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Posted by: canis216 Dec 25 2007, 10:42 AM

Note: Yes, I will be finishing the original (and working on the 2nd) A.H.L.i.t.S. story eventually, but I've been on an Oblivion playing binge so I figured I'd strike while the game is still fresh for me. Without further ado...
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1.

Weynon Priory, Imperial Province

Jauffre’s lips eased into a droll smile when saw the figure in black approaching, up the stars. “What news from Morrowind, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun?” The figure in black pulled back his hood, revealing a red-brown, and scarred, argonian face. The grin was toothy, and Jauffre was reminded of the Naga from Waughin Jarth’s newest fiction. Jauffre thought it was fiction, at least.

“Call me Al, please. With Helseth consolidating his power, and everything else, I think I’ll be a frequent visitor.” The argonian handed over a large, sealed envelope.

“I imagine so… Al. How is the courier business treating you?”

“I have no complaints. I haven’t had to break into anyone’s home in six months.”

“Is that so? You did that a lot in the old days?”

“Almost as often as I cut a man’s throat.”

At that Jauffre’s eyes darted down to his katana. Quietly, he said, “I remember.” They were quiet for a moment, the two Blades, now a monk and a courier. The courier turned to leave, almost plowing into Brother Piner—running up the stairs.

“Jauffre! Jauffre! The emperor has been assassinated!”

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Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Province of Morrowind

A puff of skooma smoke on the air. “Full report.”

“My horse pulled up lame on the way down from the pass, while I was trying to outrun a bandit. I killed the bandit; claimed 342 septims from the body, some family’s jewels. Sold the jewels and the horse in Cheydinhal.”

“Healing magic didn’t work on Many-Gallops?”

A swig of beer. Old rhetorical trick—very common in the west. “Right. Well, it worked, but only well enough to trot into Cheydinhal. I’ve had an eye on a black horse anyway.”

“You bought one?”

“I call her ‘Outruns-Bandits’. Very fast. I included the receipt in my written report.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Anyway, there wasn’t any trouble the rest of the way I couldn’t outrun. I collected the most recent reports from the Palace and the Prison, and stayed overnight in the Market District. In the morning I made for the monastery and delivered the package to our colleague there. And then I discovered that Uriel and all of his heirs had been killed. I think I broke all land speed records on the way back here.”

“You were right to do so, friend. The times demand urgency.”

“We don’t have orders from the City already, do we? I don’t think I could wrap my brain around that kind of efficiency from the Elder Council.”

A smile. “No, Al. I’m expecting some sort of word from the Council by tomorrow, though. And I can guess what they’ll say.”

“So can I. ‘Stay put, we can’t afford instability in the provinces.’ So very predictable.” Another swig of beer. A nod and a puff of smoke from the other side of the table, rueful.

The beer drinker went on. “You know Caius, we must be quite the sight. Me in my all black with half-a-dozen empty beer bottles in front of me. You in that ridiculous monk’s robe—with skooma! We never change, do we?”

“So very predictable.”

Posted by: canis216 Dec 26 2007, 01:32 AM

2.

Kragenmoor – the next night

Two figures sat on the back steps of the Chapel of Akatosh—sans skooma, sans beer. The Imperial in the brown robes of a monk, the argonian in all-black. The argonian held a heavy daedric dagger loosely in front of him, between outstretched legs, pointed to the earth. The cyrodiil held a few sheets of parchment, an envelope bearing the imperial seal ripped open at his feet.

The argonian spoke first. “We’re not being recalled.”

Caius Cosades shook his head. “I’m not. You are.”

“Just me? They want me to assassinate the assassins?”

“Not exactly. At least, you’re not going to assassinate the Emperor’s assassins. You’re going to infiltrate the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Say again?”

“You heard me right, Al.”

“Why?”

“The Elder Council is concerned that in the chaos which—no doubt—will reign after the death of our sainted Emperor and his no-good heirs, individuals of faintly noble blood and unseemly ambition might seek to gain position through selective use of the Dark Brotherhood. They want somebody to get on the inside. They want an informant. They felt you were best qualified.”

“It’ll never work.”

That drew a laugh from Caius Cosades. “I happen to agree. But those are the orders. You are being tasked to discover how to join the Dark Brotherhood… and then you are to join.”

“And if they give me contracts…”

“The Elder Council has authorized you to kill anyone deemed ‘unimportant’, within the line of duty. I know that sounds immoral—it is. But those are the orders.”

“How do I determine who is ‘unimportant’?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun asked, now gazing up at the stars.

“You’ll still report to me—I’ll provide guidance. I’m giving you discretion, though, so you don’t need to ride that new horse of yours ragged to come see me. If a hit is questionable, do some research. If it passes the smell test, you can follow through.”

“I don’t care to kill any innocents.”

“Orders, my friend. You'll need to keep up cover. Of course, if you can find a way around killing someone, by all means do so. But don’t jeopardize the mission.”

“Of course, Caius. Of course. Now, one last question. How the hell do I find out how to join the Dark Brotherhood?”

A long pause. “Ask a Dark Brother.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 26 2007, 07:13 AM

Oh boy oh boy! Our favourite Argonian is back in the spotlight! All ready we have some intriguing developments as well, though you are never one to dally around and I like that!

Glad to see more of Al and hopefully the creative juices shall flow freely with this new story!

Posted by: jack cloudy Dec 27 2007, 08:12 PM

Dun dun dun. Al has returned.

I especially enjoy the bond between Al and Caius. Like the skooma and beer comment. 'We never change'. Good stuff.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 27 2007, 09:52 PM

3.

Prison, Lutemoth Legion Fort, Kragenmoor

It was 2 A.M. and Durius Carbo was on the watch. Nothing to worry about; Lutemoth Legion Fort had the most secure jail in Morrowind, he was sure. Not one of the locks could be picked—the smith had given the commander a money-back guarantee. Naturally then, Carbo ignored the impotent (and grisly) threats emanating from the only occupied cell.

“I’ll rip out your throat and vomit down your esophagus, imperial cur!”

Carbo could barely contain his mirth. It was always a treat to host a member of the Dark Brotherhood. He opened a bottle of brandy.

He had just brought the bottle to his lips when the door from the fort proper opened, and an argonian in black stepped in and rasped, “You Carbo?”

Feeling a little peeved (his brandy was waiting) the watchman answered, “Yeah. And who are you?”

“Call me Al.” The argonian handed Carbo an envelope. “This will explain my presence in unnecessary detail, so I’ll give the quick and dirty whys and hows. I’m with the Blades, and I’m going to question the prisoner by whatever means I see fit. You will help. Clear enough?”

“Yes sir” Carbo replied softly, straightening up. “What help do you need?”

“Mostly you can just stay out of my way, watch the door. I already have in my possession a full report of previous efforts at interrogation. I know who I’m dealing—“

“Hey [unnatural and untranslatable obscenity]! What the [censored] is going on out there! Choke on your [censored] brandy yet?”

“—with. Arrogant little s’wit, isn’t he?”

Carbo nodded.

“Good. Arrogance is useful. I’ll go in now.”

“I’ll open—“

The argonian held up a hand. “I already have the key, Carbo. You just watch the door. I’ll let you know if I need a torch or something.”

Carbo sat down at his table, and picked up his brandy. A torch?

In the cell

A dark elf face snarled, “Who the [censored] are you?”

“No one to be trifled with. But you want more than that, yes? Fine. My name is Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. You are Alval Itarianastus, Dark Brotherhood assassin. Now that introductions are over, I’d like to make you a proposition. I know that the illusionists have already been here to interrogate you—so very thoroughly, I’m sure they thought—and I know that they failed. I’m not going to try any charm spells, or any of that junk. I’m only going to make this offer: I will give you my ebony shortsword. We will fight. If you win, you can take the cell key from my body. You can escape. If I win, you at least die in honorable combat, instead of rotting in jail. But before we fight, you must tell me how you joined the Dark Brotherhood. Do we have a deal?”

“What happens to me if I don’t agree to your offer? Don’t I get out eventually?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled grimly. “Maybe. But I’ve been authorized to torture you first.”

“I see. In that case, I accept your offer. Hand me the blade.”

Done.

“I like it; nice balance. I’ll enjoy killing you with it. Now for my part of the bargain—I killed an innocent man along the road, since he didn’t want to pay my ‘toll’. I didn’t get caught. The Brotherhood contacted me as I slept that night. Now let’s begin.” The dark elf took up an offensive posture.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun drew his dagger, Kills-You-Dead, and held the blade in blocking position. Itarianastus, the Dark Brother, sprung forward. The sun-lingerer sidestepped the thrust and swung the hilt of Kills-You-Dead into the dunmer’s temple. An ebony blade flew into the wall—the argonian picked it up, opened the cell door, and stepped out. The dunmer began to stir again.

“I lied. You still get to rot in jail.”

Posted by: jack cloudy Dec 28 2007, 09:12 PM

While I personally consider the 'duel'-method a tad too risky, it worked.

And that's the way we know Al, a badass one-liner at the end of an update.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 28 2007, 10:41 PM

Ah well, the Dark Brother wasn't the only arrogant assassin in that duel. Could we call Al a bit over-confident? Perhaps. But that's part of the charm, I think.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 28 2007, 11:17 PM

Enjoyable update. Al always brings a smirk to my face.

Interesting way to deal with a trained killer, but I'm glad to see that Al pulled it off.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 28 2007, 11:45 PM

Post-machine!
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4.

A Letter

C,

As instructed, I have purchased quarters in the Imperial City. As you know, housing in the imperial capital is of limited availability. It cost me 2000 drakes to buy a shack in the Waterfront District. I could have rented a room, of course, but I felt that such an arrangement would have been both prohibitively expensive (even the bloody boarding house would have cost me 200 drakes a month) and something of a security risk. See my expense report (attached) for additional details.

The shack is bare, but serves my purposes. The bed is worn but comfortable; the local beggars are fair-to-good sources of information, though I marvel at how the self-proclaimed center of civilization on Nirn could harbor such destitution. Flawed as it was, at least the dunmer Temple provided for the poor.

But I digress. I know that you enjoy the digressions, but I mean to get back to business.

I accosted one of the local beggars, whose name I shall omit lest this communication be intercepted, and asked if he knew of any local skooma dens. As you should recall, we discussed skooma dens as an acceptable starting point to qualify for entrance into the order in question. After a payment of 20 septims the beggar allowed that he didn’t know of any dens in the City, but that he had heard of such an establishment (if you could call one that) in the city of Bravil. I signaled my gratitude with an additional 20 septims. Again, this is all in my expense report.

After taking lunch on the Bloated Float, a ship-borne tavern and inn, I mounted Outruns-Bandits and rode south and southeast to Bravil. I estimate the ride at four hours, with a brief stop to dispatch a bandit in the process of holding up a breton woman. Suffice it to say he was surprised to take a viper-bolt to the back of the head while he perused the lady’s jewelry. As you know my crossbow is nearly worn out from use, and more or less beyond repair. I think that Sirollus Saccus in Ebonheart could fix it, but of course I am no longer in Ebonheart. It was fortunate then, to find an ebony long bow on the bandit’s corpse.

I purchased arrows from a fletcher’s shop upon arriving in Bravil. I did not sell my crossbow—sentimental value. I also commissioned a set of glass arrows (to be delivered in a week) to meet my particular specifications, which you well know.

Once in Bravil, not caring to search very hard, I simply paid another beggar 20 gold to pass me the local skooma den’s location. Gold in hand, she was more than happy to oblige. Information in tow, I rented a room and took dinner at the Lonely Suitor Lodge, in the south of town. I also indulged in an ale or five. This, again, is on the expense report.

After dinner I retired to my room, sleeping until about 2 A.M. At that time I gathered up my tools and crossed the canal to the north side of Bravil, where I found the door to the skooma den securely locked—I felt five tumblers, what the Cyrodiils call “very hard”. As you know my skills in breaking and entering are a little rusty, so I am ashamed to admit that I broke 2 picks on the lock. It won’t happen again. (The picks are, of course, on the expense report).

