Anima Di Nerezza (soul Of Darkness), My oblivion story. Options

[Sirin]

the very first story that i truly have high hopes for. enjoy and comment

Chapter 2

Anima di Nerezza
Chapter 1

The End. Not what one was expecting? Alas, most stories begin with such lines as, ‘Once upon a time’, or even, ‘Once there was a happy little family.’ I speak the truth, though, when I say that this story begins with the end. Or, more accurately, this story begins with MY end. I do not lie in saying that I journeyed through Death itself. Don’t mistake me though; my journey was a long and painful one. Such a journey would cause any adventurer to weep for a second death. This is not a tale of glory or a happy ending, but rather two lives wasted searching for wealth, power, and happiness. I found one of these (power), but only for a short time and after years of work. Working for the wrong people and doing the wrong things.

I was an assassin in the employ of the infamous Dark Brotherhood. Not an easy job, but a very satisfying one. I was unmistakably the best they had, with the exception of the Night Mother, who headed the Brotherhood. I also, again bested by the Mother, was the most respected female in the Brotherhood. It wasn’t rare to encounter female assassins, but maybe some thought it odd?

Several names were at my disposal, usually for deceptive purposes, but only one of them was my “true” name: Mabriel Tan’yadiel. The little that I recall of my long deceased family was their name, which was Tan’yadiel. Mabriel, I believe, was also my mother’s name. Therefore, it was as good as mine. It wasn’t a special name, though; it was nothing celestial, merely a traditional Dunmer name that was passed on through the women of the Tan’yadiel lineage.

I never felt love, for I was never taught it. Soon after my parents died, I was cast into the street. I was young, yet it mattered not to any other. A parentless child is a child cursed by the gods; no one would bear a burden like the one involved in raising me. While, roaming the streets in Brumo (my hometown), however, I was found and brought up by the thief J’shazzar, a Khajit. He taught me most of what I knew by the time I was, perhaps, seventeen. It was on the eve of my seventeenth birthday (or what I thought was it) that he introduced me to the Brotherhood. He was an assassin, as I soon learned, and had strong ties to the Assassins’ Guild. They brought me in as though I had been with them since the beginning of time. They taught me love: the love of the kill. Or maybe it was the hunt? Yes, I believe it was the hunt. As much as I enjoyed plunging a dagger into an unsuspecting victim’s heart, I enjoyed even greater following them. Shadowing their every movement and waiting for them to teach me the exact routine of their lives. Finally, after days, or even weeks, of hard fought patience, I was given a window of precious opportunity: a chance for attack. Ah, the sheer exhilaration was more joyous than any worldly pleasure. Something of an addiction perhaps?

I was blessed with long, black hair. ‘Blessed?’ one may ask. Indeed, I was. My long hair never got in the way during a hit, for it was bound behind my head. The little that strayed from braid or cord camouflaged perfectly with the dark night sky. Besides, my wardrobe consisted of a single outfit: a hooded black Brotherhood uniform. That hid my hair well enough, regardless of color. Again, one may question my choice of clothing, arguing that light armors would be better in a conflict. With this, I defend myself: “conflict” is the key word. I HAD been brought up by J’shazzar, the thief. I was well educated in the arts of nigh invisibility and escaping into the shadows. Being sighted was extremely rare. Conflict was rarer still. Besides, if I wore light armors, another would argue in favor of heavier armors. Heavy armors were the instrument of Death. Moving while weighted leads to fatigue. Fatigue blurs focus. Tainted focus gets your head taken off. I think I prefer the lack of protection to death.

I apologize, for I may seem to be contradicting myself and glorifying my past. While assassination is MOSTLY legal, I took things too far. Constant murder will undoubtedly destroy your soul. When my conscience was laid to rest, I desired to have more power than I currently did. It is one thing to control the life of a specified target, but to grip the throats of all in Cyrodiil, even Tamriel, became an obsession to me. I would’ve died to stand over all of Tamriel. And, eventually, I did die for it. But did I have the lands below me? No. And, when I was given a second chance at life, did I learn from my mistakes? Yes. But for long? No. The lust for power eventually ruled me again. So begins this tale:

This post has been edited by Sirin: Feb 27 2006, 12:39 AM