Full Version: Killing in the Emperor's Name
Here you, the reader, will find works associated with Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's life and work all together. His future stories will be found here, primarily. I think it's appropriate, as his tales have taken on a more serialized form--if not strictly so. I still intend to experiment with different perspectives and styles within his general narrative, so don't expect every installment to flow perfectly into the next--that isn't what I'm going for. I'd like to think that I'm using Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's stories as a medium--evocation of the rough existence that is life on Vvardenfell.
The Contract
An Argonian, dressed in black, walks into the South Wall Cornerclub and eases his way down to the bar. He sits next to an Imperial dressed in a hooded robe.
"Buy you a drink?" asks the Imperial.
"Yes, if worth the price."
The barkeep places a jug of cyrodiilic brandy in front of the Argonian, while the Imperial stands and walks away. After finishing his drink the Argonian follows him outside the cornerclub. Under the shadow of night, the Imperial takes a furtive pull from his skooma pipe.
”Gothren is sending a ‘messenger’ to see Divayth Fyr. Normally we’d just dismiss this sort of thing as Telvanni in-fighting, but the Emperor is concerned.”
The Imperial passes an envelope into the Argonian’s scaly hands.
“The assassin met Gothren earlier this evening. It won’t take him long reach Tel Fyr; you must hurry.”
The Argonian steps off into the night.
---------------------------------------------------
The sun is setting on Azura’s Coast, on the gentle waters of the Inner Sea. A small ship, not much more than a fishing boat, pulls alongside the sandy shore. Three Dunmer are aboard; two wear the rough rags of fishermen, and the taller of these two wears a tri-cornered hat. He likes to think of himself as a pirate, some sort of rogue. And the ladies love his hat. He turns to the third Dunmer, whose form is concealed beneath the plain brown robe of a monk.
“I’m sorry, sera, but I can take you no farther. The waters south of here are full of giant dreugh, and I’ll not risk my catch or my boat to them.”
The third Dunmer lowers his hood, revealing his wizened, scarred visage. “Very well. I thank you.” He passes the captain a modest pouch of gold. He steps off from the vessel, not to shore, but on the water, where he stands. A water-walking spell.
“I shall walk from here.”
He turns and walks south, over the infuriated slaughterfish and perplexed dreugh. It is good to be here on the coast, he’s thinking. I’ve had too many town jobs of late, relieving the petty jealousies of minor nobles, ignoble work for insufficient coin. But now Gothren was paying well; he must feel oddly threatened. Since Fyr had returned from Artaeum, the Archmagister knew he was no longer the most powerful mage in the Telvanni district.
He did not care for Gothren, or any of his clients for that matter, but he appreciated a job well-done. It irritated him that no boat offered passage to Tel Fyr overnight, and only that slow, pathetic skiff dared to navigate the shallow, rock-riddled waters during the day. He wanted to get the deed done immediately; clients like that, pay extra for it, even if it makes no practical difference. But he wouldn’t dare to water-walk all the way from Tel Aruhn; he wants to be fresh when he sneaks into the Tower of Tel Fyr. He knows enough about the wizard to be a little fearful. He will take Divayth Fyr in his sleep.
The sun is nearly gone. The veteran assassin scrambles onto a small prominence jutting out of the sea. Tel Fyr. The dying sun casts a soft amber glow onto the tower’s west side, while the east is cast into shadow, the friendly shadow from which he’ll approach the front door. The entire assassination is set in his mind, as if he had already done the deed. He can see it all: the spell of silence cast upon each door, the furtive climb up the tower shaft, the blade of his dagger drawn across Divayth Fyr’s throat, and the spell of recall that will spirit him away unseen, without a trace. Fyr’s wives won’t discover the body until morning.
Suspicion and blame will be cast about, threats made, more assassins hired. That’s all these political vendettas really are, he thinks; work programs for assassins.
He eases down from the pillar of stone, and slips down into the water. That’s funny, he thinks, I don’t recall dispelling that water-walking spell. He starts to recast the spell, then pauses. He doesn’t resurface.
An Argonian, dressed in black, walks into the South Wall Cornerclub and eases his way down to the bar. He sits next to an Imperial dressed in a hooded robe.
"Buy you a drink?" asks the Imperial.
"Yes, if worth the price."
The barkeep places a jug of cyrodiilic brandy in front of the Argonian, while the Imperial stands and walks away. After finishing his drink the Argonian follows him outside the cornerclub. Under the shadow of night, the Imperial takes a furtive pull from his skooma pipe.
”Gothren is sending a ‘messenger’ to see Divayth Fyr. Normally we’d just dismiss this sort of thing as Telvanni in-fighting, but the Emperor is concerned.”
The Imperial passes an envelope into the Argonian’s scaly hands.
“The assassin met Gothren earlier this evening. It won’t take him long reach Tel Fyr; you must hurry.”
The Argonian steps off into the night.
---------------------------------------------------
The sun is setting on Azura’s Coast, on the gentle waters of the Inner Sea. A small ship, not much more than a fishing boat, pulls alongside the sandy shore. Three Dunmer are aboard; two wear the rough rags of fishermen, and the taller of these two wears a tri-cornered hat. He likes to think of himself as a pirate, some sort of rogue. And the ladies love his hat. He turns to the third Dunmer, whose form is concealed beneath the plain brown robe of a monk.
“I’m sorry, sera, but I can take you no farther. The waters south of here are full of giant dreugh, and I’ll not risk my catch or my boat to them.”
The third Dunmer lowers his hood, revealing his wizened, scarred visage. “Very well. I thank you.” He passes the captain a modest pouch of gold. He steps off from the vessel, not to shore, but on the water, where he stands. A water-walking spell.
“I shall walk from here.”
He turns and walks south, over the infuriated slaughterfish and perplexed dreugh. It is good to be here on the coast, he’s thinking. I’ve had too many town jobs of late, relieving the petty jealousies of minor nobles, ignoble work for insufficient coin. But now Gothren was paying well; he must feel oddly threatened. Since Fyr had returned from Artaeum, the Archmagister knew he was no longer the most powerful mage in the Telvanni district.
He did not care for Gothren, or any of his clients for that matter, but he appreciated a job well-done. It irritated him that no boat offered passage to Tel Fyr overnight, and only that slow, pathetic skiff dared to navigate the shallow, rock-riddled waters during the day. He wanted to get the deed done immediately; clients like that, pay extra for it, even if it makes no practical difference. But he wouldn’t dare to water-walk all the way from Tel Aruhn; he wants to be fresh when he sneaks into the Tower of Tel Fyr. He knows enough about the wizard to be a little fearful. He will take Divayth Fyr in his sleep.
The sun is nearly gone. The veteran assassin scrambles onto a small prominence jutting out of the sea. Tel Fyr. The dying sun casts a soft amber glow onto the tower’s west side, while the east is cast into shadow, the friendly shadow from which he’ll approach the front door. The entire assassination is set in his mind, as if he had already done the deed. He can see it all: the spell of silence cast upon each door, the furtive climb up the tower shaft, the blade of his dagger drawn across Divayth Fyr’s throat, and the spell of recall that will spirit him away unseen, without a trace. Fyr’s wives won’t discover the body until morning.
Suspicion and blame will be cast about, threats made, more assassins hired. That’s all these political vendettas really are, he thinks; work programs for assassins.
He eases down from the pillar of stone, and slips down into the water. That’s funny, he thinks, I don’t recall dispelling that water-walking spell. He starts to recast the spell, then pauses. He doesn’t resurface.
One Night at Desele’s
Zabarbael, the Molag Mar slave trader, stepped out from the warm confines of the siltstrider into an uncommonly gloomy, intolerably rainy day in the prosperous port city of Suran. He pulled up the hood on his simple brown robe. Though he had grown moderately wealthy renting slaves to wealthy pilgrims, the merchant dressed simply, as befitted a humble and pious temple-goer. He had business in the local slave market, but it could wait for tomorrow. He intended to stay for a few days, as he had grown tired of the sere landscape of Molag Amur.
No, as soon as Zabarbael descended the stair he made for the light of the red lantern, Desele’s House of Earthly Delights.
It had been at least a month since Zabarbael last patronized his favorite tavern; the caravaner’s strike had been most inconvenient, and service was just now returning to normal. But the crowd in Desele’s was undiminished. The Breton in the corner, collapsed with his skooma pipe in hand; the drunken Nord ogling Runa from the front table. Zabarbael felt immediately at home, and why not? The merchant may have made his money in Molag Mar, but he preferred to spend it at Desele’s.
The rains had driven in some unfamiliar faces as well, travelers holing up until a break in the weather. Three young Dunmer sat at a corner table, nearest Marelle, the fine young Breton dancer. Between pulls of greef they would speak into each other’s ears and laugh, as one. Zabarbael concluded that this was their first time in Suran. A pair of Imperials sat at the bar, locked in animated conversation. Their attire was elegant yet conservative. Agents of House Hlaalu perhaps; dealmakers, not nobles.
Finally Zabarbael spotted the right table. Occupied by two fellow merchants, acquaintances from Vivec City, and situated neither too close nor too far from the dancers.
“Zabarbael, friend, take a chair! How’s business? I don’t suppose the strike hurt you too badly?” inquired a middle-aged, somewhat corpulent Dunmer.
“I cannot lodge any great complaint, Tiras. I managed to reduce my stocks before the worst of the strike hit,” the slave trader replied, taking a seat between his friends. “Now that the strike is ended business has rebounded quickly. I’m in need of more slaves.”
“How about those two across the room?” the third Dunmer chimed in. He was younger and dressed more extravagantly than his elders, and a good deal more inebriated.
“Keep your voice down, Foryn! Those lizard-men are free!” Tiras, a tactful fellow, quietly rebuked his friend.
Zabarbael could not help but look across the room, at the Argonians. They stood at the end of bar, exchanging a few quiet words but looking off into space. One he recognized; Hides-His-Eyes, a tracker of some local repute who sometimes met clients at Desele’s. He could not distinguish the other Argonian’s face; he wore a black hood.
The slurred smoky Dunmer voice carried on, “I’m celebrating, Tiras! Come now, I just bought out the most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles!” He called across the room, “Ho, lizard-men! My friend needs some cheap labor! Come ‘ere!”
Before either Zabarbael or Tiras could apologize for their friend the hooded Argonian had closed half the distance across the room, knocking over three very confused patrons in the process. A glowing dagger seemed to throb in his grasp.
“No!” Hides-His-Eyes hurried to the hooded Argonian’s side. “Remember your honor. We’ll go back to the tradehouse.”
This did not seem to satisfy the hooded Argonian, for hatred still burned in his eyes, but he sheathed the dagger and started for the door, followed by the tracker.
No sooner had the door shut than Foryn ordered another round of drinks, for himself and his friends. He declared ‘Happy Hour’, and ordered lap dances for every patron in the tavern. It was like nothing ever happened.
-----------------------------------------------
It was late, perhaps 3 AM. No one had left Desele’s. With Foryn buying drinks, there could be no foreseeable end to the party. But Zabarbael was tired; he’d learned it was quite impossible to drink the younger Dunmer under the table. If he left now he might be lucid enough to buy the needed slaves by afternoon.
He stepped out the door. The red lantern cast an oddly powerful glow, it seemed to nearly light up the night. It hurt his alcohol-racked brain. Then, squinting, Zabarbael looked up toward the mountains. The most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles was burning to the ground.
Zabarbael, the Molag Mar slave trader, stepped out from the warm confines of the siltstrider into an uncommonly gloomy, intolerably rainy day in the prosperous port city of Suran. He pulled up the hood on his simple brown robe. Though he had grown moderately wealthy renting slaves to wealthy pilgrims, the merchant dressed simply, as befitted a humble and pious temple-goer. He had business in the local slave market, but it could wait for tomorrow. He intended to stay for a few days, as he had grown tired of the sere landscape of Molag Amur.
No, as soon as Zabarbael descended the stair he made for the light of the red lantern, Desele’s House of Earthly Delights.
It had been at least a month since Zabarbael last patronized his favorite tavern; the caravaner’s strike had been most inconvenient, and service was just now returning to normal. But the crowd in Desele’s was undiminished. The Breton in the corner, collapsed with his skooma pipe in hand; the drunken Nord ogling Runa from the front table. Zabarbael felt immediately at home, and why not? The merchant may have made his money in Molag Mar, but he preferred to spend it at Desele’s.
The rains had driven in some unfamiliar faces as well, travelers holing up until a break in the weather. Three young Dunmer sat at a corner table, nearest Marelle, the fine young Breton dancer. Between pulls of greef they would speak into each other’s ears and laugh, as one. Zabarbael concluded that this was their first time in Suran. A pair of Imperials sat at the bar, locked in animated conversation. Their attire was elegant yet conservative. Agents of House Hlaalu perhaps; dealmakers, not nobles.
Finally Zabarbael spotted the right table. Occupied by two fellow merchants, acquaintances from Vivec City, and situated neither too close nor too far from the dancers.
“Zabarbael, friend, take a chair! How’s business? I don’t suppose the strike hurt you too badly?” inquired a middle-aged, somewhat corpulent Dunmer.
“I cannot lodge any great complaint, Tiras. I managed to reduce my stocks before the worst of the strike hit,” the slave trader replied, taking a seat between his friends. “Now that the strike is ended business has rebounded quickly. I’m in need of more slaves.”
“How about those two across the room?” the third Dunmer chimed in. He was younger and dressed more extravagantly than his elders, and a good deal more inebriated.
“Keep your voice down, Foryn! Those lizard-men are free!” Tiras, a tactful fellow, quietly rebuked his friend.
Zabarbael could not help but look across the room, at the Argonians. They stood at the end of bar, exchanging a few quiet words but looking off into space. One he recognized; Hides-His-Eyes, a tracker of some local repute who sometimes met clients at Desele’s. He could not distinguish the other Argonian’s face; he wore a black hood.
The slurred smoky Dunmer voice carried on, “I’m celebrating, Tiras! Come now, I just bought out the most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles!” He called across the room, “Ho, lizard-men! My friend needs some cheap labor! Come ‘ere!”
Before either Zabarbael or Tiras could apologize for their friend the hooded Argonian had closed half the distance across the room, knocking over three very confused patrons in the process. A glowing dagger seemed to throb in his grasp.
“No!” Hides-His-Eyes hurried to the hooded Argonian’s side. “Remember your honor. We’ll go back to the tradehouse.”
This did not seem to satisfy the hooded Argonian, for hatred still burned in his eyes, but he sheathed the dagger and started for the door, followed by the tracker.
No sooner had the door shut than Foryn ordered another round of drinks, for himself and his friends. He declared ‘Happy Hour’, and ordered lap dances for every patron in the tavern. It was like nothing ever happened.
-----------------------------------------------
It was late, perhaps 3 AM. No one had left Desele’s. With Foryn buying drinks, there could be no foreseeable end to the party. But Zabarbael was tired; he’d learned it was quite impossible to drink the younger Dunmer under the table. If he left now he might be lucid enough to buy the needed slaves by afternoon.
He stepped out the door. The red lantern cast an oddly powerful glow, it seemed to nearly light up the night. It hurt his alcohol-racked brain. Then, squinting, Zabarbael looked up toward the mountains. The most profitable slave market in the Ascadian Isles was burning to the ground.
By the Sea
Chun-Ook pulled into her home port, the Imperial fortress of Ebonheart, with a single passenger. Usually her owner, Nevosi Hlan, wouldn’t sale with fewer than four, but this Redguard paid well, and he had been eager to see his wife again anyway. A few younger Dunmer, new to the island, had taken a shine to her, and made her nervous when he was gone for more than a few days. He had been at sea more than a week, ferrying a load of Imperial fat cats to Raven Rock—a special fare, but tiresome. It didn’t trouble him much to leave Seyda Neen a few hours ahead of schedule.
The Redguard hadn’t said much as they sailed, but he knew that she worked at Arrille’s place. It seemed odd that she would pay so much for such a short trip—she could only be saving a few hours—but Nevosi wasn’t one to pry. Besides, the Redguard looked like she had enough on her mind, pacing the boat as she had been.
As Nevosi tied up to the great stone dock the Redguard hopped off Chun-Ook, but not before slipping the shipmaster a generous tip. A big spender, indeed.
“Thank you for your haste, shipmaster.” The Redguard spoke curtly.
“My pleasure, sera.”
At that the Redguard smiled, and strode briskly into the plaza, to the great dragon. Nevosi’s eyes followed her for a moment, and then returned to the task of securing his ship.
--------------------------------------
Just south of Castle Ebonheart, on the beach, the Argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was doing credit to his name. He was naked from the waist up, lying on his black robe, watching the few wispy white clouds as they drifted by. Five bottles of cyrodiilic brandy stood beside him; another five, empty, were strewn about on the sand.
“Elone, what the hell are you doing here?”
The Redguard, who had been observing the Argonian from behind a tree, just laughed. “Dead drunk and I still can’t sneak up on you. No wonder Caius sent me here.”
“Caius? What the hell does he want with me? The s’wit kicked me out the order two months ago.”
“Yes, I remember. After that incident in Suran.”
“Are you going to lecture me, too? I did it, and I’d gladly do it again.”
“They’re rebuilding.”
At that the Argonian grinned, as only an Argonian can.
--------------------------------------
Night had come to Ebonheart. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Elone shared a table in the back corner of the Six Fishes, while the other patrons, a smattering of common folk and off-duty Imperial guards, gathered around the bard.
Elone looked, and spoke seriously. “Come now; let me tell you what Caius needs. We’re wasting time.” She cast a look over her shoulder, at the merry crowd.
“No, let me buy you another drink. I’m commemorating the two month anniversary of my dismissal, after all.”
Elone seized him by the shoulder. “Do this and all will be forgiven. Everything you threw away, we’ll return. Your pay, rank, papers—everything.”
“What could be so important? I’m damaged goods, a security risk. If the slavers had seen my face…”
“Don’t worry about that, Al. Let me tell you a story.”
---------------------------------------
Chun-Ook plied the Inner Sea once more, this time bearing for the mainland. Nevosi Hlan loved the sea, but for once wasn’t happy to be underway. Yes, it was a perfect day for sailing; the sky was painfully clear, and scarcely a wave broke Chun-Ook’s bow. But today Nevosi was carrying those same young Dunmer who had taken a liking to his wife. He had found even more reason to dislike them; not only were they loud and obnoxious fools, they were mercenaries in the employ of Orvas Dren. Apparently, they had some sort of important cargo to pick up, and they needed to bring it into Vvardenfell personally.
The sun was nearly set as Nevosi guided his ship into a small, secluded harbor. One of the younger Dunmer called gruffly from the bow, “You see that manor house to portside? Pull up to the dock.” Muttering, Nevosi followed the order. He could see the stinking light. But they were paying well, these buffoons, 2000 septims up front and another 2000 upon arrival back at Ebonheart. “Yes, yes, very good, shipmaster. Nethyn, jump down there and tie the ship up. Alright, shipmaster. You’ve done well for us. The five of us will go inside and gather the crates, there’ll be 10 in all, enough for a host of mercenaries.” At this, he looked at his fellows and grinned. “Let’s earn our wages, boys.”
As the mercenaries entered the manor Navosi took a moment to recline against Chun-Ook’s cabin door. He was thinking of the 2000 septims already in his pouch, and 2000 more to come. He thinks; I might take a vacation, a nice stay-at-home vacation. Make my wife happy. We’ll carouse at the Six Fishes, or perhaps join that drunkard on the beach. I’ve been working too hard, spending too much time at sea. Maybe I can get a job in the East Empire Company—I could handle logistics, coordinate shipping. And I shouldn’t have to leave Ebonheart, I don’t think…
Suddenly he is aware of a tremendous silence. Moving those crates should be noisy work, and hey, shouldn’t they have a couple of them out here by now? How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? And what happened to that light?
Nevosi started to call out, but decided against it. No, that wouldn’t do. Instead, the shipmaster pulled out his cutlass, walked quietly across the deck, and cut the line securing Chun-Ook to the dock. A warm breeze kicked up out of the southwest, and Chun-Ook drifted away from the darkened manor house and mainland Morrowind.
Chun-Ook pulled into her home port, the Imperial fortress of Ebonheart, with a single passenger. Usually her owner, Nevosi Hlan, wouldn’t sale with fewer than four, but this Redguard paid well, and he had been eager to see his wife again anyway. A few younger Dunmer, new to the island, had taken a shine to her, and made her nervous when he was gone for more than a few days. He had been at sea more than a week, ferrying a load of Imperial fat cats to Raven Rock—a special fare, but tiresome. It didn’t trouble him much to leave Seyda Neen a few hours ahead of schedule.
The Redguard hadn’t said much as they sailed, but he knew that she worked at Arrille’s place. It seemed odd that she would pay so much for such a short trip—she could only be saving a few hours—but Nevosi wasn’t one to pry. Besides, the Redguard looked like she had enough on her mind, pacing the boat as she had been.
As Nevosi tied up to the great stone dock the Redguard hopped off Chun-Ook, but not before slipping the shipmaster a generous tip. A big spender, indeed.
“Thank you for your haste, shipmaster.” The Redguard spoke curtly.
“My pleasure, sera.”
At that the Redguard smiled, and strode briskly into the plaza, to the great dragon. Nevosi’s eyes followed her for a moment, and then returned to the task of securing his ship.
--------------------------------------
Just south of Castle Ebonheart, on the beach, the Argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was doing credit to his name. He was naked from the waist up, lying on his black robe, watching the few wispy white clouds as they drifted by. Five bottles of cyrodiilic brandy stood beside him; another five, empty, were strewn about on the sand.
“Elone, what the hell are you doing here?”
The Redguard, who had been observing the Argonian from behind a tree, just laughed. “Dead drunk and I still can’t sneak up on you. No wonder Caius sent me here.”
“Caius? What the hell does he want with me? The s’wit kicked me out the order two months ago.”
“Yes, I remember. After that incident in Suran.”
“Are you going to lecture me, too? I did it, and I’d gladly do it again.”
“They’re rebuilding.”
At that the Argonian grinned, as only an Argonian can.
--------------------------------------
Night had come to Ebonheart. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Elone shared a table in the back corner of the Six Fishes, while the other patrons, a smattering of common folk and off-duty Imperial guards, gathered around the bard.
Elone looked, and spoke seriously. “Come now; let me tell you what Caius needs. We’re wasting time.” She cast a look over her shoulder, at the merry crowd.
“No, let me buy you another drink. I’m commemorating the two month anniversary of my dismissal, after all.”
Elone seized him by the shoulder. “Do this and all will be forgiven. Everything you threw away, we’ll return. Your pay, rank, papers—everything.”
“What could be so important? I’m damaged goods, a security risk. If the slavers had seen my face…”
“Don’t worry about that, Al. Let me tell you a story.”
---------------------------------------
Chun-Ook plied the Inner Sea once more, this time bearing for the mainland. Nevosi Hlan loved the sea, but for once wasn’t happy to be underway. Yes, it was a perfect day for sailing; the sky was painfully clear, and scarcely a wave broke Chun-Ook’s bow. But today Nevosi was carrying those same young Dunmer who had taken a liking to his wife. He had found even more reason to dislike them; not only were they loud and obnoxious fools, they were mercenaries in the employ of Orvas Dren. Apparently, they had some sort of important cargo to pick up, and they needed to bring it into Vvardenfell personally.
The sun was nearly set as Nevosi guided his ship into a small, secluded harbor. One of the younger Dunmer called gruffly from the bow, “You see that manor house to portside? Pull up to the dock.” Muttering, Nevosi followed the order. He could see the stinking light. But they were paying well, these buffoons, 2000 septims up front and another 2000 upon arrival back at Ebonheart. “Yes, yes, very good, shipmaster. Nethyn, jump down there and tie the ship up. Alright, shipmaster. You’ve done well for us. The five of us will go inside and gather the crates, there’ll be 10 in all, enough for a host of mercenaries.” At this, he looked at his fellows and grinned. “Let’s earn our wages, boys.”
