Ooo, lots of mystery in this update. You leave us wanting more canis! I want to know who are these mysterious talkers. Though I do wonder if the first part of this update was taken from an outside perspective or of another character perspective? It kinda has the feeling of both but I'm leaning to an outside perspective.
Anyways, keep up the solid work!
Full Version: Killing in the Emperor's Name
I really enjoy the way you portray Mournhold. I also like Al's increasing frustration as he finds himself stumbling into various Tribunal quests during his search for Sethyas. The perspective shifts add a layer of complexity and detail that brings the story even more vividly to life.
I think the first part was taken from the palace's informant's viewpoint.
Anyway, it was quite an intriguing update. Hmm, I wonder what the help from Cyrodiil is. New DB dudes? Hmm, DB=Dark Brotherhood. Let's see.......Dudes in Black. Sorry, couldn't help myself. Hey, this is how Luper is going to call them. Thanks for the inspiration, Canis!
Anyway, it was quite an intriguing update. Hmm, I wonder what the help from Cyrodiil is. New DB dudes? Hmm, DB=Dark Brotherhood. Let's see.......Dudes in Black. Sorry, couldn't help myself. Hey, this is how Luper is going to call them. Thanks for the inspiration, Canis!
Hmmm this really is some piece of good work! It´s always very interesting how different writers interpret Mournhold! (City of fear, city of deceit)
Many thanks for the praise, friends, and for the inspiration your own stories provide. It was Trey's stories, in fact, that kept me coming here (lurking, for so long) after I was first lured in by Sinder Velvin's parody.
Yes, I've been messing around with perspective, and I'll continue to do it. I might even have a couple of new characters to bring in soon to this strange cast Morrowind provides. Might even screw around with time some, like here (ever so slightly). But enough foreshadowing! I've got an update to provide, and more to write, since I'm on an extended weekend (5 blessed days!) in my Missoula home after working and camping out for a couple of weeks near Bozeman. The ideas are bursting forth!
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Assassins, Spies, and Smiths
“He’s working for the monarchy now? That doesn’t make sense.”
Ra’Tesh nodded his head and flashed a toothy, rueful grin. “Ra’Tesh hears that Tenius Delitian is very persuasive, in his way. Ra’Tesh hears that the hunter had little choice.”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. No choice. But it complicates matters. Tracking someone who is being tracked is...” I glanced about the room, “risky.”
“Yes, Ra’Tesh understands. You don’t want to bring attention to yourself.”
“Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin.”
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I downed my fifth brandy of the night and briefly scanned the roomed before turning back to the bar. “I don’t think he’ll be coming tonight, Ra’Tesh.”
“Hunters keep odd hours.”
“Yes. But you said he’s been coming in regularly, staying in that room… I just have a feeling that he won’t be tonight.”
“Ra’Tesh is getting a feeling, too.”
“What?” I set my bottle down on the bar.
Ra’Tesh nodded towards the upstairs. “The orc in the corner, he just leaves. Ra’Tesh thinks he was writing something under the table, looking this way a lot.”
“A spy.”
“You think so, Al? For Helseth?”
I barely caught the words—I’d made my own conclusions. I was already up, walking briskly way from the bar. In pursuit.
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Of course he was working for Helseth. I usually don’t spend much time in Mournhold—I consider it unhealthy—but I’d heard the rumors. And more. A Blade hears many things.
Still, I wanted to know precisely where this spy was going. Just in case.
I made my way out to the balcony of The Winged Guar just in time to see the orc duck inside the Craftsmen’s Hall, next door. If he was suspicious of me—and I’m sure he was—he’d be trying to chat up the local merchants to see what services and goods I’d been buying. The good spy, trying to confirm his intuitions. None of this surprised me—my work with Blades saw to that. But what to do? Should I kill him now, or later? From my perch on the balcony I had a good view of the elite ordinator patrols below. I spotted three, plus one of Almalexia’s Hands. Later. I would kill the spy later.
Who among the craftsmen would talk to the spy? Bols Indalen, of course, knew how I kept myself outfitted, knew that I was looking for viper-bolts too. He had also readily assented when I suggested I keep it quiet. He could be tricked into talking, but probably wouldn’t talk about me openly—the armorer was extremely impressed with my arsenal, and surely would have guessed my profession, and the consequences of speaking openly about it.
The apprentice—the “damned idiot” Indalen had spoken of—was too busy shirking his duties to take much notice of me, I thought. Though it would be a pleasure to gut, er, silence the arrogant young imperial, it wouldn’t be necessary.
