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

[Black Hand]

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

[jack cloudy]

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

[The Metal Mallet]

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

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

[canis216]

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

On the Trail of the Black Hand

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

First I needed to visit an old friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s the nearest entrance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Damn. Sorry I bothered you then.”

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

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

This post has been edited by canis216: Feb 25 2007, 05:21 AM

[jack cloudy]

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

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

[The Metal Mallet]

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

[canis216]

Survival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Durzogs?”

“The goblins use them as mounts, sometimes.”

“Oh, those hound-ish creatures.”

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

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

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

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

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

This post has been edited by canis216: Feb 25 2007, 08:40 AM

[The Metal Mallet]

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

Keep it up buddy!

[minque]

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

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

[jack cloudy]

Well, I'm thinking of getting a job during summer and scrounge the shops for GOTY. All I can say about Tribunal (and Bloodmoon.) Is, I can't wait! Chrysamere needs a new challenge. Dagoths are too easy. Bring on the gods!

And umm, keep writing, Canis.

[canis216]

Bazaar

I lurched through the door of the Craftsmen’s Hall looking a terrible mess. My robe had been nearly cut to pieces by the beasts of the Mournhold sewers, my armor was terribly scarred, and I was covered in dried blood—my own and that of the beasts. I needed to restore my armor and my arsenal. I was in the right place—I staggered up upon a dunmer and an orc working at their respective forges. I decided to talk to the dunmer first—the orc was working furiously upon a sword—I didn’t care to interrupt him.

“Bols Indalen, at your service.” He looked up from the piece of glass he was working over.

“You the armorer?”

Indalen pulled out a hankerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. It was hot in there—I started to pull off my now tattered robe. “Of course. What can I do for you—my, that chitin is battered, isn’t it? I reckon I can fix that up for you, if you like.”

“That was my plan, yes. I also need my weapons fixed.”

“Weapons?”

I set my crossbow, my ebony, and Kills-You-Dead on the near table, and Indalen let out a low whistle. “You arm yourself well, sera. I think only Her Hands can boast of superior arsenals.”

“Um, thanks. Don’t go talking about it too much.”

“Oh, of course not, sera. I’ll have these fixed up by sundown.”

“That soon?”

“Sera, I don’t I’m being immodest when I say that I am the finest armorer in Morrowind… in spite of that damn apprentice of mine, Ilnori—“

“Don’t talk about me, plebe!” I heard a shout from somewhere in the building, upstairs maybe.

“—Faustus. Damn idiot.”

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

Bols Indalen was good as his word. I retrieved my gear that evening, after whiling away a few nervous hours in The Winged Guar. I never do enjoy being without my weapons or armor. Still, the time was uneventful. I chatted up Ra’Tesh for a short time, and learned that my quarry’s exploits as a bouncer might have cowed the usual violent drunkards into enjoying their drinks more quietly.

But as I was saying and meant to say, I gathered up my armor and weapons from Bols Indalen and made my way over to the Great Bazaar, at his recommendation. He carried steel and silver bolts, but none enchanted to poison my foes. Since I’m lazy by both temperament and practice, I don’t enjoy poisoning my projectiles personally. Therefore, I decided to seek viper-bolts elsewhere in Mournhold—and the Great Bazaar does have a reputation as the greatest market in Morrowind. It all made sense, for once.

It was raining, so activity in the Bazaar was rather muted. I don’t much care for rain, usually—reminds me too much of Tear—but this rain was cool and rather pleasant, a respite from the usual heat of the city. I made my to a booth occupied by young redguard man—I guessed his age to be about thirty. Still, he's strong, thick in the arms and chest. An armorer.

“Greetings, redguard. Do you sell viper-bolts, by chance?”

“I’m afraid not, friend. I’ve got iron and steel bolts, though. You could get them enchanted.”

“No, thank you.”

Idiot. I wonder if he’s ever tried to enchant a couple hundred bolts before—each would need its own soul. But I concealed my contempt, smiled, and moved on. Perhaps someone else carried them. As they say, ‘if you can’t find it at the Bazaar, you won’t find it anywhere’.

