Oh snap! Is this an update? Aye, it is!
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Negotiations

It was 4 AM and Ra’Tesh was nearly finished wiping down the bar when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun appeared at the bottom of the stairs in The Winged Guar. The khajiit looked up and let loose a low whistle when he saw the assassin’s black robe bloodied and in tatters.

“The sun-lingerer is hurt?” The khajiit moved to grab a healing potion.

The argonian just grinned and took a seat at the bar. “No Ra’Tesh, calm down. I’m not hurt.”

“What happened, then?”

“All this”—the assassin gestured to the blood—“belongs to a pair of very unfortunate guards. I don’t think they’ll trouble me anymore.”

“You assaulted the guards? But didn’t they just—“

“Just take me in for questioning? Fedris Hler had other ideas, so they locked me up. Lot of good that did them, seeing as how they left me with all my tools. I broke out, knocked one poor fellow out cold, and then fought my way through the one who stumbled in on my escape.”

The khajiti bartender let out another whistle. “Ra’Tesh thinks you might need to leave Mournhold. This is trouble for you.”

“You’re damn right about that. But first things first. I need a drink, and I need to talk to Sethyas Velas. He staying here?”

Ra’Tesh handed over a bottle of brandy and gestured to a room directly north of the bar. “The dunmer should be out for breakfast by sun’s light.”

“Good.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun took a deep pull of brandy. “Time enough for me to dispose of these rags. You got a spare robe somewhere?”

“Ra’Tesh thinks he might have a green robe in his quarters. The sun-lingerer needs a disguise?”

“I hope I don’t need one. But I don’t trust Fedris Hler, so yes.”

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At a quarter to six, through an alcoholic haze, the argonian felt someone take the stool next to him. He smelled vaguely of hackle-lo, and less vaguely of alcohol.

“By Mephala, you look like hell. What did they do to you?”

“Velas. Good to see you. They offered me a job, hit me over the head, locked me up, bled on me. Nothing to worry about.”

“They offered you a job?” the dunmer replied after a moment, eyes narrowing. “What kind?”

“Nothing important. I didn’t take it, if you must know. Now, can we get to the matter of your Morag Tong’s writ on my head?”

“Not yet. If that job is so unimportant, why can’t you tell me? Pardon me for saying, but you’re not the only one in Mournhold whom the powers-that-be have taken an unhealthy interest in.”

“Fair enough. But you’re working for Helseth now—and I know you’ve got your reasons, but I don’t need word getting around of any “offers”. It was a bad job and I turned it down—that’s all I can say.”

“This job—“

The argonian’s eyes burned. “Don’t push me, Velas. I put two ordinators in the infirmary this morning.”

Sethyas Velas nodded gravely. “Sorry. We’ll get down to business. You want the writ dropped.”

“Right. And you don’t want me killing every Morag Tong agent sent my way. Or worse—you don’t want me to, say, wipe out your hidden sanctuary beneath the Arena.”

“Come on, you couldn’t—“

“You bloody well know how I got the writ dropped the first time. And how do you think I found you here? I could teleport back to Vvardenfell and do in the Vivec sanctum by mid-day. I don’t want to do that, and you certainly don’t want to push me.”

After a moment of due consideration, the dunmer lit up a hackle-lo. “Very well. I’ll notify the guild stewards as soon as possible. But do yourself a favor—I say this as a concerned colleague and friend—and don’t offend any more nobles.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled and took a draught of brandy. “I’ll remember that. And you’d be served well to get the hell out of Mournhold soon as you can.”

“You're leaving town?”

“In a bit. But let’s drink first.”

It's always fun to read these two interacting with each other. Excellent update.

I just keep saying this. I love Al!

,,We should get out of the city right now, no loitering. But first, let's get drunk."

It happened in Plaza Brindisi Dorom

“Sandros… just shut the hell up, ok?”

