Darkness Calls, The story of a Bravil assassin Options

[haute ecole rider]

Funny. You have almost the same perception of Caelia Draconis that I do. Funny. Not ha ha funny, but weird funny. She's not very likable in my version, either. Hmm.

Anyway, graphic description of the way Dar Jee feels. Poor guy, being so far away from water, too. Ugh.

Again, a great chapter. For Dar Jee's sake, I almost wish they find Aradroth at Nayon Camp!

[SubRosa]

Poor Dar Jee! They have a secret torture room in Leyawiin just for Argonians. Nice guy that Count. Back to the story though. A good description of Dar Jee's plight. Plus strong characterizations of Caelia and Decentius. I wonder what Caeilia's thugs will find at Nayon?


nits:
That of course is a smoke screen to through off our trail
You want throw there.

[Acadian]

Very neat! Captivatingly immersive, in fact.

I assumed the prisoner was Aradroth until you revealed it was an Argonian. As always, you keep us off guard.

Your creative use of metaphor provides too many examples to cite! Clearly we would both be in a pickle jar if I were to attempt it.

We do feel for Dar Jee and hope for a happy resolution to his captivity.

That Caelia Draconis means business!


Per your request, let me mention a few nits:

Testing his position he moved his arms out to the side and regrettable felt the restricting clinking of solid chain beneath his tired body. - I would use the adverb, regrettably here as it modifies the verb feel.

Unable to control anything else except the wandering of his mind he gave into the pain. - I would use in to here instead of into. Into infers movement to enter something. In to infers more what I think you want, such as turn your homework in to the teacher. Google into vs in to and see if you agree.

Each one seemed to be floating loose within his frame, clashing against each other like duelling sabres. - dueling (spelling)

Turing his head he peeked open his one eye cautiously. The light from above blazed deep into his retina, and he quickly shut it again. - Turning (spelling). I would recommend the adverb, deeply here as it modifies the verb blaze.

[Remko]

Aaargh, you make me want to play Oblivion and start a DB character just to whack that Draconis wench again.
If I ever get around writing about Rales and Zerina in Cyrodiil, I will make sure something is done about those awful practices.

[Olen]

Nicely written part. It worked well keeping the reader in the dark about who the prisoner was, kept me guessing and confused and helped the atmosphere you built.

Makes me want to know what will happen at Nayon (and if they do find Aradroth what that might mean for Dar-Jee...). Good stuff, I want more.

[Destri Melarg]

Positively chilling! I don’t know what’s worse, Decentius’ bad cop, or Caelia’s ‘good’ cop. I bet Dar Jee wishes he had stayed in bed that morning (which is where I always find him anytime I am in Leyawiin).

The light danced in a crazy circle from a distance close by.

I’m not sure if I like this sentence or not, and I mean that as a compliment. Usually an oxymoron like this would bury the needle, but here it works simply because it is unsettling.

At first he thought that it was the wind. It was low and keening, like the anxious draught that flitted up the inside of a fireplace.

This one is wonderfully evocative!

Like haute, ‘Rosa, and Olen I can’t wait to see what they find at Nayon Camp.

[Winter Wolf]

Haute Ecole Rider-
Thanks for your comment. Caelia is a very strange NPC in the game, I am never quite sure if she is as bad as the hierarchy around her at Leyawiin. I decided to use her as lesser of the two evils in the dungeon scene. I can relate to how you feel about Dar Jee, my heart is breaking too!

SubRosa-
Thanks for the support on the characterization of the two 'cops' in my story. Your own writing is heavily built on bringing the NPC's alive, and I am just happy to trail along in your wake. Thanks for spotting the nit!

Acadian-
Oh no! I ask the paladin for help and he spots 127 spelling errors in my writing. That is the last time I shall open my big mouth! Seriously, though, thanks! I was hoping to have the reader unsure about who was the prisoner for the first half and I am glad that it worked. My thanks for commenting on that.

Remko-
Please feel free to come across to Cyrodiil any time that you want. Drop in at Bravil, where we shall form an army of playing characters and then charge down to Leyawiin and lay siege to the place!