As the mercenaries entered the manor Navosi took a moment to recline against Chun-Ook’s cabin door. He was thinking of the 2000 septims already in his pouch, and 2000 more to come. He thinks; I might take a vacation, a nice stay-at-home vacation. Make my wife happy. We’ll carouse at the Six Fishes, or perhaps join that drunkard on the beach. I’ve been working too hard, spending too much time at sea. Maybe I can get a job in the East Empire Company—I could handle logistics, coordinate shipping. And I shouldn’t have to leave Ebonheart, I don’t think…
Suddenly he is aware of a tremendous silence. Moving those crates should be noisy work, and hey, shouldn’t they have a couple of them out here by now? How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? And what happened to that light?
Nevosi started to call out, but decided against it. No, that wouldn’t do. Instead, the shipmaster pulled out his cutlass, walked quietly across the deck, and cut the line securing Chun-Ook to the dock. A warm breeze kicked up out of the southwest, and Chun-Ook drifted away from the darkened manor house and mainland Morrowind.
The Unwinding
It was near midnight at the South Wall Cornerclub, in the Hlaalu center of Balmora. For once the tavern was quiet—the arena in Vivec was hosting a fortnight of combat, and tonight the Hlaalu champions were headlining. While Phane Rielle served a pair of customers at the bar an Argonian and an Imperial coversed quietly at a corner table. The Imperial, a stout man of about 45 years, wore the plain garb of the commoner; the Argonian a black robe. The Imperial took an occasional pull from a fine skooma pipe, while the Argonian nursed a bottle of flin.
“The work is done, I take it?” The Imperial glanced up at his companion.
The Argonian kept his gaze upon the open bottle. “I killed the watchman and waited in the manor. The merchandise was there; weapons and armor for a host of mercenaries. The delivery boys never saw me in the corner, of course. I slit their throats as they lifted the crates.”
“Any witnesses?”
“The ship was gone after I cleaned it up. I think he may have figured out what happened; a working-mer is not nearly so foolish as a bunch of thugs in tin suits. But he didn’t see anything, I’m sure of that.”
“Dren is very rash. He thinks the Emperor is a doddering old fool. Perhaps this will be a lesson.”
“You don’t want me to take action?”
The Imperial chortled, “Knowing you, I imagine that Dren Plantation would burn to the ground. No, Dren is too well-connected. Relations with Hlaalu would be irrevocably strained. No, we’ll keep him contained, for now. I think he’ll have a difficult time attracting addition mercenaries, at least in the short term. But enough of that. Let’s talk about you’re future.”
The Argonian finally pried his eyes away from the drink. “What’s the next job?”
“Patience, friend. I need to process some paperwork, and return you to the good graces of the order. And we need to see how Dren responds. Take a few days off. Your orders will wait.”
--------------------------------------------------------
The Vivec arena was a veritable cauldron of sound. The crowd lived with each swing and strike of sword and axe, and each mighty spell cast commanded the audience’s admiration and wonder. The present duel was of particular interest—it was unusual for Telvanni to participate in the games, and these two young wizards were rising stars in the House. Unfortunately (for one of them, at least), they both desired to serve as Master Aryon’s mouth.
Rethyas Reloth, a Dunmer of perhaps 100 years age, was the favorite. He had insisted upon a duel to decide the matter, and had convinced Aryon that it such a duel would reflect favorably upon the House. Reloth had gained some notoriety as a conjurer of minor daedra. It was said that he had once summoned a cadre of fifteen Dremora to defend the town of Vos from pirates.
Galos Mathendis was not so well known, but all agreed that he was quite shrewd; it was rumored that he once tricked an underling of Master Neloth into surrendering the key to Tel Naga. The next morning, it was said, Neloth awoke to find his tower stripped of its valuables, his guards expertly drugged. The Master’s famed irritability was not soothed.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, Argonian, was in the bleachers, comfortably drunk.
Reloth opened the contest by summoning the servent of Sheogorath, a Golden Saint. The daedroth sprinted forward, carrying a glass shield and a dark, wicked katana. Mathendis countered by downing a potion, evidently to fortify his speed, as he began to sprint rapidly around the arena perimeter, followed by the Golden Saint. Reloth grinned, and recited the incantation to summon a Dremora, his favored servant—but did not finish, as Methendis launched a massive shockball on the run. It was difficult to see much of what happened next—the shockball had nearly filled the battle pit, and the light had momentarily blinded much of the crowd. Such was the risk of attending a battle between mages. But Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had been concentrating more on the bottle than the battle.
Reloth was gravely wounded; he pulled a vial from within his robe and downed it hurriedly. Then he froze, a look of terror carved onto his face.
Galos Mathendis turned and cast a spell upon the still-pursuing daedroth. The Golden Saint stopped. Then Reloth’s daedric servant walked calmly over to its paralyzed master and hacked him to pieces.
Much of the crowd was utterly confused, having been unable to see the denouement. When they recovered their vision, they saw Reloth dead, Mathendis alive. Those patrons who had seen the unfolding events, who had perhaps even wagered upon the dead mer, booed lustily.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled, and lifted another bottle of flin to his scaly lips.
It was near midnight at the South Wall Cornerclub, in the Hlaalu center of Balmora. For once the tavern was quiet—the arena in Vivec was hosting a fortnight of combat, and tonight the Hlaalu champions were headlining. While Phane Rielle served a pair of customers at the bar an Argonian and an Imperial coversed quietly at a corner table. The Imperial, a stout man of about 45 years, wore the plain garb of the commoner; the Argonian a black robe. The Imperial took an occasional pull from a fine skooma pipe, while the Argonian nursed a bottle of flin.
“The work is done, I take it?” The Imperial glanced up at his companion.
The Argonian kept his gaze upon the open bottle. “I killed the watchman and waited in the manor. The merchandise was there; weapons and armor for a host of mercenaries. The delivery boys never saw me in the corner, of course. I slit their throats as they lifted the crates.”
“Any witnesses?”
“The ship was gone after I cleaned it up. I think he may have figured out what happened; a working-mer is not nearly so foolish as a bunch of thugs in tin suits. But he didn’t see anything, I’m sure of that.”
“Dren is very rash. He thinks the Emperor is a doddering old fool. Perhaps this will be a lesson.”
“You don’t want me to take action?”
The Imperial chortled, “Knowing you, I imagine that Dren Plantation would burn to the ground. No, Dren is too well-connected. Relations with Hlaalu would be irrevocably strained. No, we’ll keep him contained, for now. I think he’ll have a difficult time attracting addition mercenaries, at least in the short term. But enough of that. Let’s talk about you’re future.”
The Argonian finally pried his eyes away from the drink. “What’s the next job?”
“Patience, friend. I need to process some paperwork, and return you to the good graces of the order. And we need to see how Dren responds. Take a few days off. Your orders will wait.”
--------------------------------------------------------
The Vivec arena was a veritable cauldron of sound. The crowd lived with each swing and strike of sword and axe, and each mighty spell cast commanded the audience’s admiration and wonder. The present duel was of particular interest—it was unusual for Telvanni to participate in the games, and these two young wizards were rising stars in the House. Unfortunately (for one of them, at least), they both desired to serve as Master Aryon’s mouth.
Rethyas Reloth, a Dunmer of perhaps 100 years age, was the favorite. He had insisted upon a duel to decide the matter, and had convinced Aryon that it such a duel would reflect favorably upon the House. Reloth had gained some notoriety as a conjurer of minor daedra. It was said that he had once summoned a cadre of fifteen Dremora to defend the town of Vos from pirates.
Galos Mathendis was not so well known, but all agreed that he was quite shrewd; it was rumored that he once tricked an underling of Master Neloth into surrendering the key to Tel Naga. The next morning, it was said, Neloth awoke to find his tower stripped of its valuables, his guards expertly drugged. The Master’s famed irritability was not soothed.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, Argonian, was in the bleachers, comfortably drunk.
Reloth opened the contest by summoning the servent of Sheogorath, a Golden Saint. The daedroth sprinted forward, carrying a glass shield and a dark, wicked katana. Mathendis countered by downing a potion, evidently to fortify his speed, as he began to sprint rapidly around the arena perimeter, followed by the Golden Saint. Reloth grinned, and recited the incantation to summon a Dremora, his favored servant—but did not finish, as Methendis launched a massive shockball on the run. It was difficult to see much of what happened next—the shockball had nearly filled the battle pit, and the light had momentarily blinded much of the crowd. Such was the risk of attending a battle between mages. But Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had been concentrating more on the bottle than the battle.
Reloth was gravely wounded; he pulled a vial from within his robe and downed it hurriedly. Then he froze, a look of terror carved onto his face.
Galos Mathendis turned and cast a spell upon the still-pursuing daedroth. The Golden Saint stopped. Then Reloth’s daedric servant walked calmly over to its paralyzed master and hacked him to pieces.
Much of the crowd was utterly confused, having been unable to see the denouement. When they recovered their vision, they saw Reloth dead, Mathendis alive. Those patrons who had seen the unfolding events, who had perhaps even wagered upon the dead mer, booed lustily.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled, and lifted another bottle of flin to his scaly lips.
Clinging to Life
A lilting western breeze pushes my little rowboat a short ways back toward the shore, slightly altering but in no way marring my view of the immaculate buff-colored clouds hovering over Ebonheart. My father used to say that the sea had no memory. I think that’s why, after escaping Vvardenfell, he set sail for Stros M’kai. He wanted to forget the eastern provinces.
I come to the sea to be alone in my dreams. There is something about these peaceful lapping waves of the southern coast… I remember better things.
The few storms are exciting. Not two years ago a squall carried a host of dreugh over the walls of Castle Ebonheart, and I myself saw a slaughterfish impaled atop a flagpole. It was as if the sea were expunging so many decades of bad memories, and the morning’s sunrise was all the brighter for it.
The breeze picks up, a little stronger. I sit up, and look to the west. A few gray clouds are gathering; nothing worrisome, but it will likely rain tonight. But what is that whistling?
I dive into the hull of my little boat, flipping it over but avoiding the arrow. I’m underwater—no reason to panic, even the dullest of my kin can breathe the sea without harm. But my robe is soaked, and weighing me down. Tear it off!—but don’t forget the dagger. It throbs as I seethe—no one interrupts my vacations.
I can’t see, but the scum must be on shore, waiting—no direct assault. The bridge! I swim for it, quickly; he’ll see my shadow but that’s alright. Excellent, in fact.
-------------------------------------
Run, run, run. The lizard mustn’t escape. Leap over the stone wall—there’s a guard watching but he won’t interfere—and up onto the bridge. He won’t be able to hide forever, the n’wah! Breathe, breathe; draw it back, yes, yes, the water shallows up, the arrow will penetrate.
-------------------------------------
“Where is that lizard?” The bowman whispers to himself, almost involuntarily. It’s been near two minutes, and he hasn’t seen or heard his mark. He leans over the wall, trying to look under the bridge. His eyes open wide.
“Been right here, friend.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun slashes his assailant across the throat. His left hand clings to the underside of the bridge.
A lilting western breeze pushes my little rowboat a short ways back toward the shore, slightly altering but in no way marring my view of the immaculate buff-colored clouds hovering over Ebonheart. My father used to say that the sea had no memory. I think that’s why, after escaping Vvardenfell, he set sail for Stros M’kai. He wanted to forget the eastern provinces.
I come to the sea to be alone in my dreams. There is something about these peaceful lapping waves of the southern coast… I remember better things.
The few storms are exciting. Not two years ago a squall carried a host of dreugh over the walls of Castle Ebonheart, and I myself saw a slaughterfish impaled atop a flagpole. It was as if the sea were expunging so many decades of bad memories, and the morning’s sunrise was all the brighter for it.
The breeze picks up, a little stronger. I sit up, and look to the west. A few gray clouds are gathering; nothing worrisome, but it will likely rain tonight. But what is that whistling?
I dive into the hull of my little boat, flipping it over but avoiding the arrow. I’m underwater—no reason to panic, even the dullest of my kin can breathe the sea without harm. But my robe is soaked, and weighing me down. Tear it off!—but don’t forget the dagger. It throbs as I seethe—no one interrupts my vacations.
I can’t see, but the scum must be on shore, waiting—no direct assault. The bridge! I swim for it, quickly; he’ll see my shadow but that’s alright. Excellent, in fact.
-------------------------------------
Run, run, run. The lizard mustn’t escape. Leap over the stone wall—there’s a guard watching but he won’t interfere—and up onto the bridge. He won’t be able to hide forever, the n’wah! Breathe, breathe; draw it back, yes, yes, the water shallows up, the arrow will penetrate.
-------------------------------------
“Where is that lizard?” The bowman whispers to himself, almost involuntarily. It’s been near two minutes, and he hasn’t seen or heard his mark. He leans over the wall, trying to look under the bridge. His eyes open wide.
“Been right here, friend.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun slashes his assailant across the throat. His left hand clings to the underside of the bridge.
Friends and Brethren
It was quiet yet in the Black Shalk Cornerclub. The arena games would not start for several hours. Most of the club’s expatriate clientele were still nursing hangovers, and would not emerge to drink again until the evening battles. Still, a hardy few were scattered around the tavern: a half-sensible Nord in the corner; the young bard reworking his repertoire of poems, tales, and songs; three Dunmer playing cards near the door, and an Argonian at the bar. He nursed an open bottle of cyrodiilic brandy, exchanging the odd word here and there with the publican, a well-dressed middle-aged Dunmer. The Argonian started a bit when he felt a hand on his armored shoulder.
“Huleeya, let me buy you another drink.”
“Ahh, friend Lingers-in-the-Sun. You startled me. What brings you into Vivec at this hour? And where is your black robe?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was instead wearing the dirty brown cotton robe of a commoner, with the hood drawn over his head.
“One of your brethren forced me to abandon it.”
Huleeya raised an eyebrow. “We should discuss this somewhere… more private. Let us go to Jobasha’s.”
“Very well. But first I want my drink. Riral, could you spare a bottle of brandy for each of us?” Riral Giral, publican, nodded and brought up two bottles from beneath the counter. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of gold. “Now, shall we?”
The door, unfortunately, was blocked. “Hey, two filthy lizards! Where do you think you’re going?” The three young card-playing Dunmer were all standing, and not nearly so drunk as would be desirable.
Huleeya turned to the racists, “Gentlemer, please—”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled two blades from his robe and quite suddenly had one of the Dunmer against the wall; the flat of an ebony blade pressed to the elf’s midsection, a gleaming daedric dagger at his throat.
“I go wherever I please, softskin! Neither you nor the whole Dark Elven race can stop me!”
With that the Argonian brought the hilt of his shortsword down upon the Dunmer’s skull.
“Your friend will need a drink when he wakes up. And perhaps a healer. I suggest you attend to him.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode between the two stunned Dark Elves and out the door.
“Come Huleeya. We can speak now.”
---------------------------------------------
The two Argonians sat at a small table at the bottom of Jobasha’s Rare Books, drinking quietly. The proprietor was up front, haggling with a customer, a Breton carrying an armload of cheap-looking texts. The guard, a ‘gift’ from the Duke, stood in the corner, watching none-too diligently, waiting for his shift to end.
“You know, Lingers-in-the-Sun, it is those rash acts which are responsible for our problem. If you had not burned down the slave market…”
“Was it not the right thing to do? I am not ashamed of what I did. And if Caius would let me kill the softskin… there would be no problem.”
“The slaver has a wealthy family. It would become their problem. You know how this works—a murder leads to an assassination, which leads to another assassination…”
“Yes, I know. Perpetual employment for assassins… except those who get killed, anyway….. So what can be done?”
“Your spymaster could transfer you out of Morrowind. My order has a long reach… but it does not often leave the province.”
“No. My honor forbids me to leave. You know this.”
“Yes… this is troublesome. Let me speak with my Grandmaster. We may be able to make… an arrangement.”
---------------------------------------------
A couple of Redoran were dueling in the arena, arrayed in bonemold armor, armed with silver claymores. Booze and money flowed freely throughout the stands, but for once Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun wasn’t drinking. But he wasn’t really watching the fight either; he was just… there. After a few moments parrying one of the Redoran’s caught his counterpart cleanly across the chest—he went down, sword falling to his side. Healers rushed to the arena center as victory was declared. The crowd cheered the victor, and two new combatants took the floor. It was all so sudden, simple, and clean.
It was quiet yet in the Black Shalk Cornerclub. The arena games would not start for several hours. Most of the club’s expatriate clientele were still nursing hangovers, and would not emerge to drink again until the evening battles. Still, a hardy few were scattered around the tavern: a half-sensible Nord in the corner; the young bard reworking his repertoire of poems, tales, and songs; three Dunmer playing cards near the door, and an Argonian at the bar. He nursed an open bottle of cyrodiilic brandy, exchanging the odd word here and there with the publican, a well-dressed middle-aged Dunmer. The Argonian started a bit when he felt a hand on his armored shoulder.
“Huleeya, let me buy you another drink.”
“Ahh, friend Lingers-in-the-Sun. You startled me. What brings you into Vivec at this hour? And where is your black robe?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was instead wearing the dirty brown cotton robe of a commoner, with the hood drawn over his head.
“One of your brethren forced me to abandon it.”
Huleeya raised an eyebrow. “We should discuss this somewhere… more private. Let us go to Jobasha’s.”
“Very well. But first I want my drink. Riral, could you spare a bottle of brandy for each of us?” Riral Giral, publican, nodded and brought up two bottles from beneath the counter. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of gold. “Now, shall we?”
The door, unfortunately, was blocked. “Hey, two filthy lizards! Where do you think you’re going?” The three young card-playing Dunmer were all standing, and not nearly so drunk as would be desirable.
Huleeya turned to the racists, “Gentlemer, please—”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled two blades from his robe and quite suddenly had one of the Dunmer against the wall; the flat of an ebony blade pressed to the elf’s midsection, a gleaming daedric dagger at his throat.
“I go wherever I please, softskin! Neither you nor the whole Dark Elven race can stop me!”
With that the Argonian brought the hilt of his shortsword down upon the Dunmer’s skull.
“Your friend will need a drink when he wakes up. And perhaps a healer. I suggest you attend to him.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode between the two stunned Dark Elves and out the door.
“Come Huleeya. We can speak now.”
---------------------------------------------
The two Argonians sat at a small table at the bottom of Jobasha’s Rare Books, drinking quietly. The proprietor was up front, haggling with a customer, a Breton carrying an armload of cheap-looking texts. The guard, a ‘gift’ from the Duke, stood in the corner, watching none-too diligently, waiting for his shift to end.
“You know, Lingers-in-the-Sun, it is those rash acts which are responsible for our problem. If you had not burned down the slave market…”
“Was it not the right thing to do? I am not ashamed of what I did. And if Caius would let me kill the softskin… there would be no problem.”
“The slaver has a wealthy family. It would become their problem. You know how this works—a murder leads to an assassination, which leads to another assassination…”
“Yes, I know. Perpetual employment for assassins… except those who get killed, anyway….. So what can be done?”
“Your spymaster could transfer you out of Morrowind. My order has a long reach… but it does not often leave the province.”
“No. My honor forbids me to leave. You know this.”
“Yes… this is troublesome. Let me speak with my Grandmaster. We may be able to make… an arrangement.”
---------------------------------------------
A couple of Redoran were dueling in the arena, arrayed in bonemold armor, armed with silver claymores. Booze and money flowed freely throughout the stands, but for once Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun wasn’t drinking. But he wasn’t really watching the fight either; he was just… there. After a few moments parrying one of the Redoran’s caught his counterpart cleanly across the chest—he went down, sword falling to his side. Healers rushed to the arena center as victory was declared. The crowd cheered the victor, and two new combatants took the floor. It was all so sudden, simple, and clean.
I Am Deceit
A flash of fine polished silver pulses through the air like a shooting star, ephemeral yet lodging itself into your cerebrum, becoming part of your dreams. It strikes yet another improbable mass of metal; it is sliding down to the hilt then pulled away, over the left shoulder. The atmosphere flees before the blow, so many subatomic particles fleeing into the dust and gloom. Somewhere the balance must be recalibrated, somewhere something, someone, is slipping. The flash of silver flows to gold in the torchlight, carrying an infinitesimal fraction of the sun into another man’s eyes. Did a man blink, or did the Alduin the world-eater flinch? Perhaps nothing happened at all, just a parry missed; the flash of silver-gold rakes across molded bone and rests.
Thus another arena contest ends.
-----------------------------------------
For a moment, I’m contemplating the Redoran. Yes, they know the value of honor and codes of conduct; to a Hlaalu they may seem irrational, but then the Hlaalu thrive on nuance, politicking, deceit, and suspicion. I envy the simpler ways of the Redoran, the way of the blade against blade, looking into your adversary’s eyes. I have more in common with the Hlaalu, resist as I might, lurking in the shadows. I am deceit.
I need a drink. There is no point to sobriety, in Vivec, at the arena. I can’t escape my dreams, but I can drown them out of my memory. Past the top step an aging Dunmer is offering booze to the unwashed and noble alike. I lay down a few drakes for a hefty bottle of greef; it seems appropriate today, and I deserve to suffer in the morning. The liquor is scandalously bitter; and for a moment I can’t breathe. Someday the sensation will last for an eternity—perhaps that’s why I keep taking another pull.
A Nord with a booming voice—an aspiring graybeard?—calls out the next match. It will be a few moments; neither of the Hlaalu combatants wants to be the first on the floor—they’re trying to find that final advantage.
That’s fine. I content myself to stroll around the perimeter of the stands. Spectators are making their bets, or tossing a few back. In one corner of the arena a group of young Dunmer lounge about, arms embracing the hips of their scantily clad escorts. Ah, there he is. The slaver. I can end this problem.
One of the nearby booths is unoccupied—the vendor sold moon sugar to one of Vivec’s buoyant armigers—I slip inside. The fight is beginning, the crowd’s fervor is building, the liquor flows, the Nord shouts. I take one last pull of greef, bracing for the burn, then extract my crossbow from inside my robe. One viper-bolt already sits in position. I set a couple more on the cool stone floor beside me—just in case. I’m a little drunk now. I rub a little dust on the Dwemer metal cradled in my arms, to absorb and diffract the torchlight. Then ease the sight over the countertop. He’s still there, the softskin, surrounded by women, lackeys, liquor, and a single Khajjit slave. Let’s adjust a little bit for the distance—I want to place the bolt right in his throat, so the s’wit never speaks another word, then perhaps a shot to the heart to finish him off. But one will be enough, I think—he’s never done a day of honest labor in his life, and his hardest living is crawling out of the tavern in the morning. Oh, will the poison make him suffer, yes, yes, yes! Ah here it is, easiest shot I’ll ever take, another Dunmer dead. Yes!, place that finger on the trigger, pull it back pull it back… ease off. Honor, for once. Honor forever.
A flash of fine polished silver pulses through the air like a shooting star, ephemeral yet lodging itself into your cerebrum, becoming part of your dreams. It strikes yet another improbable mass of metal; it is sliding down to the hilt then pulled away, over the left shoulder. The atmosphere flees before the blow, so many subatomic particles fleeing into the dust and gloom. Somewhere the balance must be recalibrated, somewhere something, someone, is slipping. The flash of silver flows to gold in the torchlight, carrying an infinitesimal fraction of the sun into another man’s eyes. Did a man blink, or did the Alduin the world-eater flinch? Perhaps nothing happened at all, just a parry missed; the flash of silver-gold rakes across molded bone and rests.
Thus another arena contest ends.
-----------------------------------------
For a moment, I’m contemplating the Redoran. Yes, they know the value of honor and codes of conduct; to a Hlaalu they may seem irrational, but then the Hlaalu thrive on nuance, politicking, deceit, and suspicion. I envy the simpler ways of the Redoran, the way of the blade against blade, looking into your adversary’s eyes. I have more in common with the Hlaalu, resist as I might, lurking in the shadows. I am deceit.
I need a drink. There is no point to sobriety, in Vivec, at the arena. I can’t escape my dreams, but I can drown them out of my memory. Past the top step an aging Dunmer is offering booze to the unwashed and noble alike. I lay down a few drakes for a hefty bottle of greef; it seems appropriate today, and I deserve to suffer in the morning. The liquor is scandalously bitter; and for a moment I can’t breathe. Someday the sensation will last for an eternity—perhaps that’s why I keep taking another pull.