Now, for the inside. The den was in two levels. There was a pair of beds on the first floor, one occupied by a khajiit male. He smelled of skooma, far more than even you. I’m still amazed you can function (as you say you are amazed at me). But that was another digression. I slit the khajiit’s throat with my ebony shortsword, not wishing to waste Kills-You-Dead on an addict.

Upstairs I found another khajiit male, and in addition a nord male and a breton female. I cut their throats in the same manner as described above.

I was finished cleaning up the scene at roughly 3:30 A.M. I am, as you know, nothing if not meticulous. After exiting the scene I rode immediately for the Imperial City, arriving at roughly 7:45 A.M. I posted this report in the mail at 11:00 A.M. If what the prisoner said is true, I will be contacted by the organization in question as I sleep. If what the prisoner said is not true, you (and he) will be seeing me shortly.

Regards,

A.H.L.i.t.S.

Posted by: Olen Dec 29 2007, 12:32 AM

Most entertaining. A good read and I like Al's style , pleasingly confident.

Nicely done letter too.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 29 2007, 01:49 AM

Killing "innocent" skooma addicts, that definitely is a nice and less guilty way of gaining the Brotherhood's attention. I look forward to seeing how Al will react to the Brotherhood's preachings.

Posted by: treydog Dec 29 2007, 02:40 AM

This is going wonderfully. Al is such a fun character; and I like that Caius' original recall from Vvardenfell wasn't a death warrant.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 29 2007, 03:09 AM

Well, as some of you may have noticed, I pay attention to TES lore (a Waughin Jarth reference in part I., anyone?) and like to base as much as I can on the "real" game-world. So, if you look on the Imperial Library's (great TES website) "obscure texts" section, you will find that Caius Cosades (it would appear) actually ended up at the Chapel of Akatosh in Kragenmoor at the time of the Oblivion crisis. I'm merely suggesting that his (not-so-divinely-inspired) work continued.

And it seemed oddly appropriate that Caius would suggest bumping off skooma addicts.

And thanks to everyone for the praise.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 29 2007, 04:57 AM

5.

Journal of an Imperial Courier: Waterfront District, the Imperial City

I heard a noise at the door. Anyone else, I’m sure, would have ignored it. I’m not anyone else. I felt a blade in each hand before I thought to grab them, and before I had chance to marvel at this I had the blades at the throat of tall imperial man wearing black.

“My, you are alert.”

Dark Brotherhood. I guess I wouldn’t need to go back to Kragenmoor and stick that dunmer’s head over a torch, after all. I drew my blades back from the assassin’s throat.

“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer. Yet not too soundly. That's good. You'll need a clear conscience—and a clear head—for what I'm about to propose.”

I kept silent. And a strong grip on my blades, just in case something went wrong.

“You prefer silence, then? As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased... that is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity... to join our rather unique family...”

I stayed silent. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Who was I to interrupt?

“So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid. Now listen closely. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family.”

I nodded my agreement, and he handed me a blade. Decent balance, but not to my standards…

“Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence. Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again soon.”

And then Lucien Lachance was gone. Or that’s the impression he would like to give. He cast some sort of powerful chameleon spell and trotted away, quickly as he came. Once he was out of my door I tossed his “virgin blade” aside. It was clearly intended to be a nice weapon for a new initiate—someone relatively inexperienced. I had no use for it.

Rufio… Inn of Ill Omen. I wanted to know more about him. I had barely slept, but I knew that it was a three hour ride to the Inn of Ill Omen (I had passed it on the way back from the skooma den in Bravil) and that it was now 2:00 P.M. and that I wanted to do the job sometime shortly after midnight. That left me something like seven hours in which to discretely investigate this mark.

I pulled on my robe, secured my new bow on my back, and stepped out to look for the beggar. He wasn’t hard to find; his bedroll was laid out perhaps seventy yards from my waterfront lodgings. He was standing nearby, eating some day-old bread which I presume he bought with the coins I provided the day before.

I called to him, “Ancus, I need more information.” He smiled at my approach, and practically beamed when I held out a small sack of gold—forty pieces.

“Be ‘appy to oblige, friend. Most ‘appy. What d’ya need?”

“Ever heard of a man named Rufio?”

“I knows a man who ‘as. He’s in The Black ‘orse Courier. And in the impound.”

“In jail, you mean.”

“Aye, that’s what I says.”

I tossed the beggar another bag of gold and took my leave.

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

(Pasted into the journal; the name Claudius Arcadia underlined with a dark black mark)

Night Mother Rituals!

SPECIAL EDITION
NIGHT MOTHER RITUALS ON THE RISE!

"And won't be tolerated!"
warns Imperial Legion.

by Agnes "the quill is mightier than the ebony sword" Earheardt

The Imperial City -- pinnacle of art, entertainment, scholarship... and ritualistic murder? So says Adamus Phillida, commander of the Imperial Legion forces in the Imperial City, and a staunch opponent of the mysterious assassin's guild known as the Dark Brotherhood. According to Phillida, Imperial Legion soldiers have discovered thirteen separate instances of the macabre "Black Sacrament," a sinister rite purportedly used to summon a member of the Dark Brotherhood, in order to arrange an assassination.

Whether or not a card-carrying killer shows up on a ritual performer's doorstep remains to be seen, but the Black Sacrament itself is very real, and truly the stuff of nightmares. As documented in the rare and taboo work "A Kiss, Sweet Mother," the Black Sacrament involves an effigy of the intended victim -- created from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh -- within a circle of candles. To proceed with the ritual, one must stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering the plea, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." As gruesome as this ritual may be, even more frightening is its intention -- the summoning of a mysterious assassin (who some witnesseses claim is always clad in a black hooded robe) who will then receive money to kill an innocent victim. No remorse. No regret. It is, as the merchant's say, simply business. And that's what worries Adamus Phillida.

"This brazen increase in Night Mother rituals is an affront to the decent, peace-loving citizens of the Empire. The Imperial Legion exists for one reason and one reason only -- to protect and serve the people of Tamriel. How in Azura's name can we do that when people take it upon themselves to contact paid assassins and have innocent people murdered? How can I sleep at night knowing my Legion can't possibly save the life of someone marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood? Anyone who carries out this "Black Sacrament" makes a mockery of the Imperial Legion, and as Commander, that's something I just can't tolerate. From this point forward, any citizen found in the possession of items related to the Night Mother ritual will be incarcerated in the Imperial Prison indefinitely, and their property seized by the Empire. There's no fine high enough, no standard prison sentence long enough, for the type of malcontent who would show such a blatant disregard for our dear Emperor's laws and the wellfare of the fine people of Tamriel"

To be sure, Adamus Phillida is not one to issue empty threats. Indeed, the Black Horse Courier has learned that one Claudius Arcadia, until recently a resident of the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City, is now residing in a cold, dank cell in the Imperial Prison, and his house has become the newest Imperial Legion outpost. So before you take the law into your own hands, dear reader, remember -- you'll go further in life with a warm smile than a cold blade. And if you've got a grudge that won't be soothed, a score that can't be settled, you can always move to Morrowind and have the government-sanctioned Morag Tong do the killing for you.

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

I decided against breaking into Arcadia’s home to look for references to Rufio. It was likely that the legion had removed any pertinent evidence, and it was possible that they would have posted a guard to keep out curiosity seekers. The Black Horse Courier suggested as much. I decided to take the direct route—visiting Claudius Arcadia in prison.

I decided against wearing my black robes in to visit him. I didn’t want the Watch thinking me a Dark Brotherhood assassin, coming to visit a client. I donned mage’s robes instead, so very common in the City. I left the bow at home, and concealed my blades best as I could. From there it was a simple matter to talk to the jailer, who was quite receptive to bribery. Shortly I found myself standing face-to-face with Claudius Arcadia.

I started to introduce myself (dishonestly, of course, as a guard was watching) but as soon as he saw me he blurted, “So I wanted somebody murdered! So I prayed to the Night Mother! What, is that a crime now? They even took my house, those bastards!”

My lies thus delayed, I turned up the sympathy. “Mr. Arcadia, I saw notice of your trouble in the Courier, and I, Speaks-Well, would like to help you. While the Legion has a legitimate interest here, I believe they have acted too harshly. If you told me more of your case, I might be able to exert some public pressure in your favor.”

He seemed rather incredulous—and very, very bitter. “How could you possibly help me? What can you know of my pain?”

Putting on a grave face, I whispered close to his ear, “I know about Rufio.”

That opened his eyes wide, I dare say. “You know about that scum? What he did to my little…” His voice faded away into sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Claudius. I’ll leave you be. And I’ll see what I can do for you.” With that, I left. I could kill Rufio.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Dec 29 2007, 07:20 AM

Well that's an interesting way to discover whether a target is worthy to kill. Very nice detective work by Al indeed.

Posted by: jack cloudy Dec 29 2007, 08:25 PM

Beggars, they've got better intelligence than the professional spy network! Or maybe they are 'part' of the professional spy network. Apart from the fact that they serve everyone who pays in cash, they are reliable enough.

Posted by: canis216 Dec 29 2007, 11:52 PM

Check out http://www.imperial-library.info/obbooks/beggar_prince.shtml. The beggars are also reputedly the eyes and ears of the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil. If you get the chance to play Oblivion, you'll find that they can be useful.

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 7 2008, 12:52 AM

I'm liking this, very much. I too investigated Claudius' House for his journal. While I have my grumblings about OB< I have no complaints with the DB at all. They did a bang-up job on that part.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 7 2008, 01:49 AM

6.

The Green Road, south of Lake Rumare

Dro’Jayr’s ears perked up at the sound of a horse rushing southeast along the road. This was good; business had been poor of late. He rolled over and pushed himself up off of his bedroll, seizing his elven blade in the process. He was already arrayed in his glass armor—the bandit’s life being so perilous that he seldom dared to take it off, unless he was staying at the local inn. All his gear together, Dro’Jayr sprinted the distance to the road, maybe twenty yards. He could tell that the horse was fast, that he needed to hurry to be in position.

The bandit reached the roadside just in time to see a black horse—with a black rider—fly past. He didn’t bother to pursue it.

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

The Inn of Ill Omen, 11:35 P.M.

Manheim Maulhand had nearly finished wiping down the bar when the figure in black stepped in through his door. It was a warm night, yet the man—the figure was of fair height—was wearing a full black robe. Hood was up too. Odd, but the innkeeper knew that some folks were like that, always wear the same thing so long as it made their status clear. Finally the figure stepped into the candlelight and he could see the snout of an argonian peeking out of the hood. The argonian looked about for a moment—paying special attention to the basement hatch—and then approached the bar.

As the argonian took a seat Maulhand heard the rough utterance of a greeting of what passed for a greeting—“Evening”.

Eager for some business, the nord tried to ignore his customer’s gruffness. “We got plenty of rooms if you want one. Ain't nobody staying here these days 'cept old Rufio.”

The argonian nodded and—more politely than before—said, “Thanks. I would appreciate a room. How much for one?”

“I've got a small room available right upstairs, first door on the left. Only 10 gold. What do you say?”

The argonian fished into his robes and pulled out a small bag of gold, out of which he produced a 10-septim piece. “I’ll take it” he said as he passed over the gold. “If you have an ale I’ll take that too.” He fished out a few more coins. “And you can have one for yourself.”

After an hour Manheim Maulhand was thoroughly sloshed (no nord born can turn down a good drinking game), and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had confirmed that Rufio could be found downstairs.

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

The Inn of Ill Omen, 1:15 A.M.

Who are you? What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!

Oh yes you have, old man.

No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!

You always have a choice, Rufio. You chose wrong.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 7 2008, 03:59 AM

Hehe, I love the fact that you used the term "sloshed". Solid update canis!

Posted by: Olen Jan 7 2008, 02:27 PM

He's certainly direct. I like your writing style too, the pace is fast but you still get in nice details like the bandit.