Olen-
Thanks for your comments! Nayon Camp, yes, my mind is already ticking over about that. I promise that it should be fun! The life of Dar Jee is riding upon it.

Destri Melarg-
Thanks oh King of Hammerfell. I was hoping to contrast the two NPC's in the dungeon scene, good cop and bad cop did seem to be the best way to do it. Thanks! The darkness and sensory deprivation does lend itself to a few cool metaphors in this part of the story, I was hoping that some of them worked.

**


CHAPTER 7-

The man sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his hands cupped around a goblet of mulled wine, his features hidden by a black hood. The room around him was dark and smoky, full of the odour of sweating bodies of men, cooked food and sour ale.

Lifting the goblet to his lips the middle-aged Redguard glanced at the motley assortment around him. His cold eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble that might breach his self imposed solitude. Not that any would try to disturb him. The snake tattoo that crawled out of his uniform and across his hand gave him a compulsory circle of fear and respect.

The mark signified him as a member of perhaps the most dangerous faction in the whole of southern Cyrodiil: the Head-hunter League of Leyawiin. Sixty men strong, they were the real backbone of the Leyawiin standing army, the vanguard that always did the job that others were too scared to do. They were the dark-cloaked spies that infiltrated Black Marsh and Elsweyr, solving each border dispute by using a subtle method of kidnap and torture. In fact, he was very proud of his track record and spoke lovingly of it to his family.

Not that there was a family, of course.

Well, there was one, but not one that he could see anymore. The cold, marble headstones had put paid to that. Like the mountains that towered above, pain was impartial to friend and foe alike. Shame really, but such was the nature of torture.

A shadow passed across the table as somebody moved into the light.

Pashan glanced upwards in surprise, his beady eyes shining with the meanness of a cornered alley-cat.

The figure above him wore the grey uniform of the watch. He could almost smell the newly pressed clothes. Numerous beads of perspiration lined the young man’s acne scarred face. Pashan couldn’t believe what he was looking at. They had sent a rookie to him....

“Yes?” he asked with a note of boredom.

“Sorry, Captain, but the Count and his lady have asked for your attendance at your earliest possible convenience,” the messenger replied.

“Why?”

“They didn’t say so, sir. But they did say it was important.”

Pashan touched the wine to his lips and let it roll around his mouth. Why did it seem that every spare night he had was always ruined by the demands of others? Couldn’t the fools just fix the world on their own for once?

He waved a dismissive hand. “Alright, tell them I’ll be there soon.”

The boy gave a curt nod. His boots made a tight, clipped sound as he departed.

Pashan went back to his drink and his solitude.


**


The land around the assassin was a bleak and swampy marsh. From the thin branches overhead the sound of strange birds could be heard.

Aradroth propped himself up on a moss covered log and dug into a quick meal of bland rations. Strangely enough he found himself playing with his food more than eating it. Beneath his shadowed cowl his hawk-like features lined a mask of concern. His heart felt satisfied that the mission was a success at Leyawiin, but disappointment sat deeply upon him.

The flight from Leyawiin had been, like everything else so far, an easy enough affair. A couple of invisibility potions and the quick scampering into a hollowed out tree trunk meant that the watch had no idea where he was. The hiding spot was one that he had used on numerous occasions and he had simply waited out the confused guards. The color and fall of the land played into the hands of the Wood Elf. Lucky for him the escape had happened so quickly that they did not have a chance to organize the search with hunting dogs.

The card of fate may have fallen down in his favour. But what had happen to Dar Jee? The sight of the flying Argonian kept playing over in his mind. Was he crushed or injured, or perhaps captured by the guards? Or did he escape unscathed?

The assassin closed his eyes for a moment and pushed his hands to his temples, as if the posture would shut out the barrage of questions. Disassociation with others had always worked well for the Bosmer and he had no idea how to sort and file his conflicting emotions. He knew that he had left the bad, uncontrollable part of his former life behind. Yet the feelings he now experienced felt more akin to the covetous longing of his youth than the cold detachment of the profession he chose to pursue in recent times. He understood longing more than he cared to admit and it didn’t sit well with him.

He shook away the sensation and rose stiffly to his feet.