A Nord with a booming voice—an aspiring graybeard?—calls out the next match. It will be a few moments; neither of the Hlaalu combatants wants to be the first on the floor—they’re trying to find that final advantage.
That’s fine. I content myself to stroll around the perimeter of the stands. Spectators are making their bets, or tossing a few back. In one corner of the arena a group of young Dunmer lounge about, arms embracing the hips of their scantily clad escorts. Ah, there he is. The slaver. I can end this problem.
One of the nearby booths is unoccupied—the vendor sold moon sugar to one of Vivec’s buoyant armigers—I slip inside. The fight is beginning, the crowd’s fervor is building, the liquor flows, the Nord shouts. I take one last pull of greef, bracing for the burn, then extract my crossbow from inside my robe. One viper-bolt already sits in position. I set a couple more on the cool stone floor beside me—just in case. I’m a little drunk now. I rub a little dust on the Dwemer metal cradled in my arms, to absorb and diffract the torchlight. Then ease the sight over the countertop. He’s still there, the softskin, surrounded by women, lackeys, liquor, and a single Khajjit slave. Let’s adjust a little bit for the distance—I want to place the bolt right in his throat, so the s’wit never speaks another word, then perhaps a shot to the heart to finish him off. But one will be enough, I think—he’s never done a day of honest labor in his life, and his hardest living is crawling out of the tavern in the morning. Oh, will the poison make him suffer, yes, yes, yes! Ah here it is, easiest shot I’ll ever take, another Dunmer dead. Yes!, place that finger on the trigger, pull it back pull it back… ease off. Honor, for once. Honor forever.
Breakfast in Balmora
Balyn, get up. Open your eyes. Get up!
Balyn looked up from bed. It was morning; he could see the diffuse dawn’s light through the window. Then he remembered. The man in the bar. A bag of gold changing hands. An appointment he must not miss. No, it couldn’t have happened, he thought, I must have been dreaming. Yet the sack of gold sat on his bed table, right by his head. The deal had been struck, and there was no going back.
Balyn eased his way out of bed and picked up his cheap green shirt and dusty pants from their place atop the storage chest. Soon, ALMSIVI willing, he might be able to afford something a little better. He pulled on his battered shoes, after briefly examining the ever-widening hole in the right heel. His profession took a remarkable toll on shoes, in spite of his efforts to walk softly. Finally, Balyn opened the chest and pulled out his prized flameblade. It was one of the few things he had left that truly worked.
As Balyn ate breakfast—a single serving of scrib jelly—the landlord slipped the monthly rental bill beneath the front door. Was it that time already?, he wondered. Damn. He took the paper from the floor and looked over the scrawlings—the rich lout must be losing at dice still; he’s jacked up rent the last 4 months. For a moment Balyn was tempted to rip apart the document cradled in his hands, but he reconsidered. He would have the money soon enough.
Ready now, Balyn climbed the ladder and out his trapdoor, atop his roof. It was why he wanted the place to begin with; the pursued assassin needs all the secrets he can muster. Today he didn’t wish for anyone to see him leave the house. By Vivec it was a lovely morning—soft sunlight cresting over the eastern hills of West Gash, not a cloud to be seen, and the Odai as placid and clear as ever. And standing above the city, Balyn could see his mark stumbling out of the Lucky Lockup, bottle in hand. The time has come. Balyn downed his last potion of invisibility, leaped down from the roof, and dashed to the Odai bridge.
The mark, a burly but well-dressed Imperial with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, paused in front of the Council Club to take another pull of brandy. Quite suddenly an ill-dressed Dunmer, Balyn Omavel, appeared in front of him.
“Pardon me, sera. Do you have a moment?”
The Imperial looked at first confused, then vaguely angry. “Out of my way, elf. I haven’t any time to talk.”
“On the contrary. You have an eternity.”
At that Balyn seized the man and threw him into the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll show some courtesy, n’wah!” Balyn slashed open the Imperial’s throat, spilling rich red blood over the walk. Passengers disembarking the strider would be appalled, no doubt. But the outlander was dead.
Balyn’s glance circled about. No one had seen—Balmora was still just waking up. The assassin mumbled a few words and found himself back in his home, like nothing happened. Save the blood on his hands.
He found his washbowl and began cleaning off the victim’s blood.
May Mephala forgive me.
Balyn, get up. Open your eyes. Get up!
Balyn looked up from bed. It was morning; he could see the diffuse dawn’s light through the window. Then he remembered. The man in the bar. A bag of gold changing hands. An appointment he must not miss. No, it couldn’t have happened, he thought, I must have been dreaming. Yet the sack of gold sat on his bed table, right by his head. The deal had been struck, and there was no going back.
Balyn eased his way out of bed and picked up his cheap green shirt and dusty pants from their place atop the storage chest. Soon, ALMSIVI willing, he might be able to afford something a little better. He pulled on his battered shoes, after briefly examining the ever-widening hole in the right heel. His profession took a remarkable toll on shoes, in spite of his efforts to walk softly. Finally, Balyn opened the chest and pulled out his prized flameblade. It was one of the few things he had left that truly worked.
As Balyn ate breakfast—a single serving of scrib jelly—the landlord slipped the monthly rental bill beneath the front door. Was it that time already?, he wondered. Damn. He took the paper from the floor and looked over the scrawlings—the rich lout must be losing at dice still; he’s jacked up rent the last 4 months. For a moment Balyn was tempted to rip apart the document cradled in his hands, but he reconsidered. He would have the money soon enough.
Ready now, Balyn climbed the ladder and out his trapdoor, atop his roof. It was why he wanted the place to begin with; the pursued assassin needs all the secrets he can muster. Today he didn’t wish for anyone to see him leave the house. By Vivec it was a lovely morning—soft sunlight cresting over the eastern hills of West Gash, not a cloud to be seen, and the Odai as placid and clear as ever. And standing above the city, Balyn could see his mark stumbling out of the Lucky Lockup, bottle in hand. The time has come. Balyn downed his last potion of invisibility, leaped down from the roof, and dashed to the Odai bridge.
The mark, a burly but well-dressed Imperial with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, paused in front of the Council Club to take another pull of brandy. Quite suddenly an ill-dressed Dunmer, Balyn Omavel, appeared in front of him.
“Pardon me, sera. Do you have a moment?”
The Imperial looked at first confused, then vaguely angry. “Out of my way, elf. I haven’t any time to talk.”
“On the contrary. You have an eternity.”
At that Balyn seized the man and threw him into the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll show some courtesy, n’wah!” Balyn slashed open the Imperial’s throat, spilling rich red blood over the walk. Passengers disembarking the strider would be appalled, no doubt. But the outlander was dead.
Balyn’s glance circled about. No one had seen—Balmora was still just waking up. The assassin mumbled a few words and found himself back in his home, like nothing happened. Save the blood on his hands.
He found his washbowl and began cleaning off the victim’s blood.
May Mephala forgive me.
Only in Dreams
Fine late afternoon light plays off Lake Amaya, casting low shadows under each ripple. Eno sat upon the beach, fishing pole in his hand. A pair of small slaughterfish sat in the creel by his side. A pair of mudcrabs shambled about on the other end of the beach; he might look them up later. Crab meat would make a fine complement to his fish dinner. Eno smiled; that bottle of brandy would be a fine complement, too. At that a moment a modest breeze came gently across the waters, stirring yet another slaughterfish to the surface. This was big one; it approached the baited hook, and Eno’s eyes lit in anticipation. Now! He pulled in a fine ten pound snaggle-toothed slaughterfish. Dinner would be excellent.
The breeze eased, and the warm fading sun played on Eno’s back. He could scarcely ask for a finer day.
-------------------------------
“Wake up, Grandmaster. We need to talk.” The voice was quiet, yet harsh. Eno opened his eyes. A hooded figure glared at him through the dark, and held a black ebony blade to his throat. “Yes, a nice quiet talk. No shouting. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand… Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. We were to meet in the morning. At the cornerclub.”
“Yes, Grandmaster, I did not forget. But you must understand, I was not inclined to allow you to…make arrangements... before our meeting.”
“You think we have no honor?”
“Honor… yes, I see your point. I am sorry. But I am inclined to paranoia, of late.”
“So you came to our headquarters instead. I fail to understand your thinking, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.” Eno lay still for a moment. “No matter. Take a seat, assassin, and we will discuss our business.”
--------------------------------
Two assassins sat quietly at a table, faces faintly illuminated by a solitary candle. An Argonian in a dark brown robe sat with his back to the wall; a wizened Dunmer in a fine red robe sat opposite. The Dunmer spoke, quietly, “I know that the situation is inconvenient to you, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. But the Morag Tong is not merely a business. Once we have accepted the contract, we must satisfy it. Mephala demands no less.” The Argonian’s raised his eyes from the table and looked into Eno Hlaalu’s face, “So, your honor demands that the Morag Tong continue to pursue me? On behalf of a foul, drunken, mother of mine-besotted slaver? What honor is this?”
“It is our way, Lingers-in-the-Sun. Our tradition. I fail to see why we should violate for you.”
The Argonian’s hiss rose to a growl, “I will tell you my way, Grandmaster. I will kill you, here and now. I will kill all your brethren in your sacred headquarters, and display their corpses right next to yours. Then I’ll let the rats inside. That’ll be fun. Then, I’ll go to your outpost in Balmora. I’ll kill every last one. Then I’ll go to Ald-ruhn. You can guess what I’ll be doing there. While I’m at it, I’ll stop in Sadrith Mora. I hate the Telvanni, but I’ll be killing Morag Tong.”
Silence.
“Would you like to talk some more, Grandmaster?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
Fine late afternoon light plays off Lake Amaya, casting low shadows under each ripple. Eno sat upon the beach, fishing pole in his hand. A pair of small slaughterfish sat in the creel by his side. A pair of mudcrabs shambled about on the other end of the beach; he might look them up later. Crab meat would make a fine complement to his fish dinner. Eno smiled; that bottle of brandy would be a fine complement, too. At that a moment a modest breeze came gently across the waters, stirring yet another slaughterfish to the surface. This was big one; it approached the baited hook, and Eno’s eyes lit in anticipation. Now! He pulled in a fine ten pound snaggle-toothed slaughterfish. Dinner would be excellent.
The breeze eased, and the warm fading sun played on Eno’s back. He could scarcely ask for a finer day.
-------------------------------
“Wake up, Grandmaster. We need to talk.” The voice was quiet, yet harsh. Eno opened his eyes. A hooded figure glared at him through the dark, and held a black ebony blade to his throat. “Yes, a nice quiet talk. No shouting. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand… Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. We were to meet in the morning. At the cornerclub.”
“Yes, Grandmaster, I did not forget. But you must understand, I was not inclined to allow you to…make arrangements... before our meeting.”
“You think we have no honor?”
“Honor… yes, I see your point. I am sorry. But I am inclined to paranoia, of late.”
“So you came to our headquarters instead. I fail to understand your thinking, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.” Eno lay still for a moment. “No matter. Take a seat, assassin, and we will discuss our business.”
--------------------------------
Two assassins sat quietly at a table, faces faintly illuminated by a solitary candle. An Argonian in a dark brown robe sat with his back to the wall; a wizened Dunmer in a fine red robe sat opposite. The Dunmer spoke, quietly, “I know that the situation is inconvenient to you, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. But the Morag Tong is not merely a business. Once we have accepted the contract, we must satisfy it. Mephala demands no less.” The Argonian’s raised his eyes from the table and looked into Eno Hlaalu’s face, “So, your honor demands that the Morag Tong continue to pursue me? On behalf of a foul, drunken, mother of mine-besotted slaver? What honor is this?”
“It is our way, Lingers-in-the-Sun. Our tradition. I fail to see why we should violate for you.”
The Argonian’s hiss rose to a growl, “I will tell you my way, Grandmaster. I will kill you, here and now. I will kill all your brethren in your sacred headquarters, and display their corpses right next to yours. Then I’ll let the rats inside. That’ll be fun. Then, I’ll go to your outpost in Balmora. I’ll kill every last one. Then I’ll go to Ald-ruhn. You can guess what I’ll be doing there. While I’m at it, I’ll stop in Sadrith Mora. I hate the Telvanni, but I’ll be killing Morag Tong.”
Silence.
“Would you like to talk some more, Grandmaster?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
Freelancers
It was a merry evening in the Eight Plates. A tall, handsome young Dunmer—one of the newest members of the Balmora guard contingent—was performing a traditional dance atop his shield, surrounded by a clapping and giggling group of revelers, keeping time, drinking brandy. The troubadours played in the corner, an improvised band featuring the trader Ra’virr on the guarskins, Fast Eddie Theman on the lute, and the tailor Milie Hastien singing a fine old tune. Their music filled the dim space of Balmora’s finest tavern.
Balyn dearly wished he could join the revelry—Milie’s voice wasn’t the only fine thing she had going on—but he sat at the bar, and waited. This was business.
His client was late. Balyn consoled himself by nursing a bottle of mazte, taking a sip whenever he felt he needed to flee. After Balyn had nearly convinced himself to stand up and go, or join the party, a middle-aged mer smartly attired in a custom tailored shirt came down the stairs and made his way to the bar.
“I’m glad you waited for me, Balyn. I had some business to attend to. I’m sure you know how that goes.” Feigning agreement, Balyn nodded. “As you no doubt have guessed, I require your services once more. I’m concerned that one of my neighbors is watching me a little… closely. In my line of work I find such a trait worrisome, if not downright inconvenient. You know this man as an old skooma addict, but everytime I see the man I feel his eyes following me… I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but I can take no risks. My peace of mind is worth 2000 gold. What do you say?”
Balyn mulled it over. 2000! It was more than he had ever earned working for the Morag Tong. But, he thought, I must not seem too excited; no, I can negotiate, get a little more. But 2000!
“2500, Helas.”
“Impossible. 2100. No more.”
“Surely your peace of mind must be worth at least 2250 drakes.”
Vorar Helas smiled, and nodded. “Yes, it’s worth that much.”
The Dunmer shook hands. Vorar Helas ordered a bottle of brandy. Balyn Omavel joined the party.
-------------------------------------------------------
The sun was sending the first shafts of morning light over eastern hills when Balyn stumbled out of the Eight Plates. What a glorious night! He had taken his own awkward turn upon the shield, impressing no one, but his grace in poking fun at his own dancing had won him a peck on the cheek from Milie Hastien. It seemed that Balyn was finally finding his niche in Balmora—fewer Tong jobs meant more free time, and the opportunity for a social life.
But now it was time to head home, and off to bed. He would need to be well rested if he were to properly earn his gold. Balyn was not the most conscientious of the Morag Tong, perhaps, but he still believed in a job well-done, even when freelancing. Freelancing! The idea still sent a pulse of ice down Balyn’s spine, but a few more nights like this would ease the trauma. He smiled as he thought of his brother—Taren did not support his younger brother financially, nor would Balyn ask him to, but it gave Balyn some comfort knowing that he was safe from open retribution.
Balyn crossed the Odai and turned the corner around Hecerinde’s place, then started to jog. A figure in a dark brown robe was hunched over the trapdoor, on the roof. He shouted at the interloper, “Hey you! What are you doing? Get out of there!” The figure stood up, and then Balyn stopped, turned, and began to run. The trespasser cradled a crossbow in his arms. Balyn had almost reached the corner when he felt the white-hot poison bolt lodge itself in his back; he screamed. Staggering forward again, almost to the corner, almost to safety—he digged into his pockets for the healing potion he always carried—almost….. Another bolt struck him, in the neck. Balyn collapsed.
------------------------------------------------------
Eno Hlaalu and Huleeya were sharing a corner table at the Black Shalk Cornerclub when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode briskly through the door.
“Back so soon, assassin?” Hlaalu looked him over.
“The freelancer is dead, Grandmaster.”
“That bittergreen works quickly indeed,” murmured the Dunmer.
“No bittergreen, Hlaalu. Not my style. Viper-bolts.”
Eno Hlaalu stood up; he nearly shouted, “What! Not your style! His brother will know! This is unacceptable!” Then he looked into a drawn crossbow.
“Unacceptable for you, perhaps, but I think I’ve done more than enough to satisfy our agreement, unless you want me to kill his brother, too. Or would you rather I kill you instead?” The Argonian did not lower the crossbow.
“Fine, assassin, have it your way. The writ on your head will…fade away. But tread carefully, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. Next time could be different.”
It was a merry evening in the Eight Plates. A tall, handsome young Dunmer—one of the newest members of the Balmora guard contingent—was performing a traditional dance atop his shield, surrounded by a clapping and giggling group of revelers, keeping time, drinking brandy. The troubadours played in the corner, an improvised band featuring the trader Ra’virr on the guarskins, Fast Eddie Theman on the lute, and the tailor Milie Hastien singing a fine old tune. Their music filled the dim space of Balmora’s finest tavern.
Balyn dearly wished he could join the revelry—Milie’s voice wasn’t the only fine thing she had going on—but he sat at the bar, and waited. This was business.
His client was late. Balyn consoled himself by nursing a bottle of mazte, taking a sip whenever he felt he needed to flee. After Balyn had nearly convinced himself to stand up and go, or join the party, a middle-aged mer smartly attired in a custom tailored shirt came down the stairs and made his way to the bar.
“I’m glad you waited for me, Balyn. I had some business to attend to. I’m sure you know how that goes.” Feigning agreement, Balyn nodded. “As you no doubt have guessed, I require your services once more. I’m concerned that one of my neighbors is watching me a little… closely. In my line of work I find such a trait worrisome, if not downright inconvenient. You know this man as an old skooma addict, but everytime I see the man I feel his eyes following me… I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but I can take no risks. My peace of mind is worth 2000 gold. What do you say?”
Balyn mulled it over. 2000! It was more than he had ever earned working for the Morag Tong. But, he thought, I must not seem too excited; no, I can negotiate, get a little more. But 2000!
“2500, Helas.”
“Impossible. 2100. No more.”
“Surely your peace of mind must be worth at least 2250 drakes.”
Vorar Helas smiled, and nodded. “Yes, it’s worth that much.”
The Dunmer shook hands. Vorar Helas ordered a bottle of brandy. Balyn Omavel joined the party.
-------------------------------------------------------
The sun was sending the first shafts of morning light over eastern hills when Balyn stumbled out of the Eight Plates. What a glorious night! He had taken his own awkward turn upon the shield, impressing no one, but his grace in poking fun at his own dancing had won him a peck on the cheek from Milie Hastien. It seemed that Balyn was finally finding his niche in Balmora—fewer Tong jobs meant more free time, and the opportunity for a social life.
But now it was time to head home, and off to bed. He would need to be well rested if he were to properly earn his gold. Balyn was not the most conscientious of the Morag Tong, perhaps, but he still believed in a job well-done, even when freelancing. Freelancing! The idea still sent a pulse of ice down Balyn’s spine, but a few more nights like this would ease the trauma. He smiled as he thought of his brother—Taren did not support his younger brother financially, nor would Balyn ask him to, but it gave Balyn some comfort knowing that he was safe from open retribution.
Balyn crossed the Odai and turned the corner around Hecerinde’s place, then started to jog. A figure in a dark brown robe was hunched over the trapdoor, on the roof. He shouted at the interloper, “Hey you! What are you doing? Get out of there!” The figure stood up, and then Balyn stopped, turned, and began to run. The trespasser cradled a crossbow in his arms. Balyn had almost reached the corner when he felt the white-hot poison bolt lodge itself in his back; he screamed. Staggering forward again, almost to the corner, almost to safety—he digged into his pockets for the healing potion he always carried—almost….. Another bolt struck him, in the neck. Balyn collapsed.
------------------------------------------------------
Eno Hlaalu and Huleeya were sharing a corner table at the Black Shalk Cornerclub when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode briskly through the door.
“Back so soon, assassin?” Hlaalu looked him over.
“The freelancer is dead, Grandmaster.”
“That bittergreen works quickly indeed,” murmured the Dunmer.
“No bittergreen, Hlaalu. Not my style. Viper-bolts.”
Eno Hlaalu stood up; he nearly shouted, “What! Not your style! His brother will know! This is unacceptable!” Then he looked into a drawn crossbow.
“Unacceptable for you, perhaps, but I think I’ve done more than enough to satisfy our agreement, unless you want me to kill his brother, too. Or would you rather I kill you instead?” The Argonian did not lower the crossbow.
“Fine, assassin, have it your way. The writ on your head will…fade away. But tread carefully, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. Next time could be different.”
Regrets
Caius Cosades and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat quietly at the corner table of the South Wall Cornerclub soaking in the scene. A Bosmer and a Khajiit sat at the bar loudly debating which of their respective races made better thieves; the remaining patrons, also thieves, sat at tables adjacent to bar, inserting their own bawdy commentary into the discussion between drinks. Phane Rielle kept the liquor flowing liberally, as always, and put in a few good words for Bretons.
“But you must admit, Aengoth, that it is much easier to steal when cloaked in a spell of illusion”, he interjected.
Aengoth burst out laughing, “Come now, Phane. Even Breton magicks run out sometime. But I never have to worry about running out of stealth.”
“But what about picks and probes, friend? You wouldn’t be much of a thief without that hardware.”
“Not even little kitties forget their tools, good friend Phane Rielle! Habasi tells you that only the dumbest thief could do such a thing, an embarrassment to Habasi’s profession.”
------------------------------------------------
And so it went, on and on. It seemed to Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun that all these thieves did was drink, smoke, and talk.
He tossed back another brandy; Caius lit his skooma pipe.
------------------------------------------------
“Am I in the clear now, Caius? I am tired of waiting.”
Caius passed a small brown satchel across the table. “You’ll find some money and paperwork in there. Your license to kill has been restored. Also, your next mission is this envelope.” Caius passed an unmarked gray envelope to the Argonian. There’s no need to hurry on this one. I expect your mark won’t be in the open for a few days, anyway.”
“Then I think I can take care of something else. Take a look at this note—I found on the body of one of the locals.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun passed a crumpled piece of paper to the Imperial. “An unfortunate side job I had to take. You understand, of course.”
“Yes, of course…” he murmured—then Caius Cosades’ eyes opened wide. “Vorar Helas hired someone to kill me? I knew he was dirty, still….. Very well. You can eliminate him. Assassination may be legal in Morrowind, but this is a crime against the Empire.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded. “I expected as much. He’ll be dead by morning.”
-------------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun exited the South Wall at about 2:30 AM, under the eternally vigilant masses of Masser and Secunda. The night was clear, cool—only a few burning lanterns gave warmth to the streets. The assassin checked his blades—ready. He threw the hood of his robe on—he was wearing black once more—and made his way up the stairs, to highest Labor Town. No movement graced the street, and the only sound came drifting up from the South Wall—the argument had not yet ended, indeed, when could it ever end?
Vorar Helas lived in a modest two story house at the end of street, next to the spymaster. The hooded Argonian crept up the back stairs to the rear door—locked of course, but no problem, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled a pick out from his robe, smiling as he thought of debating thieves and little kitties breaking into homes in Elsweyr or the Imperial City—anywhere and everywhere really. Reverie took the assassin nearly to Iliac Bay, until he heard a muffled scream inside the very home he was breaking into.
He jerked the pick, and the lock was undone.
Inside—he stood in the bedroom, blades at the ready. Helas was not in bed. But someone was downstairs, shuffling about, muttering.
Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was barely breathing, staying quiet, concentrating at the task at hand. He eased his way down the stairs—he smelled blood.
A trim Dunmer male, dressed casually, stood over a gutted, bleeding Khajiit slave. A bloody dagger lay on the stone floor.
“Helas!” The assassin leapt down the stairs at the wide-eyed Dunmer, raising his ebony shortsword. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought the hilt down upon Vorar Helas’ skull.
“You barbaric scum! I was just going to kill you! Now you suffer!”
Helas, just conscious still, struggled to rise. “Wha… what are you going to d-d-do, lizard.”
At that the Argonian struck Helas’ face with the flat of the blade. “The better question, scum, is what won’t I do. My skill in destruction magic is modest, Dunmer, but I think you’ll come to regret it nonetheless. But I think I’ll start with a few ‘noise’ spells—just as a warm-up. I assure you this will hurt quite a bit. You’ll beg me to slit your throat before I’m done.”