And its got a pleasingly high body count.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 13 2008, 11:33 PM

7.

Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor

It was Loredas night at Kragenmoor’s busiest, sleaziest dive, and the booze hall was crowded with merchants and bandits all fresh off the road. The typical troupe of bards vigorously playing the usual ballads of the Nerevarine—more popular than ever in the absence of an Emperor—was overwhelmed by the banter of the gathered horde. A pair of the shadowy figures sitting in the one (almost) quiet corner ruminated upon the gathering.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was first to speak. “I hear some folks wouldn’t mind if the Nerevarine marched on the Imperial City and took over. Kvatch must have been ugly.”

“That’s what we hear,” Caius Cosades said, somberly. Surprised you didn’t catch word of it back in Cyrodiil.”

“It was a long ride from the City; I didn’t stop for the news. They’ve got some other poor fool to deliver the reports now.”

“Indeed, indeed. So what of your work? You said LaChance told you to go to Cheydinhal to ‘meet the family’?”

“Yeah, but I decided to come here first. I guess I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll arrive there and everyone will jump me as a spy. I can’t believe that the Dark Brotherhood is this gullible. I mean, I was damn near infamous back on Vvardenfell, at least for a while. I burned down a slave market! The Morag Tong tried to kill me twice! And then there was Helseth… In any case, the Dark Brotherhood should know who I am—they were hired to kill me, after all.”

“I know, I know…”

“I’m saying, Caius, that something isn’t right.”

“Can you handle them if they jump you?” The Imperial looked into the argonian’s eyes.

“Depends on how many. Probably. Even an incompetent, wielding Kills-You-Dead, might take a couple with him. I figure I might be able to take four dark brothers at once, maybe more if they’re entry level and real stupid. But I don’t know, it’s been a couple years since I was in a more-or-less fair fight. And that was a rabble of bandits, not trained assassins.”

“Best be careful. Even if this operation with the Brotherhood doesn’t pan out, it would be no good having you dead.”

For ten minutes the two Blades drank their ales in silence, once again contemplating the music.

“Caius, was it your idea or Sethyas’ to make up the rumor about going to Akavir?”

“Mine. I heard that fame was putting a damper on his privacy, so I suggested a solution to him—Nine-Toes tells me folk have actually bought that load of guar [censored], too. The more far-fetched the lie, the more likely the people will believe it—the first rule of deception, my friend.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded gravely. And then he opened a bottle of brandy.

“Al, what else did LaChance tell you about the Dark Brotherhood?”

“They’re real head cases, Caius. They worship Sithis, like the books say. They’ve got a top-down structure: the Night Mother, whatever she is, gives instructions to the Listener, who passes on the information to the Speakers. LaChance is a speaker. The Listener and the Speakers compose the Black Hand, which I guess is their council of leadership. From what LaChance was saying, I gathered that each Speaker is in charge of his own sanctuary. The Cheydinhal sanctuary is LaChance’s.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it. I should learn more when I go to Cheydinhal tomorrow. You know, provided I don’t have to kill everyone.”

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 14 2008, 12:39 AM

The plot thickens. I love the conversation about Sethyas as well. Good stuff!

Posted by: Olen Jan 15 2008, 12:59 AM

Nice. I continue to watch with interest.

Posted by: Black Hand Jan 16 2008, 01:28 AM

That was actually my line of reasoning too.....

Posted by: Marcel Rhodes Jan 17 2008, 06:17 AM

I really like what you've done with both the Nerevarine and Cosades here - I never did buy that rubbish about Akavir. I'll be keeping an eye on this one.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 17 2008, 07:10 AM

Thank you much... and welcome to the forum.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 17 2008, 08:33 AM

I always love Caius and Al together. They are so...I dunno....easygoing?

And I never believed the Akavir rumour either, though this is perhaps more because I simply can't see my Nerevarine going there without a VERY good reason.

I mean, seriously. Just what is in Akavir that the Nerevarine should be interested in? That continent hasn't been in the spotlight since the last invasion or so.

Posted by: Marcel Rhodes Jan 17 2008, 09:07 AM

I apologise for cluttering the thread on this one, but the only reason I could ever think of would be sheer boredom. No-one knows about the place, after all, and once Dagoth Ur's been cast down, Almalexia's been taught a lesson and so forth, what else is there to do? Buy a farm?

I could never imagine my original character from the game heading there either though, so I might be much the same on my disbelief.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 26 2008, 04:34 AM

8.

Journal of an Imperial Courier: Cheydinhal

I am exasperated. How could an organization so pathetic and trivial as the Dark Brotherhood have survived for so long?

Ah, but I should back up and start again, lest my thoughts lose order.

I arrived in Cheydinhal at about ten in the morning and proceeded directly to the battered old house to which LaChance had ordered me. The door was locked of course, but it was a lock of little consequence. I won’t anyone with much detail into the building’s interior, save to say that it was messy and dark, exactly as the Brotherhood intended for any intruders to see.

The basement was more interesting. A trail of dried blood lead to the foot of the Black Door, as LaChance called it. I suppose that it was designed to intimidate—the artwork consists of a great skull (Sithis, I imagine), and what I can only guess is the depiction of the Night Mother sacrificing her children to the aforementioned skull. I can’t say that I was impressed. But then, I grew up in Black Marsh—my people have seen too much to be taken aback by cheap tricks. Maybe all this display actually frightens the cyrodiils.

In any case, staring at the door wasn’t getting me anywhere. I tried to push it open. As expected, a disembodied voice (this actually scares the imperials?) asked me, “What is the color of night?” I was tempted to call out, “Black. Now let me the hell in, maudlin s’wits!” but I restrained myself and gave the correct answer, “Sanguine, my brother.” By the gods, I hate this assignment. By that point I was rather hoping that they would jump me, just so I could kill them and be done with all this nonsense.

The Black Door opened. I stepped inside and found that no pack of assassins waited to kill me, to my great disappointment. Instead I was greeted by a single female argonian—I guessed that she was a few years younger than I. She was smiling—until she saw my face.

“It’s—it can’t be. You. Heik-Auri. You’re the one who betrayed the Shadowscales. I should—“

I cut her off. “Yes, you should shut up. You don’t want to violate the Five Tenets, and I don’t want to paint the walls of this sanctuary with your blood.” I was lying about the second part.

We shared two minutes of awkward silence. I noted an armed and armored skeleton shambling about—some sort of sanctuary guard, undoubtedly. In the far corner was a small table with an adjoining bookcase—a blonde breton woman was seated by it, daydreaming. Pathetic rabble.

I broke the ice. “Who gives out the contracts?”

The dark sister stared at me coldly for a beat before answering, “Go and speak with Vicente Valtieri. He handles all assignments for new members. And take this armor—“

“Already picked some up in Morrowind,” I growled, walking by. I wasn’t hanging around in this place any longer than I had to. My job was to report suspicious contracts—period.

I found Vicente Valtieri at the end a long hallway. He looked… odd. I put it aside.

“Vicente? I understand that you supply the work.”

He smiled, revealing long fangs. A vampire—wonderful organization, this is. In any case, I think he saw the recognition in my eyes, and I think he enjoyed it.

“Warmest greetings to you. I trust you've already spoken with Ocheeva? I am Vicente Valtieri. I provide assignments for all new family members. Please, do not let my appearance... unnerve you. The needs and Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood come before my own needs as a vampire. Now, if you're ready to get to work, I can provide you with your first contract.”

“Of course I’m ready.” I forced a smile.

“Very good. I'm not sure how you feel about pirates, but you've got to kill one. A captain, in fact. On his ship. Surrounded by his crew. Interested?”

A pirate. Didn’t seem too problematic. “Yeah, I’ll accept the contract.”

“Excellent. Here is what you must do. Go to the Waterfront District of the Imperial City. There you will find a ship named the Marie Elena. Board the ship and find its captain, Gaston Tussaud. He'll be in his cabin. Eliminate Tussaud in any manner you see fit. The pirates have been moving a lot of cargo onboard lately. You may be able to smuggle yourself onboard in one of the packing crates.”

“Consider it done.”

I marched out fast as I could. Madness... Shadowscales, vampires, undead guardians, Black Doors... and none of them could tell that I was a spy.

Posted by: Agent Griff Jan 26 2008, 09:30 AM

Hm, a change of tense in the story. Interesting, though I think the story was a little more mysterious when it was in the third person, I mean it was somewhat more fresh and factual. Still you've retained your classical style and I can't but praise it. Love the intro the Brotherhood. Al must be made of though stuff since, in-game at least, I find that place to be quite scary. The entrance I mean, the actual sanctuary ain't that much of a wonder.

Posted by: Olen Jan 26 2008, 01:53 PM

Nice update. I suppose you get used to undead and disembodied voices... Certainly he has an amusing attitude.

I liked Vicente, you highlighted how excessive his dialogue is nicely against Al's rather grounded view.

Posted by: jack cloudy Jan 26 2008, 02:20 PM

Heh, I absolutely love Al's cocky attitude.
He's all:,, Oh, come on people. Just stop showing off and give me something good."

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Jan 28 2008, 04:10 AM

Things continue to move along nicely. Some fun lines by Al in this update.

Posted by: canis216 Jan 28 2008, 05:03 AM

Oh, I just like to mess around with different perspectives... so I think here I've established Al's journal, his written reports to Caius (a little drier than the journal, more operation-oriented), and the third person (atmospheric). I'll have to make sure I don't overreach...

Posted by: treydog Jan 30 2008, 03:42 AM

Always got to love Al's "Ohhh, scary! Not!" attitude. I like the change of pace in the writing- keeps it interesting.

Posted by: redsrock Feb 3 2008, 05:44 PM

I for one am I glad you changed tense. I write in first person as well I find it much easier. Good job, treydog...

Posted by: minque Feb 5 2008, 12:17 AM

Nice as always Canis! Your Al really is a funny guy to read about....My favourite Lizzy

Posted by: Agent Griff Feb 12 2008, 08:59 AM

Since I saw it mentioned in your story, I thought I'd ask you about it Canis. What exactly is a Shadowscale? It sounds like an intriguing character for roleplaying and I'm interested in creating just such a character to roleplay an assassin working for the Brotherhood.

Posted by: Lord Revan Feb 12 2008, 10:46 PM

Shadowscales are Argonians born under the sign of the shadow (self-explainitory when one knows its meaning). These children are taken at birth and trained as assassins (and if they live long enough to come of age, they are given to the Dark Brotherhood).

You find that out in the Dark Brotherhood plotline in OB.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 13 2008, 03:03 AM

What Revan said is good. I should also add that if you read one of my contributions to http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=3497&st=20 you'd get some nice background on Al's ad hoc connection to the Shadowscales.

Posted by: canis216 Feb 28 2008, 08:07 AM

9.

Waterfront District, the Imperial City

You want t’ know about the Cap’n of the Mah-ree Elena? Aye, s’pose I hear some things. He don’t ever come out of that cabin of ‘is, is what I hears. I sure ain’t never seen ‘im, and I’m on the Waterfront all day, if ya’ know what I mean, sir. Oh, yes sir, does all his business through that dark elf mate what patrols the docks. Real hard case, that one. Why, I was making me rounds the other day sir, you knows, singing for me supper, and I swear to old Aka she’d have slew me on the spot if it weren’t for the Watch.

Would I likes to earn some scratch? Aye sir. What’d you ‘ave in mind?

No doubt about it, Malvulis was agitated. Nervous, even, though her crew would never speak a questioning word; at least not to her face. Not now, on their last evening in port. In the morning they would sail down the Niben, bound for the Abecean. But until they reached the open sea they were vulnerable, and the First Mate knew it better than anyone.

“How many crates left, Hutsei?” It was more a command than a question.

A shirtless, red-scaled argonian answered thus: “Twenty-five, ma’am. Any faster and we’ll damage the cargo!” They were moving brandy, wine, hard booze—skirting tariffs—and a fair helping of skooma, all of it destined for Stros M’kai.