For some people friendship and laughter were an easy thing, an embracement and acceptance of others that some acquired straight away. For people like him; however, it was a relaxing of the guard that one simply could not afford to do in his line of work. Satisfaction instead came from knowing and seeing things that others would never experience, like holding a person’s fate in one's hands, watching the life in the eyes slip away to the void of Sithis, the play of blood upon faded lips.

It was a life that had worked out great for him in the past.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. The thought circled around his head like a moth. It wouldn’t leave him alone.

Moving over to his bedroll he positioned everything on the ground. He angrily shoved the remains of his meal inside his pack and lay down to catch some badly needed sleep.


**


“You may enter now.”

“Thanks,” Pashan replied in a soft whisper, and slipped through the concealed door and into the plush study. The person who had addressed him stood with his back to him, and was clad in a full-length velvet robe and slippers. There was something in the posture of the man that Pashan spotted straight away, a slumping of the shoulders that could easily become a bargaining chip if need be.

“I appreciate you coming at short notice, Pashan. Please, take a seat.”

Moving to his right the Captain of the head-hunters flopped down into the newly upholstered chair, his hands resting casually upon his lap.

Turning around the older man leaned upon the back of a chair and stared down at him.

“I need your help,” the Count of Leyawiin said with a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

“I thought as much,” Pashan replied, “The watch seemed highly agitated when I saw them this afternoon.”

The man nodded. “Yes, it has been a disaster. First, we have had to deal with the uprising of the Argonian insurgence, and now this, the murder of Adamus.”

“Is this what this meeting is about?”

Sweat glistened across the bald head of Marius Caro. “Yes, and this has to be done quickly and efficiently.”

“As always, my liege.”

“Yes, as always.”

“What are the particulars?”

“As you know we captured an Argonian who was connected to the murder. The assassin as yet has not been caught. I need you to find him. And I need this resolved before the Elder Council becomes involved.”

The eyebrow of the Redguard raised a little. “I thought the Elder Council was concerned with the extinguishing of the Dragonfire and the opening of the Oblivion Gates?”

Sitting down behind the broad, wooden desk Marius Caro pushed aside the numerous papers that littered it. “Yes, my friend, but how long will that last? The death of Adamus has created a scandal that my spies are telling me is running like a wild-fire across the Imperial City. As soon as the Council has sorted out its current dilemma they are bound to put their scrutiny straight onto me. I cannot allow that to happen. Who knows what effect the power vacuum of Uriel and his sons will have on the realm of Cyrodiil? This must not look bad for me.”

Pashan nodded. “Yes, I see the problem. This Argonian you have, would you like me to pay him a visit?”

Horror breached the vivid, blue eyes of Marius Caro.

“God’s breath no! I cannot afford to have him die at this point. He is all I have.”

Pashan smiled a devious grin. “You offend me, my friend. Well, what then?”

“Decentius and Caelia have already interrogated him. The assassin is staying at a camp site in the Upper Nibenay. I want you to go there and see if he is still there. Bring him back alive and transport him back here. We must have the opportunity to find out who ordered the contract.”

“And if he refuses to come quietly?”

“Do what you need to,” the Count replied and raised a warning finger. “But he must still have his tongue in his throat. A mute elf is no good to me.”

Rising to his feet the head-hunter slipped quietly back into the dark alcove. By the time the concealed door slid back into place his mind had already planned the man-power and provisions that he would need for the journey ahead.

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Jul 24 2010, 07:42 AM

[haute ecole rider]

ooh, a manhunt!

This Pashan sounds like a formidable foe, indeed.

And is Aradroth suffering a crisis of conscience? Or should I say a resurrection of conscience?

I wait with bated breath to see what happens next.

[SubRosa]

I agree with haute, this Pashan seems like an interesting character. I am looking forward to seeing Aradroth killing him!

The world you write is a dark, foreboding place. It has to be with an assassin as your main character. So far you have done an excellent job of portraying Aradroth as being someone we can root for by placing very dark characters like Pashan, the Count, Phillida, etc... against him.


nits:
The cold, marble headstones had put pay to that.
That ought to be paid.

like holding a person’s fate in ones hands
one's ought to have an apostrophe in it, as it is used in a possessive way.