A pawnbroker had his booth opposite the armorer—he didn’t carry bolts at all. I again concealed my disappointment and bought some marhsmerrow and saltrice—I’d be needing some more restorative potions, and it was cheaper to make my own. I also found a cheap broadsheet lying around the dunmer’s booth—something called The Common Tongue:

"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition." -- Lord Vivec

I have a little list. They never would be missed.

Appearing at the top -- three names... Anhar, Khajiit male -- Martyrius Arruntius, Imperial male -- Jusole Asciele, Breton male. What do these three names have in common?

All three at one time or another represented an inconvenience to a Western noble prince named Helseth.

Anhar was an agent for Eastern ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural

Martyrius Arruntius was a city alderman of Wayrest. Prince Helseth's liaison with the alderman's married daughter was potentially embarrassing to the Prince -- especially when Martyrius Arruntius forcefully pressed his suit for 'predatory adultery' in Wayrest's courts. Many thought it strange that Martyrius Arruntius should suddenly fall ill and die of 'exhaustion' on the eve of the trial. The suit was settled out of court, and charges dismissed. The Imperial coroners ruled that Martyrius Arruntius had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, admittedly, but natural.

Jusole Asciele was a diplomatic attache at the High Rock embassy in Wayrest. Widely rumored to be an intelligence officer, Jusole Asciele was often seen at court, taking a great interest in the affairs of Queen Barenziah and her family. It is said that Wayrest can be a beastly uncomfortable place in high summer. Perhaps the Breton's constitution was ill-suited to the relentless heat and pestilential swarms of the southern Iliac. Jusole Asciele took suddenly ill one evening, and within three days he was dead. Once again, Imperial coroners ruled that Jusole Asciele had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, yes, but natural.

And these, The Common Tongue notes significantly, are only the 'A's on the list.

Some have quietly suggested that Prince Helseth was the most accomplished and subtle poisoner in the West. But The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. [Admittedly, the absence of such proof could count as qualifying towards the title of a 'most accomplished and subtle poisoner'.]

And, further, The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner, or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan's was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.

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

“No, I don’t. Have you tried the Craftsmen’s Hall?” I was answered by the imperial woman at the armory. I could only shake my head.

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

The trader, Sunel Hlas, carried an amazing variety of bolts; bonemold, corkbulb, iron, silver, steel… but no viper-bolts.

“Almost as hard to find as a good woman, eh?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Dispirited now, and showing it, I stumbled out into the cool evening. The rain had finally stopped, and activity in the Bazaar was slowly picking up again. I stopped to chat with another of the horde of young dunmer populating this city (Mournhold—its women especially—attracts young mer like moon sugar draws khajiits). This one was at least well-informed, if still not very bright.

“You hear about that fella who laid out the Velas wizards?”

“What?”

“Aye, some fellow named Sethyas, I hear. Killed one of the wizards right here in the Bazaar. It was exciting!”

I shook my head—exciting, for the sake of The Nine. Still, I needed to know more. “You haven’t seen this fellow—Sethyas you said his name was?—around again, have you?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in a couple days, I think."

“Oh… well, thanks.” I started to walk away, but decided to pose one more question. “You know where I can find some viper-bolts around here?”

He smiled, happy to be helpful, I think. “I’m not sure, but the pawnbroker always has some weird stuff. Maybe he could find what you need.” He pointed to another storefront. I thanked the mer—and went to see this pawnbroker.

The modest sign over the door beckoned, “Ten-Tongues Weerhat, Pawnbroker Extraordinaire”. That slime! I hadn’t seen him since…

I burst inside, blades drawn, and leapt across the counter—knocking my countryman over. He shielded his face with his hands.

“Ten-Tongues, you scum! I should have killed you back in Argonia!”

This post has been edited by canis216: Mar 5 2007, 07:41 AM

[The Metal Mallet]

I've been enjoying your subtle weaving of Al and Sethyas' lives so far canis. Really neat way of doing things. It also appears that Al knows Ten-Tongues. Looks like their meetinigs were very civil.

Or perhaps he could be making a aggressive jest. But that would seem to be out of Al's character somewhat. We shall see I guess.

[Black Hand]

Ooooo! Ten-Tounges and Al have a history, eh? This should be good.

[canis216]

Short update. It's a busy weekend.

Shady Characters

“You, and the rest of Shadowscales!” I raged over the cowering pawnbroker, Ten-Tongues.