------------------------------------------------
The sun was high over Balmora when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat down on Caius Cosade’s bed and stared down the stony floor. “It’s done Caius. I think I may have exceeded my orders…”
Cosades stood across the room, leaning against the wall. “I thought I heard a few screams, Al. I won’t ask what happened. I don’t really want to know—I've seen too much on Vvardenfell already. My superiors seem to think so, too. I’ve been recalled. It’s just as well—Helas may have told his Camonna Tong superiors about my interest.
“Recalled? Where will I get my orders?”
“The Nerevarine will be ranking agent on the island, but you’ll get your orders through Elone, for a while. The Emperor still has need of your services here.”
“Wait, wait… the Nerevarine? The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar, the Temple saint? You’re joking, right?”
Caius Cosades said nothing.
“Damn…”
Then the Imperial smiled.
“Caius? Damn, I thought you were serious for a minute there. The Nerevarine! Good one, old friend! Heh, I hope you keep your sense of humor back in the City. I’m heading back to Ebonheart—I need the rest.” With that the Argonian saluted his spymaster and stepped out the door.
Caius Cosades stood and smiled.
Caius Cosades and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat quietly at the corner table of the South Wall Cornerclub soaking in the scene. A Bosmer and a Khajiit sat at the bar loudly debating which of their respective races made better thieves; the remaining patrons, also thieves, sat at tables adjacent to bar, inserting their own bawdy commentary into the discussion between drinks. Phane Rielle kept the liquor flowing liberally, as always, and put in a few good words for Bretons.
“But you must admit, Aengoth, that it is much easier to steal when cloaked in a spell of illusion”, he interjected.
Aengoth burst out laughing, “Come now, Phane. Even Breton magicks run out sometime. But I never have to worry about running out of stealth.”
“But what about picks and probes, friend? You wouldn’t be much of a thief without that hardware.”
“Not even little kitties forget their tools, good friend Phane Rielle! Habasi tells you that only the dumbest thief could do such a thing, an embarrassment to Habasi’s profession.”
------------------------------------------------
And so it went, on and on. It seemed to Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun that all these thieves did was drink, smoke, and talk.
He tossed back another brandy; Caius lit his skooma pipe.
------------------------------------------------
“Am I in the clear now, Caius? I am tired of waiting.”
Caius passed a small brown satchel across the table. “You’ll find some money and paperwork in there. Your license to kill has been restored. Also, your next mission is this envelope.” Caius passed an unmarked gray envelope to the Argonian. There’s no need to hurry on this one. I expect your mark won’t be in the open for a few days, anyway.”
“Then I think I can take care of something else. Take a look at this note—I found on the body of one of the locals.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun passed a crumpled piece of paper to the Imperial. “An unfortunate side job I had to take. You understand, of course.”
“Yes, of course…” he murmured—then Caius Cosades’ eyes opened wide. “Vorar Helas hired someone to kill me? I knew he was dirty, still….. Very well. You can eliminate him. Assassination may be legal in Morrowind, but this is a crime against the Empire.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded. “I expected as much. He’ll be dead by morning.”
-------------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun exited the South Wall at about 2:30 AM, under the eternally vigilant masses of Masser and Secunda. The night was clear, cool—only a few burning lanterns gave warmth to the streets. The assassin checked his blades—ready. He threw the hood of his robe on—he was wearing black once more—and made his way up the stairs, to highest Labor Town. No movement graced the street, and the only sound came drifting up from the South Wall—the argument had not yet ended, indeed, when could it ever end?
Vorar Helas lived in a modest two story house at the end of street, next to the spymaster. The hooded Argonian crept up the back stairs to the rear door—locked of course, but no problem, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled a pick out from his robe, smiling as he thought of debating thieves and little kitties breaking into homes in Elsweyr or the Imperial City—anywhere and everywhere really. Reverie took the assassin nearly to Iliac Bay, until he heard a muffled scream inside the very home he was breaking into.
He jerked the pick, and the lock was undone.
Inside—he stood in the bedroom, blades at the ready. Helas was not in bed. But someone was downstairs, shuffling about, muttering.
Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was barely breathing, staying quiet, concentrating at the task at hand. He eased his way down the stairs—he smelled blood.
A trim Dunmer male, dressed casually, stood over a gutted, bleeding Khajiit slave. A bloody dagger lay on the stone floor.
“Helas!” The assassin leapt down the stairs at the wide-eyed Dunmer, raising his ebony shortsword. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought the hilt down upon Vorar Helas’ skull.
“You barbaric scum! I was just going to kill you! Now you suffer!”
Helas, just conscious still, struggled to rise. “Wha… what are you going to d-d-do, lizard.”
At that the Argonian struck Helas’ face with the flat of the blade. “The better question, scum, is what won’t I do. My skill in destruction magic is modest, Dunmer, but I think you’ll come to regret it nonetheless. But I think I’ll start with a few ‘noise’ spells—just as a warm-up. I assure you this will hurt quite a bit. You’ll beg me to slit your throat before I’m done.”
------------------------------------------------
The sun was high over Balmora when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat down on Caius Cosade’s bed and stared down the stony floor. “It’s done Caius. I think I may have exceeded my orders…”
Cosades stood across the room, leaning against the wall. “I thought I heard a few screams, Al. I won’t ask what happened. I don’t really want to know—I've seen too much on Vvardenfell already. My superiors seem to think so, too. I’ve been recalled. It’s just as well—Helas may have told his Camonna Tong superiors about my interest.
“Recalled? Where will I get my orders?”
“The Nerevarine will be ranking agent on the island, but you’ll get your orders through Elone, for a while. The Emperor still has need of your services here.”
“Wait, wait… the Nerevarine? The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar, the Temple saint? You’re joking, right?”
Caius Cosades said nothing.
“Damn…”
Then the Imperial smiled.
“Caius? Damn, I thought you were serious for a minute there. The Nerevarine! Good one, old friend! Heh, I hope you keep your sense of humor back in the City. I’m heading back to Ebonheart—I need the rest.” With that the Argonian saluted his spymaster and stepped out the door.
Caius Cosades stood and smiled.
An Accident
Early in the afternoon a tall argonian in a fine red and gold robe strode into Ebonheart’s Six Fishes and after a brief glance about the near empty tavern, made his way to the one occupied table, in the far corner.
“Drinking already, Sun-Lingerer?”
“I never stopped drinking, Im-Kilaya. I was in here at eight last night, and I have no immediate plans to leave today.” Several bottles of brandy sat on the table in front of the black-robed assassin.
“It is an awfully expensive habit, friend. I don’t know how you can support it.” Im-Kilaya took the seat opposite Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.
“I get by. I’m not buying expensive robes—unlike you.”
“It is business, Heik-Auri. I must represent our home to these dark elves—you know better than I what they think of us.”
The assassin took another drink. “Don’t remind me. I get into enough trouble.”
“Is it worth it? We could offer you… more satisfying work. And the pay…”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pounded the almost-empty bottle down on the table. “Stop it. We’ve had this conversation before, Im-Kilaya. I can’t. I would be… an outlaw. It’s too risky. I do well by the Empire.”
A sigh escaped Im-Kilaya. “I’m sorry, friend. It’s just… No, I won’t burden you. Let’s drink.” He ordered his own bottle of brandy.
-----------------------------------------------------
Nevosi Hlan was pointing Chun-Ook into the west wind when his passenger began pacing about the deck. “Sera, it’s a long way to Gnaar Mok yet. You might find it better to wait in my cabin. I have a few books.”
The passenger, an older dunmer man dressed in a plain yet tasteful blue robe, stopped a moment and gazed up at the shipmaster. “No thank you, captain, I’m afraid I’m entirely too on edge to get any enjoyment from literature today. I’ve not seen the inside of my manor for some years, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’ve been in hiding too long.”
At that Nevosi could not help but raise an eyebrow. “In hiding, sera?”
The older dunmer grinned ruefully, “Yes, hiding. I am Radryn Arenim, and I dared to barter for my Lord Crassius Curio’s death. Foolish of me; I could have just waited the man out—it would have been my turn soon enough.”
“Sera, even I know it isn’t wise to offend a Councilman.”
Arenim chortled, “Yes, I was being a fool—but I learned my lesson.”
“Indeed.” A third had joined Nevosi and Arenim on the deck, emerging from the captain’s quarters. “This time you hired the Dark Brotherhood. I’m sure they’ll be much more discreet.”
The newcomer, an argonian in a black robe, leapt across the deck, daedric dagger drawn. Before Radryn Arenim could draw his sword the argonian slashed him across the throat and shoved him overboard, into the Inner Sea.
“Master Arenim fell overboard in rough seas, shipmaster.” The argonian watched the floating body drift away—he did not look up. “You will drop me off in Seyda Neen.”
Nevosi stood still, eyes wide, trying not to look overboard. “Yes sera, I understand. Accidents will happen.”
Early in the afternoon a tall argonian in a fine red and gold robe strode into Ebonheart’s Six Fishes and after a brief glance about the near empty tavern, made his way to the one occupied table, in the far corner.
“Drinking already, Sun-Lingerer?”
“I never stopped drinking, Im-Kilaya. I was in here at eight last night, and I have no immediate plans to leave today.” Several bottles of brandy sat on the table in front of the black-robed assassin.
“It is an awfully expensive habit, friend. I don’t know how you can support it.” Im-Kilaya took the seat opposite Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.
“I get by. I’m not buying expensive robes—unlike you.”
“It is business, Heik-Auri. I must represent our home to these dark elves—you know better than I what they think of us.”
The assassin took another drink. “Don’t remind me. I get into enough trouble.”
“Is it worth it? We could offer you… more satisfying work. And the pay…”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pounded the almost-empty bottle down on the table. “Stop it. We’ve had this conversation before, Im-Kilaya. I can’t. I would be… an outlaw. It’s too risky. I do well by the Empire.”
A sigh escaped Im-Kilaya. “I’m sorry, friend. It’s just… No, I won’t burden you. Let’s drink.” He ordered his own bottle of brandy.
-----------------------------------------------------
Nevosi Hlan was pointing Chun-Ook into the west wind when his passenger began pacing about the deck. “Sera, it’s a long way to Gnaar Mok yet. You might find it better to wait in my cabin. I have a few books.”
The passenger, an older dunmer man dressed in a plain yet tasteful blue robe, stopped a moment and gazed up at the shipmaster. “No thank you, captain, I’m afraid I’m entirely too on edge to get any enjoyment from literature today. I’ve not seen the inside of my manor for some years, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’ve been in hiding too long.”
At that Nevosi could not help but raise an eyebrow. “In hiding, sera?”
The older dunmer grinned ruefully, “Yes, hiding. I am Radryn Arenim, and I dared to barter for my Lord Crassius Curio’s death. Foolish of me; I could have just waited the man out—it would have been my turn soon enough.”
“Sera, even I know it isn’t wise to offend a Councilman.”
Arenim chortled, “Yes, I was being a fool—but I learned my lesson.”
“Indeed.” A third had joined Nevosi and Arenim on the deck, emerging from the captain’s quarters. “This time you hired the Dark Brotherhood. I’m sure they’ll be much more discreet.”
The newcomer, an argonian in a black robe, leapt across the deck, daedric dagger drawn. Before Radryn Arenim could draw his sword the argonian slashed him across the throat and shoved him overboard, into the Inner Sea.
“Master Arenim fell overboard in rough seas, shipmaster.” The argonian watched the floating body drift away—he did not look up. “You will drop me off in Seyda Neen.”
Nevosi stood still, eyes wide, trying not to look overboard. “Yes sera, I understand. Accidents will happen.”
Hehe, poor guy, guess you should've kept to hiding. 
Nice stuff Canis!
Nice stuff Canis!
I haven't commented here yet. The compilation is a nice idea.
As for the latest installment, I definitely liked it. Linger has some style, even though he uses it to kill. Famous last words are everything.
As for the latest installment, I definitely liked it. Linger has some style, even though he uses it to kill. Famous last words are everything.
haHA! i like this Argonians style more and more!
Thug Life
Everyone knows Nolus Atrius, the Balmora magistrate, is on the take, right?
Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering about. Can’t the Legion just arrest him? Why bring me into this?
Atrius has powerful friends. His greatest patron is on the Elder Council. How do you think he got where is?
So how can we go after him at all? Who gave these orders?
Who else? The Emperor.
Atrius isn’t that important.
Orvas Dren is.
-----------------------------------------------------
I set the bottle back down upon the bar. “Dren? Is there anything he isn’t behind on this gods-forsaken island?”
“OK, Elone, just tell me what I need to do.”
“Like I said, Atrius has power behind him, so this can’t look like a Blades job. Getting involved in Council politics wouldn’t be good for us. There’s no way the Morag Tong could take the job—dark elves only. So, you need to make it look like he made someone angry. It needs to look like the work of Cammona Tong thugs—like one of his clientele murdered him.”
I took another sip of brandy. “So… brutal, sloppy, a complete amateur job. It won’t be easy—I’m too good.”
“Don’t get full of yourself, Al. You’re not exactly subtle yourself. “ Elone’s voice was rising now, “Have you forgotten about Suran…?”
“Don’t remind me dammit! And that wasn’t a job! That was just… oh hell…” I sighed, “Just let me do the damn job.”
-----------------------------------------------------
The silt strider arrived in Balmora just after 10; perfect timing so far as I was concerned. I hesitated just a moment before making my way down the steps. I couldn’t help it; whenever I take the silt strider into town I’m immediately confronted by the Council Club, the local Cammona Tong hangout. I’d never entered it—even I’m not that crazy—but I’d often contemplated what I would do if were to go inside. It made me shudder, the way the thought appealed to me. I didn’t want to go in there, yet it was all I could do to resist the impulse.
Instead, I walked toward Balmora’s manor district, headquarters to House Hlaalu, home to a few nobles and wealthy merchants, and branch office for the local Morag Tong. Nolus Atrius lived catty-corner to the assassins. I wonder if they made him nervous. In any case, the magistrate’s home was my destination. Still, I loitered around the alchemist’s shop for a few moments before making my approach—assuring myself that the Hlaalu guards were not gazing down upon me from their towers.
Fortunately, the guards were being lax in their duties, as is their wont. I walked right up to Atrius’ front door and kicked it in—like any thug worth his salt would. Of course it made a terrible noise, but I slipped inside as quickly as I could, shutting the door behind me, and drawing my ebony. I heard the sound of footsteps upstairs—he must have been in bed—and curses that could only fly from the mouth of a rich imperial snob.
“What the hell is going on down there? Which one of you fools is interrupting my sleep now?”
He’s coming down the stairs—is it steel that I hear? He must have grabbed a blade—he may not be as foolish as I thought. Quickly, I flatten myself against the wall, next to the doorway. But no, he is a fool; he comes charging down off the stairs caution to the wind. “Where—“
That was when the flat of my shortsword met the back of Nolus Atrius’ head.
------------------------------------------------------
Nolus Atrius, a silver-haired imperial man of about 45 years, awoke in his bedroom, tied to his own chair. I stood before him, my ebony shortsword in hand.
“Nolus Atrius, magistrate of Balmora, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that by order of His Majesty the Emperor Uriel VII, you are to be executed—“
“Executed by a lizard? Scum, you couldn’t execute a…” Before he could go further, I interrupted the magistrate with the flat of my blade.
“Silence! Now, normally I’d just cut your throat and be done, but circumstances demand that your death be rather slow and extremely painful.”
“Consider this a reward for your many years of faithful service.”
Everyone knows Nolus Atrius, the Balmora magistrate, is on the take, right?
Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering about. Can’t the Legion just arrest him? Why bring me into this?
Atrius has powerful friends. His greatest patron is on the Elder Council. How do you think he got where is?
So how can we go after him at all? Who gave these orders?
Who else? The Emperor.
Atrius isn’t that important.
Orvas Dren is.
-----------------------------------------------------
I set the bottle back down upon the bar. “Dren? Is there anything he isn’t behind on this gods-forsaken island?”
“OK, Elone, just tell me what I need to do.”
“Like I said, Atrius has power behind him, so this can’t look like a Blades job. Getting involved in Council politics wouldn’t be good for us. There’s no way the Morag Tong could take the job—dark elves only. So, you need to make it look like he made someone angry. It needs to look like the work of Cammona Tong thugs—like one of his clientele murdered him.”
I took another sip of brandy. “So… brutal, sloppy, a complete amateur job. It won’t be easy—I’m too good.”
“Don’t get full of yourself, Al. You’re not exactly subtle yourself. “ Elone’s voice was rising now, “Have you forgotten about Suran…?”
“Don’t remind me dammit! And that wasn’t a job! That was just… oh hell…” I sighed, “Just let me do the damn job.”
-----------------------------------------------------
The silt strider arrived in Balmora just after 10; perfect timing so far as I was concerned. I hesitated just a moment before making my way down the steps. I couldn’t help it; whenever I take the silt strider into town I’m immediately confronted by the Council Club, the local Cammona Tong hangout. I’d never entered it—even I’m not that crazy—but I’d often contemplated what I would do if were to go inside. It made me shudder, the way the thought appealed to me. I didn’t want to go in there, yet it was all I could do to resist the impulse.
Instead, I walked toward Balmora’s manor district, headquarters to House Hlaalu, home to a few nobles and wealthy merchants, and branch office for the local Morag Tong. Nolus Atrius lived catty-corner to the assassins. I wonder if they made him nervous. In any case, the magistrate’s home was my destination. Still, I loitered around the alchemist’s shop for a few moments before making my approach—assuring myself that the Hlaalu guards were not gazing down upon me from their towers.
Fortunately, the guards were being lax in their duties, as is their wont. I walked right up to Atrius’ front door and kicked it in—like any thug worth his salt would. Of course it made a terrible noise, but I slipped inside as quickly as I could, shutting the door behind me, and drawing my ebony. I heard the sound of footsteps upstairs—he must have been in bed—and curses that could only fly from the mouth of a rich imperial snob.
“What the hell is going on down there? Which one of you fools is interrupting my sleep now?”
He’s coming down the stairs—is it steel that I hear? He must have grabbed a blade—he may not be as foolish as I thought. Quickly, I flatten myself against the wall, next to the doorway. But no, he is a fool; he comes charging down off the stairs caution to the wind. “Where—“
That was when the flat of my shortsword met the back of Nolus Atrius’ head.
------------------------------------------------------
Nolus Atrius, a silver-haired imperial man of about 45 years, awoke in his bedroom, tied to his own chair. I stood before him, my ebony shortsword in hand.
“Nolus Atrius, magistrate of Balmora, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that by order of His Majesty the Emperor Uriel VII, you are to be executed—“
“Executed by a lizard? Scum, you couldn’t execute a…” Before he could go further, I interrupted the magistrate with the flat of my blade.
“Silence! Now, normally I’d just cut your throat and be done, but circumstances demand that your death be rather slow and extremely painful.”
“Consider this a reward for your many years of faithful service.”
Nice! I like your interactions between charachters....especially those we "know" from in-game, makes them alive!
Good work!
Good work!
Crap, I've looked for Nolus Atrius myself but could never find him. Crap again! *storms off into Balmora, waving a rather large Claymore.*
*Comes running back.*
By the way, I love the dialogue here. Al knows how to choose his words.
*storms off again*
*Comes running back.*
By the way, I love the dialogue here. Al knows how to choose his words.
*storms off again*
That Argonian can just be plain nasty! I love it!
I can't wait to see what his next duty will be...
I can't wait to see what his next duty will be...
Marshwalkers
Three argonians sat around a table at the Suran Tradehouse, a short distance from the bar. The one closest to the bar dressed in the manner of a nightblade, a black shirt and black pants, and was drinking shein. The one to his right wore the plain brown shirt and pants of a commoner—a bottle of greef accompanied his plate of roasted crab meat. The third, to the nightblade’s left, wore an old brown robe. Two bottles of flin, one empty, sat on the table in front of him.
The nightblade was speaking, “I can’t believe you dared return to Suran so soon, Sun-Lingerer. The town guard has not threatened to arrest you?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun grinned ruefully. “You should know better, An-Zaw. They don’t have any real proof, do they? No witnesses, right? Hides His Eyes saw to it that none of the slaves were recaptured, yes?”
The commoner nodded. “Im-Kilaya arranged their return to Argonia.”
“I’m glad to hear that. That leaves only you two. You’re not telling, right?”
An-Zaw grinned, “Of course not. I’m as guilty as you are.”
Hides His Eyes put down his drink. “As am I. And we don’t have the Empire covering for us.”
“I take care of my own business, friends. The Blades… well, let’s just say I was persona non grata, shall we? But enough of that. How is life, marshwalkers?”
“I should be promoted to journeyman next week” announced An-Zaw. “It’s about time, too. I was afraid the fools in the Balmora guildhall might actually get promoted first—Skink is a much more demanding guild steward, but the rewards are worth it.”
“How is Skink? I haven’t been to Sadrith Mora since that incident with the guard.”
“Which incident?”
“Those silly hospitality papers.”
“Oh… that one. Skink is as well as one can be in Telvanni territory. He is trying to study the Sixth House, I think.”
“The Sixth House… I’ve seen something of it. But that can wait. Is the Council of Mages going to wise up and appoint him Arch-mage?”
“No, the imperial flathead is still in charge, for whatever that’s worth. You’d think some Telvanni hedge wizard would have roasted him by now, but they’ve shown unfortunate restraint.”
“I could just kill him.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took a big pull of flin. “Come on, friends, I’m only kidding.”
Hides His Eyes broke the silence, “How can you jest about murder, Heik-Auri? How do you sleep at night, in your profession?”
“I don’t. Not usually. But I don’t want to talk about that. What have you been up to, Haj-Ei?”
“The usual. I lead that damn fool Daric Bielle up and down the Ashlands for the last week or so. Idiot is still looking for his ‘slave’. I should just leave him out there, but he pays surprisingly well.”
“And you think me bold? You think he will never recognize you?”
“Oh, he would, if he was sober. But he never is. I make sure to pack plenty of mazte on our ‘slave-hunting’ expeditions. I don’t worry much about myself. But you, friend, why must you always court trouble? What have you been up to, anyway?”
“I freed four slaves yesterday.”
Hides His Eyes smiled, “Fighting the good fight, eh?”
“I killed thirteen smugglers, too. Eight in the cavern of Zainsipilu—that’s where I found the slaves. My crossbow took the redguard just inside the door, and the dunmer shortly after. I surprised the she-bosmer, so she died by my dagger. A nord was guarding the slaves. I filled him with bolts. I did the same to the orc female—she came charging right at me, but from too far. I drank some sujamma after that one—I don’t know why. I just picked it and gulped it down. I don’t really remember how I killed the next two—dunmer, they were; the male was a thief, I think, because he carried a nice pick. The female… I don’t know. The ringleader was an imperial, at least I think so. They all sound so haughty, even the paupers, so it’s hard to tell. But he was sensitive to viper-bolts.
"Later, I walked along the coast. I found five nord smugglers and their ship. They didn’t have any slaves, but I’m sure they must run a few—everyone on the Bitter Coast does it. I cut all their throats—the bigger they are, the harder they fall, right? It wasn’t hard. I don’t regret killing them, I think. They were carrying ebony—a crime against the Emperor—and ash statues. The Sixth House, friends.”
For a few moments, quiet reigned. The publican, Ashumanu Eraishah, cleaned a few glasses in the back of the bar, while the bard in the far corner tuned his lute, preparing for the evening crowds. A slow, sporadic drumming on the roof was audible—it was starting to rain.
An-Zaw was the first to speak. “Really, my friend, how can you sleep at night?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of flin, then stared into the bottle. “I really don’t, friends. Not anymore.”
Three argonians sat around a table at the Suran Tradehouse, a short distance from the bar. The one closest to the bar dressed in the manner of a nightblade, a black shirt and black pants, and was drinking shein. The one to his right wore the plain brown shirt and pants of a commoner—a bottle of greef accompanied his plate of roasted crab meat. The third, to the nightblade’s left, wore an old brown robe. Two bottles of flin, one empty, sat on the table in front of him.