It was a life that? had worked out great for him in the past.
I think you missed a that where I inserted it.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jul 18 2010, 03:07 AM

[Acadian]

Wolf, I really liked everything about this! You really developed the head of the hunter of heads. Wonderfully immersive barscene. Acne to indicate youth on the soldier - brilliant!

It was neat to pop out into the woods to check on our lethal little mate. Cold chow in the swamp- yep, life on the lamb, well-portrayed.

I liked the scene with the Count. You have managed to give both he and Pashan some depth. Neither appear to be one dimensional at all. Rather, both have a past and concerns.

I think one of my favorite parts was where you mentioned the ongoing Oblvion Crisis. That lets us know many things:
The timeframe of your story.
The relationship you see between the Court of Leyawiin and the Elder Council.
How irrelevant the crisis is to the world in which Aradroth and his employers operate. In fact you almost seem to brilliantly imply the diversion of the crisis assists the DB as they go about their grim business.

Your descriptions are efficient and vivid - and as always laced with interesting metaphors that seem to be your delightful trademark.

Story, characters, ambiance, immersiveness. . . . What a joy to read!


*
He waved a dismissal hand. “Alright, tell them I’ll be there soon.”
I would use dismissive here.

[Olen]

Nice part, there were some great little details there as Acadian mentioned. Some of the images worked really well too:

The cold, marble headstones had put pay to that. Like the mountains that towered above, pain was impartial to friend and foe alike. Shame really, but such was the nature of torture.

Those lines really worked for me, the change in tone at the end worked with the character of Pashan.

The manhunt promises to be interesting, as is Aradroth. Showing the bit of emotion in him makes it far easier to empathise with him, though so far among you're cast of well rounded characters Dar-Jee is the only one who hasn't got it coming and he's hardly good - lots of dark characters work to make a foreboding atmosphere. I can't wait to see it all kick off...

[Destri Melarg]

Everything Acadian said goes for me too! In Pashan it just feels like you have created a formidable and implacable foe for Aradroth. His brooding charisma just sings in this chapter. Likewise the setting of the timeframe gives depth and meaning to the world that surrounds your motley cast of characters.

‘Heavy sits the head that wears the crown’ – In the space of a few well-placed descriptive cues and a some lines of dialogue you present a Marius Caro with meat on his bones, and a sea of troubles weighing down his slumped shoulders. This story gets better with every post!

MORE! NOW!!

[mALX]

For some people friendship and laughter were an easy thing, an embracement and acceptance of others that some acquired straight away. For people like him; however, it was a relaxing of the guard that one simply could not afford to do in his line of work. Satisfaction instead came from knowing and seeing things that others would never experience, like holding a person’s fate in one's hands, watching the life in the eyes slip away to the void of Sithis, the play of blood upon faded lips.

I thought this paragraph described an assassin's life so accurately...it was Foxy-ish! I agree with Destri, this gets better with each chapter! You ROCK Wolf!!!

[Winter Wolf]

haute ecole rider -Thanks! My goal when I started writing this fan-fic was to have an expanded version of the Permanent Retirement quest in the DB. It seemed like a cool quest at the time that I completed it and I am happy enough with the way it has turned out. The natural follow-on was to have a manhunt for the assassin and it also allowed me to (hopefully!) put some building tension into the storyline.

SubRosa - So Aradroth will kill Pashan, eh? We shall see about that! During my early days of D&D I had tremendous fun killing off many a Playing Character, so believe me when I say that Aradroth had best be on his toes in the coming chapters. Ha! Thanks for your support for the dark atmosphere in my story. I do not have the talent a write a well rounded story like the other writers at Chorrol, but the brooding stuff seems to come easily enough. Crazy. It must be me.

Acadian - I really appreciate the work that you went to in your last post here brother. Cheers!!
The head of the hunter of heads. I love that line that you have come up with. Brilliant!!
The Pashan and Count scene helped to set the stage for the storyline, something that was probably needed. Aradroth could easily just wallow in the swamps of Black Marsh without somebody to give him depth and direction, and it was best if his antagonist is the one to force him into shape! I have plans for two more characters to appear soon that Aradroth can also lean upon.

