly see similarities in yours and mine interpretations of Seth! OMG this is awesome!

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Aug 7 2007, 10:47 PM

Excellent update. It's always a treat to see Al and Sethyas interact with each other. They seem to compliment each other nicely. Their current situation doesn't look good though. Looks like they might be forced to talk with Fedris afterall.

Posted by: canis216 Aug 12 2007, 07:30 AM

Questions

There has to be a way out of here. Almalexia’s high ordinators were scanning the bar scene in disbelief and anger, it looked, and I was calculating the odds of escape in my head. Would it be possible, I wondered, to cast a spell of divine intervention, scramble over to Effe-Tei, and get transport back to Vvardenfell before any royal guards can nab me? And, assuming success, how much good would that actually do me?. I glanced over at Velas; it seemed like he was having similar thoughts. But then one of the ordinators took his helmet off—revealing sagging, tired eyes—and spoke up.

“Well, at least you were good enough not to kill those fools. Liodres,” he called to the ordinator immediately to his right, “see to it that Sandros and Duls are reprimanded for their lack of caution. After they regain consciousness, of course.” He appeared to let loose the barest of smiles at that.

The one called Liodres nodded briskly and said, “Yes captain.”

“Now then, back to you two. Knowing a little something about Sandros and Duls, I don’t think we’ll be charging you with assault.”

“So, we’re free to go then, right? Come on Sethyas…“ No luck. The captain interrupted my efforts to extricate myself from the tavern, harshly clearing his throat.

“Not so fast there. Serjo Velas is certainly free to go, as I feel no compelling need to detain the Protector of Morrowind, our sainted Nerevarine. But you,” the mer said, pointing at me, “you are still very much wanted for questioning.”

Once again it was time for me to release a heavy sigh. “Listen, I already told those two jokers,” I gestured towards the fallen guards, “that I can pay the damn fine. Why is it so important to question me?”

“It is the will of The Lady, and Her will is law in this city.”

“But I was told that it was Fedris Hler who wanted to speak with me.”

“This is technically true, but you must remember that, as a lawful representative of Almalexia, Serjo Hler’s word…”

“I get it, I get it. His word is as good as hers. Right. But I still want to know why.”

“I’m not certain myself. But I think I can assure you that, if you’ve done nothing worse than killing Ten-Tongues Weerhat, you won’t be detained beyond Serjo Hler’s questioning. I’ll see to that personally.”

“I see. Could I consult with Sethyas here for a moment?”

The captain nodded.

“What do you think?” I whispered.

“Sounds bad. But that’s Mournhold.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Still, it beats fighting six ordinators.”

“Yeah.” Then I turned back to the assembled guards and spoke up, “Alright, I’ll go see Fedris Hler.”

The guard captain smiled. “Excellent. Shall we?”

“Just one moment. I need to finish my brandy.” I grabbed the bottle—miraculously undisturbed during the melee—and gulped it down. “Let’s go." Before exiting I called back to Sethyas, "We'll talk when I get back. And I will be back."

At the very least, I figured, I’d have the opportunity to talk to one of my problems face-to-face.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Thank you Captain Heleran. You may leave us.”

I could see where the rumors—that Fedris Hler had been an assassin—came from. The great gash across the mer’s face spoke volumes, as did his choice of glass armor. He seemed almost unnaturally pleased by my presence; like I was some kind of great gift he’s just been delivered. And maybe I was.

“Let’s get down to business. I am Fedris Hler, steward of this Temple, loyal servant of our Lady Almalexia. Who are you?”

“You can just call me assassin.”

“Reticent, are you? Very well, I can understand that. What is your business in Mournhold?”

I decided to be honest, more or less. “I’m in Mournhold to convince, cajole, coerce, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise threaten the grandmaster of the Morag Tong into withdrawing a writ of execution upon my head. Unfortunately, I haven’t found him yet.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“I took the ranking member at one of their guildhalls hostage, so to speak, and threatened to kill everyone there if she didn’t tell me where he was.”

Hler seemed to perk up. “Would that be a credible threat, coming from you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“I’ll put it to you this way—I’ve invaded their guildhall undetected twice, while they all slept.”