The nightblade was speaking, “I can’t believe you dared return to Suran so soon, Sun-Lingerer. The town guard has not threatened to arrest you?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun grinned ruefully. “You should know better, An-Zaw. They don’t have any real proof, do they? No witnesses, right? Hides His Eyes saw to it that none of the slaves were recaptured, yes?”
The commoner nodded. “Im-Kilaya arranged their return to Argonia.”
“I’m glad to hear that. That leaves only you two. You’re not telling, right?”
An-Zaw grinned, “Of course not. I’m as guilty as you are.”
Hides His Eyes put down his drink. “As am I. And we don’t have the Empire covering for us.”
“I take care of my own business, friends. The Blades… well, let’s just say I was persona non grata, shall we? But enough of that. How is life, marshwalkers?”
“I should be promoted to journeyman next week” announced An-Zaw. “It’s about time, too. I was afraid the fools in the Balmora guildhall might actually get promoted first—Skink is a much more demanding guild steward, but the rewards are worth it.”
“How is Skink? I haven’t been to Sadrith Mora since that incident with the guard.”
“Which incident?”
“Those silly hospitality papers.”
“Oh… that one. Skink is as well as one can be in Telvanni territory. He is trying to study the Sixth House, I think.”
“The Sixth House… I’ve seen something of it. But that can wait. Is the Council of Mages going to wise up and appoint him Arch-mage?”
“No, the imperial flathead is still in charge, for whatever that’s worth. You’d think some Telvanni hedge wizard would have roasted him by now, but they’ve shown unfortunate restraint.”
“I could just kill him.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took a big pull of flin. “Come on, friends, I’m only kidding.”
Hides His Eyes broke the silence, “How can you jest about murder, Heik-Auri? How do you sleep at night, in your profession?”
“I don’t. Not usually. But I don’t want to talk about that. What have you been up to, Haj-Ei?”
“The usual. I lead that damn fool Daric Bielle up and down the Ashlands for the last week or so. Idiot is still looking for his ‘slave’. I should just leave him out there, but he pays surprisingly well.”
“And you think me bold? You think he will never recognize you?”
“Oh, he would, if he was sober. But he never is. I make sure to pack plenty of mazte on our ‘slave-hunting’ expeditions. I don’t worry much about myself. But you, friend, why must you always court trouble? What have you been up to, anyway?”
“I freed four slaves yesterday.”
Hides His Eyes smiled, “Fighting the good fight, eh?”
“I killed thirteen smugglers, too. Eight in the cavern of Zainsipilu—that’s where I found the slaves. My crossbow took the redguard just inside the door, and the dunmer shortly after. I surprised the she-bosmer, so she died by my dagger. A nord was guarding the slaves. I filled him with bolts. I did the same to the orc female—she came charging right at me, but from too far. I drank some sujamma after that one—I don’t know why. I just picked it and gulped it down. I don’t really remember how I killed the next two—dunmer, they were; the male was a thief, I think, because he carried a nice pick. The female… I don’t know. The ringleader was an imperial, at least I think so. They all sound so haughty, even the paupers, so it’s hard to tell. But he was sensitive to viper-bolts.
"Later, I walked along the coast. I found five nord smugglers and their ship. They didn’t have any slaves, but I’m sure they must run a few—everyone on the Bitter Coast does it. I cut all their throats—the bigger they are, the harder they fall, right? It wasn’t hard. I don’t regret killing them, I think. They were carrying ebony—a crime against the Emperor—and ash statues. The Sixth House, friends.”
For a few moments, quiet reigned. The publican, Ashumanu Eraishah, cleaned a few glasses in the back of the bar, while the bard in the far corner tuned his lute, preparing for the evening crowds. A slow, sporadic drumming on the roof was audible—it was starting to rain.
An-Zaw was the first to speak. “Really, my friend, how can you sleep at night?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of flin, then stared into the bottle. “I really don’t, friends. Not anymore.”
Distasteful Business
“Don’t they have guards in Dagon Fel? Why can’t they just arrest him?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of brandy, and was disappointed to find the bottle nearly empty. “Do you have another one, Elone?”
“Here. I’ll put it on your tab.” The redguard pulled another bottle of brandy out from under the bar. “The guards can’t arrest Sorkvild. Necromancy isn’t actually illegal.”
“They could make his life harder, though.” He took the proffered bottle. “Don’t they do that everywhere else?”
“Well, they’re a little afraid, I think. There aren’t many guards in Dagon Fel, and the Empire isn’t about to devote more to such a backwater. And necromancers are so creepy.” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Alright, I’ll take care of it. But I can’t say I’m too crazy about necromancers myself.”
------------------------------------------------------
Dagon Fel is indeed a backwater, even by the standards of Vvardenfell. Or at least, this is what I’m thinking when I step off the boat and gaze over a town with one main street overgrown with grass, lined with dirty wooden shacks. And nords. But who am I to talk, born and raised in Black Marsh? Still, this is surely the only place in the province in which the damn dark elves could possibly tolerate such a large contingent from Skyrim. A couple of guards patrol the streets, imperials. Cowards. Maybe I could accomplish this job, I think, by isolating one of the guards and blaming his death on the necromancer. Then the softskins would have to take action against him. Ridiculous thought, of course. It couldn’t work—I have no skill in conjuration—and I wouldn’t really be doing my job, would I?
As I step off the gangplank I accost the nearest nord, a red-haired female. “Where’s the tavern, here?”
She looks flummoxed for a moment, but then points to the west. I suppose my kind is not seen here particularly often. “End of the World. It’s next to the guard tower.”
“Thank you.” I will have to stop in, after my work is done. It would be remiss of me to not inspect all the local drinking establishments.
But first, business. I make my way out of the village, to the southeast, between a gap in the hills, and into the evening shadows. It isn’t much more than a minute’s walk to Sorkvild’s Tower—an old brass minaret of dwemer origin, with a rat loitering about the door. I cast a fireball, and the rat scurries away. So far, so good. I’m up at the door now—I’m sure that it’s creaky, so I cast a short spell of silence so I can open it quietly, slowly. Thankfully, no one is in immediate sight of the door. I creep down the stairs a short way, blades at the ready.
The layout—ahead of me is large room, a hulking figure in bonemold standing next to a grand central support beam, facing away from me. Probably a nord. I hear a footsteps to my left and right also, from opposite ends of the hallway, I think. They are not approaching, which suits me just fine—I’ll look them up shortly. But first, the nord. He must be thirty paces distant. I think of my crossbow, but the falling body will surely be noisy, armored as it is. No, I creep forward, synchronizing my footsteps with the creaking and moaning of the tower as it is buffeted by the wind. I am upon him; I reach around and cover his mouth with my right hand—my ebony blade now sheathed—as I rake Kills-You-Dead, my daedric dagger, across his throat. His body stiffens for a moment, resisting, crying to call out; but he goes limp, and falls into my arms with nary a sound. One down.
I make my way to the far side of the room, where it connects the hallway, it appears. At the far end of the corridor stands a youngish female dunmer, in a robe—it looks enchanted, like frostguard or something of that ilk. She’s probably a mage, and she is surely unarmored. She’s not quite looking this way, but not quite looking away, either… now it is time for the crossbow, its dwemer metal blending so perfectly with its surroundings, as it should. I ready a pair of viperbolts, and nose the sights around the corner, probing for her throat. I’ve got an oblique shot at it—it’ll have to do. The first bolt flies; it cuts straight through the throat, probably severing the jugular, but she still stands, clutching at it, desperately trying to heal. My second shot finds her heart, and she slumps against the wall, the life silently leaving her. Two down.
I can still hear a few footsteps over the sound of creaking dwemer metal—and machinery. But they do not draw closer; I am still undetected. I draw both blades again, and sneak to the other end of the long hallway—I can see the light from what must be another room, casting a faint glow upon the caved-in rocks in the corridor’s corner. The sound of machinery grows louder, all the better for me to remain unheard. I steal a peek around the corner; a figure in chitin and netch leather armor sits fifteen paces ahead, playing a solitary game of cards at a metallic table. A very short figure; must be a bosmer male. It is quite the eclectic group that Sorkvild has assembled here, I’m thinking. But out comes the crossbow. Again, I aim for the throat; best to silence a foe, even if he doesn’t die immediately. I fire—and he shifts in his seat! The bolt grazes the back of his neck, and now he knows and he is up, ebony shortword drawn. He shouts and charges; I drop the crossbow and pull out my blades and move quickly into the room to buy space to maneuver. He raises the shortsword to swing, to bring down upon my shoulder, across my chest—I block it with Kills-You-Dead, the serrated blade locking it in place as I plunge my own ebony into his heart, straight through his chitin. Three down.
The deed done, I pick up my foe’s weapon. It is enchanted with a restorative of some kind. If I don’t use it, it will at least barter well. “I’ll be keeping this blade of yours, wood elf. My thanks.” I whisper to the air.
I walk back into the main room, and study the ladder and trap door at the rear. My target is surely up there, in the highest heights of the tower. I very much dislike trap doors; he could be waiting up there right now, with some blasphemous revenant ready to play ‘whack-an-assassin’. Still, I hear no stirring above, despite the shouts of my last victim. But it could be a piece of deception, he could be silently waiting for me… or I could be getting carried away by the overactive workings of my mind. There are few minds more paranoid than that of the assassin, I sometimes think… or it could just be me. Perhaps my history has lead me inexorably down the path of paranoia?
I study the room further; two metal tables grab my attention. The one nearest me, immediately north of the ladder, supports some limeware, including a most elegant platter. These necromancers live rather well here, I think. Or used to live. I pull the limeware off the table, and move it to the other table, on the opposite side of the room. It’ll be safe there. Returning to the first table, now clear, I lift one side off the floor; it is lighter than I expected. These dwemer were fine craftsmen indeed. It will suit my purposes well. I settle down beside it to wait—to wait for the Raven to leave his nest.
------------------------------------------------------
An hour passes. A call comes from above. “Hlora, lad. Could you bring me those scarab plans? I wish to study them.” A minute passes. “Hlora?”
I wriggled underneath the table, hidden from the trap door. The old brass hinges cry in pain as it opens. “Hlora? Where the devil…” He must see the body on the floor; I hear him utter a faint curse, and draw… an axe, I think. Fine, no problem. I hear his footsteps now, going down the ladder—he is vulnerable. Now for the spell, the spell of sound…..
“Sorkvild!!!!!”
I throw the table up and out at the necromancer, knocking him off the ladder, down on the floor. In one bound I am upon him, blades drawn—he is trying to get up, to bring his axe into play—I kick him back against the wall, weaponless. Before he can recover, Kills-You-Dead opens up his throat; my ebony opens up his heart. The necromancer is dead; my mark, a red-headed face-painted robe-wearing axe-wielding hulk of a nord.
I take a couple steps back, and almost trip over his dwemer axe. Staggering, I look around me. Such an odd place… I wonder what’s up there? Past the trap door, I mean. I climb the ladder, take a peek inside. Red light, sickly red light is what I see. Skeletons. I feel vaguely ill—strange that I should feel this way, killer that I am. Maybe it is the prospect of an impermanent death that I find so distasteful—the idea that someone I kill might walk again? Ugh. I don’t know. This whole business is distasteful.
But my distaste does not prevent me from liberating a daedric dagger, and a rather curious helm, before leaving. It is a distasteful business, but it is my business. My trophies will buy many drinks. But never enough.
“Don’t they have guards in Dagon Fel? Why can’t they just arrest him?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took another sip of brandy, and was disappointed to find the bottle nearly empty. “Do you have another one, Elone?”
“Here. I’ll put it on your tab.” The redguard pulled another bottle of brandy out from under the bar. “The guards can’t arrest Sorkvild. Necromancy isn’t actually illegal.”
“They could make his life harder, though.” He took the proffered bottle. “Don’t they do that everywhere else?”
“Well, they’re a little afraid, I think. There aren’t many guards in Dagon Fel, and the Empire isn’t about to devote more to such a backwater. And necromancers are so creepy.” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Alright, I’ll take care of it. But I can’t say I’m too crazy about necromancers myself.”
------------------------------------------------------
Dagon Fel is indeed a backwater, even by the standards of Vvardenfell. Or at least, this is what I’m thinking when I step off the boat and gaze over a town with one main street overgrown with grass, lined with dirty wooden shacks. And nords. But who am I to talk, born and raised in Black Marsh? Still, this is surely the only place in the province in which the damn dark elves could possibly tolerate such a large contingent from Skyrim. A couple of guards patrol the streets, imperials. Cowards. Maybe I could accomplish this job, I think, by isolating one of the guards and blaming his death on the necromancer. Then the softskins would have to take action against him. Ridiculous thought, of course. It couldn’t work—I have no skill in conjuration—and I wouldn’t really be doing my job, would I?
As I step off the gangplank I accost the nearest nord, a red-haired female. “Where’s the tavern, here?”
She looks flummoxed for a moment, but then points to the west. I suppose my kind is not seen here particularly often. “End of the World. It’s next to the guard tower.”
“Thank you.” I will have to stop in, after my work is done. It would be remiss of me to not inspect all the local drinking establishments.
But first, business. I make my way out of the village, to the southeast, between a gap in the hills, and into the evening shadows. It isn’t much more than a minute’s walk to Sorkvild’s Tower—an old brass minaret of dwemer origin, with a rat loitering about the door. I cast a fireball, and the rat scurries away. So far, so good. I’m up at the door now—I’m sure that it’s creaky, so I cast a short spell of silence so I can open it quietly, slowly. Thankfully, no one is in immediate sight of the door. I creep down the stairs a short way, blades at the ready.
The layout—ahead of me is large room, a hulking figure in bonemold standing next to a grand central support beam, facing away from me. Probably a nord. I hear a footsteps to my left and right also, from opposite ends of the hallway, I think. They are not approaching, which suits me just fine—I’ll look them up shortly. But first, the nord. He must be thirty paces distant. I think of my crossbow, but the falling body will surely be noisy, armored as it is. No, I creep forward, synchronizing my footsteps with the creaking and moaning of the tower as it is buffeted by the wind. I am upon him; I reach around and cover his mouth with my right hand—my ebony blade now sheathed—as I rake Kills-You-Dead, my daedric dagger, across his throat. His body stiffens for a moment, resisting, crying to call out; but he goes limp, and falls into my arms with nary a sound. One down.
I make my way to the far side of the room, where it connects the hallway, it appears. At the far end of the corridor stands a youngish female dunmer, in a robe—it looks enchanted, like frostguard or something of that ilk. She’s probably a mage, and she is surely unarmored. She’s not quite looking this way, but not quite looking away, either… now it is time for the crossbow, its dwemer metal blending so perfectly with its surroundings, as it should. I ready a pair of viperbolts, and nose the sights around the corner, probing for her throat. I’ve got an oblique shot at it—it’ll have to do. The first bolt flies; it cuts straight through the throat, probably severing the jugular, but she still stands, clutching at it, desperately trying to heal. My second shot finds her heart, and she slumps against the wall, the life silently leaving her. Two down.
I can still hear a few footsteps over the sound of creaking dwemer metal—and machinery. But they do not draw closer; I am still undetected. I draw both blades again, and sneak to the other end of the long hallway—I can see the light from what must be another room, casting a faint glow upon the caved-in rocks in the corridor’s corner. The sound of machinery grows louder, all the better for me to remain unheard. I steal a peek around the corner; a figure in chitin and netch leather armor sits fifteen paces ahead, playing a solitary game of cards at a metallic table. A very short figure; must be a bosmer male. It is quite the eclectic group that Sorkvild has assembled here, I’m thinking. But out comes the crossbow. Again, I aim for the throat; best to silence a foe, even if he doesn’t die immediately. I fire—and he shifts in his seat! The bolt grazes the back of his neck, and now he knows and he is up, ebony shortword drawn. He shouts and charges; I drop the crossbow and pull out my blades and move quickly into the room to buy space to maneuver. He raises the shortsword to swing, to bring down upon my shoulder, across my chest—I block it with Kills-You-Dead, the serrated blade locking it in place as I plunge my own ebony into his heart, straight through his chitin. Three down.
The deed done, I pick up my foe’s weapon. It is enchanted with a restorative of some kind. If I don’t use it, it will at least barter well. “I’ll be keeping this blade of yours, wood elf. My thanks.” I whisper to the air.
I walk back into the main room, and study the ladder and trap door at the rear. My target is surely up there, in the highest heights of the tower. I very much dislike trap doors; he could be waiting up there right now, with some blasphemous revenant ready to play ‘whack-an-assassin’. Still, I hear no stirring above, despite the shouts of my last victim. But it could be a piece of deception, he could be silently waiting for me… or I could be getting carried away by the overactive workings of my mind. There are few minds more paranoid than that of the assassin, I sometimes think… or it could just be me. Perhaps my history has lead me inexorably down the path of paranoia?
I study the room further; two metal tables grab my attention. The one nearest me, immediately north of the ladder, supports some limeware, including a most elegant platter. These necromancers live rather well here, I think. Or used to live. I pull the limeware off the table, and move it to the other table, on the opposite side of the room. It’ll be safe there. Returning to the first table, now clear, I lift one side off the floor; it is lighter than I expected. These dwemer were fine craftsmen indeed. It will suit my purposes well. I settle down beside it to wait—to wait for the Raven to leave his nest.
------------------------------------------------------
An hour passes. A call comes from above. “Hlora, lad. Could you bring me those scarab plans? I wish to study them.” A minute passes. “Hlora?”
I wriggled underneath the table, hidden from the trap door. The old brass hinges cry in pain as it opens. “Hlora? Where the devil…” He must see the body on the floor; I hear him utter a faint curse, and draw… an axe, I think. Fine, no problem. I hear his footsteps now, going down the ladder—he is vulnerable. Now for the spell, the spell of sound…..
“Sorkvild!!!!!”
I throw the table up and out at the necromancer, knocking him off the ladder, down on the floor. In one bound I am upon him, blades drawn—he is trying to get up, to bring his axe into play—I kick him back against the wall, weaponless. Before he can recover, Kills-You-Dead opens up his throat; my ebony opens up his heart. The necromancer is dead; my mark, a red-headed face-painted robe-wearing axe-wielding hulk of a nord.
I take a couple steps back, and almost trip over his dwemer axe. Staggering, I look around me. Such an odd place… I wonder what’s up there? Past the trap door, I mean. I climb the ladder, take a peek inside. Red light, sickly red light is what I see. Skeletons. I feel vaguely ill—strange that I should feel this way, killer that I am. Maybe it is the prospect of an impermanent death that I find so distasteful—the idea that someone I kill might walk again? Ugh. I don’t know. This whole business is distasteful.
But my distaste does not prevent me from liberating a daedric dagger, and a rather curious helm, before leaving. It is a distasteful business, but it is my business. My trophies will buy many drinks. But never enough.
Good Work! I didnt comment at the last story, sorry. (Puts two thumbs up in the air.)
Keep 'em coming! There are plenty of marks on Vvardenfell!
Keep 'em coming! There are plenty of marks on Vvardenfell!
I always found it wierd that a mask that looks so scary/freaky would actually RAISE your personality. Enchantments are funny!
But as Black has said, great work with this update. You definitely write the psyche of Al very well.
But as Black has said, great work with this update. You definitely write the psyche of Al very well.
Sorkvild and his gang were pretty mean most times around. The first time, I was still getting my bearings when Sorkvild cracked my skull. The next time I had Adrenaline rush going and went all-out. It was worth it though, Daedric helmets are cool. (though the masque is the least intimidating of the bunch)
And I liked the latest installment. If only we could do a waitingcontest in Morrowind, battles would be a lot more interesting (or boring, depends on who you ask.)
And I liked the latest installment. If only we could do a waitingcontest in Morrowind, battles would be a lot more interesting (or boring, depends on who you ask.)
A New Year's gift, from me to you!
Divine Intervention
It was late, perhaps two in the morning, when I stepped into the End of the World. I had been informed that it was the local tavern. I was looking forward to a bit of brandy, and a warm bed. I approached the woman behind the counter, a blonde nord lass, with a smile on my face.
“Beg your pardon at this late hour, miss, but I could trouble you for a bottle of brandy and a room for the night?”
She frowned and replied saucily, “We’re all out of brandy, stranger. I’ve got a bottle of flin and a bottle of greef. And I don’t rent rooms this late. I was going to go to bed myself.”
My heart sank and my temper rose. “Flin, then. And good night.” I took my bottle and stepped out into the night, as the woman locked up. Well, this won’t do, I thought as I stood out in the cold night, drinking my flin. So, when I finished when I had downed the bottle, I pulled out a pick and approached the door. A very simple lock, of course—no one wants to prepare a completely pick-proof lock each night before going to bed. Once in, it was a simple manner to walk upstairs, find an unoccupied room, and break into it. I had my bed for the night.
----------------------------------------------------
A few stray rays of light penetrated my window. It was morning, time to get moving. I gathered up my gear and opened the window. No one in sight, and a fine fog caressed the landscape. I hopped out the window, then made my way to the door of the inn. Why not? I needed breakfast.
As I suspected, the morning shift was up, a brawny red-headed nord man. “Top of the morning, argonian.” he greeted me. “What can I do for you?”
I smiled. “Good morning, sera. I was looking for breakfast. Do you have crab’s meat and kwama eggs?”
“Of course. This is Morrowind!” He rummaged about behind the counter a moment, then set a skillet full of crab meat over the fire, followed soon by a skillet of scrambled kwama eggs. I took a seat at the bar, next to a red-haired nord woman in netch leather armor—she was having eggs herself.
“Oh, hey there! Another argonian.” She spoke, looking up from her breakfast.
“Another?”
“Yes, very strange. Don’t see too many of your kind around here. But just the other day I saw a veritable caravan of argonians and khajiit walking down toward Rotheran. With a bunch of dark elves.”
Slaves.
“I see. I’m sorry, but I’m new to these parts, miss—“
“Hreirek. The Lean.”
“Hreirek. As I was saying, I don’t really know my way around. Where exactly is this Rotheran?”
---------------------------------------------------
Just within sight of the old dunmer fortress of Rotheran I encountered a wooden door in the hillside, facing southeast—‘Surirulk’ carved into the frame. A smuggler’s cave—probably connected to the slavers, I thought. I cast a spell of silence upon the door—being cautious—and eased it slowly open. I saw a dunmer some distance ahead of me, but no one immediately by the door. I stepped inside the tunnel and pulled out my crossbow—crouching, aiming between my mark’s shoulders. I released the viper-bolt, and he released the life from his body. I continued through the tunnel, silently, cutting down two more dark elves, both unarmored. One was armed only with a lute. Something wasn’t right here.
But I was set on my course. I eventually came upon a large open chamber, stairs leading down to a walkway that spanned the room and lead into two smaller chambers. Past that, down another set of stairs, stood another dark elf. Still no sign of the slaves—but no time to think about that; I had a sharply downhill shot on my hands, always tricky. But again, my shot was true. I crept down the stairs, and dropped three more dunmer, one to each side, and one in another chamber ahead. They all fell on one shot, and made no sound—it was like slaughtering scribs.
No, not even like that. At least the scrib has the courtesy to fly apart in pieces, an entertaining, if a little gruesome, side-benefit. These dunmer just dropped, dead.
I found no slaves. Instead, I looted potions, gold, and gems from the wooden crates scattered about the cave. I found a bottle of brandy and drank it, sitting on a chest, not fifteen feet from one of the smugglers bleeding upon the stone.
---------------------------------------------------
“Please. Llaren Terano is a sorcerer and worshipper of Molag Bal. He is a terrible sorcerer, but he also carries a deadly sword. He stripped me and made me his prisoner. That's all I can remember. I can't recall how I got here, or why. I think he has poisoned my mind with spells. If you can recover my ring from Llaren Terano, I can use its enchantments to escape. Please, rescue these slaves, too, if you can. Llaren Terano has their slave key. Bring me my ring. Please.”
These were the words of Adusamsi Assurnarairan, when I encountered her deep within Rotheran. I already had her ring, of course, having killed Llaren Terano. I can’t say that I’m especially proud of how I did it, racing about the ruin like some kind of berserker—but let me start from the outside, and work my way in.