Olen - Pashan does seem to be a cool character to set against Aradroth. The deadly Captain of the Head-hunters has alot going on beneath the surface. He will be desperate to keep the Count happy and there is the death of his family that will ride over everything. Thanks for your continued support.

Destri Melarg -Thanks brother!! I really wish I could write at the speed of Haute, Rosa or mALX, but it is not going to happen. I feel that my writing style is like a VW that bops along in the slow lane of the freeway. LOL. Oh well, such is life. The end of this fan-fic (around two dozen chapters) is already planned, so please be rest assured that I shall get there eventually.

mALX - Welcome back oh mALX. It is great to see you here. Make sure you get plenty of rest before you tackle the other fan-fics, please?!? They are huge stories, not like this little puppy. I suppose the great thing about my writing is that you can go away for 6 months and find that I have only written 4 chapters, ha ha!!


**


CHAPTER 8 –


Vance Seer passed through the murmuring crowd like a whisper. A small man with inquisitive eyes, he moved with the lightness of a hare as he slipped between the numerous housewives and beast folk of Leyawiin. Dressed in a dark cloak that only allowed a few tuffs of coarse hair to poke out at the buttoned up cuffs, he blended smoothly into the rolling background around him.

The voices all about spoke of fear and death, a siren’s call that reached deep into his heart. The tone was frantic and breathless, like the bleating of sheep from a closed up pen. It brought an involuntary flush to his face.

Pausing at the edge of destroyed marketplace he scanned the area. Sweating workmen could be seen moving in all directions, carrying lengths of timber and numerous tools as they rushed to rebuild the wooden structure that Dar Jee had brought down in his moment of madness.

Hammers banged and saws threw wood chips into the humid air.

Vance was not impressed.

It had looked so much better with the bodies and the blood soaking into the greedy soil. There was always something poetic about the lifeblood of a town flapping on the ground like a broken bird. It was a fragile moment of rare beauty. He knew that it would occupy his mind for weeks to come.

His nose sniffed the air as he watched the labourers sweat away in the morning sun. They were destroying everything, bringing order to the lovely chaos and he couldn’t help but feel a maudlin tear slip from his eye. Thankfully it was not only his memory that embraced him, the scent was all around him as well, keeping him alive.

It was the shroud that hung over everything. It was in the ground, it was in the walls, it was an anticipation of what the world might become.

His only regret was that nobody else adored it.


**


The sun burned from behind the curtain of mist that shrouded the land. Everything was quiet and dark. Overhead the birds sat quietly in their branches and gazed down suspiciously at the Wood Elf beneath them.

Sitting beside the damp fire in a tight bundle of rags the assassin did not even notice them. Brushing back a mop of brown hair from his eyes the Bosmer was simply relieved to see that his work was almost done. Placing the last green colored vial of poison onto the ground he only glanced up sharply at his surroundings when the single cry of the White-throated Treecreeper called from the branches above.

Wiping his stained fingers upon his greaves he rose stiffly to his feet and collected his pack together. The bird was a reminder that it was time to go. Like everything these days part of him was keen to hit the open road but another side knew what sort of pain the trip would bring. The recovery sessions were beginning to take longer and longer and he was never one that could fall back on the restorative skills of the healers. The Nine just didn’t seem to see the world the same way that he did.

Muttering under his breath he kicked a handful of soil over the remains of the fire and gathered his poison and arrows together.

Pushing at a brisk early pace he soon felt the miles quickly disappear under the soles of his worn boots. Bravil came and went and the Green Road swung towards the Niben Valley and through the forests north of his home town.

The morning felt fresh, the land alive and awake. Drops of rain lay cupped in the upturned tree ferns, a vacant reminder of the overnight rain that had renewed the overland forest. To the east the vast expanse of the Upper Niben stretched as smooth as a mill pond. Following the path down into a gully the sunlight around the assassin sliced the green foliage of the forest into neat edible strips.

A woman’s voice sounded from a rise in the road ahead.

“Your life is mine!” she screamed at him.