Every additional moment the patrol lasted was another moment Liodris Aramel felt complete disdain for his company. His group of three was returning to the High Fane (not a moment too soon, by Aramel’s reckoning) via the Plaza Brindisi Dorom. They would be returning half an hour earlier than scheduled, but the high ordinator was tired of babysitting Duls Arethi and, especially, Sandros Pasamsi—bloody loudmouth, Aramel thought.

“Oh come on, Liodris! I’m just saying that when I see that lizard again, I’ll cut him up something awful!”

Aramel sighed. He almost wished that they would find the argonian, if only so Sandros could die by the assassin’s hands. “First: we are supposed to find the argonian, not beat him up. Fedris Hler’s orders. And the Captain will definitely have your head if you so much as touch that assassin. He’s not happy about any of this. Second: I have a hundred drakes that say that the argonian would kick your sorry [censored] a second time. So do yourself a favor and quit talking like a guar’s behind.”

“Yes sir.” Mumbled. And then louder, “There’s an argonian leaving Godsreach. See him by the door, in the green robe?”

Aramel glanced over disinterested (aside from the possible opportunity to get Sandros killed, the prospect of running into the assassin did not excite him) and spoke, “Our suspect wears black. And that argonian’s carrying a lute. That’s not our assassin.”

Duls piped up, “It could be a disguise.” Sandros nodded his head vigorously.

Another sigh from Liodris Aramel—he was long done hiding his disdain for these two. But he relented. “Fine. We’ll check him out. First we’ll get some backup from those Royal Guards over there… Sandros, get the hell back here!”

Ignoring his superior, Sandros Pasamsi ran across the plaza.

“Damn it! Duls, find backup! I’m going!” Aramel shouted behind as he raced off.

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So much for hiding in plain sight.

This is what I thought when I saw two ordinators running at me—one well in the lead with scimitar drawn, the other trailing by perhaps thirty feet and shouting. I thought there was still a possibility to bluff my way out of confrontation, however, so I kept Kills-You-Dead concealed and kept walking, making like I didn’t see them coming. The first ordinator was nearly upon me when I heard the guttural roar of “Stop right there!”

So I stopped. What choice did I have? The ordinator slowed to a fast walk but still held his blade high. The other kept running but his weapon was still sheathed at his side. He was still yelling—not at me, but at the first ordinator.

“Damn it Sandros, you dumb s’wit! When I say to wait for backup you’d better damn well wait!”

Glancing off to the other side of the plaza I could see yet another ordinator talking to a pair of palace guards and pointing my way. Things were looking up.

Sandros—the same guard I beat up at the Winged Guar?—looked at me something ugly. “You been in any fights lately, lizard?”

Was he trying to provoke me? I decided (quickly, as his sword-arm looked twitchy) that he was, and that I should make him try a little harder. So I lied, “Serjo, I am but a humble bard. I leave the fighting to others.”

“Liar. You armed?”

“Sandros, stand down!” The second ordinator arrived.

“It’s him, Liodris!” the ordinator pig sputtered to his better. To me he repeated, “Are you armed? How about it?”

“My lute is all the defense I need, serjo” I replied. I was still smiling—I’m sure Sandros found it infuriating. His reinforcements were halfway across the plaza and in a hurry. Anything goes wrong and its one against five.

“I need to search you.” I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mask but I’m sure they were on the verge of streaming blood.

“No you don’t Sandros. Not unless you can tell me something better than ‘he’s an argonian, it must be him’. Do you remember his face?”

“They all look alike! But I know it’s him! It’s got to—“

“Shut up Sandros. Just shut up.” The one called Liodris turned to me. “My apologies, sera. This idiot here—“ he gestured to Sandros “—got himself embarrassed and now he’s seeing things. You can go on your way.”

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Night falls. An argonian in the middle of a field of saltrice, on his bedroll, plays atonal soporific trance music on a beat-up old lute. The lights of the city, two miles distant, burn on.

Hehe. Close call. For once, Al didn't have to kill anyone

Racing to Aetherius

Something is wrong.

