Killing in the Emperor's Name, A collection: An argonian assassin's world Options

[canis216]

Marshwalkers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which incident?”

“Those silly hospitality papers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I freed four slaves yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[canis216]

Distasteful Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorkvild!!!!!”

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

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

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

[Black Hand]

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

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

[The Metal Mallet]

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

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

[jack cloudy]

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

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

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Dec 28 2006, 10:48 PM

[canis216]

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

Divine Intervention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another?”

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

Slaves.

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

“Hreirek. The Lean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jack cloudy]

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

[canis216]

The Off-day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[canis216]

Torches

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

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

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

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

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

Agning crossed his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ranes Ienith told her that—“

“Ienith? He works for Orvas Dren.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sera.”

“You’ve seen me work before.”

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

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

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

“What’s your name, shipmaster?”

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

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

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

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

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 7 2007, 07:57 AM

[Black Hand]

Oooohh...VERY Assassiny!

Keep it up!

[The Metal Mallet]

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

Excellent work canis!

[jack cloudy]

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

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

[canis216]

Burning the Midnight Lamp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 13 2007, 06:54 PM

[jack cloudy]

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

[The Metal Mallet]

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

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

[canis216]

Sort of a short update today. I have an idea for something that could have been appended to this, but I wanted to keep the mood of this post intact. Once again, I'll be out of town during the week, so don't expect another update until next weekend. After that I ought to be posting more frequently again.
===================

Odd Hours

A-

In the name of Emperor Uriel VII, you are hereby authorized to execute Lorbumol gro-Aglakh. He can be found at the Vivec branch of the Guild of Fighters. The subject is an orc of height about 5 feet 10 inches, weight of about 215 pounds, and usually goes without a shirt. The subject is an armorer and weaponsmith by profession. He is known to leave the guildhall each evening at about 9:00 on his way to the Black Shalk Cornerclub. He returns at odd hours.

Possession of this Imperial Writ of Execution authorizes you to dispose of the subject in any way you see fit, and is legally binding.

-E

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

It was late, perhaps three in the morning, when I entered the grand plaza of Vivec’s Foreign Quarter. A single ordinator stood watch, at the opposite end of plaza, by the Guild of Mages. He was not looking my way, thankfully, as I had opened the door as quietly as I could in my drunken state. Quickly, I made my way to Ralen Tilvur’s shop, opposite the Guild of Fighters. Slinging my crossbow around my back, I slowly scaled the outer wall of the shop building, pressing my tail against the inside wall of the canton for a little boost. Digging into tiny pockmarks in the masonry I eased up to the top, where I was able to conceal myself admirably. Then I made myself comfortable, laying out a spare robe upon which to lie. I was in no rush—I needed to sleep off the brandy anyway.

An argonian runs through the swamp, easily finding the few patches of dry terrain even as the alternatively spiny and sticky vegetation tears at his clothing, a now-shredded brown robe. He looks over his shoulder, and sees and hears the undergrowth behind him moving, tearing, being stomped upon, even as he cannot see his pursuers. A dark glowing daedric dagger is clutched between his scaly fingers in a death grip. He trips and falls.

A cacophony of voices rouses me from uneasy slumber. Briefly a wave of panic washes over my mind, but I fight it back and instead of sitting up I merely turn my head and look to the windows. The sun shines from the east—it is morning. I still have some hours. Since I’m up anyway, I have a little breakfast—a fistful of scrib jerky I pull from a pouch within my robe.

Peaking over the parapet, I spied upon the multitudes crowding the plaza; redguards, dunmer, nords, imperials, bretons, khajiits, a pair of ordinators. One of the redguards passed out fliers; a female khajiit had the shifty eyes of a thief or assassin, always taking in the sightlines. Of course, khajiit always look like that, possibly because they are almost always thieves or assassins. Cause and effect, confused.

No orcs out right now. He’s probably in there right now, Lorbumol gor-Aglakh, hammering out a sword or club or cuirass. But his time will come; in the mean-time I have a bit of a headache, which I need to sleep off. I duck back behind the parapet, and lay my head back down upon my robe.