Aradroth looked up. The sunlight caught her metal armor.

A smooth motion pulled the Vampire bow to half tension and he sighted the woman offset.

Quickly pulling the string to full tension the arrow was loosed and the wasp hiss of fletching called out across the crisp morning air. The bandit took the full impact of the glass arrow and was tossed into the air like a doll.

Aradroth ran to the broken body.

The woman was a native of Hammerfell, and was now laying face down and very dead, a long way from home. Blood ran from her broad lips and pooled onto the road beneath her. Placing his bare hand onto the warm skin the assassin spoke a pray of thanks to the Dread Father, a tear of gratitude slipping down his rugged features.

Bending down he gave the women a rough inspection, checking for signs of treasure. A small piece of coarse muslin, a tooth-comb, several lock picks and a packet that contained two small pills of moon-sugar appeared within his hand. Smiling at the irony of the comb he tossed it all aside.

Removing a dagger from his boot he spent the next five minutes digging the arrow from the body.

He held it up to the streaming light. The head was damaged beyond repair but that didn’t stop the assassin from giving a low whistle. The bodkin tip had penetrated the mithril much further than any other arrow he had used before. It really surprised him. One of his bugbears was trying to hit that weak spot on the opponent’s armor. Perhaps those days might be a thing of the past.

The next time that he returned to Bravil he must give a word of thanks to Buffy.

His deadly friend was, yet again, right on the mark.


**

The camp had been set for the night. Tired and hungry from the punishing ride during the day Vance was glad to have the solid feel of the ground beneath. His muscles ached from places on his body that he never even knew existed, and he would have given anything to be back in Leyawiin with a warm bath and a cheap hussy. Trailing at the back of the group he was one of the last to arrive.

Heading forward with a pronounced limp he pulled the dark cowl low against his face, shielding himself from the torchlight.

A dozen large shapes appeared out of the mist. They were phantom creatures with dark hides and rolling white eyes. Long plumes of breath streamed from their broad nostrils. The head-hunters around them reminded him of a scholarly convention of necromancers, silent and haunting as they tended to their business of unloading the packs.

Passing through the group the Imperial could feel his nose become ticklish. He did his best to ignore it as he headed across the center of the pentagram.

“What have we got, boss?” he asked.

The man he addressed stood at the edge of the camp. Silhouetted against the night sky he stared out into the pitch blackness. His reply had the calm edge of a knife.

“There is nothing out there. The scouts have reported that the land ahead is quiet, almost too quiet. There is no goblins, no wolves, nothing.”

“How long will it be until we arrive?” Vance inquired.

Pashan turned to the side. “I am hoping tomorrow afternoon. I should get some better feed back in the morning. Make sure you get some good sleep tonight. Please be available for the early meeting.”

“I look that bad, do I?” The small man grinned and ran his hand through his dark, greasy hair. “Horse riding has unfortunately never been my forte. Give me a swamp, a blade and an Argonian any day.”

Pashan smiled and looked back at the camp. The light had thrown a sharp angle across his gaunt face. It was a disturbing sight.

“I hear what you say, brother. Hopefully I won’t have to drag that Bosmer’s sorry carcass all the way back home. I hate getting spurs in my horse.”

The rodent-man gave a quiet chuckle. “It is an empty and wild land we are going to. The assassin must really want to avoid capture if he is staying out there.”

Pashan nodded. “Yes, and he is probably cowering under the ground like the weasel that he is.”

Vance considered the idea for a moment. “Just remember, though, that we are still hunting a member of the Dark Brotherhood,” whispered the small Imperial. “In all likelihood it will very much depend on how many resources he has access to. The last thing we would want is him to be hunting us.”

Pashan turned back to the faceless side of night. His eyes were devoid of passion.

“That is why we have strength in numbers, my little friend. One elf cannot hope to stand against a score of head-hunters.”

The small man turned away. “Let us hope that you are right.”

This post has been edited by Winter Wolf: Aug 15 2010, 08:58 AM

[Olen]

Good to see a continuation to this, certainly I think Aradroth is going to need all his skills if he survives this...