“I was following orders! We all were!” he hissed out between his hands. “I have nothing to do with it anymore!”

“Liar! Always a liar! Why are you here? Why are you in Morrowind? Did you send you to find me?” I raised Kills-You-Dead, ready to strike.

“No! They kicked me out when—when—“

“When you couldn’t run me down and kill me.”

“That’s over now, Heik-Auri. Look at me… I sell cheap trinkets, scrolls, curiosities! I can’t even cast a decent chameleon spell anymore!”

I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard that last. “Hah! So you’ve finally learned that magick is fickle, eh? Ha-hah!”

Ten-Tongues finally lowered his hands. “Have a good laugh, will ya? Well, at least I’m out of that dirty business. I never wanted to be an assassin, anyway. Just because I was born under the Shadow… but from the looks of you, I’d say you’re still deep in it. You—you still carry Kills-You-Dead. Damn, and Sneaks-in-Shadows always said it wouldn’t stay long with someone unworthy—“

“He was the unworthy one. I don’t regret his death.” I looked at the blades in my hand. This was ridiculous—he wasn’t even armed, Ten-Tongues. “Alright, get up.”

“You’re—you’re not angry anymore?”

“No, I’m still angry. But I’ve got more important business than settling old scores. Like settling new scores.”

“New scores? Heik-Auri, you may be good with a blade, but someday you’re going to need to learn to stop making enemies.”

“Shut up. You know nothing of my business, these days. What you do know, as you say, is the acquisition of odd goods. And I need a somewhat uncommon item.”

“Ah, now we are speaking on my terms. What do you need? How can I atone for the wrongs of the past, marshbrother?”

I held up my crossbow. “I need viper-bolts. A lot of them.”

“Viper-bolts? Sounds unpleasant… I don’t carry them—but I can get them for you, I think. It might be a couple days.”

My face fell, I think. And I was disappointed. “A couple days? Damn… alright, I’ll have to lay low a few days, but we can make a deal.”

Ten-Tongues started to make a note in his ledger, and asked almost as an aside, “Where will you be staying? I can alert you when the bolts have arrived.”

“No need for that. I’ll stop by in a couple days, check on your progress.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“You did try to kill me once.”

He made a face as if to protest, but I turned abruptly and stepped out the door, into the cool dewy evening.

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

Later I lay on my bed in The Winged Guar staring up at the ceiling. I had spoken once more to Ra’Tesh—still no sign of Sethyas Velas. I was having very little luck. He had mentioned something about Velas Manor, the abode of one of the wizards killed by the new Grandmaster of the Morag Tong. Perhaps I would investigate it, come morning. He may have left some sort of sign—beyond a dead wizard, I hoped.

I thought also of Ten-Tongues. He had earned his name for a reason—he went beyond having a forked tongue. What if he were still connected to the Shadowscales? He himself was a pathetic pawnbroker—I could kill him anytime I chose; if the need arose. But what if—what if he knew others still in the business? Pawnbrokers know all sorts of shady characters.

People like me.

[jack cloudy]

I was convinced that Al would kill Tongue. Guess I was wrong. The conversation was nice though. Next one, please.

[canis216]

Alright, I've finally returned to this forum. I can't say how often I'll be updating in the future, as my job this summer will be taking me into the backcountry quite a bit. All I can say about these last couple of months--my absence--is that I was both busy, busy writing RL stuff (somewhat autobiographical in nature) and that I was a bit burned out from Morrowind and my character, a situation somewhat akin to Black Hand's past hiatus. I'll try to avoid staying away for so long again--I mean, I missed the beginning of a new tale from Treydog! It's good to be back, as inconstant as my being back might be. Here is my update.


Collecting Debts

Mournhold, it is said, is a city of light and magic. Gavis Velas had been drawn by its magic—the power within those indomitable walls. He had meant to put out the light, it would seem, or whatever light was left. Now all that was left of the powerful conjurer was blood, dried and drying. It pooled on the floor of his elaborate manor or it splattered on the walls—art, of a sort, if you look at the world from the hilt end of a blade.

An argonian crouched by the door, surveying the scene, reading the story of the battle, murmuring to himself.

“The wizard stood here… here was an ogrim, look at the size of that print…ooh, one of Sheogorath’s minions…”

He moved about easily and quietly in his dark brown robe, finally to opposite side of the room.