Twenty-five crates would take another three hours, at least, to haul down below deck and secure. Probably four. Malvulis swore, none too softly. Four more hours and she thought she would drive herself batty, imagining every passer-by would get curious and start poking into her cargo, or want to see a manifest. And then there was the other problem. She glanced back to the ship and saw the reassuring candlelight glow from Captain Tussaud’s quarters. She took a deep breath… everything was going to be alright.

“Ma’am,” a redguard’s voice interrupted, “the beggar is skulking about again.” She looked up and saw the fellow pointing dockside with his cutlass.

Letting loose a contemptuous snort, Malvulis turned and saw the bum. This time he had a drink in hand. This was why she hated the charitable. “I’ll take care of it, Bridger,” she groaned, “You just get back to loading. I want to be ready to leave at first light.”

The beggar seemed to be… singing? He must have found quite a benefactor tonight, Malvulis thought. He clearly already had a few in him. She strode quickly down the gangplank, fingering her cutlass, as the beggar staggered up to a stack of cargo.

“O, t’was never better… than to bed her… all ‘long the ‘becean Sea…”

The doddering fool took a deep swig of his libation—Malvulis smelled mead on the air—and then sat down heavily on a strongbox, a chest the dunmer first mate knew contained at least ten vials worth of skooma. The bum’s grimy fingers idly played with the padlock…

“Away from that cargo, s’wit! Now!” Malvulis’ cutlass was drawn, her gaze enough to make an ogre think twice. The bum practically vaulted up from his seat, terror full in his eyes. He looked anything but drunk, now, and stammered, “Many apologies milady, I meant nothing by it, nothing a’tall! Just wetting me whistle, is all!”

The dunmer raised her sword, “Just wetting your whistle! Why—“

The watchman rounded into view. Malvulis froze. The beggar turned and ran, forgetting his mead. And the redguard Bridger shouted, “Ma’am! I hear noises in the Captain’s cabin!”

“What!” The dunmer turned and ran shipboard, shouting. “Open that door! Now!”

Hutsei fumbled with the key, then dropped it, then kicked in the door. Three pirates burst inside, finding the Captain slumped onto a table sticky with his own blood. The aft door was open wide.

All that remained of the killer were the ripples in Lake Rumare.

Posted by: Olen Feb 28 2008, 07:52 PM

Another good update, and a refreshing style telling it from the point of view of a minor character.

Good stuff, but I want more.

Posted by: Agent Griff Feb 28 2008, 09:53 PM

Heh, Al handled this assignment much like one of my own Oblivion characters handled it. Only, in my case, the distraction wasn't provided by a beggar but by an Imperial Watch member. As my character tried to hide in one of the crates waiting to be loaded onto the ship, I looked up and saw that all three pirates who were outside the ship were franticly fighting against a lone Watch patrolman. As they killed each other, I carefully sneaked into the Captain's quarters. After the deed was done, I could hear knocks on the door. Realizing that the pirates were onto my scheme, I quickly looked for places to escape. It was, by chance, that I saw the door behind the Captain's desk and opened it to plunge into the waters of the harbour. Much like Al.

Great update. I also liked the point-of-view character. Using minor characters as witnesses to the deeds of the protagonist is a time-proven method and I'm glad to see it pulled off so well. Great work! A tad short though.

Posted by: jack cloudy Feb 28 2008, 10:19 PM

Well, that's the good thing about being an Argonian. You can escape underwater real easy. Heck, Al can hide under the boat for over an hour till things cool down. Bet those pirates will never look there. I wonder if Al is going to 'drop an anonymous hint' at the guards about the smuggling, just for fun.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Feb 29 2008, 08:49 PM

Exemplary work as usual canis.

Posted by: minque Mar 2 2008, 02:36 PM

Wha Mallie said.....excellent and very well written, as usual

Posted by: canis216 Mar 6 2008, 05:52 PM

10.

A Letter

C,

And so this exasperating operation continues. I write from Bruma, where the organization in question has dispatched me to eliminate a bosmer aristocrat. (Is there really such a thing as an aristocratic bosmer? Why not? We are a generous people.)

Booze-addled digressions aside, there is not much to report. Per our agreed protocol, I nosed around town, trying to figure out why Baenlin—the target—was slated to die. I have concluded that the hit was arranged by a relative, looking to inherit the old wood elf’s estate. I base my conclusion upon these facts, listed in no particular order:

1) Baenlin had a substantial estate
2) His manservant was explicitly not be killed
3) His death was arranged as an accident

Once the dust clears from this mission, I suggest that whoever inherits Baenlin’s estate be arrested. Of course, the evidence I list here is completely circumstantial—but the law of the Empire is clear: “All defendants are considered guilty until proven innocent.”

The details of the dirty deed itself are rather dull. I know I was bored. I broke in through the cellar and made my way up to the crawlspace without incident. That was at about four in the afternoon. Then I settled down to wait—Valtieri noted that the target did not settle into his chair, below the minotaur head, until 8:00 PM. I killed time (hopefully without damaging eternity, unlike those crazy Maruhkatis) with that flask of brandy you sent me. (Forward my compliments to Ra’tesh, will you?)

I think I may have drifted off into sleep, which is well enough. The organization in question (are you really that worried that these bloody messages will be intercepted?) isn’t worthy of my wakefulness, anyway. In any case, I woke up at about a quarter past nine, at which point I took another swig of brandy and cut the bindings that held the minotaur head in place. Crash, bang, et cetera, and Baenlin was dead.

That’s about the sight of it. Gromm (the manservant), I last saw standing guard over the wood elf’s corpse. Loyal fellow—probably won’t respond well to whatever scum inherits the place. Speaking of scum, I think I might lay about town a few days and see who shows up… I’ll try to show restraint. Or at least I’ll try to be hung over.

Groggily,

A.H.L.i.t.S.

Posted by: Black Hand Mar 6 2008, 07:37 PM

Hehehe. You seem to have a "This mission isn't everything they cracked it up to be" tone in this great update.

I agree.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Mar 7 2008, 06:31 AM

"Crash, bang, et cetera..."

Haha. Great line. This was definitely an amusing update for sure.

Posted by: Agent Griff Mar 7 2008, 10:01 AM

I like how you turn the contemporary law system of "presumed innocent until proven guilty" to a mock-Imperial system of "presumed guilty until proven innocent". Great twist Canis! I also liked how Al considers such missions to be beneath him and how he doubts the power of the Dark Brotherhood. I suspect he shall have a big surprise, since the Brotherhood can be quite resourceful when its back is to the wall.

Posted by: canis216 Mar 7 2008, 04:47 PM

Actually, that is the real law of Tamriel. See http://www.imperial-library.info/dfbooks/b025_legalbasic.shtml from Daggerfall: "The Tamriel legal system has its basis in the civilized, reasonable credo uttered by the prophet Marukh in the first era: 'All are guilty until they have proven themselves innocent.' Were truer word ever spoke?"

Posted by: Olen Mar 7 2008, 06:58 PM

Well the way things are heading...

Anyway nice update, quite ammusing. I can imagine Al enjoying a certain mission... if you get that far though the quest before diverging. Anyway good stuff.

Posted by: jack cloudy Mar 9 2008, 09:56 AM

I love Al.

He does have a point when he critiscizes the censoring, though. Even with the censoring, it's pretty damn obvious the organization is a pack of assassins. And what is the name of the big pack of assassins? That's right, the DB.

Posted by: canis216 Mar 10 2008, 03:28 PM

11.

Bruma City Watch Report for Fredas, 17 Hearthfire, 3E433

9:15 AM: Chapel of Talos reports Stone of St. Alessia stolen by bandits. Referred to Fighter’s Guild. (Complete complaint attached)

3:31 PM: Bradon Lirrian, vampire, brought to justice by Raynil Dralas, vampire hunter. Lethal action authorized by Carius Runellius, Inquisitor of the Watch. (Complete report due Middas, 22 HF)

4:57 PM: Fetid Jonfhnild, occupation vagrant, cited for vagrancy. No fine assessed, though he was once again encouraged to take a bath.

7:17 PM: Caenlin, noble and nephew of the late Baenlin (investigation still pending), reports assault by unseen assailant. Received broken four broken ribs, broken collarbone, broken jawbone, severe concussion. Both eyes swollen shut. No suspects. Assailant reported to smell of brandy. Possible connection to case 433-01671 being investigated. (Complete complaint attached)

10:51 PM: Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for public indecency at Olav’s Tap and Tack. 10 septim fine assessed and paid.

11:15 PM: Olfand, occupation shopkeeper, cited for drunk and disorderly conduct. 25 septim fine assessed and paid.

11:18 PM Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for serial public indecency and for slandering the Watch. 40 septim fine assessed and paid.

Praise be to the Nine!

Posted by: jack cloudy Mar 10 2008, 03:59 PM

Hmm, smelled like Brandy? I wonder who that could have been.

And the last sentence in the report is funny. Sure, the world is apparantly going all to hell, but damn, bless the gods for their mercy!

Posted by: Olen Mar 10 2008, 05:13 PM

I like the varienty of different styles and sources you use to tell this story, keeps it really fresh and interesting.

Nice stuff.

Posted by: Agent Griff Mar 10 2008, 05:18 PM

Great update! You manage to relay such humour with such updates, I think you should try your hand at comedies, not just assassin fics.

Posted by: The Metal Mallet Mar 11 2008, 01:48 AM

I am pleased with this update. My Al thirst is sated for now...

Posted by: minque Mar 29 2008, 07:14 PM

Me too...I love Al! Enjoyed the last two updates immensely..so keep'em comin huh!

Posted by: canis216 Jul 23 2008, 07:21 AM

12.

Underground, Cheydinhal

He’s all swagger and no faith, Vicente.

He’s bloody good with a blade.

He says he picked up a set of our armor in Morrowind, somewhere.

Exactly my point. He’s good.

He can’t be trusted!

Who can?

You don’t think it’s odd that he only came to the attention of the Night Mother just now? He looks like he’s been hitting for at least fifteen years, with all those scars.

More like twenty, I’d say.

You know something, don’t you?

Ocheeva my dear, I know nothing that Lucien doesn’t.

Is that so?

Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun polished off a magnum of Gaston and David Surilie’s finest vino and reclined in his chair, thinking.

“You want to know the players? Ocheeva, one of my kind, more or less runs the sanctuary, given that LaChance is never about. She despises me, by the way, because I stole a little trinket from her precious Shadowscales. She’ll never trust me, but I doubt she’ll suspect imperial involvement either. And she’s so slow with a blade it ain’t even funny—all that time training, and she’ll never be any good in a fair fight. Her brother, I think his name is Teinaava, he’s a little better, carries a heavy shortsword and knows how to use it. But a more trusting type. I’m not sure what he thinks of me.”

The argonian paused his soliloquy to open a pint bottle of flin, to take in familiar and friendly surroundings. A triad of old legion buddies sat at the bar getting properly soused while a khajiit and a bosmer sat in opposing dark corners eying the stacks of gold coins accumulating on the counter. The local dunmer played poker, ashen voices rising with the conclusion of each hand, while the nords arm-wrestled. Caius Cosades sat across the table. All was right in Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun’s world.

“I haven’t bothered to catch the breton girl’s name. Not worth the bother. I’ve seen scribs more intimidating. The bosmer is out of the sanctuary a lot, not on jobs but something else. A spy? The orc is just ridiculous. Worthy of ridicule. Never would send him on a political assassination. Not a stealthy fellow, and what’s more, he doesn’t believe in it. But Gogron must be tough; otherwise I don’t see how he could still be alive.”

Caius Cosades puffed away at his skooma and smiled his knowing smile. “And what about the vampire?”

It was the argonian’s turn to smile. “I was wondering when you’d ask. But you’re a patient man, yes. Well, Valtieri is something of a curiosity. I think he knows or at least suspects more about me than he lets on. But I also think he likes me.”

“That is curious.”