I wake up in the waning hours of a clear starry night and know that the world is beautiful and deadly, that this is no contradiction, and that I am going to live and let others die. There is no wind, no arrhythmic dance of flames, but the shadows move. I can see this without even opening my eyes. I open my eyes. Leather brushes against saltrice, to my right.

Somehow I have my crossbow in hand. It is loaded, bolt nocked. Before I can really think on it I roll onto my stomach and fire two shots off into the night. A man’s body falls to earth.

I keep rolling, off into a thicker patch of saltrice. Thinking. It must be the Dark Brotherhood. I had killed two last time, so now there must be three—the dead one, and two others. I risk casting a spell of night-eye—they know where I am anyway—and see a pair of dark brothers racing toward me from the east. Each has a short, angular glow in hand—enchanted short blades.

I stand up—for a good shot—and put a bolt into the leader’s chest. He staggers and stops and bathes himself in a light quite apart from my poisons—healing—and I know that I can’t win this with dwemer metal. The crossbow drops and I have a blade in each hand.

The first man dives in with a thrust and I spin out of the way ready to bring my ebony down upon the second. But he is ready; he blocks the blow and I am off balance. The first dark brother takes a swing at my back and all I can do is fall out of the way and reverse-summersault back to my feet.

The second man is swinging at me, a big overhead blow. I block it with Kills-You-Dead, crouching low, and thrust my ebony up into his heart. In the same motion I push the man off my blade and into his partner, who nimbly steps aside.

I am covered in blood and breathing hard. The last dark brother is sizing me up, assessing his chances.

Run, damn you, I’m thinking.

Instead he raises his blade in some sort of salute. Then he charges, the sick fool.

Kills-You-Dead turns his thrust aside; my ebony forces his adamantium from his hand, and his hand from his arm. And then I have the man in a chokehold—I can feel his breathing subside through his flimsy human skin, his larynx compress, his bones give—and he is dead.



I need to get the hell out of here. I need to head west, and fast, as far away from Mournhold and Morrowind as possible. I am no longer welcome. How could I ever fit in this land of the dunmer?

I walk through the saltrice to my bedroll, to collect my effects. The sun is rising, and a low whistle is on the air. One of these things is wrong.

I spin about swinging my ebony and sweep the arrow to the side. There is a figure on the little rise to the east, holding a bow, not believing that he could have missed. Not believing that the Dark Brotherhood could fail. He turns and runs. I pick up my crossbow and make for the rise.

The coward is on the road, running back to Mournhold. I can’t allow that. I raise my dwemer steel—ugly in intent, lovely in its functionality—off into Aetherius, where the dark brother is bound. I overshoot, by ten yards. Keeping the same aim, I fire again. My target falls, then drags himself back up. He casts a healing spell. I fire again; he falls again. Still he gets up, keeps staggering forward. Now it is my turn to run. One hundred yards. Ninety yards. So on. He is on the move but only just.

At fifty yards I stop and fire again. He drops and cannot get up. He tries to crawl. But now I can take my time, let the poison course through his veins.

I reach the dark brother and he lies in a growing pool of his own blood, mixed with a bit of vomit. But he is still alive. I remove his black leather helm—imperial, scarred, white hair, face contorted with pain. He tries to speak but can only choke on his own blood. I fire a viper-bolt into his forehead and all stops.

Just when he gets the Ordinators off of his tail, the Black Brotherhood is on it again.

Hmm, I wonder though. Doesn't this take place after the base got wiped out? Meh, probably survivors who had the fortune of not being home during the slaughter.

And they were pretty tough to kill. This could be bad.

You may recall from earlier in this tail that Parnassus (Imperial DB agent brought in by Tienius Delitian) spoke of bringing in more folks from Cyrodiil. Also, the DB agents in the underground base are all dunmer, while all the DB that Al has been fighting are men. As in human. As in not mer. Of course, all this is easier to keep track of if you have played Tribunal all the way through.