“I see… did you come to Mournhold for any other reason?”

“No. As soon as I get that writ taken care of I’m getting the hell out of here.” I desperately wanted to leap across the table, cut his throat, spill his blood…

“Interesting. You say that you are an assassin. For whom, if not the Morag Tong?”

“I don’t work for anyone but myself. But you could say that I’m retired, actually.” Technically true, at the moment. Of course, my present predicament didn’t allow me to particularly enjoy my practice of lying without really lying.

I don’t think that Hler liked my answer much—whether he thought I was being dishonest or was just disappointed, I don’t know—but he persisted with his creepily serene smiling. “Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin, eh? One more question… assassin. Could you do The Lady a great favor and discretely assassinate a certain king going by the name of Helseth?”

“What?”

Posted by: Lord Revan Aug 12 2007, 06:31 PM

Oh boy, I bet Al is going to get paid a lot of gold -or booze- otherwise he's really not going to like this. And I doubt the good high priest is going to give him the option to refuse. Keep it rolling Canis!

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Aug 12 2007, 08:35 PM

This is an interesting plot development. It certainly sounds like a nigh on impossible task though. We'll see whether Al is up for the task...

Posted by: canis216 Aug 12 2007, 10:38 PM

Basement Blues

“King Helseth intends to be the real power in Mournhold. This is unacceptable. The young king has the Emperor’s favor, however, so we cannot move openly against him at this time.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You will be compensated generously, of course.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You think yourself incapable?”

“He’s a king. A paranoid king. He probably keeps himself surrounded by guards, and doesn’t let anyone ever see him. He employs spies to root out enemies real and perceived. He hires the Dark Brotherhood to slice people open, or to poison folk. But I think I could kill him. Just not for you.”

“I see… could you kill him for ten thousand septims?”

“No.”

“Twenty thousand?”

“I have all the money I need, Hler, and you’re beginning to sound desperate. There is nothing you can offer me that will persuade me to accept this task. Nothing. I’m beholden to no one. I have few friends, and no family. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“But our conversation isn’t over yet, assassin.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Guards! Seize him!”

----------------------------------------------------

Ach, my head… where… oh yes, the basement. The Temple basement. I remembered now, being surrounded by a quartet of guards, cutting a deep gash across the chest of one while being knocked over the head by another. I found my blades lying on the floor next to me—apparently they had vacated the room in the aftermath of the struggle, figuring that they could stop me if I tried to leave.

I tried to stand—I felt a wave of nausea pass over me, but it quickly subsided. My head ached, but it was nothing worse than the time I drank all that greef and mazte in the Arena. First I tried to cast a recall spell, back to the room at the Winged Guar, but the magicka dissipated faster than I could call it up. So they figured to keep me trapped down here. That’s OK, I thought, let them try. Diverting sport for me, at least. I tried the near door; locked, of course. I peeked through the keyhole in time to see a guard lurk by the door, then walk away. I waited a few more moments there; after a time he came by once more. But it was only the one. I fingered my picks and probes, and then my blades. I smiled.

Posted by: canis216 Aug 13 2007, 01:53 AM

Aftermath

“Parnassus, why are two of your underlings dead while that argonian still lives?”

The assassin was taken a bit aback by the presence of his employer. He had hurried through the sewers dodging rats, goblins, and undead with the purpose of reaching the Palace basement early—he didn’t like to be taken by surprise, by anyone. As to the question, he responded wearily, “That mark of yours is good, Tienius.”

Tienius Delitian frowned. “I’ve got worries enough without some rogue assassin loose in this city. The King is concerned, as you might expect. So my question is, what are you going to do about our problem?”

The assassin sighed. “I sent a courier to Cyrodiil to fetch reinforcements. Next time he’ll be facing more than two. I assume that your King is willing to finance another attempt? More men need more pay…”

-------------------------------------------------

Varus Heleran strode unhappily into the Temple, anger and regret in his head. It was 7 A.M. He arrived just in time to see Fedris Hler exit from the High Chapel—he had been speaking to the goddess, apparently.

“Serjo Fedris, we must speak about the argonian. I told him—“

“Yes, you told him that he would not be detained. It was a promise that you did not have the authority to give.”