“Anyway, he liked how I did the pirate and the rich wood elf. Called me some kind of gift from the Night Mother, damn his eyes. Has this odd sort of grin when he’s talking to me, like he and I are in on some kind of joke that we’re playing on everyone else. Strange fellow. Of course, he is a vampire.”

Caius thought on that a while, several moments in point of fact, until his pipe seemed in danger of burning all the way down. Finally, without looking up he asked, “What’s this about invading the Imperial Prison? To kill a prisoner?”

The argonian’s grin grew wider. “Valen Dreth, been in there… eleven years. Some rot about public indeceny, slander and libel against the Imperium, conspiracy, and breaking and entering. Into the Red Dragon bedchambers. Interesting fellow.”

“Your plan?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the Sun took a generous draught of flin, which he chased with a moment of thought. And another grin. “I’m going to walk in through the front door.”

Posted by: treydog Jul 23 2008, 12:37 PM

Now that's the way to start a (much-too-early) Wednesday morning- with a proper portion of Al!

Fun reading as always.

Posted by: Agent Griff Jul 23 2008, 03:02 PM

I'm going to pretend as if we haven't been deprived of Al's adventures for several months. Reading this update more than makes up for it. Great work, Canis!

Posted by: Black Hand Jul 23 2008, 05:06 PM

GaaaH!! Overdose of Al after getting him out of my blood for all this time! Addiction....returning!

Posted by: canis216 Jul 23 2008, 08:38 PM

13.

Office of the Imperial Watch, Prison District, the Imperial City

Itius Hayn looked up from the parchment in his right hand with a question on his face. Before he could speak, Adamus Philida had the answer.

“This matter in Bruma is our business because the Dark Brotherhood is mine. You just make sure that letter reaches the guard. I will be speaking personally with this Caenlin, in three days time. We have much to discuss, he and I.”

“Yes sir, Commander.”

“Tell the jailor to prepare a cell.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

This was shaping up to be a good day. His war against the Dark Brotherhood was going rather well, all things considered. And to receive this piece of intelligence from the Blades… he felt sure that his voice was finally getting through to the high command, to the Elder Council. It was just a shame that it had taken so long…

Philida shook the cobwebs loose from his head. Too early to reflect. He had still had weeks until retirement. Maybe longer, if he could extract a little more information from those Blades.

He walked outside and practically into the arms of the argonian fellow outside, reaching for the doorknob.

“Apologies my good fellow,” Philida managed to say after they managed to separate and straighten up. “Are you the courier?” He noted the satchel with the imperial seal, the dust on the teal mage robes.

The fellow nodded, said yes, he was. He’d been requested?

“Indeed,” Philida answered. “Hayn will see you inside”.

So the two, man and betmer, went their separate ways. It wasn’t until much later that Adamus Philida discovered his entire set of keys had been lifted.

Inside, Hayn had just managed to seal the missive (addressed: Capt. Burd, Bruma City Guard - Castle Bruma, city of Bruma, county of Bruma, Cyrodiil) when the courier walked up rummaging about in his bag, not even looking up as he spoke—the harried, busy type. Has a schedule to execute. Perfunctory questions—are you Captain Hayn? You have a message for me? Where to?

“I am Captain Itius Hayn, yes.” (He was proud of the appellation, enjoyed the opportunity to answer in the affirmative). “This letter,”—he handed over the parcel—“should be delivered to the Captain of the Bruma City Guard with all due haste. Are you familiar with Bruma?”

The courier answered in the affirmative. He knew it. Had just been there recently.

“Oh, one more thing? Where’s the usual fellow? The legion vet? Severus his name?”

The courier shook his head and laughed, quietly. “Oh, him? I hear he got into a bar fight in Kragenmoor, busted a couple ribs. Got pissing drunk with two of his buddies, tripped over the feet of one of my kind, started a row, and got the worst of it. So here I am in his stead.”

The Bastion, Imperial Prison

The jailor, Destitrus by name, did not bother to rise from his chair at the opening of the door. Nor did he even look up from his copy of The Black Horse Courier. Guardsmen were always popping in and out with the shifting of the watch, or heading up into the barracks for a quick bite or nip from a flask. Balding, rotund, shiftless—Tobin Destitrus was perfectly made for his role, caretaker to Cyrodiil’s scoundrels and scalawags. But today his attention was actually required.

“Jailor! Watch needs one of your inmates to sign some form. Something about seizure of property, auction of assets, whatnot. You got a Claudius Arcadia here?”

Destitrus glanced up. “Give me a moment, eh?” He finished his reading (“A New Guild For Fighters?”) and finally stood up from his desk. “Give me that, I’ll bring it down to him.” He took a thick envelope from the courier’s scaly grasp (something familiar about this fellow, he thought) and opened the door to the medium-security cell block, the prison’s eastern wing, soon disappearing down the corridor. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made for the west wing, maximum security, and its unpickable door lock.

From within his robe (a little worse for wear, having been pierced by a pair of viper-bolts once upon a time) he pulled out a ring of keys (complete with Imperial Legion symbology) and a shortsword of ebony (pulled from a dunmer corpse in Black Marsh) and set to work. But nothing would work. Or more properly, none of the keys (four in all) fit, and lock picks were useless. He risked the flash of light from an unlocking spell, and it too failed.

A sigh. “To Oblivion with this garbage. I’ll go through the damned sewers.”

Posted by: Agent Griff Jul 23 2008, 09:00 PM

I like the fact that Al doesn't actually lie to Hayn. And I also like how he just 'happened' to be in Kragenmoor when the Legion courier got badly beaten up.

Also, the way in which he casually bumps into Philida and nicks his keys without him even noticing, that's pure Thieves Guild stuff.

Posted by: canis216 Jul 23 2008, 09:19 PM

Thank you much. And what can I say? Al is a talented fellow. Though to be honest in the course of playing this quest I actually lifted the jailor's keys... same difference, far as I'm concerned. You'd think the "Imperial Prison Key" would have worked on that door, but I'll be damned--it didn't.

Posted by: minque Jul 23 2008, 09:26 PM

Ihhhh, the Lizzy is back! great! Good as always Canis!

Posted by: Black Hand Jul 23 2008, 11:38 PM

***Foaming at mouth, passed out on floor***

Posted by: Olen Jul 24 2008, 09:11 AM

Very enjoyable as ever. The change of styles and points of view really work for this story.

Posted by: canis216 Oct 2 2008, 06:25 AM

14.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: the Imperial City

Arrows whistled through the air. For a change, they weren’t aimed at me by some assassin; instead, they were aimed by me at the hordes of rats and mudcrabs populating the sewers of Cyrodiil. I hadn’t intended to approach Dreth by the subterranean route, but once I was committed to it, it was actually rather pleasant. I didn’t care for the smell—I have far less affinity for stale air and swamp gas than most of my kind—but I did appreciate the quiet. I could think.

The vampire bothered me. He seemed to be under the impression that I had recently escaped from this very prison—his reason for assigning the job to me. It was puzzled me—I have not so much as spent a night in any prison, anywhere. Almalexia’s steward once locked me in the Mournhold’s Temple basement, true, but that hardly counts. I tried to think of where Valtieri could have gotten the notion—and failed. I cleared the thought from my mind by perforating a pair of rats.

I had been underground for only half an hour when I reached a hatch to something that the imperial architects’ called “The Sanctum”. Judging from the blueprints—a gift from Caius—the Sanctum would be where I’d likely run into my first opposition from the guards. It was the only place an assassin could get through, and could be easily defended. The emperor’s assassins had turned the equation on its head—it was the only escape route, and easily blocked. (Or so I heard. News travels quickly amongst the Blades, but as happens in covert organizations, the news isn’t always accurate.) Taking no chances, I cast a spell of silence upon the rusty old hatch.

I popped through the hatchway into dark corridor leading to a large, well-lit room—that was where the guards waited, just passing time.

“Of course I'm proud to do my duty. But... It's a waste of time. What are we guarding? Cold stone and shadow. That's it.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you, believe me. Those assassins got what they wanted. The Emperor is dead. They've got not reason to come back.”

Two men. From the sound of their voices, they would be a Nord and a Redguard. I crept forward for a peek around the corner, and found that I was correct. Big men with big swords, standing far too near for me to sneak past. I would need to wait.

“That's exactly what I'm saying! But will the Captain listen? Noooo... ‘We must have a presence!The prison must remain secure!’”

“Yeah, what a laugh, huh? Just who are we keeping secure? Dreth? Since that other one got away, he's the only one rotting down here.”

Could these men have contracted Valen Dreth’s execution? My instructions from Valtieri—“For Sithis’ sake, don’t kill any guards!” (I paraphrase)—suggested as much. But if these two fellows had anything to do with it, their conversation betrayed nothing.

“…well, I best be getting back to my watch…”

The raga made an about-face, striding into the darkness which was to be my path forward. The nord, too, turned away from me. It was time to move, and move I did. I darted into and out of the light with appropriate haste. Back in the darkness I stopped and listened. I’d not been heard or seen, of course.

What would I do if I were discovered? Surrender, blow my cover, and embarrass the Blades? (I could see the headlines: “Your Tax Dollars At Work: Blades Dabbling In Murder?”) Out of the question—I’d be even more a pariah than usual. Kill all the witnesses, preserving my anonymity? Also out of the question—the mission could continue, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My only choice would be to run. Run away. Be a fugitive, again.

The raga stopped adjacent to some stone steps, which was an issue. I needed to go that way, and I was tired of waiting in the dark. I decided to push my luck a bit (was being a fugitive really that bad? I mean, aside from everyone wanting me dead). The stairs were well lit but darkness reigned on either side of the steps. On one side, the left, the guard stood watch. I eased my way over on the right, waited a moment, and… jumped.

I was on the next level up, safely ensconced in shadow, still undetected.

It is a miracle that I am still alive.

I must confess that the rest of my journey through the undercity was rather uneventful. There was but one more guard to avoid—easily done by lingering in the shadows. I live in the shadows. I had been underground for about two hours when I finally emerged into a prison cell. I heard voices. It was the jailor. It was my mark.

“I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help...”

“Filthy cur! I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, well, what's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday.”

“Eleven! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Oh yeah? And where will you go? Huh? What will you do? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You belong in that cage.”

“I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!”

“Right. And you'll be rich, too. Oh, and you'll become a king! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be back. You lot always come back...”

“You'll see, you Imperial dog! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!”

I felt a surge of pity for the criminal degenerate, and a surge of shame within myself. He will never again breathe free air, lay on warm sand, make love…

The jailor walked away, up the stairs, and closed the door. I pulled out my new bow, a fine thing of ebony, and nocked an arrow, a delicate sliver of glass slathered in deadly poison. Aim, draw, release.

Valen Dreth fell with hardly a sound.

Posted by: canis216 Oct 2 2008, 06:41 PM

15.

A Letter

C,

I hope you were not unduly alarmed by my last missive. The amulet is lost, yes, but both I and the heir are safe at our sanctuary—I dare not write its name, lest this communication be intercepted, but you know of what I speak. In spite of our troubles I hold much hope for the future. Considering the many advantages of our foe, that the Septim line survives at all strikes me as an omen—fate is still on our side.

Now, as to the true purpose of my writing—surely you did not think, pious as I may be, that I would write to you strictly of fate! I inquire, of course, as to your argonian associate and his work. As you know, I have always been uncomfortable with this project, and lament that the Elder Council would direct any of our resources away from the Oblivion crisis. It would be far better for your man to pursue the Mythic Dawn. (Remind me again, why I agreed to this arrangement?) But now, after perusing his file, I must also admit concern for the demands this project puts on the fellow’s psyche. You must admit that his past record of service is, for lack of a better term, troubling.

On this matter I must ask your opinion, for you know the man better than any file. Is there not some risk that we might lose him to the very organization he infiltrates? And if he were lost, would he not be extremely dangerous? Aside from the Nerevarine (who you tell me is in Akavir), is there a more formidable killer in our employ?