The slavers had stationed a pair of sentries atop the ruin, an archer and a warrior, both dunmer females. The archer was nearest, fiddling with her bow, when I crept up and put a viper-bolt through her heart. Thankfully the warrior, sporting a bonemold cuirass, was distracted by the flight of a cliffracer overhead. I aroused her from her reveries with a bolt, then sent her into an entirely different sort of reverie with a second, before she could close the distance.
Then it was a matter of choosing the right door. First I approached a sort of dome—I heard footsteps inside, soft, away from the door. I silenced the door, then gently pulled it open, blades at the ready. A solitary dark elf man was inside, facing away. I crept up behind and cut his throat.
The next door lead into the ‘arena’—that’s what was scratched on the door frame. Again, I managed to step inside unnoticed—my good fortune in this regard continues to amaze me. I was greeted by a ramp, angling down away from me, yet another dunmer man at the bottom. I crept down the slope a bit, blades again at the ready… to discover yet another dunmer was standing about fifteen feet from the first, at my left—and that I was in huge space, practically teeming with enemies. I counted at least four more enemies, at a distance, standing at vantage points over the arena. What had I gotten myself into?
Quickly, before I could be seen, I pulled out my crossbow and placed a shot into the mer to my left, killing him, and another shot into the one directly ahead. Not killing him. He gave a roar and charged at me with sword drawn, as I dropped the crossbow and pulled out my blades yet again. I ducked his swing, and thrust my shortsword into his heart. I heard shouts from all over the ruin, in all directions it seemed. Choosing to go left, I ran down the corridor, hoping to overwhelm my enemies quickly. A pair of dunmer females were coming up the corridor, my way—one readying a spell, the other a bow. I worried more about the bow—I plunged my ebony into her chest as it was being strung, while raking wildly at the sorcerer with Kills-You-Dead. I caught her—the sorcerer I mean—on the arm, breaking up the spell and seizing away her health with my blade’s enchantment. Almost reflexively, the next blow with my shortsword hacked away her head.
Still more shouting, more running. I sprinted down the corridor, to the bottom, where I met a single mer wielding a massive glowing claymore—Llaren Terano. He was just raising the huge blade to strike… so I tackled him, thrusting my ebony into the belly, bringing Kills-You-Dead to his throat. I can almost laugh about it now—the super-stealthy professional assassin rolling around on the floor with his mark! By Akatosh, if Caius ever hears of this…..
But somehow, in the chaos, I managed to kill the sorcerer, and not get cut up myself in the process. As I gathered my bearings and stood once again, an arrow flashed past my ear. The last two! Instead of facing the pair of dunmer racing down my way, I turned and ran around the corner, ran as fast as I could. Of course they would catch me, but as I suspected, the archer fell behind his compatriot. I made a quick stop around the next corner, and caught my most immediate pursuer in the heart with my shortsword as he made the turn. The archer tried to stop—I aided him with a spell of paralysis, and a slash across the throat.
In the midst of all the fighting a dremora and two scamps had been going mad down in the arena. I walked back toward the door, picked up my crossbow, and banished them back to Oblivion.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Yes! That is my ring! Please! It grants me Divine Intervention! Now I can escape! Give it to me NOW! I don't care about anything else... just let me out of here!”
The dunmer woman, an imperial cult member as it turns out, teleported from Rotheran nearly naked. I turned to the freed khajiits and argonians, ten in all. “I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”
Divine Intervention
It was late, perhaps two in the morning, when I stepped into the End of the World. I had been informed that it was the local tavern. I was looking forward to a bit of brandy, and a warm bed. I approached the woman behind the counter, a blonde nord lass, with a smile on my face.
“Beg your pardon at this late hour, miss, but I could trouble you for a bottle of brandy and a room for the night?”
She frowned and replied saucily, “We’re all out of brandy, stranger. I’ve got a bottle of flin and a bottle of greef. And I don’t rent rooms this late. I was going to go to bed myself.”
My heart sank and my temper rose. “Flin, then. And good night.” I took my bottle and stepped out into the night, as the woman locked up. Well, this won’t do, I thought as I stood out in the cold night, drinking my flin. So, when I finished when I had downed the bottle, I pulled out a pick and approached the door. A very simple lock, of course—no one wants to prepare a completely pick-proof lock each night before going to bed. Once in, it was a simple manner to walk upstairs, find an unoccupied room, and break into it. I had my bed for the night.
----------------------------------------------------
A few stray rays of light penetrated my window. It was morning, time to get moving. I gathered up my gear and opened the window. No one in sight, and a fine fog caressed the landscape. I hopped out the window, then made my way to the door of the inn. Why not? I needed breakfast.
As I suspected, the morning shift was up, a brawny red-headed nord man. “Top of the morning, argonian.” he greeted me. “What can I do for you?”
I smiled. “Good morning, sera. I was looking for breakfast. Do you have crab’s meat and kwama eggs?”
“Of course. This is Morrowind!” He rummaged about behind the counter a moment, then set a skillet full of crab meat over the fire, followed soon by a skillet of scrambled kwama eggs. I took a seat at the bar, next to a red-haired nord woman in netch leather armor—she was having eggs herself.
“Oh, hey there! Another argonian.” She spoke, looking up from her breakfast.
“Another?”
“Yes, very strange. Don’t see too many of your kind around here. But just the other day I saw a veritable caravan of argonians and khajiit walking down toward Rotheran. With a bunch of dark elves.”
Slaves.
“I see. I’m sorry, but I’m new to these parts, miss—“
“Hreirek. The Lean.”
“Hreirek. As I was saying, I don’t really know my way around. Where exactly is this Rotheran?”
---------------------------------------------------
Just within sight of the old dunmer fortress of Rotheran I encountered a wooden door in the hillside, facing southeast—‘Surirulk’ carved into the frame. A smuggler’s cave—probably connected to the slavers, I thought. I cast a spell of silence upon the door—being cautious—and eased it slowly open. I saw a dunmer some distance ahead of me, but no one immediately by the door. I stepped inside the tunnel and pulled out my crossbow—crouching, aiming between my mark’s shoulders. I released the viper-bolt, and he released the life from his body. I continued through the tunnel, silently, cutting down two more dark elves, both unarmored. One was armed only with a lute. Something wasn’t right here.
But I was set on my course. I eventually came upon a large open chamber, stairs leading down to a walkway that spanned the room and lead into two smaller chambers. Past that, down another set of stairs, stood another dark elf. Still no sign of the slaves—but no time to think about that; I had a sharply downhill shot on my hands, always tricky. But again, my shot was true. I crept down the stairs, and dropped three more dunmer, one to each side, and one in another chamber ahead. They all fell on one shot, and made no sound—it was like slaughtering scribs.
No, not even like that. At least the scrib has the courtesy to fly apart in pieces, an entertaining, if a little gruesome, side-benefit. These dunmer just dropped, dead.
I found no slaves. Instead, I looted potions, gold, and gems from the wooden crates scattered about the cave. I found a bottle of brandy and drank it, sitting on a chest, not fifteen feet from one of the smugglers bleeding upon the stone.
---------------------------------------------------
“Please. Llaren Terano is a sorcerer and worshipper of Molag Bal. He is a terrible sorcerer, but he also carries a deadly sword. He stripped me and made me his prisoner. That's all I can remember. I can't recall how I got here, or why. I think he has poisoned my mind with spells. If you can recover my ring from Llaren Terano, I can use its enchantments to escape. Please, rescue these slaves, too, if you can. Llaren Terano has their slave key. Bring me my ring. Please.”
These were the words of Adusamsi Assurnarairan, when I encountered her deep within Rotheran. I already had her ring, of course, having killed Llaren Terano. I can’t say that I’m especially proud of how I did it, racing about the ruin like some kind of berserker—but let me start from the outside, and work my way in.
The slavers had stationed a pair of sentries atop the ruin, an archer and a warrior, both dunmer females. The archer was nearest, fiddling with her bow, when I crept up and put a viper-bolt through her heart. Thankfully the warrior, sporting a bonemold cuirass, was distracted by the flight of a cliffracer overhead. I aroused her from her reveries with a bolt, then sent her into an entirely different sort of reverie with a second, before she could close the distance.
Then it was a matter of choosing the right door. First I approached a sort of dome—I heard footsteps inside, soft, away from the door. I silenced the door, then gently pulled it open, blades at the ready. A solitary dark elf man was inside, facing away. I crept up behind and cut his throat.
The next door lead into the ‘arena’—that’s what was scratched on the door frame. Again, I managed to step inside unnoticed—my good fortune in this regard continues to amaze me. I was greeted by a ramp, angling down away from me, yet another dunmer man at the bottom. I crept down the slope a bit, blades again at the ready… to discover yet another dunmer was standing about fifteen feet from the first, at my left—and that I was in huge space, practically teeming with enemies. I counted at least four more enemies, at a distance, standing at vantage points over the arena. What had I gotten myself into?
Quickly, before I could be seen, I pulled out my crossbow and placed a shot into the mer to my left, killing him, and another shot into the one directly ahead. Not killing him. He gave a roar and charged at me with sword drawn, as I dropped the crossbow and pulled out my blades yet again. I ducked his swing, and thrust my shortsword into his heart. I heard shouts from all over the ruin, in all directions it seemed. Choosing to go left, I ran down the corridor, hoping to overwhelm my enemies quickly. A pair of dunmer females were coming up the corridor, my way—one readying a spell, the other a bow. I worried more about the bow—I plunged my ebony into her chest as it was being strung, while raking wildly at the sorcerer with Kills-You-Dead. I caught her—the sorcerer I mean—on the arm, breaking up the spell and seizing away her health with my blade’s enchantment. Almost reflexively, the next blow with my shortsword hacked away her head.
Still more shouting, more running. I sprinted down the corridor, to the bottom, where I met a single mer wielding a massive glowing claymore—Llaren Terano. He was just raising the huge blade to strike… so I tackled him, thrusting my ebony into the belly, bringing Kills-You-Dead to his throat. I can almost laugh about it now—the super-stealthy professional assassin rolling around on the floor with his mark! By Akatosh, if Caius ever hears of this…..
But somehow, in the chaos, I managed to kill the sorcerer, and not get cut up myself in the process. As I gathered my bearings and stood once again, an arrow flashed past my ear. The last two! Instead of facing the pair of dunmer racing down my way, I turned and ran around the corner, ran as fast as I could. Of course they would catch me, but as I suspected, the archer fell behind his compatriot. I made a quick stop around the next corner, and caught my most immediate pursuer in the heart with my shortsword as he made the turn. The archer tried to stop—I aided him with a spell of paralysis, and a slash across the throat.
In the midst of all the fighting a dremora and two scamps had been going mad down in the arena. I walked back toward the door, picked up my crossbow, and banished them back to Oblivion.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Yes! That is my ring! Please! It grants me Divine Intervention! Now I can escape! Give it to me NOW! I don't care about anything else... just let me out of here!”
The dunmer woman, an imperial cult member as it turns out, teleported from Rotheran nearly naked. I turned to the freed khajiits and argonians, ten in all. “I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”
Heh, I bet that with all the running around and the noise, the slavers thought they were dealing with ten Als.
And once again some nice words to end it.
,,I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”
And once again some nice words to end it.
,,I don’t suppose any of you want a robe?”
The Off-day
An argonian lay on the beach just outside Ebonheart, sprawled shirtless upon a brown robe. A straw basket sat at his side, loaded with crab meat, saltrice, marshmarrow, and scrib jerky. A couple bottles of brandy stood next to the basket; another sat in the argonian’s hand. He was looking at… nothing in particular, it seemed; perhaps the few clouds passing lazily across the sky on their way to throw shade on Vivec.
A second argonian approached from the north, from the fortress-city. He fine robes woven from the very best silk that the province had to offer, arranged by its finest artisans. He was nearly upon the beach when the first spoke, not quite shouting but very loud, for such a clear and fine and calm day.
“Im-Kilaya, do you not have better things to do than to trouble me on my off days?”
Im-Kilaya did not stop his approach; instead, he eased his way down the beach, finally sitting next to his countryman. “Marshbrother, you know that I do not mean to bother you. I do come to try to understand you, and to put your mind at ease.”
“At ease? I was at ease, until now, friend.”
“You suspect that I am trying to con you? No, friend, never. Heik-Auri, I think sometimes that you are conning yourself. I think of those marshbrothers and desert walkers who arrived here yesterday, on the boat. I think of them, I wonder what you are doing, Sun-Lingerer, that is so different from what I have proposed.”
“I had nothing to do with them. Nothing.”
“Heik-Auri, my friend, I think it is now you who is trying to con me. Did you not think that I spoke with them, when they came to the mission? I know what it is that you have been doing, and I am pleased, but I am also confused. Why will you not join us? We can give you the support you really need.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun suddenly bolted upright; he held a glowing daedric dagger, viciously serrated, under Im-Kilaya’s throat.
“Enough! I’ve had enough! Just leave me… just leave me alone. Please.” His voice trailed off from savage to near-silence. The blade, he held in place. His eyes, he locked upon Im-Kilaya’s, burning with rage and fear and hope.
“I… I am sorry, Sun-Lingerer, my friend. I am sorry. I will go; I believe I have other business to attend to. I need to arrange passage for ten to Soulrest. I’m sure you understand.”
Im-Kilaya stood, looked about a moment, and walked back to the north. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun did not move for some time, holding the dagger out in front of his eyes, breathing heavily, not sure what to do. His eyes still burned, nearly so red as the slaving dunmer he had sworn his oath against so long ago. Then he looked up into the sky; it was completely clear now, a type of blue yet to be discovered when the clouds had hovered overhead. He dropped the dagger upon the sand, taking up his brandy instead. It was his off-day once again.
An argonian lay on the beach just outside Ebonheart, sprawled shirtless upon a brown robe. A straw basket sat at his side, loaded with crab meat, saltrice, marshmarrow, and scrib jerky. A couple bottles of brandy stood next to the basket; another sat in the argonian’s hand. He was looking at… nothing in particular, it seemed; perhaps the few clouds passing lazily across the sky on their way to throw shade on Vivec.
A second argonian approached from the north, from the fortress-city. He fine robes woven from the very best silk that the province had to offer, arranged by its finest artisans. He was nearly upon the beach when the first spoke, not quite shouting but very loud, for such a clear and fine and calm day.
“Im-Kilaya, do you not have better things to do than to trouble me on my off days?”
Im-Kilaya did not stop his approach; instead, he eased his way down the beach, finally sitting next to his countryman. “Marshbrother, you know that I do not mean to bother you. I do come to try to understand you, and to put your mind at ease.”
“At ease? I was at ease, until now, friend.”
“You suspect that I am trying to con you? No, friend, never. Heik-Auri, I think sometimes that you are conning yourself. I think of those marshbrothers and desert walkers who arrived here yesterday, on the boat. I think of them, I wonder what you are doing, Sun-Lingerer, that is so different from what I have proposed.”
“I had nothing to do with them. Nothing.”
“Heik-Auri, my friend, I think it is now you who is trying to con me. Did you not think that I spoke with them, when they came to the mission? I know what it is that you have been doing, and I am pleased, but I am also confused. Why will you not join us? We can give you the support you really need.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun suddenly bolted upright; he held a glowing daedric dagger, viciously serrated, under Im-Kilaya’s throat.
“Enough! I’ve had enough! Just leave me… just leave me alone. Please.” His voice trailed off from savage to near-silence. The blade, he held in place. His eyes, he locked upon Im-Kilaya’s, burning with rage and fear and hope.
“I… I am sorry, Sun-Lingerer, my friend. I am sorry. I will go; I believe I have other business to attend to. I need to arrange passage for ten to Soulrest. I’m sure you understand.”
Im-Kilaya stood, looked about a moment, and walked back to the north. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun did not move for some time, holding the dagger out in front of his eyes, breathing heavily, not sure what to do. His eyes still burned, nearly so red as the slaving dunmer he had sworn his oath against so long ago. Then he looked up into the sky; it was completely clear now, a type of blue yet to be discovered when the clouds had hovered overhead. He dropped the dagger upon the sand, taking up his brandy instead. It was his off-day once again.
Torches
“I say, Agning, could you serve up another round of brandy?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought yet another empty bottle down upon the bar.
The brawny nord publican grinned his widest, “Aye, be my pleasure Al. But are you sure you haven’t had too much already?”
“Oh, come on. I can drink any man in Ebonheart under the table, and you know it.” The argonian accepted another bottle from the nord’s firm grasp. “Speaking of drinking, I hardly ever see you take a round—you don’t want to partake in your product?”
“Oh, I’ll have a sip of brandy meself every now and again, but the truth be told, I have a hard enough time keeping up inventory as it is. These soldier fellows drink near as much as you, Al.” The nord grinned again, “Though if I had my druthers, I’d import some mead. That be the nectar of the gods.”
The argonian flashed a look of horror. “That swill? You couldn’t pay me to drink it.”
Agning crossed his arms.
“Oh, who am I kidding? I’d drink it. Its alcohol, is it not?” The two of them, argonian and nord, shared a quiet laugh. “Say Joslin, what songs are you playing tonight?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun called to the Breton.
“I’m breaking out a new one tonight,” she called back, “about the glorious savior of Morrowind, the Nerevarine. ‘Tis truly an epic tale!”
“Nerevarine? What—you mean there really is a Nerevarine?”
“You mean you haven’t heard the news? The Nerevarine went to Red Mountain and slew the devil Dagoth Ur, only last week! Have you not noticed the clear skies over Red Mountain?”
“Well, no. But I have been drinking a lot.”
--------------------------------------------------------
It was later, perhaps two hours past sundown. Six Fishes, the finest and only tavern in the fortress city of Ebonheart, was packed with off-duty legionnaires, thirsty traders in the East Empire Company’s employ, and lusty merchant seamen looking for a good time. Joslin, the bard, was playing her epic song, now into the twentieth minute, at times elegant, delicate, almost elegiac, but sometimes fast and fervent, preaching to the listeners’ hearts and feet.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun still loitered at the bar, drinking brandy and making sporadic conversation with the publican.
“Joslin’s really outdone herself this time,” he half-shouted through the music.
Agning nodded, “Aye, that she has. If this Nerevarine fellow is half the man her song makes him seem…..” He did not finish the thought; he kept on nodding his head, in time with the music.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned on his barstool, back to the music. It was a minute more until he noticed the hooded dunmer man sitting next to him, watching. The argonian spoke harshly from the side of his mouth, “I suggest you speak to me now friend, before I get even more drunk and mistake you for a training dummy.”
The dunmer lowered his hood, revealing matted and tousled black hair—he had done some manner of labor, the argonian thought. “My apologies, sera. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you. You see, I need some work done—someone removed.”
The assassin felt a cold pricking sensation up his spine, but betrayed nothing with his eyes. “You must be mistaken. I’m not in that business.”
“But I have it on good authority that you are.”
“You do now? I see. We should go outside, into the night. We’ll find a quiet place to talk. After you.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun motioned to the door.
Stepping out into the night was jarring, the cool breeze and quiet melody of flags in the breeze and torches burning bright a crude departure from the warmth and bustle of the tavern. A single guard patrolled the main avenue, the path to the docks. He was chatting with an attractive imperial lady who was overwise busy securing her fishing boat. The now-hooded argonian exited the tavern after the again-hooded dunmer; he drew his dagger and held it against the mer’s back. “I am not for hire, dunmer. And you shouldn’t know who I am, not at all. But you might yet survive this night. Walk down to the dock, and get on the big boat, Chun-Ook or whatever it’s called. And do be quiet.” The dunmer nodded his head and complied, walking slowly, easily down to the dock, where Nevosi Hlan was preparing to pull in his gangplank for the night.
The argonian called harshly, but quietly, “Shipmaster! You have passengers. Get ready to disembark!”
“But sera, I’m not to shove off until—“
“No, we leave now.” The argonian brandished his other blade, the shortsword.
“Yes, sera. I understand, I think. I—I—I’ll get us under way.”
-----------------------------------------------------
The good ship Chun-Ook sat far from shore, somewhere off the Bitter Coast, as the night drifted on. A pair of lamps lit the top deck, where one dunmer hung upside-down from the mast while another watched the argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun conduct his interrogation.
“Who told you that I was an assassin? Who sent you? You have the hair and hands and body of a laborer—you could not hire me on your own, nor would you. So who was it?”
“Nobody sent me…” the desperation was palpable even in the rough, ashen voice of a dark elf; “I just thought—“
“Liar!” The argonian slapped him upside the head with the flat of his ebony blade. “Who sent you?!” he roared at the captive. Still no answer. “Shipmaster! Bring me that torch, over there! Now!”
“Listen to me now, dunmer. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will be torturing you. First, let me assure you that I have some experience in torturing your kind, going to back to the Dres slave raids… but that’s shouldn’t interest you. But what I’m going to do here is set this flaming torch”—he took one from Nevosi Hlan’s hand— “beneath your head. While your brain cooks, I will be applying frost spells to your feet, legs, and torso. I assure you that it will be quite uncomfortable—most of the subjects, in the old days, either talked after a few moments or started screaming something awful. Then they go insane.” He paused to force the captive’s eyes onto his own, “And I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Arvel! I work at Arvel Plantation! It was my mistress that told me to go to Ebonheart!”
The argonian pulled away the torch. “Go on.”
“Ranes Ienith told her that—“
“Ienith? He works for Orvas Dren.”
The captive nodded fervently, “Yes, sera. Yes.” Then he passed out, hanging with his head to the deck of Chun-Ook.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned to Nevosi Hlan, a wry grin upon his face. “Shipmaster, we will deliver this unfortunate young fool to the mainland. He is to never set foot upon Vvardenfell again.”
“Yes, sera. What port should I make for?”
“Sail west. The nearest village, whatever it may be.” He paused for a moment, in thought. “Shipmaster?”
“Yes, sera.”
“You’ve seen me work before.”
“Yes?” A shadow crept into Nevosi Hlan’s mind.
“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw?” The harsh, raw tone resumed in the argonian’s voice. “Did anyone ever ask about me?”
“Well, no… maybe one time….. Yes. Someone asked about an argonian assassin, in robes, not more than two weeks ago. I—I’m—I didn’t know, sera…” the shipmaster’s voice trailed off.
“What’s your name, shipmaster?”
“Nevosi, sera, Nevosi Hlan. I’m sorry—“
“Shut up, Nevosi. You will never speak of me, or answer any questions about me, to anyone, ever. You understand? The consequences?”
The shipmaster gazed off into the distance, toward the not-yet visible rising sun. “Yes sera, I understand perfectly.”
He looked back at Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. “You don’t need to hold a torch under my head.”
“I say, Agning, could you serve up another round of brandy?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought yet another empty bottle down upon the bar.
The brawny nord publican grinned his widest, “Aye, be my pleasure Al. But are you sure you haven’t had too much already?”
“Oh, come on. I can drink any man in Ebonheart under the table, and you know it.” The argonian accepted another bottle from the nord’s firm grasp. “Speaking of drinking, I hardly ever see you take a round—you don’t want to partake in your product?”
“Oh, I’ll have a sip of brandy meself every now and again, but the truth be told, I have a hard enough time keeping up inventory as it is. These soldier fellows drink near as much as you, Al.” The nord grinned again, “Though if I had my druthers, I’d import some mead. That be the nectar of the gods.”
The argonian flashed a look of horror. “That swill? You couldn’t pay me to drink it.”
Agning crossed his arms.
“Oh, who am I kidding? I’d drink it. Its alcohol, is it not?” The two of them, argonian and nord, shared a quiet laugh. “Say Joslin, what songs are you playing tonight?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun called to the Breton.
“I’m breaking out a new one tonight,” she called back, “about the glorious savior of Morrowind, the Nerevarine. ‘Tis truly an epic tale!”
“Nerevarine? What—you mean there really is a Nerevarine?”
“You mean you haven’t heard the news? The Nerevarine went to Red Mountain and slew the devil Dagoth Ur, only last week! Have you not noticed the clear skies over Red Mountain?”
“Well, no. But I have been drinking a lot.”