“Serjo—“

“My apologies, Captain. Perhaps we should go down to the basement and see him?”

“Yes, I would very much like to do so. I’m afraid that I, at least, owe him an apology.”

Fedris Hler smiled, perhaps a bit cruelly, but he walked to the door leading deeper into the Temple—hallways that eventually lead to the basement—without hesitation. Captain Heleran followed. They did not speak until they came upon the prone bodies of two ordinators, in one pool of blood, in the Hall of Ministry, a few short steps from the basement door. Captain Heleran rushed forward.

“Are they dead?” asked Fedris Hler.

“No, not yet. But they must have been laying here a while; they’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ve got a couple of potions, but they really need a healer.”

“She ought to be in any moment—and I’m sure there must be more potions in the infirmary.”

The healer did arrive, and the fallen ordinators were carried to the infirmary—leaving time for Varus Heleran and Fedris Hler to try to piece together what happened.

“The lock’s been picked of course. He must have taken Sevil by surprise—knocked his weapon away and beat him over the head a couple of times. He’s bleeding some from the head, but it really isn’t too bad.”

“What about Kulsi?”

“You say he was scheduled to take over for Sevil?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“He must have just been coming in to relieve Sevil then—3 A.M. The argonian’s been loose for at least that long, then. It looks like Kulsi stumbled in on his escape and waded in to fight. He got the worst of it—thrown against the wall, armor torn to hell, stomach almost slashed open, helmet damn near split apart—he’s lucky to be alive.” Then the Captain bent to pick up a loose scrap of paper.

“What’s that?”

“A note, Serjo. From your escapee.”

--------------------------------------------------

To the honorable and wise Fedris Hler,

Serjo, I must recommend that you resist the urge to detain or to contact me in any way. I feel like I have shown great restraint, and yet you insisted on antagonizing me further. Therefore it is with great regret that I must issue something of an ultimatum. If anyone under your command ever attempts to apprehend again I will deal them in such fashion as I dealt with these two fellows here, except instead of merely wounding, I will kill. This is not a threat, but rather a guarantee.

I will not ever accept your contract, no matter the terms. Once again, if you attempt to discuss the matter with me in the future, it will give me great pleasure to kill you instead.

Regards,

The Assassin

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Aug 13 2007, 02:36 AM

Hoo boy! Those couple of updates were fun to read! Nice to see Al showing some backbone (of course he's always shown that though).

Posted by: Lord Revan Aug 13 2007, 04:58 AM

Well, for the ordinators' sakes I hope Hler has the "great wisedom and benevolence" to take our Argonian assassin's word. Keep it coming!

Posted by: jack cloudy Aug 13 2007, 03:28 PM

Hmm, the way Al slices through Ordinators left and right (with proper preparation) shows me that he could indeed slay Helseth. But I believe I know why he refuses.

Anyway, good work.

Posted by: minque Aug 18 2007, 10:14 PM

Yes yes....more Al......he´s a very tough lizzie, isn´t he? I really do like him! I´ll stay tuned now...

Posted by: canis216 Aug 18 2007, 11:22 PM

Trouble

“You must apprehend this assassin once more.”

“Serjo, with all due respect, he just put two of my men in the infirmary.”

“Exactly; that’s why we need him.”

“Need him for what?”

Fedris Hler motioned Captain Varus Heleran over to a lonely corner of the room. “This information must not leave this building, Captain. You understand?”

The ordinator nodded.

“The Temple wants this assassin to remove a particularly vexing presence from Mournhold. And he will do it whether he wants to or not.”

“Sir, the letter—“

“Varus, he will do it. He has proven himself capable, and we will persuade him.”

“Proven himself?” Heleran’s voice rose slightly.

“Why do you think we left him here, armed?”

Silence. Heleran’s face was grim indeed when the muttered, “You wanted to see how good he was. You tested him against my men.”

Hler placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “Varus, it had to be done. And so must this. Your guards will find this assassin once more. For safety, they will patrol only in groups of three or more—you may need to pull more out of the Plaza; that’s fine. But I want him found, and brought before me again. He will help us, or he will suffer.”