I enjoyed the way you painted the headhunters, very brooding and dark. The comparason to necromancers and teh mist set the atmosphere very well. It does rather make me wonder if there is more to them than we know.

Still the coming fight should be fun.

[haute ecole rider]

I liked the slower pacing here - a nice interlude after the excitement of the previous few chapters. Yet it is a great piece to build up a sense of foreboding of what is to come. It's the variation in the pacing that keeps me stuck on this story.

Further character development is much appreciated here - it makes me care about what is going to happen next. Taking the time to describe places, minor events (bandit attack), and emotions really bring this to life for me.

One nit:

Dressed in a dark cloak that only allowed a few tuffs of coarse hair to poke out at the buttoned up cuffs, he blended smoothly into the rolling background around him.

Did you mean tufts?

[Acadian]

Oooh, I love this, Wolf!

In the first part it was neat to meet the mousey Vance - what a wonderfully evocative picture of him you painted. What stood out here, and in the next scene was the way you brought the steam and humidity of Leyawiin and the surrounding Black Marsh to life. I almost hear the buzzing insects and feel sweat running down my face.

Hammers banged and saws threw wood chips into the humid air.

The sun burned from behind the curtain of mist that shrouded the land.

It was great to catch up to our favorite assassin again, surviving and crafting poisons in the swamp. You rendered a beautifully clever portrayal of his traveling north from Leyawiin. We are left wondering about his 'recovery sessions'.

Great bowcraft - it does indeed seem that his chats with Buffy have paid off. Buffy the Busybody is not optimistic she can change the assassin, but the fact that he realizes he has a friend in Bravil is a start.

Removing a dagger from his boot he spent the next five minutes digging the arrow from the body.

He held it up to the streaming light. The head was damaged beyond repair but that didn’t stop the assassin from giving a low whistle. The bodkin tip had penetrated the mithril much further than any other arrow he had used before. It really surprised him. One of his bugbears was trying to hit that weak spot on the opponent’s armor. Perhaps those days might be a thing of the past.

The next time that he returned to Bravil he must give a word of thanks to Buffy.

His deadly friend was, yet again, right on the mark.

Buffy thanks you so much for this tribute!

Finally, we have a foreboding and mysterious swampy meeting of the head hunters. We are left anxiously waiting for more as we wonder about the head hunters' plans.

You continue to be a master of evocative description, my friend. I love the details you weave in, and the clever way in which you do so.

Oops:

Placing his bare hand onto the warm skin the assassin spoke a pray of thanks to the Dread Father, a tear of gratitude slipping down his rugged features.

Did you mean 'prayer' here?

This post has been edited by Acadian: Aug 15 2010, 05:44 PM

[SubRosa]

Vance is another interesting character. I loved his inner-thoughts as he walked through Leyawiin. You certainly do these homicidal types quite well!

he moved with the lightness of a hare
This is a particularly vivid description!

I found Aradroth's musings about recovery, and the pain of the journey, very intriguing. What is wrong with our favorite Bosmer assassin? Something physical? Or is it the attack of a pesky conscience? I cannot wait to see more!

nits:
You have many long sentences where a comma is needed for the reader to "pause for breath". For example:
The recovery sessions were beginning to take longer and longer, and he was never one that could fall back on the restorative skills of the healers.
Try reading outloud. The places you want to pause to take a breath are usually those that you should put in a comma.

[mALX]

Woo Hoo !!!! A Buffy Tribute! Aradroth has a Khajiit admirer too, he just hasn't met her yet, lol.

[Destri Melarg]

I am curious to se what role Vance plays amongst the headhunters. He strikes me as someone specifically attuned to destruction magic, but maybe I’m reading too much into things.

Pashan’s demeanor in this chapter was almost the opposite of how I pictured him in the last. Why do I get the feeling that his overconfidence is going to bite him in the british boat? He is, after all, chasing a member of the Dark Brotherhood who has the benefit of a several day head start and the option to engage in battle on ground of his own choosing. The scene where he is mixing his poisons made me think that those headhunters are looking suspiciously like the ten little Indians! I think things are about to get interesting for Aradroth, soon he's going to need a much longer 'recovery session'.