“Impressive leap… daedra spreading… the wizard turns to face…”

He looked up at the blood splattered on the manor walls.

“Long blade. Not bad, not bad at all.”

The argonian walked up the stairs, and found it undisturbed. The scattered chests, large and small, were still locked. The argonian opened them, yielding a smattering of septims and a few restorative potions of quality.

Seeing nothing else of interest, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made his way to the front door, letting out a sigh before taking the knob in hand.

“Where are you now, Sethyas Velas?”

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

I stepped out of Velas Manor and right into the path of a hulking nord. Any hope I had that he might know where to find my quarry disappeared as he blurted out, “Hello, nice man! You see Dilborn? Dilborn my friend! Dilborn gone three days now, and Thrud sad.” I had stumbled upon the dimmest bulb in the city of light. Thrud continued, “Dilborn big and mighty wizard. Dilborn read books to Thrud... all the words, big words, two, maybe three times. Now Dilborn gone, no one read books to Thrud. Thrud sad. Thrud miss friend Dilborn. You help Thrud find Dilborn?”

Dilborn, I now remembered, was the name of the naked breton I’d seen being held hostage down in the sewers. I felt a small pang of guilt as I remembered his face, crestfallen, as I practically told the thugs, “Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him.”

“Oh, all right Thrud, I’ll go find your friend Dilborn. You just stay up here and wait—I’ll go get him.”

I left the nord standing there—he tried to come along, but I distracted him by pointing away at a “dragon”—and hustled over to the sewer entrance. Thankfully the goblins had yet to repopulate that stretch of sewer, so I was able to make my way back to Drathas Nerus and his captive with relative ease. He greeted me warmly.

“Oh, the lizard again. Come to rescue your little debt-ridden friend, perhaps? How are you doing down there, Dilborn? Not so well, eh? Well, that's what happens to people who owe me money and neglect to pay.”

“Don’t call me…” I stopped myself. “Nevermind,” I sighed, “yes, this time I’m here to cover Dilborn’s debt.”

The thug smiled, and talked as only those who love the sound of their own voices can, “Excellent. That's right, lizard. We indulge in a bit of gambling down here from time to time, away from the prying eyes of the guards, you know? Dilborn is one of our best customers. He currently owes... if my memory serves me right... yes, Dilborn owes me the sum total of 3,000 septims. And he's not leaving here until he pays his debts.”

“Can you knock that down at all, Drathas? Professional courtesy, perhaps?”

The mer looked me over, smirking. I hate that. “Not for you, my little lizard friend. If they owe me money, even my closest associates have trouble persuading me to back off a debt.”

“Alright Drathas, I’ll pay you your 3000 drakes. Here.” I pulled out a small bag of hundred-septim coins and tossed it over, containing my frustration with the thug.

“All right, he can go.” The thug waved a hand to one of his lackeys. “Alam, remove his bracers. Dilborn, never show your face to me again, or I'll slice it off with a rusty spoon, you hear me?”

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

“Thank you, argonian. I am in your debt. Alas, in my present financially embarrassed condition, it is a debt I cannot repay. I hope that, under the circumstances, your own virtue will be sufficient reward. I assure you ... I'm everlastingly grateful to be united with my faithful friend Thrud.”

“I figured as much, Dilborn. But I’ll deal with the loss of my gold a lot better if you take this robe of mine, too. You’re pathetic to look at, you know.” Dilborn hung his head, but he accepted my brown robe, after I emptied its pockets and pulled my other robe—the black one—on over my armor. “Now get the hell back to the surface, Dilborn—Thrud is waiting for you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drathas owes me 3000 septims. And he’s not leaving here until he pays his debts.”

As I pulled out my crossbow I added, “Assuming that somebody collects his body.”

[jack cloudy]

Excellent dialogue. I loved the rusty spoon comment and of course the final bit.
,,Yeah, I just paid. But I'm going to get it back anyway so why should I care?"

I know what you're thinking. Did I say Lizard two, or three times? Well, what is it? Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

Sorry, I always wanted to say that. Don't mess with the Argonian assassin.

[canis216]

The rusty spoon comment is actually original game dialogue. Rogues like Drathas get great lines...

And yes, our argonian is definitely not one to be trifled with.