Varus Heleran stood and walked out the door, saying nothing.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Aug 19 2007, 12:26 AM

Oooo Hler is a crafty mer! Though it seems he likes to take advantage of the liberties his rank gives him, much to the chagrin of others like Varus there. Al might have some problems dealing with that one.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 7 2008, 12:41 AM

Oh snap! Is this an update? Aye, it is!
============================

Negotiations

It was 4 AM and Ra’Tesh was nearly finished wiping down the bar when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun appeared at the bottom of the stairs in The Winged Guar. The khajiit looked up and let loose a low whistle when he saw the assassin’s black robe bloodied and in tatters.

“The sun-lingerer is hurt?” The khajiit moved to grab a healing potion.

The argonian just grinned and took a seat at the bar. “No Ra’Tesh, calm down. I’m not hurt.”

“What happened, then?”

“All this”—the assassin gestured to the blood—“belongs to a pair of very unfortunate guards. I don’t think they’ll trouble me anymore.”

“You assaulted the guards? But didn’t they just—“

“Just take me in for questioning? Fedris Hler had other ideas, so they locked me up. Lot of good that did them, seeing as how they left me with all my tools. I broke out, knocked one poor fellow out cold, and then fought my way through the one who stumbled in on my escape.”

The khajiti bartender let out another whistle. “Ra’Tesh thinks you might need to leave Mournhold. This is trouble for you.”

“You’re damn right about that. But first things first. I need a drink, and I need to talk to Sethyas Velas. He staying here?”

Ra’Tesh handed over a bottle of brandy and gestured to a room directly north of the bar. “The dunmer should be out for breakfast by sun’s light.”

“Good.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took a deep pull of brandy. “Time enough for me to dispose of these rags. You got a spare robe somewhere?”

“Ra’Tesh thinks he might have a green robe in his quarters. The sun-lingerer needs a disguise?”

“I hope I don’t need one. But I don’t trust Fedris Hler, so yes.”

--------------------------------------------------

At a quarter to six, through an alcoholic haze, the argonian felt someone take the stool next to him. He smelled vaguely of hackle-lo, and less vaguely of alcohol.

“By Mephala, you look like hell. What did they do to you?”

“Velas. Good to see you. They offered me a job, hit me over the head, locked me up, bled on me. Nothing to worry about.”

“They offered you a job?” the dunmer replied after a moment, eyes narrowing. “What kind?”

“Nothing important. I didn’t take it, if you must know. Now, can we get to the matter of your Morag Tong’s writ on my head?”

“Not yet. If that job is so unimportant, why can’t you tell me? Pardon me for saying, but you’re not the only one in Mournhold whom the powers-that-be have taken an unhealthy interest in.”

“Fair enough. But you’re working for Helseth now—and I know you’ve got your reasons, but I don’t need word getting around of any “offers”. It was a bad job and I turned it down—that’s all I can say.”

“This job—“

The argonian’s eyes burned. “Don’t push me, Velas. I put two ordinators in the infirmary this morning.”

Sethyas Velas nodded gravely. “Sorry. We’ll get down to business. You want the writ dropped.”

“Right. And you don’t want me killing every Morag Tong agent sent my way. Or worse—you don’t want me to, say, wipe out your hidden sanctuary beneath the Arena.”

“Come on, you couldn’t—“

“You bloody well know how I got the writ dropped the first time. And how do you think I found you here? I could teleport back to Vvardenfell and do in the Vivec sanctum by mid-day. I don’t want to do that, and you certainly don’t want to push me.”

After a moment of due consideration, the dunmer lit up a hackle-lo. “Very well. I’ll notify the guild stewards as soon as possible. But do yourself a favor—I say this as a concerned colleague and friend—and don’t offend any more nobles.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled and took a draught of brandy. “I’ll remember that. And you’d be served well to get the hell out of Mournhold soon as you can.”

“You're leaving town?”

“In a bit. But let’s drink first.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 7 2008, 03:46 AM

It's always fun to read these two interacting with each other. Excellent update.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 7 2008, 09:39 PM

I just keep saying this. I love Al!

,,We should get out of the city right now, no loitering. But first, let's get drunk."