I urge you give me some reassurance. And if you cannot do that, then we must find some other productive work for your friend.

Yours,
Jauffre

Posted by: treydog Oct 2 2008, 06:53 PM

Oh excellent! A double-dose of Canis. I really like the deep introspection and then Jauffre's doubts about Al....

Most pleasant to read this continuing adventure.

Posted by: Olen Oct 2 2008, 07:06 PM

Yay more Al! As ever it was good. The mixture of perspectives works very well to develop the plot.

Posted by: canis216 Oct 2 2008, 07:26 PM

16.

A Letter

J,

It is good to hear from you, and I share your optimism. Martin will do great things—of that I am certain.

I will try to address your concerns in something resembling order. You agreed to this infernal project because with no emperor in place, it seemed appropriate to (for once) acquiesce to the Council’s concerns. And yes, his past record is a bit checkered. That, said, Al has met with nothing but success on the assignments I have given him. His troubles have always been apart from his work, even if they have occasionally interfered with his service. I worry less about Al than I do about the conflict one of these jobs with the D.B. could have with our professional ethics. Are we really prepared the sanction the death of innocents so we can keep a man inside the organization? The wood elf in Bruma was merely the first of what could be many. True, that one didn’t trouble Al much… but enough assassinations will wear down anyone. Al already retired from it once.

No, I don’t think we could lose Al to them. He has his own ethic, far different from theirs—or even ours for that matter. If we lose Al, it won’t be to anyone but himself. It already happened once before.

I have been thinking about your Mythic Dawn proposal. Perhaps we should give Al a second assignment, a mental reprieve from the D.B.? As you say, his skills are formidable. I can think of no one better to pursue the Mythic Dawn in our cities. Shall I give the order?

Your servant,
C.C.

Posted by: mplantinga Oct 2 2008, 08:51 PM

Thanks for the exciting updates. I'm enjoying the heavy use of correspondence in your story; you've been using it well.

Posted by: cruellae Oct 3 2008, 04:19 PM

Wow! This story is amazing. Al is a very compelling character, and I like the dark humor that runs through the story, as well as the different devices you use to tell it. I can't think of much criticism to add. I'll be waiting for the next part!

Posted by: canis216 Oct 4 2008, 12:28 AM

17.

Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Morrowind

“This is a funny business, Caius. Just when the Dark Brotherhood points me at someone I really want to kill, I’m supposed to keep him alive.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun paused for effect, and to take a draught of flin. “This guy, Francois Motierre, needs protection from an enforcer for some real hard cases. And I’d just as soon let him die—the Brotherhood demanded a life, and he offered his mother!”

Caius Cosades opened his eyes. He’d been reclining in his chair, smoking, ruminating. Now he spoke, “But they didn’t send you for that part of the job?”

The argonian shook his head. “LaChance took care of it. No, I just get to save that weasel’s behind, cut him with this blade”—he brandished a steel dagger—“and let the poison make him look dead.”

“But you’d rather use that nasty daedric blade of yours, I’ll wager.”

The argonian laughed, ruefully. “I was thinking I’d use the ebony instead, but you get the idea.”

Cosades smiled. “You know I can’t let you do that. It would jeopardize the mission. We’ll do this like we dealt with the job in Bruma. You did deliver Philida’s package to the guard in Bruma, right?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll let the courts deal with Motierre—none of your vigilante justice, Al. I’m assigning Nine-Toes to clean this up, once you’re done with the s’wit. He’ll be arrested. Can you live with that?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun thought for a moment. “Just like Bruma. Fine.” He did not sound enthusiastic.

Cosades leaned forward in his seat, more than a little exasperated. “Dammit Al, I know this is a compassionate mission, and none of us like it. But, by Akatosh, I need you to show some bloody restraint!” And then the Cyrodiil unleashed a wolfish grin—slowly morphing into a broad smile. He finished, “Especially with this new assignment coming in.”

“New assignment?” The argonian’s face remained impassive, but his voice betrayed his curiosity.

Cosades had reeled his protégé in, once more. And he was enjoying it, eyes agleam, even as he forced his smile back inside. “What have you heard of the Mythic Dawn cult?”

It was Al’s turn to smile. “You want me to go after them, too?”

“Maybe. What have you heard?”

The argonian’s smile broadened. “Not much that isn’t public knowledge. Uriel, Kvatch, all that. Though I hear these rumors…”—he says, eyes shining with the perverse glee that comes with purloined knowledge—“something about a fellow named Mankar Camoran and some books. Rumors about city folk acting strange—kind of like the sleepers back in Morrowind. Like this one fellow in Leyawiin…”

“You’ve been waiting for this conversation, haven’t you?” said Caius Cosades, no longer able to restrain his mirth.

“Well hell,” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun started. “It’s been kind of painful sitting on the sidelines with this bloody crisis going on. The Empire is crumbling around us, and I’m supposed to sneak around with a pack of Sithis-worshipping spooks, a bunch of thrill killers getting their jollies from everyone else’s pain? It’s not what I joined the Blades for, and you know it. One tires of running errands for the wicked.”

The argonian paused for a drink, looking suddenly thoughtful. “I’d like to start with cleaning up Leyawiin. Dar Jee tells me that some Bosmer, Fighter’s Guild, just walks around the city day and night, hardly sleeps. Dar Jee is Thieves’ Guild, you know, so he stumbles into this mer’s house and sees things… anyway, that’s where I’ll start, if you don’t mind. I have some other business around there too, so I figure I can kill two cliff racers with one bolt.”

“Other business?”

“It’s Dark Brotherhood business, but it’s really personal business. Nothing for the Elder Council to worry about. But it might help get me in tighter with Teinaava…”

Posted by: seerauna Oct 4 2008, 03:45 PM

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

Posted by: Black Hand Oct 5 2008, 05:46 PM

You are back with a vengeance, simply awesome!

Posted by: canis216 Oct 6 2008, 09:24 PM

18.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Blackwood

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

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

Teinaava’s words, of course. Words for which I had no response, and for which no response was needed. He knew my story—it had become http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=3497&st=20: the ragged resistance fighter who didn’t fit in, the arrogant master, and a precious artifact stolen. The artifact I’d wielded for more than fifteen years now. I’d not rendered much in the way of service to my homeland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Oct 6 2008, 09:31 PM

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

And thanks again to everyone for the praise.

Posted by: Olen Oct 7 2008, 06:50 PM

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

I await the next installment with trepidation.

Posted by: canis216 Oct 11 2008, 04:43 PM

19.

Leyawiin

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

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

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

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

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

For Lord Dagon!

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

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

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

Posted by: jack cloudy Oct 11 2008, 10:31 PM

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Oct 12 2008, 05:24 AM

20.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Leyawiin and Chorrol

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

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

“What’s with the bow?”

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

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

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

A tiresome business, this is.

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

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

“It goes down tonight, yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

I think I smiled at that.

Posted by: treydog Oct 12 2008, 05:45 PM

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Oct 26 2008, 03:32 AM

21.

Chorrol, The Grey Mare

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

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

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

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

New to town?

Check.

Strange behavior?

Check.

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

Check.

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

Double-check.


Chorrol, Eugal Belette’s Basement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by: Olen Oct 26 2008, 05:41 PM

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Oct 26 2008, 06:48 PM

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

Posted by: canis216 Nov 23 2008, 09:31 AM

22.

Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Chorrol

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

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

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

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

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

I sucked down some more beer.

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

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

“Now we wait.”

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

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

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

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

A pause, and a thought.

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

It was at that moment that Francois Motierre soiled himself.

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

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

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

“You? It can’t… but…”

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

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

Posted by: Olen Nov 24 2008, 12:53 PM

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

Posted by: Black Hand Nov 25 2008, 03:10 AM

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

Posted by: canis216 Jan 3 2009, 07:13 AM

23.

Chorrol: 25 Second Seed, 3E 433

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Zombies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay, Al?”

Posted by: canis216 Feb 28 2009, 06:08 AM

24.

Journal of a Blades Assassin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by: Olen Feb 28 2009, 01:16 PM

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Feb 28 2009, 09:37 PM

25.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

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

I ran into Vicente Valtieri almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by: minque Feb 28 2009, 10:25 PM

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

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

Posted by: canis216 Jun 29 2009, 04:55 AM

26.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by: treydog Jun 29 2009, 05:37 PM

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

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

Posted by: Black Hand Jun 29 2009, 08:15 PM

Sweet, hes back!

Nice update Canis!

Posted by: canis216 Jun 30 2009, 04:19 AM

27.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

As it turned out Ulrich Leland, captain of the Cheydinhal guard, was the sort of impossible fool who would trouble a Blade.

It was still dark outside, but I was lucky enough (I thought at the time) to catch him eating breakfast at Newlands Lodge. Why the Breton swine chose to eat at a Dunmer bar escapes me. In retrospect I think he must have been shaking the place down.

“What the hell do you want?” he spat out as I took a chair at his table. Not a good omen for the remainder of the conversation, I suppose, but I had (I thought) spoken to surlier guards. Had I not lived nine years in Morrowind, after all?

“Captain,” I began, slipping him a sheet of parchment, “I am a representative of our late emperor’s Blades. I’m sure you’ll recognize the seal on that scroll.” While he gave it a cursory looking-over, I passed an envelope across the table. “And this,” I continued, “describes my purpose here in Cheydinhal. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, we believe that a cult dedicated to the worship of Mehrunes Dagon is responsible for Emperor Septim’s assassination. They are called the Mythic Dawn, and my job is to hunt them down and eliminate them. Just this morning I killed two of their operatives in this city.”

“Five thousand drakes.” Ulrich Leland’s face was completely impassive.

“Excuse me?”

“Five thousand, or I burn your fancy credentials here and send you up for murder.”

I was speechless. I kept expecting to see his mask slip, for that fish-eyed gangster stare to break up in a bout of laughter. Was he really trying to extort money from a Blade? Evidently, yes.

“Captain,” I started to speak—then reconsidered, struggling for words. “Captain, I’m giving you this one opportunity to start the conversation over. You should take it. If you peruse the information within that envelope further, you will find a passage authorizing me to take any action I deem fit to deal with anyone—anyone at all—who obstructs my mission. Now, I’m not what you’d call a traditional enforcer of the law, Captain. I’m an assassin. So you might want to consider what action that I, being what I am, would deem fit to deal with you.”

Ulrich Leland considered my little speech—gravely it seemed—for but a moment. Measuring me up, no doubt. Then he laughed in my face.

It was not a soft, friendly laugh. He was not humoring me, or trying to charm me. He was mocking me in no uncertain terms, announcing his disdain to all in earshot. Half a dozen dunmer faces stared. Finally the dirty n’wah stood up from his chair and clamped a strong, meaty hand onto my left shoulder. “I guess we can tack on a charge of threatening a peace officer onto that murder—“

I exploded out of my chair, right hand latching onto Leland’s throat. Together we staggered back toward the corner fireplace; he released his grip on my shoulder to reach for his battleaxe (I had not failed to notice that little trinket) while I got my left into play, the better to throttle the basterd… kill kill KILL! We slammed into the wall together, I with the advantage, keeping the axe out of play, gripping tighter tighter tighter! feeling the worm’s very breath scatter!, the larynx shatter!, bones breaking!, SOULS SHAKING!

I threw the very dead Ulrich Leland to the floor and roared up to the heavens, to Aetherius and Oblivion and beyond.

“What the [CENSORED] is wrong with this city?!”

Gods!!!!! It didn’t matter that they were staring; those mute, stone-faced, red-eyed, petrified damned dark elves. To hell with them! To hell with Cheydinhal! I stormed off into the morning determined to ride hard and fast, to be anywhere but here.

Posted by: Black Hand Jun 30 2009, 04:44 AM

By Sithis!!

Posted by: seerauna Jun 30 2009, 07:31 PM

Okaaay... I think Al went a little too far that time..

Posted by: treydog Jul 1 2009, 05:53 PM

Oh, Al, Al.... shakes head in resignation. On the other hand, if ever there was a person to whom the phrase- "he needed killing" applies, it's Ulrich Leland.