I like playing the encounter in-game in a similar way to what I've depicted here. Pay up, get Dilborn and Thrud reunited, then kill the thugs. It's a sort of "five-finger" discount if you will, although it might be more appropriate to call it a "many viper-bolts lodged in the chest" discount.

[The Metal Mallet]

Yay! Al's back!

Oh yea, and canis as well. I won't forget about you.


Fun update. It seems that there's always something in between Al and his goal to find Sethyas. I wonder what'll actually happen once they meet?

[canis216]

A Fist Full of Septims

An argonian in a black robe sat at the bar of The Winged Guar, the most exclusive inn of Morrowind’s most exclusive city. He was sharing a drink with the bartender, a nattily-attired khajiit—the argonian drank brandy, the khajiit drank flin. They seemed to be discussing the bag of gold that sat between them—not an argument, it seemed, but more a trading of stories.

Ra’Tesh remembers that one…

The little cloth sack of gold appeared to be stained red. Blood, perhaps? The two betmer are smiling though, laughing even. If that is blood on the sack, there is none to be found on the argonian, the one who produced it.

Ra’Tesh, the bartender, turned away from his friend to assist another customer, a young redguard man. He does not appear to be as well off as either the bartender or the argonian—his dress is drab and he orders shein. The redguard starts to chat up the black-clad argonian—he speaks loudly; snatches of conversation can be heard over the usual tavern clamor.

Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment… I got laid off from my job… the market for pillows has really bottomed out… 25 pillows per person…

The argonian made some sort of response, inaudible over the din. He seems a bit annoyed, but the redguard is a little sauced so he doesn’t notice.

It didn't take long for the money guys… all our pillow venture capital…1500-septim chairs… scamp skin… crafting pillows… creating the perfect pillow…days are over… need to find work.

The argonian said something else to the redguard—something like “I’ll let you know if I hear about anything” and then turned back to his drink and the bloody bag of gold. Ra’Tesh sat across from the argonian once more and they resumed their conversation, but more quietly, with none of the smiles and laughs of before.

An orc sitting at the far corner table is staring at the conversation but trying to look like he isn’t staring. He is trying to read the lips, trying to write something on a little notepad sitting on his knee, under the table. He is mumbling a little; whispering to himself.

“The hunter was here last night.” Who’s he talking about? Velas? Okay, so now the argonian asks “Where is he now?” This spook is looking for that assassin? Why? “Ra’Tesh thinks you should look around the palace.”

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

“Alright, so you tell me that The Winged Guar is this mer’s hangout, so I go there to scope it out, see who he might be dealing with. I don’t see the dunmer there—“
“You should have stayed around longer.”

“Could you let me finish please?”

“Go on.”

“I don’t see the dunmer, but I come back here because I see someone asking about the dunmer, some argonian dressed all in black. He sits there talking to the barkeep—I think they must have known each other already—with this sack of gold in front of him. The sack is bloody, like he might have killed someone for it. They were talking about it and laughing, and I think the barkeep said something about whoever was killed being a good customer but not so good that he’d be missed. I couldn’t tell exactly what the argonian was saying most of the time ‘cause he was wearing a hood and kinda facing away from me.”

“You’re a spy, Bakh, not a guard. What does this argonian have to do with Sethyas Velas?”

“I was getting to that! Ahem. So eventually they started talking about the dunmer and they get all serious. The argonian was trying to find out what Velas had been up to, trying to find out where would be. He said something about an “invalid contract”, whatever that means. I couldn’t catch all of what he said. But then the khajiit, the bartender, he told the argonian to check around here, around the palace. He said that Velas was doing some sort of work for the King.”

“The bartender knows too much.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, bartenders always know too much. I’d worry more about the argonian.”

“Why? So he killed somebody. I can have the guards keep an eye out for him.”

“I did some more asking around. I think the argonian is an assassin of some sort. A dangerous sort.”

“You think?”

“Well—and this is just what I hear—he trained with the some sort of elite assassination group in Black Marsh. And he keeps himself better armed than even you. But this is just what I hear.”

“Another assassin in our city.”

“Yes sir.”

“And he’s going to be sneaking around the palace.”

“Sounds like it, sir.”

“We may need to import some aid from Cyrodiil.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jun 3 2007, 10:44 PM