Posted by: canis216 Jan 9 2008, 05:17 AM

It happened in Plaza Brindisi Dorom

“Sandros… just shut the hell up, ok?”

Every additional moment the patrol lasted was another moment Liodris Aramel felt complete disdain for his company. His group of three was returning to the High Fane (not a moment too soon, by Aramel’s reckoning) via the Plaza Brindisi Dorom. They would be returning half an hour earlier than scheduled, but the high ordinator was tired of babysitting Duls Arethi and, especially, Sandros Pasamsi—bloody loudmouth, Aramel thought.

“Oh come on, Liodris! I’m just saying that when I see that lizard again, I’ll cut him up something awful!”

Aramel sighed. He almost wished that they would find the argonian, if only so Sandros could die by the assassin’s hands. “First: we are supposed to find the argonian, not beat him up. Fedris Hler’s orders. And the Captain will definitely have your head if you so much as touch that assassin. He’s not happy about any of this. Second: I have a hundred drakes that say that the argonian would kick your sorry [censored] a second time. So do yourself a favor and quit talking like a guar’s behind.”

“Yes sir.” Mumbled. And then louder, “There’s an argonian leaving Godsreach. See him by the door, in the green robe?”

Aramel glanced over disinterested (aside from the possible opportunity to get Sandros killed, the prospect of running into the assassin did not excite him) and spoke, “Our suspect wears black. And that argonian’s carrying a lute. That’s not our assassin.”

Duls piped up, “It could be a disguise.” Sandros nodded his head vigorously.

Another sigh from Liodris Aramel—he was long done hiding his disdain for these two. But he relented. “Fine. We’ll check him out. First we’ll get some backup from those Royal Guards over there… Sandros, get the hell back here!”

Ignoring his superior, Sandros Pasamsi ran across the plaza.

“Damn it! Duls, find backup! I’m going!” Aramel shouted behind as he raced off.

-------------------------------------------

So much for hiding in plain sight.

This is what I thought when I saw two ordinators running at me—one well in the lead with scimitar drawn, the other trailing by perhaps thirty feet and shouting. I thought there was still a possibility to bluff my way out of confrontation, however, so I kept Kills-You-Dead concealed and kept walking, making like I didn’t see them coming. The first ordinator was nearly upon me when I heard the guttural roar of “Stop right there!”

So I stopped. What choice did I have? The ordinator slowed to a fast walk but still held his blade high. The other kept running but his weapon was still sheathed at his side. He was still yelling—not at me, but at the first ordinator.

“Damn it Sandros, you dumb s’wit! When I say to wait for backup you’d better damn well wait!”

Glancing off to the other side of the plaza I could see yet another ordinator talking to a pair of palace guards and pointing my way. Things were looking up.

Sandros—the same guard I beat up at the Winged Guar?—looked at me something ugly. “You been in any fights lately, lizard?”

Was he trying to provoke me? I decided (quickly, as his sword-arm looked twitchy) that he was, and that I should make him try a little harder. So I lied, “Serjo, I am but a humble bard. I leave the fighting to others.”

“Liar. You armed?”

“Sandros, stand down!” The second ordinator arrived.

“It’s him, Liodris!” the ordinator pig sputtered to his better. To me he repeated, “Are you armed? How about it?”

“My lute is all the defense I need, serjo” I replied. I was still smiling—I’m sure Sandros found it infuriating. His reinforcements were halfway across the plaza and in a hurry. Anything goes wrong and its one against five.

“I need to search you.” I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mask but I’m sure they were on the verge of streaming blood.

“No you don’t Sandros. Not unless you can tell me something better than ‘he’s an argonian, it must be him’. Do you remember his face?”

“They all look alike! But I know it’s him! It’s got to—“

“Shut up Sandros. Just shut up.” The one called Liodris turned to me. “My apologies, sera. This idiot here—“ he gestured to Sandros “—got himself embarrassed and now he’s seeing things. You can go on your way.”

----------------------------------------------

Night falls. An argonian in the middle of a field of saltrice, on his bedroll, plays atonal soporific trance music on a beat-up old lute. The lights of the city, two miles distant, burn on.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 9 2008, 08:29 AM

Hehe. Close call. For once, Al didn't have to kill anyone

Posted by: canis216 Jan 20 2008, 12:19 AM

Racing to Aetherius

Something is wrong.

