Siblings Bound in Blood, The tale the murderer, Silver-Tongue Options

[Arcry]

Note: I have been wanting to get the story of Assassin Silver-Tongue out in the open for some time now and, with the knowledge of the fate the Brotherhood is dealt prior to Skyrim, I think I can tell it now. I also hope that this will allow me to branch off into the stories of my other Oblivion characters (As I had always seen the five of them running about Cyrodill at the same time, aiding or hindering the overall plot.

Anyway, I really hope that you guys enjoy this! Critiques welcome!

Edit: Grr... The tale of the murderer, Silver-Tongue
Ran through this thing after I had some more rest, fixed what errors I saw. Let me if I missed any!



Prologue




A cool chill clung to the air, biting at the uncovered face of a lone figure. The figure pulled their tattered and travel weary cloak tighter, trying to capture the little heat that fled from his form, and continued cautiously walking down the darkened hall.



“A torch is far too much of a risk, he says. Buy a Night Eye elixir, he says!" muttered the figure, “Why, I would not be in this infernal crypt if I had the coin to throw at potions!”


The sound of his muffled voice echoed around him, his mind began to wander; visualizing the so called “loot” that Breton merchant had promised littered the main hall of this subterranean hell and of the profits the two of them would make from this venture. His foot catches on brunt of a disturbed stone, lurched him from his thoughts and his feet. He fell face first into the roughly hewn stone wall yelped, staggered back from the wall and, clutching his nose, falls onto his rear. The man pulled his hand from his throbbing nose and rubbed the warm and wet fluid between his fingers.

“Great, bleeding now too, by the Nine, this had best be worth it!” He pulled himself upright and continued forward with one hand on the wall, the other wrapped around his sore nose.



“Minutes or hours, how long have I been down here? Time has a funny way of distorting when you can’t see that damned sky!” he thought to himself as the once dull and distant ache in his feet, now shot fire up into his legs and is fanned with every step, sending the flames higher.


Exhausted, he reserved to take a short respite and sits with his back against the wall and, with started realization, slapped his right palm onto it. A loud clap reverberated throughout the hall as he frantically rubbed his hand over the slick surface. It’s smooth, the wall is smooth! As his mind began trying to wrap around what this might foretell, an all too familiar “click” of a latch sliding into place sounded not but a few paces away from him. The man desperately tried to scramble to his feet as heavy metal door scraped against stone. Relief washed over him as he stared towards the blackness that was the now open door way, whoever opened that door wouldn’t be able to see him. A lantern freshly lit lashed out with its bright glow and dispelled the shadows that hid his fear frozen form, dashing his hopes of an unseen escape.


Seconds pass and he is left, eyes squeezed shut and crouching, unharmed. Seconds more and still nothing, he opened his eyes and hesitantly gazed pass the entryway. A lantern sat upon a small desk of well-worn and chipped wood, its warmth almost welcoming. He cautiously straitened, and then timidly approached the desk. Darkness continued to engulf the corridor ahead. The cloaked figure reached for the lantern, but stops midway as something beneath the lantern caught his eye. He pulled a yellowed and stained slip of folded parchment from underneath the lantern, unfolded it, and looked over the faded shapes. A map, it was a map detailing nearby Leyawiin and a route through the Blackwood forest to an X near the eastern coast.

“What in the name of Julianos is this rubbish?” he muttered. Turning the paper over, he found there is also an equally faded note penned on the back.