Your way with words are quite impressive Canis! And then there's our sweet Al! My favourite Lizard! He has raised my disposition for "lizzies" quite a bit!

Rest and Endings

In the basement of the Royal Palace, in Mournhold, there is a simple wooden table. On it sat a single glowing lantern, two bottles of flin, and a brown leather satchel full of gold pieces stamped with the visage of Tiber Septim. Two men, both imperials, stared at the satchel in lieu of looking at each other.

Tienius Delitian, Captain of the Royal Guard, was first to speak. His voice was low, dangerous. “I hear that your organization has failed again. A farmer found four of your people dead outside the city walls and—most importantly—he did not find any dead argonian assassins. So, Parnassus, I must wonder—why should I pay you anything at all?”

Parnassus sipped his flin, buying time to compose a proper response. It was not easy—Silencers in the Dark Brotherhood are unaccustomed to failure.

Finally he felt like he had the right words—he looked up, into Delitian’s eyes. A hard look.

“You should pay us because you contracted us for a bloody suicide mission, that’s why. First I send two men, experienced hands both, and they get torn apart. You ask for more, and I comply. Four more of my brothers wasted—they were my best. My sanctuary is emptied. I ask you, how do I replace six assassins?”

“Your ‘soul gems’ must be forged of ebony, my friend. I honor that. I’ll give you one more chance to finish the job. How’s fifty-thousand? Surely you can import more of your people for such a sum.”

The Dark Brother sighed. “I must refuse. Lucien is furious with me as is. My life will be forfeit if we lose more men to this Heik-Auri of yours. In any case, has he not left Mournhold? I have seen the place where my men died, and it must have been two miles outside the city. If we have not killed him, surely we have driven him away. Will you not pay us for that much?”

Tienius stared at the gold—fifteen-thousand drakes—for a long while. He took a swig of flin, swore.

“Take it. And get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”


Captain Varus Heleran sat at his desk, reading the latest patrol reports. No sign of the argonian. He was glad of that. He only wished that he could have gotten a chance to apologize.

Feeling a presence, the Captain put down his work and looked up into the eyes of Fedris Hler.

“Serjo Hler, begging your pardon but I was just about to call upon you. I did receive your summons.”

Hler smiled, wearily. “Forgive me my impatience, Captain. I hope you can also, eventually forgive me of some of my more rash actions of late. But I did want to hear the latest about our escaped assassin.”

“I have no news, serjo. There was an incident in the Plaza some time ago, just before the attacks, but nothing confirmed and nothing since then. It is my professional opinion that he has left the city.”

"Very well, Captain. If you say so, it must be true. He’s no longer important, anyway. The Lady has a much more important plaything, now.”



It had been a few years since Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had last entered Oldrenthis, but it was much as he remembered it. A mid-sized, prosperous, virtuous Indoril town west of Mournhold and east of the Thir River. It was, if nothing else, a good rest stop and useful waypoint along the argonian’s path to (gods willing) Stros M’kai. There he might find his father, finally, after twenty years of estrangement. He hoped. He only had about 917 miles to go, give or take a little.

He made his way into the smaller of the town’s two taverns, a crowded, musty cornerclub mostly populated with ex-pats and refugees from other the provinces and (usually) from the law. Within moments Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had a table, a pitcher of brandy, and one of his countrymen for company.

Its been a while... Great to see this continued, I like this one a lot. It moves very quickly and unpredictably which makes it a joy to read.

How much of it is already planned and how much do you make up as you go along?

Planning? Me, plan? I have ideas in my head, mind you, but I literally have nothing on the page ahead of this most recent update. This accounts for the sporadic nature of my updating: when the time comes, I do not write--it writes all by itself.

Why am I referencing Bruce Lee all of the sudden?

The quick movement and unpredictability you write about flows naturally, I think, from the manner of this story's birth. It began as short entries into "The Temple of Lore", which each piece being a little story into itself. That has changed, to a degree, with serialization, but the spirit still remains.