I wake up in the waning hours of a clear starry night and know that the world is beautiful and deadly, that this is no contradiction, and that I am going to live and let others die. There is no wind, no arrhythmic dance of flames, but the shadows move. I can see this without even opening my eyes. I open my eyes. Leather brushes against saltrice, to my right.

Somehow I have my crossbow in hand. It is loaded, bolt nocked. Before I can really think on it I roll onto my stomach and fire two shots off into the night. A man’s body falls to earth.

I keep rolling, off into a thicker patch of saltrice. Thinking. It must be the Dark Brotherhood. I had killed two last time, so now there must be three—the dead one, and two others. I risk casting a spell of night-eye—they know where I am anyway—and see a pair of dark brothers racing toward me from the east. Each has a short, angular glow in hand—enchanted short blades.

I stand up—for a good shot—and put a bolt into the leader’s chest. He staggers and stops and bathes himself in a light quite apart from my poisons—healing—and I know that I can’t win this with dwemer metal. The crossbow drops and I have a blade in each hand.

The first man dives in with a thrust and I spin out of the way ready to bring my ebony down upon the second. But he is ready; he blocks the blow and I am off balance. The first dark brother takes a swing at my back and all I can do is fall out of the way and reverse-summersault back to my feet.

The second man is swinging at me, a big overhead blow. I block it with Kills-You-Dead, crouching low, and thrust my ebony up into his heart. In the same motion I push the man off my blade and into his partner, who nimbly steps aside.

I am covered in blood and breathing hard. The last dark brother is sizing me up, assessing his chances.

Run, damn you, I’m thinking.

Instead he raises his blade in some sort of salute. Then he charges, the sick fool.

Kills-You-Dead turns his thrust aside; my ebony forces his adamantium from his hand, and his hand from his arm. And then I have the man in a chokehold—I can feel his breathing subside through his flimsy human skin, his larynx compress, his bones give—and he is dead.

I need to get the hell out of here. I need to head west, and fast, as far away from Mournhold and Morrowind as possible. I am no longer welcome. How could I ever fit in this land of the dunmer?

I walk through the saltrice to my bedroll, to collect my effects. The sun is rising, and a low whistle is on the air. One of these things is wrong.

I spin about swinging my ebony and sweep the arrow to the side. There is a figure on the little rise to the east, holding a bow, not believing that he could have missed. Not believing that the Dark Brotherhood could fail. He turns and runs. I pick up my crossbow and make for the rise.

The coward is on the road, running back to Mournhold. I can’t allow that. I raise my dwemer steel—ugly in intent, lovely in its functionality—off into Aetherius, where the dark brother is bound. I overshoot, by ten yards. Keeping the same aim, I fire again. My target falls, then drags himself back up. He casts a healing spell. I fire again; he falls again. Still he gets up, keeps staggering forward. Now it is my turn to run. One hundred yards. Ninety yards. So on. He is on the move but only just.

At fifty yards I stop and fire again. He drops and cannot get up. He tries to crawl. But now I can take my time, let the poison course through his veins.

I reach the dark brother and he lies in a growing pool of his own blood, mixed with a bit of vomit. But he is still alive. I remove his black leather helm—imperial, scarred, white hair, face contorted with pain. He tries to speak but can only choke on his own blood. I fire a viper-bolt into his forehead and all stops.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 20 2008, 10:27 PM

Just when he gets the Ordinators off of his tail, the Black Brotherhood is on it again.

Hmm, I wonder though. Doesn't this take place after the base got wiped out? Meh, probably survivors who had the fortune of not being home during the slaughter.

And they were pretty tough to kill. This could be bad.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 21 2008, 12:28 AM

You may recall from earlier in this tail that Parnassus (Imperial DB agent brought in by Tienius Delitian) spoke of bringing in more folks from Cyrodiil. Also, the DB agents in the underground base are all dunmer, while all the DB that Al has been fighting are men. As in human. As in not mer. Of course, all this is easier to keep track of if you have played Tribunal all the way through.