He is one of the few NPCs almost all of my characters would be happy to eliminate. In fact, several of them would resurrect him, just so they could kill him again....

Posted by: canis216 Jul 4 2009, 07:54 PM

28.

A Letter

C,

This is a brutal business that we are in. I suppose you could say that I’ve been more brutal than most. It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve stepped over the line once again. Is my career in the Blades not, after all, a stunning exemplar of the art of going too far?

I am lying by some forgotten lakeshore trying to put the pieces back together. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, but I was foolish enough to think that I had managed to put those times behind me. The events of recent days, however, make it clear that I am doomed to remake the mistakes of my past over and over again. Wasn’t it just months ago that we joked that my coming old age would put an end to such impulsiveness? Shouldn’t I be slowing down? I am almost forty years of age now, but I still carry on like I did at age twenty-five. I wish I felt old; maybe then I’d stop doing silly things like strangling city guards.

Excessive force—the term is typically used to describe when the guards go too far to subdue some poor malefactor. That’s exactly what happened—only this time the guard was the malefactor. I could have paid the fetcher’s “fine”, stolen the money back, and arranged for Adamus Phillida or Hieronymus Lex or some other big-shot legion cop to arrest Leland. I wouldn’t have his blood on my hands, and I’m sure his trial would have been great theatre—there would have been no shortage of witnesses against him.

I don’t suppose that I’m about to get into any legitimate trouble for killing the man, but that’s never really the worry, is it? Since I joined the Blades I’ve tried to keep this assassination business as impersonal as possible—only kill who you’re supposed to kill, don’t get mad, don’t get excited… do it any other way and you risk losing part of yourself. In killing Ulrich Leland I violated damn near every rule I ever made for myself, save that he wasn’t exactly innocent. The idea, of course, is to not let this ugly business change me. But the biggest worry—the one that keeps me up at night—is not that I’m letting this mess change me. It’s that I was this way all along.

Some report this is, eh? Sometime soon I will come to Kragenmoor and discuss business, but now I feel a need to report my sorrows. If you keep records dedicated to the psychological state of your agents (as I suspect) you can file this letter in there. If you ever want to declare me crazy and wash your hands of this whole affair, it’ll be of some use. And if you don’t have such a file, well, at least this letter should help you understand me better.

This morning I explored the Ayleid ruins that lay just over the hill from this little lake of mine. I am not (as you know) much for adventuring, but I felt an urge to ramble. I know not the name of the ruin—it doesn’t really matter—but I tried my best to learn something of its nature. And failed. This Ayleid architecture seems every bit as mysterious, if not more so, as that of the Dwemer ruins of Morrowind. In our Dwemer ruins I can at least get some inkling as to how all that metal is held together—nuts and screws and bolts and gears and metallurgy all in concert. The construction is evident, even if one cannot imagine the tools they must have used to do it all.

Ayleid ruins make no sense to me. Sometimes I can see logic in the stonework… but most of the time I cannot. Huge sections of these ruins seem to be carved from but one enormous chunk of marble, and yet I cannot for the life of me discern where such rock would have come from. I know of not a single marble quarry in the vicinity (it’s long way to the Jeralls, for instance), and even if there were such a quarry, how would they move and manipulate such stone? The whole place reeks of magicka, and perhaps slavery too. An Ayleid ruin is both a marvel and a monstrosity.

I won’t bore you with details about the various monsters I dispatched. Cyrodiil being your native land, you are no doubt familiar with the hosts of minotaurs, trolls, and will-o-the-wisps to be found in these dark holes. The two zombies I encountered were unpleasant but simple enough to eliminate. The treasures, too, were typical: welkynd stones to sell to the mages, a varla stone to recharge the enchantment on Kills-You-Dead, potions and gold. I suppose that one could get rich exploring such places, but I can’t say I found it very fulfilling.

What I really ought to do, I often think, is board a ship in Anvil—hijack one, if necessary—and sail off to Stros M’kai and find my father. Tend bar at an inn, play my lute, beat up the drunks—proper work for a scalawag like myself. I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet, really. Hell, it was exactly what I intended after leaving Mournhold. Something always stops me, and I’ll be damned if I know why. Or maybe I do know and I just can’t acknowledge it.

The organization in quest… the Dark Brotherhood wants me to kill someone for them, some Altmer living in the Imperial City. I don’t know why. I’ll try to find out. I suppose that the answer to that question—why?—will determine whether or not I actually follow through with the job. In any case, I imagine I’ll take my time. I don’t honestly want to kill anyone, anymore, or at least I don’t want to kill anyone on the Brotherhood’s behalf. This Mythic Dawn business is different, but I’ll need to tread softly in the City. Fortunately, I know just the men to talk to.

Posted by: Dantrag Jul 4 2009, 09:11 PM

wow. never read this one before, but I tackled a bunch of it today. (i'm up to number 14) I must say, great story; I like the journals, the letters, the narration from different character perspectives...

Keep it up!

Posted by: minque Jul 4 2009, 09:13 PM

Ok Canis....what can I say? ...Awesome..just awesome..hmmm in fact why don't I give you a

S.G.M

Posted by: treydog Jul 6 2009, 09:13 PM

The introspection of that report is a reminder of why we love Al so much- even when we fear he has at last gone too far, he retains a rational humanity that prompts our forgiveness and understanding- without begging or debasing his essential self. In other words- brilliantly written.

Posted by: Olen Jul 10 2009, 10:26 AM

Oooh Al's back.

Well written and enjoyable as ever. I like how the action and introspection are largly seperated by the structure, it's neat and works well with the long time Al has been going for (how many years?). I am interested to see what he does next though...

Posted by: RavenMind Nov 5 2009, 11:27 PM

I sure hope to see an update to this! Al has been one of the colorful characters to read about, and i've really enjoyed this tale!!

Posted by: canis216 Nov 6 2009, 07:16 AM

I'll probably start working on this again in December, I'd guess--I figure to not be so busy. November--my schedule is packed.

Posted by: RavenMind Nov 10 2009, 08:33 PM

I understand. RL can be hectic, especially this time of year. Well I look forward to your next installment!

Posted by: canis216 Dec 21 2009, 01:46 AM

First off, my apologies for the long delay between updates. All I can do is cite the usual pitiful excuses--writer's block, off-and-on disenchantment with Oblivion, a dangerous Fallout 3 habit, sloth, a combination of work and ultimate frisbee tournaments... you know the drill. And frankly, I'd prefer to return with a better update than this. I will make up for it.

29.

Journal of an Imperial Assassin

I woke at mid-morning, the sun burning my eyes. Where was I? Without sitting up, I gazed around the room best as I could. It took me a full thirty seconds to determine that I was in my own bed, in my very own house in the Imperial City’s waterfront district. Letting loose a sigh of relief, I sat up, head throbbing from last night’s drinking.

I swung my legs to the floor and stood, immediately seeking food—the venison and kwama eggs hidden away in my ice chest, kept cool by what little frost magic I’ve learned over the years. Skillet at the ready I stoked the fire, letting the hustle and bustle of making breakfast jog my brain, restart my memory, and remind me of what a fetcher I’d been last night. Had I really guzzled that much wine? Did I really challenge that orc bouncer to a fight? Was that really me vomiting in the harbor at 3 A.M.?

Two days wasted in the city. Baurus knew something about Mythic Dawn in the capitol, but Baurus was gone, and the note he left at Luther Broad’s boardinghouse was cryptic at best.

A,

Taking retreat back at the aerie—you know how it goes. I know you wanted to meet my new friends in the city, but we had a bit of a falling out. But if you want to give reconciliation a shot, I think a little prayer at the Temple of the One will do you some good.

--Baurus

The first part was standard Blades code, with the “aerie” being Cloud Ruler Temple, the big monastery in the Jeralls that my order calls home. I suppose. I’ve never actually seen it. The rest of the message? Some discussion with Luther confirmed that Baurus had been involved in a scuffle with some sort of an attacker—probably one of the Mythic Dawn he’d been trying to follow. But the Temple of the One meant nothing to me. The priests were no help—Baurus had left no clues with them, and thorough questioning yielded no suspects. No suspicious behavior, no newcomers to town, nothing. If I was going to find the Mythic Dawn in the Imperial City, I was going to need to get lucky. Or, failing that, I’d need to break into every residence and hotel room in the whole damn town.

The Dark Brotherhood problem seemed simpler, except that I wanted nothing to do with it. How to find Faelian? Why, the same way one finds any other elf in Cyrodiil—ask other elves. The only problem is that the person asking around immediately becomes suspect number one in the ensuing murder investigation. Was there a way around that? Surely there was—I just didn’t want to think about it. The Dark Brotherhood could wait.

Breakfast was ready. I scooped my venison and eggs onto a wooden slab and popped the top on a breakfast brandy and tried not to do any more thinking.

I spent the morning back in the Temple district, spying on its occupants and learning nothing. Nothing important, anyway. At one point a young imperial wench saw fit to engage me in a rather one-sided conversation. I learned that her name was Alessia Ottus, that she was a fervent believer in the Nine, and that she thought my time would be better spent in a chapel than sitting on a street corner drinking brandy. She learned that I didn’t give a s—t about what she thought.

I guess I can cross her off my list of suspected Mythic Dawn cultists.

Just to be sure, I spent the afternoon breaking into a number of houses in the district; all in the name of the emperor, of course. Found nothing. I did, however, leave a complimentary copy of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes in the Ottus home. No need to thank me, Alessia. I do what I can.

But back to business. A whole day spent in the damned Temple district, and nothing to show for it. Nothing, that is, until night fell and I stepped into the All-Saints Inn for a pint before bed.

“For Lord Dagon!”

Posted by: Olen Dec 21 2009, 06:23 PM

Wooo Al returns. Nice update, as ever I want to know more and I enjoy Al's attitude.

Look forward to reading more.

Posted by: canis216 Mar 2 2010, 04:27 AM

30.

The Imperial City

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It took me a moment to realize that the scream was my own, and another fraction of a second for my vision to clear. My left armed dragged at my side but I felt nothing. Where was I?

Then a Nord voice cried, “Die, unbeliever!” and I remembered that I was fighting for my life.

Staggering forward, I tackled the figure in front of me—I think it was the man—before it could bring the mace down again. We crashed into a table and my left arm still wouldn’t work but my right found Kills-You-Dead and plunged it into the dirty s’wit’s throat. Blood gushed out into a torrent and I closed my eyes, if only for a moment. Everything smelled of blood and sweat and spilled beer, sweet and acrid and sickening all at once.

“The Master will have his vengeance!”

A woman’s voice. S—t.

I rolled over just in time to see another armored figure leap forward—that same strange armor that looks like daedric metal but isn’t quite right—and draw another of those infernal maces. It was time to finish me off—or would have been if she hadn’t paused to smash in the publican’s brains when he drew a mace of his own. I don’t care to remember it, but then I don’t have a choice. It’s seared into my retinas.

I think I heard some screaming then, but that part’s hazy. Using a chair for support I drew myself up, only peripherally conscious of the broken glass and flower vases underfoot. The woman with the mace, expressionless behind that daedric mask, raised her mace and slashed. I spun away, but clumsily—my left arm was hit but I could barely feel it. What the hell was wrong with my arm? I tried to draw my ebony but failed; the devil-woman lunged again but stumbled over a vase and I was on top of her.

“Only the Chosen will survive the Cl—“

“SHUT UP!”

I don’t know how many times I bashed her skull against the wall.

Posted by: mALX Mar 16 2010, 10:14 PM

Woo Hoo! No Borders! I love that! I have to catch up still, but so far I love it!

Posted by: canis216 Mar 20 2010, 09:16 AM

31.