“I have watched you from afar and feel it is time to make myself known. I am Greywyn, the last of the Crimson Scars. Once a powerful force rivaling the Dark Brotherhood itself, the Scars were the true followers of Sithis and the masters of deception. I will be departing this world soon, as the cold embrace of the Night Lord calls to me. All I have I leave as a legacy to you. My home, Deepscorn Hollow, will be your new haven. Use the map on the reverse of this note to find it. All that lay within is yours to do with as you please. I have but one request in return... further the ways of shadow and honor Sithis with the darkest of deeds. Make the virtuous pay for their blasphemy with their lifeblood staining your blade. May Sithis guide you.
Greywyn”




Fear, cold and hard, seized the man’s heart. Where ever he was, the Dark Brotherhood was involved and, no matter the extent of the trove supposedly ahead, none of it would be worth crossing paths with the infamous assassin guild. He spun round ready to flee this unholy place just in time to hear the banded iron door screech across the floor and watched it slam shut, locking internally into the frame. He spun back around to face the corridor then, seeing no blade poised to end him, snatched up the lantern and held it out before him, banishing the darkness ahead for a few paces. He staggered forward, fighting back more of the darkness, expecting to reveal the crouching form of a fabled Brotherhood assassin but instead found not but another door. Unlike its nearby cousin, this door was cut from black wood, likely from the nearby forests, and engraved with the image of a finely dressed woman who seemed to be holding an infant, while threateningly pointing a small blade, a stiletto, at four other children. A skull marked with a hand print upon its forehead overlooked the frighteningly suggestive scene.


With an unsteady hand, the cloaked man grasped the cold iron door knob, turned it, and thrusts the door open, again brandishing the light before him like a fiery blade, but nothing could have prepared him for what lay beyond that door way.

Illuminated before him laid a glorious trove of items collected from all corners of Tamriel, small braziers clung to the walls, cradling plumes of blue magefire that washed the room in an eerie azure light. Upon the walls hung ancient tapestries of reds and blues, all accented by gold embroidery with images of snakes embattled with Khajiit-like creatures. Bolted beside each silken textile neatly hung sturdy wooden wracks filled with weapons of all kinds, no of every kind. They shimmered with enchantments unknown, but none of the grandeur about him drew his sight like what sat in the center of the room. Amidst the four aged stone columns, rested another construct of blackened wood, a long table complete with matching chairs, upon its face were gilded dishes of brass and copper, Dwemer artifacts, absent of food or drink, save for a crystal glass that sat brimming with red liquid at the head of the table. By the glass sat the true focus of this unfortunate plunderer, an Argonian, a horrific manipulation of an Argonian, his thin form draped in the black finery of a forgotten age, cuffed and embroidered in white, his white scales glowed eerily against his ill lit surroundings and, in some patches, it appeared that they have lost color entirely, resembiling fogged over glass rather than scales. His face, serpentine with his lack of horns, reviled what the Lizardfolk might pass as a smile as he gestured towards the stunned adventurer, then to an empty seat.


“Please sit it has been so long since I have had company, and I so love having company for dinner.”


The monster’s voice snaked its way into the man’s mind, ensnaring him. He felt weary and his legs were so very tired, in fact, this entire trip has been so taxing! He allowed the compulsion to move his feet forward into the seat. He can see them but they do not register, as nothing will ever again, those pale pointed rows of sharp teeth, far too sharp, and those two obvious fangs were a clear sign as to what this creature really was, but the poor destitute adventure couldn’t care less as to what the Argonian was, or even where the two of them were. All that matters is that he rested. Yes rested.


This post has been edited by Arcry: Jul 30 2012, 12:45 PM

[McBadgere]

OOoh, I like that...That's creepy right there that is... ...

Excellently done...

I like the ideas gone into this...I loved all that after he found the note...Brilliant stuff...

Looking forward to more of it... ...

Nice one!...

*Applauds*...

The only nits I can point to are this one...

“A torch is far too much of a risk, he says. Buy a Night Eye elixir, he says! mutters the figure,

You missed the speech marks after the he says! bit.

And here...

Relief washes over him as he stares towards the blackness that is the now open door way, whoever opened that door wouldn’t be able t- he freezes in mid-rise as the glow of a lantern freshly lit lashes out,

I'm thinking that the "Whoever opened that door wouldn't be able t-" is an interrupted thought, because you have the "he freezes in" bit...If it is, then it's like internal speech, you need a capital at the start...And put in italics is the usual way of showing internal monologues...

So very excellent stuff though...

So well done...

Nice one indeed... ...