Posted by: minque Jan 22 2008, 12:38 AM

Your way with words are quite impressive Canis! And then there's our sweet Al! My favourite Lizard! He has raised my disposition for "lizzies" quite a bit!

Posted by: canis216 Dec 27 2008, 01:46 AM

Rest and Endings

In the basement of the Royal Palace, in Mournhold, there is a simple wooden table. On it sat a single glowing lantern, two bottles of flin, and a brown leather satchel full of gold pieces stamped with the visage of Tiber Septim. Two men, both imperials, stared at the satchel in lieu of looking at each other.

Tienius Delitian, Captain of the Royal Guard, was first to speak. His voice was low, dangerous. “I hear that your organization has failed again. A farmer found four of your people dead outside the city walls and—most importantly—he did not find any dead argonian assassins. So, Parnassus, I must wonder—why should I pay you anything at all?”

Parnassus sipped his flin, buying time to compose a proper response. It was not easy—Silencers in the Dark Brotherhood are unaccustomed to failure.

Finally he felt like he had the right words—he looked up, into Delitian’s eyes. A hard look.

“You should pay us because you contracted us for a bloody suicide mission, that’s why. First I send two men, experienced hands both, and they get torn apart. You ask for more, and I comply. Four more of my brothers wasted—they were my best. My sanctuary is emptied. I ask you, how do I replace six assassins?”

“Your ‘soul gems’ must be forged of ebony, my friend. I honor that. I’ll give you one more chance to finish the job. How’s fifty-thousand? Surely you can import more of your people for such a sum.”

The Dark Brother sighed. “I must refuse. Lucien is furious with me as is. My life will be forfeit if we lose more men to this Heik-Auri of yours. In any case, has he not left Mournhold? I have seen the place where my men died, and it must have been two miles outside the city. If we have not killed him, surely we have driven him away. Will you not pay us for that much?”

Tienius stared at the gold—fifteen-thousand drakes—for a long while. He took a swig of flin, swore.

“Take it. And get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

Captain Varus Heleran sat at his desk, reading the latest patrol reports. No sign of the argonian. He was glad of that. He only wished that he could have gotten a chance to apologize.

Feeling a presence, the Captain put down his work and looked up into the eyes of Fedris Hler.

“Serjo Hler, begging your pardon but I was just about to call upon you. I did receive your summons.”

Hler smiled, wearily. “Forgive me my impatience, Captain. I hope you can also, eventually forgive me of some of my more rash actions of late. But I did want to hear the latest about our escaped assassin.”

“I have no news, serjo. There was an incident in the Plaza some time ago, just before the attacks, but nothing confirmed and nothing since then. It is my professional opinion that he has left the city.”

"Very well, Captain. If you say so, it must be true. He’s no longer important, anyway. The Lady has a much more important plaything, now.”



It had been a few years since Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had last entered Oldrenthis, but it was much as he remembered it. A mid-sized, prosperous, virtuous Indoril town west of Mournhold and east of the Thir River. It was, if nothing else, a good rest stop and useful waypoint along the argonian’s path to (gods willing) Stros M’kai. There he might find his father, finally, after twenty years of estrangement. He hoped. He only had about 917 miles to go, give or take a little.

He made his way into the smaller of the town’s two taverns, a crowded, musty cornerclub mostly populated with ex-pats and refugees from other the provinces and (usually) from the law. Within moments Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had a table, a pitcher of brandy, and one of his countrymen for company.

Posted by: Olen Jan 2 2009, 10:33 PM

Its been a while... Great to see this continued, I like this one a lot. It moves very quickly and unpredictably which makes it a joy to read.

How much of it is already planned and how much do you make up as you go along?

Posted by: canis216 Jan 2 2009, 11:44 PM

Planning? Me, plan? I have ideas in my head, mind you, but I literally have nothing on the page ahead of this most recent update. This accounts for the sporadic nature of my updating: when the time comes, I do not write--it writes all by itself.

Why am I referencing Bruce Lee all of the sudden?

The quick movement and unpredictability you write about flows naturally, I think, from the manner of this story's birth. It began as short entries into "The Temple of Lore", which each piece being a little story into itself. That has changed, to a degree, with serialization, but the spirit still remains.