--------------------------------------------------------
It was later, perhaps two hours past sundown. Six Fishes, the finest and only tavern in the fortress city of Ebonheart, was packed with off-duty legionnaires, thirsty traders in the East Empire Company’s employ, and lusty merchant seamen looking for a good time. Joslin, the bard, was playing her epic song, now into the twentieth minute, at times elegant, delicate, almost elegiac, but sometimes fast and fervent, preaching to the listeners’ hearts and feet.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun still loitered at the bar, drinking brandy and making sporadic conversation with the publican.
“Joslin’s really outdone herself this time,” he half-shouted through the music.
Agning nodded, “Aye, that she has. If this Nerevarine fellow is half the man her song makes him seem…..” He did not finish the thought; he kept on nodding his head, in time with the music.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned on his barstool, back to the music. It was a minute more until he noticed the hooded dunmer man sitting next to him, watching. The argonian spoke harshly from the side of his mouth, “I suggest you speak to me now friend, before I get even more drunk and mistake you for a training dummy.”
The dunmer lowered his hood, revealing matted and tousled black hair—he had done some manner of labor, the argonian thought. “My apologies, sera. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you. You see, I need some work done—someone removed.”
The assassin felt a cold pricking sensation up his spine, but betrayed nothing with his eyes. “You must be mistaken. I’m not in that business.”
“But I have it on good authority that you are.”
“You do now? I see. We should go outside, into the night. We’ll find a quiet place to talk. After you.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun motioned to the door.
Stepping out into the night was jarring, the cool breeze and quiet melody of flags in the breeze and torches burning bright a crude departure from the warmth and bustle of the tavern. A single guard patrolled the main avenue, the path to the docks. He was chatting with an attractive imperial lady who was overwise busy securing her fishing boat. The now-hooded argonian exited the tavern after the again-hooded dunmer; he drew his dagger and held it against the mer’s back. “I am not for hire, dunmer. And you shouldn’t know who I am, not at all. But you might yet survive this night. Walk down to the dock, and get on the big boat, Chun-Ook or whatever it’s called. And do be quiet.” The dunmer nodded his head and complied, walking slowly, easily down to the dock, where Nevosi Hlan was preparing to pull in his gangplank for the night.
The argonian called harshly, but quietly, “Shipmaster! You have passengers. Get ready to disembark!”
“But sera, I’m not to shove off until—“
“No, we leave now.” The argonian brandished his other blade, the shortsword.
“Yes, sera. I understand, I think. I—I—I’ll get us under way.”
-----------------------------------------------------
The good ship Chun-Ook sat far from shore, somewhere off the Bitter Coast, as the night drifted on. A pair of lamps lit the top deck, where one dunmer hung upside-down from the mast while another watched the argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun conduct his interrogation.
“Who told you that I was an assassin? Who sent you? You have the hair and hands and body of a laborer—you could not hire me on your own, nor would you. So who was it?”
“Nobody sent me…” the desperation was palpable even in the rough, ashen voice of a dark elf; “I just thought—“
“Liar!” The argonian slapped him upside the head with the flat of his ebony blade. “Who sent you?!” he roared at the captive. Still no answer. “Shipmaster! Bring me that torch, over there! Now!”
“Listen to me now, dunmer. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will be torturing you. First, let me assure you that I have some experience in torturing your kind, going to back to the Dres slave raids… but that’s shouldn’t interest you. But what I’m going to do here is set this flaming torch”—he took one from Nevosi Hlan’s hand— “beneath your head. While your brain cooks, I will be applying frost spells to your feet, legs, and torso. I assure you that it will be quite uncomfortable—most of the subjects, in the old days, either talked after a few moments or started screaming something awful. Then they go insane.” He paused to force the captive’s eyes onto his own, “And I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Arvel! I work at Arvel Plantation! It was my mistress that told me to go to Ebonheart!”
The argonian pulled away the torch. “Go on.”
“Ranes Ienith told her that—“
“Ienith? He works for Orvas Dren.”
The captive nodded fervently, “Yes, sera. Yes.” Then he passed out, hanging with his head to the deck of Chun-Ook.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun turned to Nevosi Hlan, a wry grin upon his face. “Shipmaster, we will deliver this unfortunate young fool to the mainland. He is to never set foot upon Vvardenfell again.”
“Yes, sera. What port should I make for?”
“Sail west. The nearest village, whatever it may be.” He paused for a moment, in thought. “Shipmaster?”
“Yes, sera.”
“You’ve seen me work before.”
“Yes?” A shadow crept into Nevosi Hlan’s mind.
“Did you ever tell anyone what you saw?” The harsh, raw tone resumed in the argonian’s voice. “Did anyone ever ask about me?”
“Well, no… maybe one time….. Yes. Someone asked about an argonian assassin, in robes, not more than two weeks ago. I—I’m—I didn’t know, sera…” the shipmaster’s voice trailed off.
“What’s your name, shipmaster?”
“Nevosi, sera, Nevosi Hlan. I’m sorry—“
“Shut up, Nevosi. You will never speak of me, or answer any questions about me, to anyone, ever. You understand? The consequences?”
The shipmaster gazed off into the distance, toward the not-yet visible rising sun. “Yes sera, I understand perfectly.”
He looked back at Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. “You don’t need to hold a torch under my head.”
Oooohh...VERY Assassiny!
Keep it up!
Keep it up!
Al's definitely not an assassin one would like to anger. As his techniques sound quite effective.
Excellent work canis!
Excellent work canis!
Eh, I don't like getting my brains cooked so I think that staying on his good side is a good plan.
Nice update again, with Al investigating the rumours about him.
Nice update again, with Al investigating the rumours about him.
Burning the Midnight Lamp
I sat in my apartment in Ebonheart, candlelight burning low, burning the midnight lamp. Arvel and Dren. What was their game? Trying to smoke me out, be sure of who I was, what I was doing? I remembered the words of that sorry young dunmer, as I prepared to leave him on the mainland coast, near the town of Omayni, not far from Septim’s Gate.
I was to hire you to travel to a cave for a job, along Lake Amaya, near the plantation. I don’t know what was going to be waiting there, they didn’t tell me… honestly, that’s all I know.
A trap, probably, I was thinking. Perhaps they were waiting in that cave even yet, but I doubted it. They would have guessed by now that their ruse had failed. What to do?
I could leave, stay and wait, or stay and fight. My rucksack, loaded with food and booze, sat under my table. I could leave for the mainland, or Cyrodiil, within two hours. I could track down Caius, find a different task, a new province in which I might be of use. Surely there are some imperial nobles who need to be put in their place. Morrowind has its Nerevarine, whoever the hell that is.
I took a sip of brandy. Then there is that letter from Elone, another job I’m sure, but not the one I need, the one I really want. We are always nibbling at the edges here in Vvardenfell, afraid of upsetting this Great House or that, this crime lord or that, this god or that god. It can go on that way forever, it would seem, and it would be prudent. At the very least it means constant work for me, if never very important work. The Blades are always busy, but we never seem to matter. Or so it seemed to me.
I eyed my weapons and armor upon the bed. My ebony shortsword, finely polished and blacker than midnight, in which I can see the pure negative image of myself, I think. Kills-You-Dead, serrated edge clean and sharp, vicious and precise, glowing with its dark light, the weapon upon which I staked my life so many years ago. My crossbow and bolts, calling me to my silent, empty, personal war. Use me, it calls. My blackened chitin sits inert, shapeless, waiting for a decision. War! War! WAR!
By the Nine, I am tired. There was a time when I thought the assassin’s life might be simple; do a little training to keep sharp, take the job, kill the mark, rest and repeat. What a fool I was. Those who live by the blade, whether mighty sword or delicate dagger, are liable to die upon one. And it is seldom simple—the assassin and the warrior are both tools of the powerful, of the political. When we hope to be playing checkers, they are playing chess. And the powers-that-be are always willing to sacrifice their pawns. Even their knights.
The lamps and candles burn low, save one. It suddenly flares, casting its strange blue light upon the rucksack sitting under my table. Then it burns out entirely, fading to black. Its midnight oil is expended.
I sat in my apartment in Ebonheart, candlelight burning low, burning the midnight lamp. Arvel and Dren. What was their game? Trying to smoke me out, be sure of who I was, what I was doing? I remembered the words of that sorry young dunmer, as I prepared to leave him on the mainland coast, near the town of Omayni, not far from Septim’s Gate.
I was to hire you to travel to a cave for a job, along Lake Amaya, near the plantation. I don’t know what was going to be waiting there, they didn’t tell me… honestly, that’s all I know.
A trap, probably, I was thinking. Perhaps they were waiting in that cave even yet, but I doubted it. They would have guessed by now that their ruse had failed. What to do?
I could leave, stay and wait, or stay and fight. My rucksack, loaded with food and booze, sat under my table. I could leave for the mainland, or Cyrodiil, within two hours. I could track down Caius, find a different task, a new province in which I might be of use. Surely there are some imperial nobles who need to be put in their place. Morrowind has its Nerevarine, whoever the hell that is.
I took a sip of brandy. Then there is that letter from Elone, another job I’m sure, but not the one I need, the one I really want. We are always nibbling at the edges here in Vvardenfell, afraid of upsetting this Great House or that, this crime lord or that, this god or that god. It can go on that way forever, it would seem, and it would be prudent. At the very least it means constant work for me, if never very important work. The Blades are always busy, but we never seem to matter. Or so it seemed to me.
I eyed my weapons and armor upon the bed. My ebony shortsword, finely polished and blacker than midnight, in which I can see the pure negative image of myself, I think. Kills-You-Dead, serrated edge clean and sharp, vicious and precise, glowing with its dark light, the weapon upon which I staked my life so many years ago. My crossbow and bolts, calling me to my silent, empty, personal war. Use me, it calls. My blackened chitin sits inert, shapeless, waiting for a decision. War! War! WAR!
By the Nine, I am tired. There was a time when I thought the assassin’s life might be simple; do a little training to keep sharp, take the job, kill the mark, rest and repeat. What a fool I was. Those who live by the blade, whether mighty sword or delicate dagger, are liable to die upon one. And it is seldom simple—the assassin and the warrior are both tools of the powerful, of the political. When we hope to be playing checkers, they are playing chess. And the powers-that-be are always willing to sacrifice their pawns. Even their knights.
The lamps and candles burn low, save one. It suddenly flares, casting its strange blue light upon the rucksack sitting under my table. Then it burns out entirely, fading to black. Its midnight oil is expended.
Nice, you get a good look at Al's state of mind. And of how the Blades operate. Granted, as the Nerevarine you never got a taste of real Blades work. I never thought they would be that careful or stick to the little stuff but it sounds reasonable. If any of the Houses (safe Hlaalu perhaps, and only the not so corrupt elements then.) found out that the Blades have been poking in their bussiness, they would come down on the spies like a Sixth Bell hammer. Any excuse to take down some of the hates Imperials is a good one.
Wow, the sense of mood in that post was crazy good! You can sense the burden on Al and his bitterness.
Great work; I intend to read your next update with earnest!
Great work; I intend to read your next update with earnest!
Sort of a short update today. I have an idea for something that could have been appended to this, but I wanted to keep the mood of this post intact. Once again, I'll be out of town during the week, so don't expect another update until next weekend. After that I ought to be posting more frequently again.
===================
Odd Hours
A-
In the name of Emperor Uriel VII, you are hereby authorized to execute Lorbumol gro-Aglakh. He can be found at the Vivec branch of the Guild of Fighters. The subject is an orc of height about 5 feet 10 inches, weight of about 215 pounds, and usually goes without a shirt. The subject is an armorer and weaponsmith by profession. He is known to leave the guildhall each evening at about 9:00 on his way to the Black Shalk Cornerclub. He returns at odd hours.
Possession of this Imperial Writ of Execution authorizes you to dispose of the subject in any way you see fit, and is legally binding.
-E
-----------------------------------------------------
It was late, perhaps three in the morning, when I entered the grand plaza of Vivec’s Foreign Quarter. A single ordinator stood watch, at the opposite end of plaza, by the Guild of Mages. He was not looking my way, thankfully, as I had opened the door as quietly as I could in my drunken state. Quickly, I made my way to Ralen Tilvur’s shop, opposite the Guild of Fighters. Slinging my crossbow around my back, I slowly scaled the outer wall of the shop building, pressing my tail against the inside wall of the canton for a little boost. Digging into tiny pockmarks in the masonry I eased up to the top, where I was able to conceal myself admirably. Then I made myself comfortable, laying out a spare robe upon which to lie. I was in no rush—I needed to sleep off the brandy anyway.
An argonian runs through the swamp, easily finding the few patches of dry terrain even as the alternatively spiny and sticky vegetation tears at his clothing, a now-shredded brown robe. He looks over his shoulder, and sees and hears the undergrowth behind him moving, tearing, being stomped upon, even as he cannot see his pursuers. A dark glowing daedric dagger is clutched between his scaly fingers in a death grip. He trips and falls.
A cacophony of voices rouses me from uneasy slumber. Briefly a wave of panic washes over my mind, but I fight it back and instead of sitting up I merely turn my head and look to the windows. The sun shines from the east—it is morning. I still have some hours. Since I’m up anyway, I have a little breakfast—a fistful of scrib jerky I pull from a pouch within my robe.
Peaking over the parapet, I spied upon the multitudes crowding the plaza; redguards, dunmer, nords, imperials, bretons, khajiits, a pair of ordinators. One of the redguards passed out fliers; a female khajiit had the shifty eyes of a thief or assassin, always taking in the sightlines. Of course, khajiit always look like that, possibly because they are almost always thieves or assassins. Cause and effect, confused.
No orcs out right now. He’s probably in there right now, Lorbumol gor-Aglakh, hammering out a sword or club or cuirass. But his time will come; in the mean-time I have a bit of a headache, which I need to sleep off. I duck back behind the parapet, and lay my head back down upon my robe.
Rain, hot as guar’s piss, falls upon Tear. It drives the slaves into the ground as surely as do their masters; off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, I think, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. I take aim with my bow, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. I release the arrow.
I wake again, very suddenly, unpleasantly. What the hell is the time? I look to the windows—the sun is down—and quickly pull my crossbow in close, readying a poisoned bolt. A door is opening across the way—I can hear the hinges and the wood protest just a little—and I know that it must be time. Quickly I roll over upon my stomach, bring the crossbow in front of my face and just edging over the parapet. An orc, looking a little sweaty, steps out the door and pulls on a dirty white shirt. His hands are very rough, his eyebrows are singed. He looks up right as the bolt is released, and I think I see the faintest beginnings of a look of surprise and rage upon his face when the bolt lodges itself in his skull and the poison begins to race through his arteries. He falls, heavily.
Quickly, quietly, I gather up my tools while a dunmer woman below shouts in surprise and horror, and the gruff voices of dunmer ordinators issue orders and proclamations of much authority but little meaning. A simple hand gesture and I sit at the bar of Six Fishes.
===================
Odd Hours
A-
In the name of Emperor Uriel VII, you are hereby authorized to execute Lorbumol gro-Aglakh. He can be found at the Vivec branch of the Guild of Fighters. The subject is an orc of height about 5 feet 10 inches, weight of about 215 pounds, and usually goes without a shirt. The subject is an armorer and weaponsmith by profession. He is known to leave the guildhall each evening at about 9:00 on his way to the Black Shalk Cornerclub. He returns at odd hours.
Possession of this Imperial Writ of Execution authorizes you to dispose of the subject in any way you see fit, and is legally binding.
-E
-----------------------------------------------------
It was late, perhaps three in the morning, when I entered the grand plaza of Vivec’s Foreign Quarter. A single ordinator stood watch, at the opposite end of plaza, by the Guild of Mages. He was not looking my way, thankfully, as I had opened the door as quietly as I could in my drunken state. Quickly, I made my way to Ralen Tilvur’s shop, opposite the Guild of Fighters. Slinging my crossbow around my back, I slowly scaled the outer wall of the shop building, pressing my tail against the inside wall of the canton for a little boost. Digging into tiny pockmarks in the masonry I eased up to the top, where I was able to conceal myself admirably. Then I made myself comfortable, laying out a spare robe upon which to lie. I was in no rush—I needed to sleep off the brandy anyway.
An argonian runs through the swamp, easily finding the few patches of dry terrain even as the alternatively spiny and sticky vegetation tears at his clothing, a now-shredded brown robe. He looks over his shoulder, and sees and hears the undergrowth behind him moving, tearing, being stomped upon, even as he cannot see his pursuers. A dark glowing daedric dagger is clutched between his scaly fingers in a death grip. He trips and falls.
A cacophony of voices rouses me from uneasy slumber. Briefly a wave of panic washes over my mind, but I fight it back and instead of sitting up I merely turn my head and look to the windows. The sun shines from the east—it is morning. I still have some hours. Since I’m up anyway, I have a little breakfast—a fistful of scrib jerky I pull from a pouch within my robe.
Peaking over the parapet, I spied upon the multitudes crowding the plaza; redguards, dunmer, nords, imperials, bretons, khajiits, a pair of ordinators. One of the redguards passed out fliers; a female khajiit had the shifty eyes of a thief or assassin, always taking in the sightlines. Of course, khajiit always look like that, possibly because they are almost always thieves or assassins. Cause and effect, confused.
No orcs out right now. He’s probably in there right now, Lorbumol gor-Aglakh, hammering out a sword or club or cuirass. But his time will come; in the mean-time I have a bit of a headache, which I need to sleep off. I duck back behind the parapet, and lay my head back down upon my robe.
Rain, hot as guar’s piss, falls upon Tear. It drives the slaves into the ground as surely as do their masters; off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, I think, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. I take aim with my bow, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. I release the arrow.
I wake again, very suddenly, unpleasantly. What the hell is the time? I look to the windows—the sun is down—and quickly pull my crossbow in close, readying a poisoned bolt. A door is opening across the way—I can hear the hinges and the wood protest just a little—and I know that it must be time. Quickly I roll over upon my stomach, bring the crossbow in front of my face and just edging over the parapet. An orc, looking a little sweaty, steps out the door and pulls on a dirty white shirt. His hands are very rough, his eyebrows are singed. He looks up right as the bolt is released, and I think I see the faintest beginnings of a look of surprise and rage upon his face when the bolt lodges itself in his skull and the poison begins to race through his arteries. He falls, heavily.
Quickly, quietly, I gather up my tools while a dunmer woman below shouts in surprise and horror, and the gruff voices of dunmer ordinators issue orders and proclamations of much authority but little meaning. A simple hand gesture and I sit at the bar of Six Fishes.
Hmm, some recollections there, eh? Al is both quite the sleeper and the assassin it would seem! Curse that brandy! Or not...
Marked
Arrille’s Tradehouse is as lively as ever tonight, which is to say that all the regular customers are in, with a couple of relative strangers wandering about the combination shop and tavern. The conversation flows at a dull roar, not quite squelching the slow soporific ballad emanating from Tandram Andalen’s mandolin. He did not sing; his rough dunmer voice would suffocate all the usual numbers played by the bards of Tamriel. Occasionally Elone, the scout and barkeep, would join him in song—she preferred the traditional hero-songs of Hammerfell but could carry all but the fastest tunes—but tonight she was occupied at the bar, speaking earnestly but quietly with an argonian dressed in a hooded robe black as the night sky.
“He’s dead” she spoke, looking hard at the argonian.
He was turned away from her slightly, and so he did not catch her full meaning. He answered casually, “Of course. When have I failed?”
“That’s not what I mean Al. I know you killed the orc. We trust you to do your work.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Orvas Dren. He was assassinated, along with his entire guard. Your extracurricular activities—“
He cut her short. “I had nothing to do with that. You think I’m that reckless?”
Elone stood, her voice rising slightly, “Reckless? Yes, I do think you’re that reckless! Why—” She stopped herself, sighing. “Fine. If not you, who killed him?”
“How should I know? I was preparing for the job with the orc.”
“Preparing! Do you really expect me to believe that? You’re always ready for a job, you’re so paranoid! If I asked you to kill half of town within the next hour you’d be plenty prepared! Stop lying to me!”
“Fine!” he shouted, “I was there! I killed his Cammona Tong thug guard! I roasted him over a fire! I watched him beg for death! I did everything but cut his throat! But listen to me Elone, listen just this once! I had no choice! They were on to me! Dren, Arvel, the slavers! Should I have just waited for him to come for me again? Would that better serve the Emperor?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was standing now, standing and shouting over everyone around. The bard no longer played and no drinks were being downed. A big, armored nord stepped over to the bar and placed a powerful hand on the argonian’s shoulder.
“That’s enough, lad. Get out of here before you do something you might regret, lizard.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun whipped around and struck the nord upside the head with the flat of his broadsword. “No one can call me lizard!” he screamed. A second nord drew his broadsword, but was sent reeling across the room in the same manner as his countryman. Halfway up the stairs a female dunmer prepared to cast a spell; likewise the imperial battlemage standing in the upstairs corner. The argonian flung throwing stars their way, first striking the imperial on the left shoulder and the dark elf on her right hand, interrupting the spells.
“Stop! Everyone!” Elone stood atop the bar, cheeks red and eyes welling up in rage and sorrow.
Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spoke quietly, “Elone, I’m sorry. But there’s something else you must know. I wasn’t alone. Orvas Dren was a marked mer.” He looked around the room at the wounded. “Now I suppose I am, too. Please send my regrets to Caius.”
He stepped around the prone bodies of nord and dunmer and past the fuming altmer Arrille, out into the night.
Arrille’s Tradehouse is as lively as ever tonight, which is to say that all the regular customers are in, with a couple of relative strangers wandering about the combination shop and tavern. The conversation flows at a dull roar, not quite squelching the slow soporific ballad emanating from Tandram Andalen’s mandolin. He did not sing; his rough dunmer voice would suffocate all the usual numbers played by the bards of Tamriel. Occasionally Elone, the scout and barkeep, would join him in song—she preferred the traditional hero-songs of Hammerfell but could carry all but the fastest tunes—but tonight she was occupied at the bar, speaking earnestly but quietly with an argonian dressed in a hooded robe black as the night sky.
“He’s dead” she spoke, looking hard at the argonian.
He was turned away from her slightly, and so he did not catch her full meaning. He answered casually, “Of course. When have I failed?”
“That’s not what I mean Al. I know you killed the orc. We trust you to do your work.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Orvas Dren. He was assassinated, along with his entire guard. Your extracurricular activities—“
He cut her short. “I had nothing to do with that. You think I’m that reckless?”
Elone stood, her voice rising slightly, “Reckless? Yes, I do think you’re that reckless! Why—” She stopped herself, sighing. “Fine. If not you, who killed him?”
“How should I know? I was preparing for the job with the orc.”
“Preparing! Do you really expect me to believe that? You’re always ready for a job, you’re so paranoid! If I asked you to kill half of town within the next hour you’d be plenty prepared! Stop lying to me!”
“Fine!” he shouted, “I was there! I killed his Cammona Tong thug guard! I roasted him over a fire! I watched him beg for death! I did everything but cut his throat! But listen to me Elone, listen just this once! I had no choice! They were on to me! Dren, Arvel, the slavers! Should I have just waited for him to come for me again? Would that better serve the Emperor?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was standing now, standing and shouting over everyone around. The bard no longer played and no drinks were being downed. A big, armored nord stepped over to the bar and placed a powerful hand on the argonian’s shoulder.
“That’s enough, lad. Get out of here before you do something you might regret, lizard.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun whipped around and struck the nord upside the head with the flat of his broadsword. “No one can call me lizard!” he screamed. A second nord drew his broadsword, but was sent reeling across the room in the same manner as his countryman. Halfway up the stairs a female dunmer prepared to cast a spell; likewise the imperial battlemage standing in the upstairs corner. The argonian flung throwing stars their way, first striking the imperial on the left shoulder and the dark elf on her right hand, interrupting the spells.
“Stop! Everyone!” Elone stood atop the bar, cheeks red and eyes welling up in rage and sorrow.
Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spoke quietly, “Elone, I’m sorry. But there’s something else you must know. I wasn’t alone. Orvas Dren was a marked mer.” He looked around the room at the wounded. “Now I suppose I am, too. Please send my regrets to Caius.”
He stepped around the prone bodies of nord and dunmer and past the fuming altmer Arrille, out into the night.
He marked now? Oh no! Hmm..I wonder who the other guy was at Drens plantation....