I don’t know how long I lay in the dark before I realized that I was finally awake. Even then, I made no move to stand, preferring to allow my eyes the chance to acclimate to the gloom. I was not in my shack on the waterfront—I knew that much. I could not see but felt the presence of cold stone, and heard nothing but my own breathing. My left arm itched under its cast. A cast? Now I remembered why I was in a strange bed, in this strange room. I looked around—eyes finally working—and confirmed that I was in an infirmary of some sort, though I appeared to be the only patient. I struggled to my feet and limped around the bed, over to a chest that I guessed held my gear. I had just found a healing potion when the door opened at the opposite end of the room.

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” Adamus Phillida was standing in the doorway.

“If someone would have saw fit just to give me a bloody potion I wouldn’t be here at all,” I said. I drank my homebrew and grimaced—the rapid reconstitution of bones, muscles, and ligaments does not produce a particular pleasant sensation. My stomach groaned in protest, but I kept the potion down and kept talking. “I could be in my own bloody bed, and not… where are we, anyway?” Not waiting for an answer and relishing the use of both arms, I ripped off the cast and began pulling on my armor.

“This is the legion infirmary—it seemed like a good place to keep a wounded man being hunted by assassins,” he said. “And speaking of assassins, I couldn’t help noticing that armor of yours. It’s rather unusual, don’t you think? I’ve only seen it three times before myself.”

Phillida fell silent for a moment, giving me the chance to speak up in my defense. I merely continued strapping on my armor. I didn’t like where the conversation was turning.

“It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve only ever seen it when someone is trying to kill me.”

“I’ve had that problem myself,” I muttered, as I strapped on a pair of blades.

“Have you now?” he answered, playing the game. I felt a headache coming on.

“Let’s cut the guars--t, huh? You want to know who the hell I am and if I’m a member of the Dark Brotherhood, right?” I reached into a hidden pocket, ripped out some paper, and scattered it across the room. “You can read that s--t and see that I’m [censored] Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, and that I work for our beloved late Emperor’s proud and valiant Blades in defense of the mighty and oh-so benevolent Empire we all call home. And I can tell you that I got this absolutely wonderful set of armor off a dead assassin in the glorious city of Mournhold—city of light and magic they told me, when they weren’t trying to make me dead.”

Phillida’s face registered a slight disappointment, then relief. He stooped over and picked up one of the scattered pages with mild interest, giving me a moment to compose myself—I was sweating and without thinking had rested my right hand on the hilt of my short sword.

Finished with his reading, Phillida set my paperwork down on a table and said, “I hope you can forgive my suspicions. You might say that I’ve spent my career crusading against the Dark Brotherhood, and in these turbulent times I imagine I’ve allowed myself to get a touch paranoid. Gods know, those slime feast on turmoil, conflict, and insecurity—it’s their history, their nature. You know much about the Dark Brotherhood?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. Too much is what I wanted to say.

“About their origins—their history.”

“I’ve spent most of my career in Morrowind. Not really their territory.” I was trying desperately not to lie, even more desperately not to confess.

“I see you’re not a history buff. Well, anyway, the last time we didn’t have an Emperor was way back in the 2nd Era—that’s when the Dark Brotherhood was at the height of its power. They killed the Akaviri Savirien-Chorak and all his heirs, the Empire collapsed, and 400 years of chaos followed. Even if history isn’t quite repeating itself, you can see my concern. The Dark Brotherhood didn’t kill Uriel Septim, but they damn well figure to profit from his death. I’ve been hearing word of a number of professional killings around the province. More than that, we’ve had two in the Imperial City itself—one killed right under the nose of our prison guards, for Talos’ sake. I’m worried. We’ve got problems enough without those Dark Brotherhood parasites.” Phillida paused, for a moment, and let out a weary sigh. “But you wouldn’t know about that?”

I shook my head. It was still a lie.

“Figures. Why would the Blades know or care about the Dark Brotherhood. You’re off in your own little shadow world—never let the right hand know the what the left is up to. Fair enough. But if you want this”—he held up a stained piece of parchment with some writing on it—“you might consider trading some information. It’s a letter, from someone with the initials ‘MK’ addressed to a fellow named Styrbjorn. We found it on the body of one of your assailants.”

“You do realize that you’re withholding vital evidence from a Blades investigation, right?” I said, stepping forward. “Caius gets word of this and you’re in a world of s--t, you know.”

Phillida smiled. “I’m retiring soon. The worst they can do is fire me, maybe fine me a little. I know the penalty—it’s nothing. I’m too old to worry about petty trifles—and this is bigger than any fine. If you want to do it that way, fine. But if you want to do the right thing, you know where to find me.”

And with that, Adamus Phillida turned and walked out the door.

Posted by: Olen Mar 20 2010, 05:05 PM

Good as ever, it's nice to see Al back and with full vigor

Posted by: mALX Mar 20 2010, 06:23 PM

I am almost caught up! Yeah!

Two things I love:

1. The style of writing this as if it were a diary - I love that, you do it extremely well!

2. Your asides in the diary entries are hilarious!

Awesome sense of humor and your ability to put a huge amount if story into a diary entry is second only to one (Lorca1 on the BGSF) - Awesome write!

Posted by: treydog Mar 20 2010, 10:03 PM

Al has the most original and distinctive voice of any character I have ever read. Even when he is going down the oubliette, he has a sarcastic remark to make.

And leaving the Commentaries in Alessia's house was sheer genius.

Posted by: canis216 Apr 3 2010, 02:35 AM

32.

The Blades are an odd sort of organization. What the common people of Cyrodiil usually see, the public face of the Blades, is rather different from what I see and experience as an actual member of the Blades. When most people think of the Blades, if they think of us at all, they think of the Emperor’s guards—literally knights in shining armor. My armor, to say the least, doesn’t shine. My colleagues have always been spies. No Emperors to guard in Morrowind, after all. So there we have the big distinction—knights and spies, under one roof.

And then there’s me. There must be other assassins in the employ of the Blades, but I’ve never met any save for Sethyas Velas but he doesn’t really count. The normal rules don’t apply to reincarnated Dunmer heroes. But back to my problem. I’m an assassin. I kill people. Killing people can be difficult, in its way, but there is a certain simplicity to the art as I have always practiced it. The process, as I see it, can be broken down into five steps.

1. Receive the name of the target.
2. Find the target.
3. Eliminate the target.
4. Get out alive.
5. Get paid.

Some readers might protest that killing people isn’t that simple. “What about morality?”, they ask. That’s a good question. It is best ignored.

But I digress. What I am trying to say is this: when Adamus Phillida left that infirmary, I was left with a problem. In order to kill members of the Mythic Dawn, I needed to find out who they were. In short, I had to become a spy. Spies need information. Getting information is complicated, much more complicated than simply hunting down and killing those who inconvenience the Empire. Worse, the information I needed was held by Adamus Phillida—a stubborn man holding a very important letter. To do my duty as a Blade, I needed that letter. And to get that letter, I was going to have to compromise my other mission.

Of course, I hated my other mission. Maybe this wasn’t so complicated after all.

I stepped out into the open air, shielded my eyes from the mid-morning sun, and found the office of Commander Adamus Phillida. I found him inside, sitting at a desk of fine mahogany and waiting. “Listen,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I can but first I’ve got to set the ground rules. One, I can’t tell you exactly how I found out what I know. Two, if I anything I tell you leaves this room, and I get in trouble because of it, I will make you disappear. If you can’t agree to those conditions, then we have nothing to discuss. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Phillida said. “Have a seat and tell me why the Blades are suddenly interested in the Dark Brotherhood. They never seemed to care before, but then a few weeks ago, out of the blue, I started getting tips. Some fellow up in Bruma.”

I searched Phillida’s words for a trap. It was easy enough to find and avoid. “While I can never be absolutely certain about our motives—we are spies, after all—I’d say that we’re interested in the Brotherhood for the same reason you’re worried about them. We don’t want them feeding off all the panic and confusion going around. We thought it prudent to keep tabs on them.”

“But you can’t tell me how you’re doing that.”

“Of course not. It would compromise the mission.”

“I think I can guess,” Phillida said. His eyes registered no emotion. “Earlier I mentioned that we had a killing in the prison,” he said, changing the subject. “Any idea who would have commissioned that?”

“Who was it that got killed?”

Phillida’s expression told me that he thought I knew damn well the name of the victim. Not unexpected. He said, “The victim was Valen Dreth, career criminal. A nobody. He’d been locked up a long time. Still, I don’t like the Dark Brotherhood operating in my backyard.”

“Dreth, eh? I heard something about it. But I’m guessing here. I’d investigate the prison guards, and maybe someone who had good reason to keep Dreth from seeing the light of the day.” I added, “But I bet you’ve been doing that anyway.”

“Yes. We have. Do you know of any upcoming commissions in the City? Anybody important in the Brotherhood’s sights?”

I sighed, “No, anybody important we already would have dealt with. That’s the whole point. And,” I added, lying, “no upcoming work in the Imperial City. That I know of. I don’t hear everything, you know.”

“Can you give me any names? Locations?”

I shook my head.

“You can’t tell me.”

I shook my head again. “I wish. Most I can say is that you’re not likely to find any based here. I don’t know of any assassins worked out of the Imperial City.”

Phillida, unsatisfied, stood up from his chair and began pacing around the room. “I’m not sure why I should hand over this letter. I had hoped that you might give me at least one good lead. As I said earlier, I’m retiring soon. I’ve fought the Dark Brotherhood nigh on thirty years now—and I want to win.”

“Look Phillida, you’ve got your duty and I’ve got mine. I’m sympathetic to your aim, but I’ve given you all the help I can. I’ve got zero interest in getting myself kicked out of the Blades, just because you won’t give me a bloody letter. If you don’t want to give it to me, I’ll just take it.”

Phillida snorted. “Just take it?”

Grinning wickedly, I pulled a set of keys out of my pockets. “Same way I got these,” I said. I held up one key. “This one opens the front door of the prison.” Another. “This one opens your office.” One more. “This one opens the city armory. You see how easy it would be for a fellow of my talents?”

“I wondered where those had gotten off to,” Phillida said. “Now I know. That was you, here, the day Valen Dreth was murdered in his cell.” His face was turning red. “Tipped us off to the wood elf in Bruma and killed a man under our very noses on the same bloody day. Clever.” He crumpled up some paper into a ball and tossed it down at my feet. “You can have your letter, Blade. But you'd best pray our paths don’t cross again.”

Posted by: SubRosa Apr 3 2010, 02:50 AM

I have not had the chance to read all the way from the beginning. It is a bit daunting when it is this big (I am sure guys love to hear that... ) So far I just started on this last post.

I like A.H.L.i.t.S's voice. It is very casual and down to Nirn. He sounds like a regular person, who just happens to kill people for the government. It makes him feel very real and believable.

It is good to see the two faces of the Blades acknowledged. How on one hand they are bodyguards, but on the other secret agents. Quite a bit of difference between the two!

nits:
I [i[will make you [/i]
Looks like you have a backwards bracket in your italics code here.

Posted by: canis216 Apr 3 2010, 03:00 AM

Corrected. Was a little hard to find, seeing as how it was a bit of a long update.

I appreciate the compliments. He's a fun character to write--also fun to play.

Posted by: mALX Apr 3 2010, 06:48 AM

Really interesting character too!

Posted by: Destri Melarg Apr 3 2010, 07:39 PM

Now this is what I’m talking about! Just finished the first two chapters and I am loving this so far. Through the subtle use of imagery and an engaging economy of words you are able to give us a glimpse of the history that Al and Caius share. I felt as if I were privy to the private conversation of two spies getting back into the game . . .

This sentence:

Just floored me!

Please excuse me while I go back for more.

Posted by: Olen Apr 4 2010, 03:50 PM

Some readers might protest that killing people isn’t that simple. “What about morality?”, they ask. That’s a good question. It is best ignored. - I loved that line- very Al.

Great to see him back. And for those who haven't read it I suggest you do, it's one of the better stories here.

More?

Posted by: Black Hand Apr 4 2010, 08:04 PM

Hadn't even seen most of these updates, been out of commission for a while. Good job!