Rain, hot as guar’s piss, falls upon Tear. It drives the slaves into the ground as surely as do their masters; off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, I think, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. I take aim with my bow, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. I release the arrow.

I wake again, very suddenly, unpleasantly. What the hell is the time? I look to the windows—the sun is down—and quickly pull my crossbow in close, readying a poisoned bolt. A door is opening across the way—I can hear the hinges and the wood protest just a little—and I know that it must be time. Quickly I roll over upon my stomach, bring the crossbow in front of my face and just edging over the parapet. An orc, looking a little sweaty, steps out the door and pulls on a dirty white shirt. His hands are very rough, his eyebrows are singed. He looks up right as the bolt is released, and I think I see the faintest beginnings of a look of surprise and rage upon his face when the bolt lodges itself in his skull and the poison begins to race through his arteries. He falls, heavily.

Quickly, quietly, I gather up my tools while a dunmer woman below shouts in surprise and horror, and the gruff voices of dunmer ordinators issue orders and proclamations of much authority but little meaning. A simple hand gesture and I sit at the bar of Six Fishes.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 15 2007, 06:02 AM

[Black Hand]

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

[canis216]

Marked

Arrille’s Tradehouse is as lively as ever tonight, which is to say that all the regular customers are in, with a couple of relative strangers wandering about the combination shop and tavern. The conversation flows at a dull roar, not quite squelching the slow soporific ballad emanating from Tandram Andalen’s mandolin. He did not sing; his rough dunmer voice would suffocate all the usual numbers played by the bards of Tamriel. Occasionally Elone, the scout and barkeep, would join him in song—she preferred the traditional hero-songs of Hammerfell but could carry all but the fastest tunes—but tonight she was occupied at the bar, speaking earnestly but quietly with an argonian dressed in a hooded robe black as the night sky.

“He’s dead” she spoke, looking hard at the argonian.

He was turned away from her slightly, and so he did not catch her full meaning. He answered casually, “Of course. When have I failed?”

“That’s not what I mean Al. I know you killed the orc. We trust you to do your work.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Orvas Dren. He was assassinated, along with his entire guard. Your extracurricular activities—“

He cut her short. “I had nothing to do with that. You think I’m that reckless?”

Elone stood, her voice rising slightly, “Reckless? Yes, I do think you’re that reckless! Why—” She stopped herself, sighing. “Fine. If not you, who killed him?”

“How should I know? I was preparing for the job with the orc.”

“Preparing! Do you really expect me to believe that? You’re always ready for a job, you’re so paranoid! If I asked you to kill half of town within the next hour you’d be plenty prepared! Stop lying to me!”

“Fine!” he shouted, “I was there! I killed his Cammona Tong thug guard! I roasted him over a fire! I watched him beg for death! I did everything but cut his throat! But listen to me Elone, listen just this once! I had no choice! They were on to me! Dren, Arvel, the slavers! Should I have just waited for him to come for me again? Would that better serve the Emperor?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was standing now, standing and shouting over everyone around. The bard no longer played and no drinks were being downed. A big, armored nord stepped over to the bar and placed a powerful hand on the argonian’s shoulder.

“That’s enough, lad. Get out of here before you do something you might regret, lizard.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun whipped around and struck the nord upside the head with the flat of his broadsword. “No one can call me lizard!” he screamed. A second nord drew his broadsword, but was sent reeling across the room in the same manner as his countryman. Halfway up the stairs a female dunmer prepared to cast a spell; likewise the imperial battlemage standing in the upstairs corner. The argonian flung throwing stars their way, first striking the imperial on the left shoulder and the dark elf on her right hand, interrupting the spells.

“Stop! Everyone!” Elone stood atop the bar, cheeks red and eyes welling up in rage and sorrow.

Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spoke quietly, “Elone, I’m sorry. But there’s something else you must know. I wasn’t alone. Orvas Dren was a marked mer.” He looked around the room at the wounded. “Now I suppose I am, too. Please send my regrets to Caius.”

He stepped around the prone bodies of nord and dunmer and past the fuming altmer Arrille, out into the night.

[Black Hand]

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

[jack cloudy]

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

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