Oh, don't pretend not to know, Black. 
It looks like Al is slowly but surely loosing it. If this keeps up, he'd better leave Morrowind before everyone comes down upon him.
It looks like Al is slowly but surely loosing it. If this keeps up, he'd better leave Morrowind before everyone comes down upon him.
I wonder how much Al had to drink that night? Probably a bit to not keep his voice down when discussing murdering the head of the Commona Tong. Looks like it's going to be problems for him here on out.
Yeah, it looks that way. Great story Canis, I've failed to post here before, but I hope to remedy that problem.
Has No Sail
The fire burns lowly and slowly, not giving off much warmth or light but providing some level of comfort and companionship. The Divines know I need it right now, reclining on the rock, gazing across the water to the faint light of Seyda Neen and its beacon lighthouse. How did I end up here? All sorts of vague feelings, associations, and memories swirl through my head, congealing into a great tower of… I don’t know. It is complicated, I suppose. The simple answer is that I hustled out of Ebonheart early this evening with most of my gear in tow. Before setting off in my little rowboat, Has No Sail, I barged into Sirollus Saccus’s smithy to purchase extra bolts and make minor repairs to my armor and weapons.
I think that it may be somewhat ironic that I now camp perhaps a bolt-shot west of the very run-down port in which I destroyed what little peace and comfort I had established in this life. A bolt-shot… hah! I pick up my crossbow, stand, and look to Seyda Neen. A solitary cliffracer hovers over the lighthouse. I aim, high, towards the star-mage. The bolt leaves my dwemer crossbow in pure piercing trajectory—I speak a low ‘thank you’ to the old dwemer smithcrafter and my repairman, Saccus—and flies true to the cliffracer, which drops ever so gently by the lighthouse door.
Then I turn back to the fire, and a bottle of brandy.
--------------------------------------------------
Before the first rays of Magnus the sun could clear Seyda Neen I shove off. The little island is pleasant, but I have no intention to be caught near Seyda Neen in daylight. I harbor some doubt that Elone would have me pursued by the law, but what of the those fighting fools? They would want an accounting.
But I also have a destination in mind, something my old clanbrother Nine-Toes once told me about. A place that would be convenient, yet safe.
I row past the dunmer tomb just northwest of my camp. If I were some fool adventurer I might explore it, questing for gold or artifacts or excitement. But then, I am no adventurer. I have been fortunate in my time on Vvardenfell to never enter such a tomb and have no intention to start doing so now.
I keep rowing, maintaining an easy pace. This would be much easier with a sail, but I’ve never learned to use one properly and, in any case, sails are easily visible—they attract intention. There are countless smuggler’s caves along this Bitter Coast, and most of them are serviced by rowboats. The larger vessels generally stay off-shore, or they stay out of sight of towns and off the main routes of commerce, berthing at mysterious docks within the mystical, mystifying swamp. I had run into one of these ships once, south of Hla Oad.
It is still there. Near mid-day, sun now up and shining into my eyes, I pull harder upon my oars to work my way past the ghost ship. Her crew still lies dead under the deck, their throats opened wide. I shudder for a moment at my own handywork—why can’t I let being be? I had no contract, no mandate to kill those nords. Yet, I tell myself, they were smugglers, probably runners of slaves, and certainly aligned with the thrice-deposed Sixth House. Still, it was a dirty piece of work.
My progress is slow. I can only travel so quickly under my own power… might I take the ship? Absurd thought, of course. I could not possibly handle the craft on my own, and it sure would be a conspicuous way to pull in… and what of the bodies? Dragging them overboard would be such a hassle…
I pass Hla Oad hoping to avoid the eyes of the House Guard, for what is more suspicious to a thug dunmer guard than an argonian in a rowboat? Aside from any khajiit?
------------------------------------------------
I make my second camp on what little flat ground I can find amidst this pile of rocks jutting out of the water, just offshore. I hesitate to camp on this arc of barrier islands which I am astride, for they are littered with daedric and dwemer ruins, locales infested with creatures, daedra, crazed daedra-worshiping dunmer, and worst of all, adventurers.
My barren camp is immediately south of one of these daedric ruins; a flame atronach wanders about well within range of one of my bolts. But there is no point to molesting it, the elemental daedra will not cross the water to molest me, I don’t think, and I aim to stay out of sight and mind. For a while.
------------------------------------------------
The camp of dunmer is sundered and scorched. A single argonian crouches amongst the ruined remains. One dunmer male in chitin is punctured by iron arrows in heart, head, thorax, and throat. He clutches a steel sword close to his breast, perhaps because the hilt is inscribed in elegant script, “To Fardryn, with love…” Closest to the now-extinguished fire a dunmer in a fancy robe is perforated with still-more arrows; two in his heart, one in his eye. He clutches an ebony blade, a shortsword. The argonian works it loose from the mer’s grasp, which has been tightened by rigor mortis, and holds it up to the light.
“Find something you like, Heik-Auri?”
The argonian looks up, startled. Another argonian stands before him, maybe 15 feet away. He is smiling.
“Don’t go sneaking up on me like that, Nine-Toes. It’s not healthy.”
“I know it. But that’s a nice blade there.”
“It is.” Heik-Auri dropped his old iron wakizashi to the ground. “And I’m going to put it to good use.”
------------------------------------------------
I awoke with my ebony in hand. A mudcrab was trying to work its way onto my little isle—I arose and thrust my blade through the carapace, deep into the body core. I guess I’ll be having crab’s meat for breakfast again.
Today I heave off with the sunrise; I am close now, I need not hurry.
-----------------------------------------------
I pull up to the near-crumpled dock at midday. Nine-Toes told me about this shack one time; he said he’d run into it once while mapping the impenetrable swamplands we are so adept at navigating. A few near-empty barrels sit atop the dock, just under the eaves of the old abandoned shack. The shack itself is a mess, but still features a comfortable hammock, many crates, barrels, and baskets for storage, and a very strange book which I proceeded to hurl as far into the Inner Sea as possible from my dock.
In the evening I watch the sun’s warming rays fade out upon the dwarven ruins which form my southeastern skyline. I think that it may be a chilly night.
The fire burns lowly and slowly, not giving off much warmth or light but providing some level of comfort and companionship. The Divines know I need it right now, reclining on the rock, gazing across the water to the faint light of Seyda Neen and its beacon lighthouse. How did I end up here? All sorts of vague feelings, associations, and memories swirl through my head, congealing into a great tower of… I don’t know. It is complicated, I suppose. The simple answer is that I hustled out of Ebonheart early this evening with most of my gear in tow. Before setting off in my little rowboat, Has No Sail, I barged into Sirollus Saccus’s smithy to purchase extra bolts and make minor repairs to my armor and weapons.
I think that it may be somewhat ironic that I now camp perhaps a bolt-shot west of the very run-down port in which I destroyed what little peace and comfort I had established in this life. A bolt-shot… hah! I pick up my crossbow, stand, and look to Seyda Neen. A solitary cliffracer hovers over the lighthouse. I aim, high, towards the star-mage. The bolt leaves my dwemer crossbow in pure piercing trajectory—I speak a low ‘thank you’ to the old dwemer smithcrafter and my repairman, Saccus—and flies true to the cliffracer, which drops ever so gently by the lighthouse door.
Then I turn back to the fire, and a bottle of brandy.
--------------------------------------------------
Before the first rays of Magnus the sun could clear Seyda Neen I shove off. The little island is pleasant, but I have no intention to be caught near Seyda Neen in daylight. I harbor some doubt that Elone would have me pursued by the law, but what of the those fighting fools? They would want an accounting.
But I also have a destination in mind, something my old clanbrother Nine-Toes once told me about. A place that would be convenient, yet safe.
I row past the dunmer tomb just northwest of my camp. If I were some fool adventurer I might explore it, questing for gold or artifacts or excitement. But then, I am no adventurer. I have been fortunate in my time on Vvardenfell to never enter such a tomb and have no intention to start doing so now.
I keep rowing, maintaining an easy pace. This would be much easier with a sail, but I’ve never learned to use one properly and, in any case, sails are easily visible—they attract intention. There are countless smuggler’s caves along this Bitter Coast, and most of them are serviced by rowboats. The larger vessels generally stay off-shore, or they stay out of sight of towns and off the main routes of commerce, berthing at mysterious docks within the mystical, mystifying swamp. I had run into one of these ships once, south of Hla Oad.
It is still there. Near mid-day, sun now up and shining into my eyes, I pull harder upon my oars to work my way past the ghost ship. Her crew still lies dead under the deck, their throats opened wide. I shudder for a moment at my own handywork—why can’t I let being be? I had no contract, no mandate to kill those nords. Yet, I tell myself, they were smugglers, probably runners of slaves, and certainly aligned with the thrice-deposed Sixth House. Still, it was a dirty piece of work.
My progress is slow. I can only travel so quickly under my own power… might I take the ship? Absurd thought, of course. I could not possibly handle the craft on my own, and it sure would be a conspicuous way to pull in… and what of the bodies? Dragging them overboard would be such a hassle…
I pass Hla Oad hoping to avoid the eyes of the House Guard, for what is more suspicious to a thug dunmer guard than an argonian in a rowboat? Aside from any khajiit?
------------------------------------------------
I make my second camp on what little flat ground I can find amidst this pile of rocks jutting out of the water, just offshore. I hesitate to camp on this arc of barrier islands which I am astride, for they are littered with daedric and dwemer ruins, locales infested with creatures, daedra, crazed daedra-worshiping dunmer, and worst of all, adventurers.
My barren camp is immediately south of one of these daedric ruins; a flame atronach wanders about well within range of one of my bolts. But there is no point to molesting it, the elemental daedra will not cross the water to molest me, I don’t think, and I aim to stay out of sight and mind. For a while.
------------------------------------------------
The camp of dunmer is sundered and scorched. A single argonian crouches amongst the ruined remains. One dunmer male in chitin is punctured by iron arrows in heart, head, thorax, and throat. He clutches a steel sword close to his breast, perhaps because the hilt is inscribed in elegant script, “To Fardryn, with love…” Closest to the now-extinguished fire a dunmer in a fancy robe is perforated with still-more arrows; two in his heart, one in his eye. He clutches an ebony blade, a shortsword. The argonian works it loose from the mer’s grasp, which has been tightened by rigor mortis, and holds it up to the light.
“Find something you like, Heik-Auri?”
The argonian looks up, startled. Another argonian stands before him, maybe 15 feet away. He is smiling.
“Don’t go sneaking up on me like that, Nine-Toes. It’s not healthy.”
“I know it. But that’s a nice blade there.”
“It is.” Heik-Auri dropped his old iron wakizashi to the ground. “And I’m going to put it to good use.”
------------------------------------------------
I awoke with my ebony in hand. A mudcrab was trying to work its way onto my little isle—I arose and thrust my blade through the carapace, deep into the body core. I guess I’ll be having crab’s meat for breakfast again.
Today I heave off with the sunrise; I am close now, I need not hurry.
-----------------------------------------------
I pull up to the near-crumpled dock at midday. Nine-Toes told me about this shack one time; he said he’d run into it once while mapping the impenetrable swamplands we are so adept at navigating. A few near-empty barrels sit atop the dock, just under the eaves of the old abandoned shack. The shack itself is a mess, but still features a comfortable hammock, many crates, barrels, and baskets for storage, and a very strange book which I proceeded to hurl as far into the Inner Sea as possible from my dock.
In the evening I watch the sun’s warming rays fade out upon the dwarven ruins which form my southeastern skyline. I think that it may be a chilly night.
An Obsession- Part One
“Where did you get that?” The argonian, arrayed in netch leather armor, asked his compatriot. The other, a slightly taller person-of-the-root wearing chitin, glanced down to the dagger in his grasp.
“It’s a souvenir from Shadowscale training, Nine-Toes. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone about it.”
“I see. Does this mean I can have that ebony blade of yours, Heik-Auri?”
Heik-Auri laughed. “No, clanbrother, I’ll be keeping that one. I intend to use both.”
“Yes, we’ll be needing your blades, friend. The time is nearing.”
“So Gei-Tekri means to go through with the plan?”
Nine-Toes grinned ruefully. “Yes, he does. It’s been his dream—his obsession really. It’s only gotten worse since you’ve been gone. This last raiding season was devastating. Whole families were lost. Some of our own band were taken. We’ve been trying to recruit more fighters, but times are difficult.”
“Do you think raiding Tear will help? We stand to lose a lot if it fails.”
“Either way, I think the situation is untenable. I’m not sure that it is the best approach, but I know that we cannot just sit and wait for them to come to us.”
Heik-Auri held his new blade before himself, rotating it, checking the balance absentmindedly. “No, no we can’t. Tell Gei-Tekri that my blades have returned to seek their vengeance upon the Dres.”
----------------------------------------------------
The encampment, buried deep in the swamp north of Chasecreek, was not more than a scattering of moldy shacks, mud-brick huts, and yurts loosely arranged around a central firepit. The main building, if you could call it that, sat between the two old hist trees which gave the encampment its shelter. A smattering of argonians solemnly wove their way between the shacks and tents, looking to fix their arms or armor or just for a good nourishing meal; whatever was needed to sustain their meager fighting force. Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri emerged from a yurt on the outskirts of camp, discussing the campaign to come.
“It’s the biggest slaveyard in Morrowind” Nine-Toes explained, “so we have a bit of a force problem. We thought about hiring on some mercenaries to augment our forces, but they’re untrustworthy and we really can’t spare the gold anyway. We’re going to recruit best as we can internally and arm ourselves with whatever we can get. You’ll probably have the finest weaponry in the entire raiding party.”
Heik-Auri nodded, “ My blades are good, that’s for sure, but I’d like to upgrade my bow. I think the wood is getting a little moldy and brittle.” He held up a bow hewn from the wood of the hist tree.
“You should have taken better care of it, friend. That bow was your father’s after all.”
“That’s the problem, it’s old. I need something modern, like that crossbow of yours.”
“Ah well, it’s a bit of high maintenance weapon itself. Still, it works well; I picked this steel off the body of a dead legionnaire.”
“A legionnaire?”
“Drowned in a mudslick west of Thorn. I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t really want to know. Took me long enough to get the mud out of the trigger.”
They reached the main building, a low log structure chinked with mud, peat, and whatever else was available, just as a stocky gold-skinned argonian in chainmail stepped out.
“Good morning, Gei-Tekri. How can we serve?” The two younger hist-men bowed their heads.
“I am glad that you are here, Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri, for we are to discuss our final plan of attack this night. You will both be needed, and badly.” He paused, in thought. “Tell me, Heik-Auri. How was Shadowscale training? Might we receive more aid?”
“I regret to inform you that the training did not go as planned, Gei Tekri.” Heik-Auir hung his head. “I think our relations with the Shadowscales may be quite damaged. I am sorry.”
“That is unfortunate. But we haven’t time for regrets or recriminations. We will speak of this again at a more appropriate hour. Right now I need you two to be ready to fight, and soon. Tonight, you will see that this is true. Now I must go. We have reinforcements coming from Tenmar Wall and they must be attended to.”
When the battlechief had gone his way, Heik-Auri turned to his friend and clanbrother. “Tenmar Wall? Just how big a force are we putting together?”
“One does not take on the Dres slavers, in Tear, with just raiding party.”
“Where did you get that?” The argonian, arrayed in netch leather armor, asked his compatriot. The other, a slightly taller person-of-the-root wearing chitin, glanced down to the dagger in his grasp.
“It’s a souvenir from Shadowscale training, Nine-Toes. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone about it.”
“I see. Does this mean I can have that ebony blade of yours, Heik-Auri?”
Heik-Auri laughed. “No, clanbrother, I’ll be keeping that one. I intend to use both.”
“Yes, we’ll be needing your blades, friend. The time is nearing.”
“So Gei-Tekri means to go through with the plan?”
Nine-Toes grinned ruefully. “Yes, he does. It’s been his dream—his obsession really. It’s only gotten worse since you’ve been gone. This last raiding season was devastating. Whole families were lost. Some of our own band were taken. We’ve been trying to recruit more fighters, but times are difficult.”
“Do you think raiding Tear will help? We stand to lose a lot if it fails.”
“Either way, I think the situation is untenable. I’m not sure that it is the best approach, but I know that we cannot just sit and wait for them to come to us.”
Heik-Auri held his new blade before himself, rotating it, checking the balance absentmindedly. “No, no we can’t. Tell Gei-Tekri that my blades have returned to seek their vengeance upon the Dres.”
----------------------------------------------------
The encampment, buried deep in the swamp north of Chasecreek, was not more than a scattering of moldy shacks, mud-brick huts, and yurts loosely arranged around a central firepit. The main building, if you could call it that, sat between the two old hist trees which gave the encampment its shelter. A smattering of argonians solemnly wove their way between the shacks and tents, looking to fix their arms or armor or just for a good nourishing meal; whatever was needed to sustain their meager fighting force. Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri emerged from a yurt on the outskirts of camp, discussing the campaign to come.
“It’s the biggest slaveyard in Morrowind” Nine-Toes explained, “so we have a bit of a force problem. We thought about hiring on some mercenaries to augment our forces, but they’re untrustworthy and we really can’t spare the gold anyway. We’re going to recruit best as we can internally and arm ourselves with whatever we can get. You’ll probably have the finest weaponry in the entire raiding party.”
Heik-Auri nodded, “ My blades are good, that’s for sure, but I’d like to upgrade my bow. I think the wood is getting a little moldy and brittle.” He held up a bow hewn from the wood of the hist tree.
“You should have taken better care of it, friend. That bow was your father’s after all.”
“That’s the problem, it’s old. I need something modern, like that crossbow of yours.”
“Ah well, it’s a bit of high maintenance weapon itself. Still, it works well; I picked this steel off the body of a dead legionnaire.”
“A legionnaire?”
“Drowned in a mudslick west of Thorn. I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t really want to know. Took me long enough to get the mud out of the trigger.”
They reached the main building, a low log structure chinked with mud, peat, and whatever else was available, just as a stocky gold-skinned argonian in chainmail stepped out.
“Good morning, Gei-Tekri. How can we serve?” The two younger hist-men bowed their heads.
“I am glad that you are here, Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri, for we are to discuss our final plan of attack this night. You will both be needed, and badly.” He paused, in thought. “Tell me, Heik-Auri. How was Shadowscale training? Might we receive more aid?”
“I regret to inform you that the training did not go as planned, Gei Tekri.” Heik-Auir hung his head. “I think our relations with the Shadowscales may be quite damaged. I am sorry.”
“That is unfortunate. But we haven’t time for regrets or recriminations. We will speak of this again at a more appropriate hour. Right now I need you two to be ready to fight, and soon. Tonight, you will see that this is true. Now I must go. We have reinforcements coming from Tenmar Wall and they must be attended to.”
When the battlechief had gone his way, Heik-Auri turned to his friend and clanbrother. “Tenmar Wall? Just how big a force are we putting together?”
“One does not take on the Dres slavers, in Tear, with just raiding party.”
Ah-Ha! Youre post machinng it up!!
I like both updates. Soul Searching is a difficult thing.
The last one, showing a connection between Heik-Auri and his weapons, reminds me of the Samurai Tradition of considering ones Sword to be both alive, and an extension of ones soul. Likely, it was to blame the sword for taking lives, for psychological reasons, as I imagine many Assassins would do.
Great Stuff.
P.S. I see someone has killed Nine-Toes to see what he has in his inventory before! (Guilty!!)
I like both updates. Soul Searching is a difficult thing.
The last one, showing a connection between Heik-Auri and his weapons, reminds me of the Samurai Tradition of considering ones Sword to be both alive, and an extension of ones soul. Likely, it was to blame the sword for taking lives, for psychological reasons, as I imagine many Assassins would do.
Great Stuff.
P.S. I see someone has killed Nine-Toes to see what he has in his inventory before! (Guilty!!)
Actually, since I play on PC, I just looked into his inventory via the Construction Set. The CS makes writing the story go a lot smoother, I find, because some things are a pain to play-test (especially if you need to go back and check something) and because it's possible to copy-paste dialogue (like in the case of Adusamsi, in Rotheran).
I should also give some praise to The Imperial Library, which has maps of Tamriel that make it possible for me to reference place names outside of Vvardenfell.
And thanks everyone for your comments and praise, which I will strive to live up to here. You can expect this little foray into Black Marsh to last for at least a few posts, I think, and I hope to really make it live.
I should also give some praise to The Imperial Library, which has maps of Tamriel that make it possible for me to reference place names outside of Vvardenfell.
And thanks everyone for your comments and praise, which I will strive to live up to here. You can expect this little foray into Black Marsh to last for at least a few posts, I think, and I hope to really make it live.
Yeah, the CS is a fanfic writer's best friend. At least when the story takes place in Morrowind. I don't have the Oblivion CS and I don't plan on getting it without the game.
I like the 'flashback'. Insight in a character's history is never a bad thing.
I like the 'flashback'. Insight in a character's history is never a bad thing.
An Obsession - Part Two
The encampment grew by the hour, swelling with ranks of the hist-folk from across Argonia’s northern marshes. By evening the lonely patch of earth within the dismal swamp supported a force of 70 or 80 betmer. They all gathered around the central fire pit, craning for space and a glimpse of faces both familiar and not. The battlechief Gei-Tekri stood closest to the fire, nearest the mid-point of the great circle.
“I am pleased that you could all make it, friends and comrades, in this time of great need. We have resisted the Dres slave raiders for as long as we can remember, and even longer still. This is what the Hist tell us, and what we all know in our hearts. Is there not one of us who has not known one taken into brutal servitude?”
No one spoke, for there were none present who had not experienced such loss, the inexplicable vanishing of brother or sister, mother or father, son or daughter. Most of the assembled stared down at their feet. Eyes boiled and burned in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire and hate and vengeance.
“There is no one. I myself have lost my entire family to the Dres, as you all know. I returned home from my hunting to find my family stolen, my home leveled and burned, my entire village despoiled. The elderly, the sick, those who could not make slaves were instead killed. You know of what I speak. You have all seen it.
“I know that a few of you have been enslaved and escaped, only to return to fight here. I thank you now for your courage and strength, and for the information which you provide. Your sacrifice will be repaid soon! I swear it!
“We cannot undo that which was done, but we can ensure that it will never be done again. Not here! Now we take the fight to the Dres! Now we make them feel our pain four-fold! We will free our people, and Tear will burn to the ground!”
The encampment grew by the hour, swelling with ranks of the hist-folk from across Argonia’s northern marshes. By evening the lonely patch of earth within the dismal swamp supported a force of 70 or 80 betmer. They all gathered around the central fire pit, craning for space and a glimpse of faces both familiar and not. The battlechief Gei-Tekri stood closest to the fire, nearest the mid-point of the great circle.
“I am pleased that you could all make it, friends and comrades, in this time of great need. We have resisted the Dres slave raiders for as long as we can remember, and even longer still. This is what the Hist tell us, and what we all know in our hearts. Is there not one of us who has not known one taken into brutal servitude?”
No one spoke, for there were none present who had not experienced such loss, the inexplicable vanishing of brother or sister, mother or father, son or daughter. Most of the assembled stared down at their feet. Eyes boiled and burned in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire and hate and vengeance.
“There is no one. I myself have lost my entire family to the Dres, as you all know. I returned home from my hunting to find my family stolen, my home leveled and burned, my entire village despoiled. The elderly, the sick, those who could not make slaves were instead killed. You know of what I speak. You have all seen it.
“I know that a few of you have been enslaved and escaped, only to return to fight here. I thank you now for your courage and strength, and for the information which you provide. Your sacrifice will be repaid soon! I swear it!
“We cannot undo that which was done, but we can ensure that it will never be done again. Not here! Now we take the fight to the Dres! Now we make them feel our pain four-fold! We will free our people, and Tear will burn to the ground!”
This recollection of yours is going really well so far canis. It has been an enjoyable read so far and I hope that the next update continues that way (all the rest have, so it's very likely ).
).
Oh, nice speech. And so true, so true. The Argonians really suffer at the hands of the conservative Dunmer.
This is a "lo-fi" version of our main content. To view the full version with more information, formatting and images, please click here.