[mALX]

*

“A torch is far too much of a risk, he says. Buy a Night Eye elixir, he says!" mutters the figure, “Why, I would not be in this infernal crypt if I had the coin to throw at potions!”

This dialogue is fantastic, absolute realism !!!

“Minutes or hours, how long have I been down here? Time has a funny way of distorting when you can’t see that damned sky!” he thought to himself as the once dull and distant ache in his feet, now shots fire up into his legs and is fanned with every step , sending the flames higher.

Again, outstanding line !!


GAAAAAH !!! How the note from Greywyn was delivered was AWESOME !!! You nailed that scene - that had to be one of the greatest moments in a fic, surprising him like that and it proves Greywyn's first words are true, he has been watching him, lol. I see Deepscorn Hollow in the future of this story, lol.

This story is wonderful !! I hope you continue it, you have ROCKED it so far !!! WOO HOO !!


*

[Darkness Eternal]

“I have watched you from afar and feel it is time to make myself known. I am Greywyn, the last of the Crimson Scars. Once a powerful force rivaling the Dark Brotherhood itself, the Scars were the true followers of Sithis and the masters of deception. I will be departing this world soon, as the cold embrace of the Night Lord calls to me. All I have I leave as a legacy to you. My home, Deepscorn Hollow, will be your new haven. Use the map on the reverse of this note to find it. All that lay within is yours to do with as you please. I have but one request in return... further the ways of shadow and honor Sithis with the darkest of deeds. Make the virtuous pay for their blasphemy with their lifeblood staining your blade. May Sithis guide you.

YUSS! Greywyn! My favorite Dark Brotherhood character besides Babette!

And an Argonian vampire? Badass! Whet-Fang! I will creep and hide in the shadows as you post.

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Feb 12 2012, 10:38 PM

[Acadian]

Ooh! Deepscorn Hollow. This looks like a fun and dark trek. Certainly plenty of frighteningly vivid Dark Brotherhood imagery here!

Hmm, since you welcome critiques, let me offer just a couple thoughts-
1. I could find no reference to Holy Grail in TES lore. If one thinks about the Holy Grail for a moment, I believe many would agree that it is an analogy that pulls the reader far from Nirn/TES.
2. Writers who attempt to tell their story in the present tense invariably struggle and stumble. In the very attempt to lend a sense of immediacy, that feeling is lost by trying to have action progress while time stands still for an entire episode. It is also nigh impossible to do so consistently. If you review your last paragraph alone, you will see what I mean as you bounce your readers between tenses. Recommendation? Write in the past tense. There is good reason why almost all writers do so.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Feb 13 2012, 03:44 AM

[Colonel Mustard]

“Please sit it has been so long since I have had company, and I so love having company for dinner.

Hoho, wonderfully nasty line there.

So far, an extremely facinating and atmospheric piece from the word go, and a very good read indeed. However, you seem to switch between past and present tense without much sense of decisiveness over which one you wish to employ in the story, and that does seem to break flow a fair bit, which is a shame because it's otherwise really quite good.

I will be following this, believe me.

[Zalphon]

A Skyrim-era fanfic, I do believe this is the first of these I have read; I like what I am reading.

[Arcry]

Ehem, hello all. I'll.. Just leave this here. Comments are welcome.







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

Chapter I: The Wrath of Sithis


“What do you mean he was dead when you got there?!” roared the Orc. He slammed his fists onto the wooden desk, which brought forth a noticeable flinch from the small, hunched form of the initiate. He hung his head low and pulled his body tight to prepare for bare the verbal beating the old Orc regularly dealt him, instead the two sat in silence for what had seemed like hours to the poor initiate. Finally, the Orc broke the silence with a heavy sigh.


“Look, kid, this is your third botched assignment this week. I get it, ok. You’re new and you’re not used to the idea of handling a target. You’re a damn fine archer, Bosmer. You’re green, but your skill with a bow- for Sithis’ sake, at least look me in the eye while I am talking, damn it!”


The Initate slowly raised his head to meet the Orc’s gaze. “B-but the merchant, h-he’s dead so what does it matter?” he stammered and rubbed his gloved hand, fighting the urge to hide from his master’s stare. He looked around the room for anything to engage his mind in, anything to forget he was before the aged Assassin. His eyes darted around the small room, passing over the suit of old Orcish armor that gathered dust in the left hand corner, lingered upon the simple yet sturdy wooden chest to the right, and then focused on the well-worn and chipped blades of the war axe that rest mounted on the wall, just behind his master. The room was fairly bare, but then its owner did believe strongly in practicality. Finally he reserved to focus on the crimson tapestries that adorned the wall on either side of the axe’s plaque, he focused on the black handprint in its center, the off red that encircled it, and finally on the golden frillier that bordered their edges.


It took the Bosmer Intitate a few moments to recognize that silence had again fallen between them. He looked to his master to find him bearing his tusks, his upper lip was curled back to reveal his filed and pointed teeth. “Out.” The aged Orismer growled. The Initiate tried to contest his master’s request only to be cut short. “Out!” The young elf quickly rose from his seat and scampered from his master’s sight.


The Orismer leaned back and slumped into his chair, draping his arms upon either armrest. His gaze drifted from his doorway to his forearm. He studied his skin, its dark green tint and its rough, weathered look, almost like leather, stretched over withering muscle. He was getting old, too old, he reflected. If lecturing a new apprentice wore on him that hard soon it would be time to step down, let someone else run the sanctuary. The time was fast approaching even his position on the Hand would be removed. Time wore on them all, not even the Listener could withstand its flow despite His best efforts, that blood-sucking parasite.


A knock upon the stone archway broke the Orc from his lamenting, followed by a voice, a voice that grated on his ears, His voice. “Tarbosh gro-Karoc, your presence is required in the great hall, Alisanne Dupre calls.” Tarbosh looked to the doorway at Him, the ex-Listener, Purifier of Cheydinhal, advisor to the Black Hand, and an overall vampiric freak. “Well, if it isn’t Silver-Tongue. Come down from your icy throne to mingle with your little brothers and sisters, eh? Tarbosh snorted.


The lizard stood wrapped in fine black robes, common to members of the Hand, which contrasted his pale green scales. He smiled; showing off his fine pointed fangs and teeth, and gestured for Tarbosh to follow. “My duties in Skyrim keep me busy, Karoc. Now, we mustn’t keep Madame Dupre waiting. Come.”
He dared command a member of the hand?! “Listen here, you leech, you may have been Listener once, but the Night Mother revoked her favor. I am a member of the Hand, damn it, and you will not command me!” Tarbosh spat. The two assassins stood for a time, eyes locked, neither willing to back down, minutes past before an Initiate approached the scene. The young man called for Sliver-Tongue and explained Dupre wished for his presence. “Go on, your mistress beckons, Vampire.” Tarbosh crossed his arms and watched the Lizard vanish around the corner.
---


Silver-Tongue strode into the great hall; his arrival silenced the gathered cloaked members of the Hand and their apprentices. None dared to look, or even glance, as he approached the head of the table. “Madam” The lizard began, “Tarbosh has resigned to remain in his quarters.” Madam Dupre’s hood bobbed in acknowledgement, then addressed the vampire, “Silver-Tongue, sit here.” Madame Dupre gestured to the seat directly to her left, nearest her. Silver-Tongue nodded, and did as he was directed. The aged vampire looked to the small hooded figure seated a crossed from him; it was none other than Dupre’s protégé, Alexander Belmont. Strange, apprentices are normally directed to stand at their master’s side when in the case of a meeting of the Hand. Then again Listener Dupre does like to keep thing rather informal. Dupre’s sudden movement to her feet sutured Silver-Tongue from his thoughts. She surveyed the gathered guests of honor, those she has had the honor of protecting, of guiding, and in the stead of their Unholy Matron, leading. She began.

“Brothers and Sisters, I have called you from your Sanctuary’s, from your homes, to discuss choices that lay before us. Change, Brothers and Sisters is upon us, upon the Empire, upon that of all Tamriel. Our Mother has told me of a darkness approaching, one greater than that of the Crisis, and untouched by the Void. An undying terror approaches, and we are not prepared.” Dupre gazed out upon the baffled and befuddled faces of her family members gathered within that ancient hall, seeing glimpse of fear within the eyes of hardest Assassins every to set foot upon Tamriel. She took a breath, gathered her resolve, and continued. “Our Mother has told me of our future as seen by our Dread Father. We will become ash, as will all of Tamriel if we do not act first. We have changed history before, started wars and ended them on our terms; we have slain Kings and Emperors. The very name of our organization conjures fear in the minds of the weak and hope in the hearts of the desperate. We are the Dark Brotherhood and if we are to fall to this approaching menace it will remember our name!”


Madam Dupre returned to her seat, looking every member in the eye, estimating their feelings upon the matter, before settling and renewing her speech. “Brothers and Sisters, we must make sacrifices if we are to even begin to hope to survive this. That is why I vote that we must consolidate our forces, we must ready those we can and cannot take on new blood. I vote that, for now, we close the Shadowscale Facility in Black Marsh.”


“WHAT!?” Sliver-Tongue shot up from his seat, his black claws dug into the wood of the table. “You cannot be serious, Madam Dupre!”


The Listener removed her hood, revealing her withered and wrinkled face. Her grayed hair wispily clung to her hood as it rested on her thin form and shifted as he looked to her offended advisor. She knew he would react like this. Silver-Tongue had always been a stanch supporter of the old school and now he had played perfectly into her hands. He regarded Silver-Tongue with an indifferent gaze as she answered, “Advisor Silver-Tongue, are you suggesting that I, the chosen of our mother, am wrong in my choice of action?”


All eyes turned from the Madam to the Advisor. Silver-Tongued eyed every collected member. Not one of them showed a hint of surprise in their movements. They knew. The old reptile relaxed, tugging his embedded claws from the table, and countered, “Madam, I have never once disagreed with our mother’s dictation. It was by her will and the will of Our Father that we accept brothers and sisters blessed by the Void with the cloak of shadow. That we train these young souls; hone their Hist-given talents and give them purpose. You would deny them their CALLING?!” Silver-Tongue slammed his palms into the desk, earning a flinch from several of the apprentices.


The old women smiled as she looked to the gathered Hand and spoke, “Gathered members of the Hand, we fight for our preservation. Our esteemed advisor eludes that abandoning this ancient school would earn the wrath of our Dread Father. Have we ever had issue with finding our members before? I ask you, have we not built this legacy with the finest slayers and dispatchers in all Tamriel? I say that we, the LEADERS of this Brotherhood, put it to a vote. Are we or are we not competent enough to find members if need be? All in favor of continuing the Shadowscale academy raise their hand.”


Not a single of the four Hand members moved.


“That’s that then!” Madam Dupre announced, “The facility shall be close, all allotted funds redirected for preparations.”

This post has been edited by Arcry: Jul 30 2012, 03:34 PM

[mALX]

he stammered and rubbed his gloved hand, fighting the urge to hide from his master’s stare. He looked around the room for anything to engage his mind in, anything to forget he was before the aged Assassin. His eyes darted around the small room, passing over the suit of old Orcish armor that gathered dust in the left hand corner, lingered upon the simple yet sturdy wooden chest to the right, and then focused on the well-worn and chipped blades of the war axe that rest mounted on the wall, just behind his master.

This beginning section was so vivid! Haven't we all been in that initiate's shoes at one time or another, facing the bear we know is bound to devour and almost prefering the mauling to the tense anticipation of it in the bear's restraint? AWESOME section this was, you brought us into the initiates mind with clarity !!!


Oh, they all may agree to her face, but what they do behind her back may be a whole different story, lol.

Very powerful write !!!! Awesome !!!! And welcome back to the forum, you are always missed Arcry !!!