I hadn’t used any other services in there… but there was that mad weaponsmithing orc wailing away at his force not five paces away while I did business with the armorer. And orcs are very clannish; most of the orcs on Vvardenfell are at least acquainted with each other, and in the rest of the Empire the pattern generally holds… and perhaps the weaponsmith would remember me. Perhaps I was in big trouble.
Yes, I've been messing around with perspective, and I'll continue to do it. I might even have a couple of new characters to bring in soon to this strange cast Morrowind provides. Might even screw around with time some, like here (ever so slightly). But enough foreshadowing! I've got an update to provide, and more to write, since I'm on an extended weekend (5 blessed days!) in my Missoula home after working and camping out for a couple of weeks near Bozeman. The ideas are bursting forth!
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Assassins, Spies, and Smiths
“He’s working for the monarchy now? That doesn’t make sense.”
Ra’Tesh nodded his head and flashed a toothy, rueful grin. “Ra’Tesh hears that Tenius Delitian is very persuasive, in his way. Ra’Tesh hears that the hunter had little choice.”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. No choice. But it complicates matters. Tracking someone who is being tracked is...” I glanced about the room, “risky.”
“Yes, Ra’Tesh understands. You don’t want to bring attention to yourself.”
“Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin.”
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I downed my fifth brandy of the night and briefly scanned the roomed before turning back to the bar. “I don’t think he’ll be coming tonight, Ra’Tesh.”
“Hunters keep odd hours.”
“Yes. But you said he’s been coming in regularly, staying in that room… I just have a feeling that he won’t be tonight.”
“Ra’Tesh is getting a feeling, too.”
“What?” I set my bottle down on the bar.
Ra’Tesh nodded towards the upstairs. “The orc in the corner, he just leaves. Ra’Tesh thinks he was writing something under the table, looking this way a lot.”
“A spy.”
“You think so, Al? For Helseth?”
I barely caught the words—I’d made my own conclusions. I was already up, walking briskly way from the bar. In pursuit.
-------------------------------------------------------
Of course he was working for Helseth. I usually don’t spend much time in Mournhold—I consider it unhealthy—but I’d heard the rumors. And more. A Blade hears many things.
Still, I wanted to know precisely where this spy was going. Just in case.
I made my way out to the balcony of The Winged Guar just in time to see the orc duck inside the Craftsmen’s Hall, next door. If he was suspicious of me—and I’m sure he was—he’d be trying to chat up the local merchants to see what services and goods I’d been buying. The good spy, trying to confirm his intuitions. None of this surprised me—my work with Blades saw to that. But what to do? Should I kill him now, or later? From my perch on the balcony I had a good view of the elite ordinator patrols below. I spotted three, plus one of Almalexia’s Hands. Later. I would kill the spy later.
Who among the craftsmen would talk to the spy? Bols Indalen, of course, knew how I kept myself outfitted, knew that I was looking for viper-bolts too. He had also readily assented when I suggested I keep it quiet. He could be tricked into talking, but probably wouldn’t talk about me openly—the armorer was extremely impressed with my arsenal, and surely would have guessed my profession, and the consequences of speaking openly about it.
The apprentice—the “damned idiot” Indalen had spoken of—was too busy shirking his duties to take much notice of me, I thought. Though it would be a pleasure to gut, er, silence the arrogant young imperial, it wouldn’t be necessary.
I hadn’t used any other services in there… but there was that mad weaponsmithing orc wailing away at his force not five paces away while I did business with the armorer. And orcs are very clannish; most of the orcs on Vvardenfell are at least acquainted with each other, and in the rest of the Empire the pattern generally holds… and perhaps the weaponsmith would remember me. Perhaps I was in big trouble.
Overheard
I see a lot of folks in here. Yeah, argonians sometimes. Black robe? Shady type? Uh no, I don’t remember anyone like that. No, I really couldn’t say…
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Argonian? Do you mock me, plebe? I’m too busy preparing for life as a free adventurer too bother with such trivialities—I aspire to heights greater than you've ever dreamed of. Do you think monsters and evil men will stand any chance when they behold this majestic specimen of humanity striding toward them? No! They will quail and faint at the sight of me. I will wave their corpses aside with a swipe of my hand…
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Well, I don’t get too many argonian customers. I think Effe-Tei, the palace mage, is my only argonian regular. That ‘Ten-Tongues’ fellow used to pester me a lot about how I did certain scroll enchantments, but I haven’t seen him lately…
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I was wondering when you’d get around to me, Bakh. Been a while since I’ve seen you slinking around here. What is it this time? Huh? Shady argonian character, some kind of killer? Yeah, I think I’ve seen somebody like that. Needed armor repair, had some exotic weapons…
I see a lot of folks in here. Yeah, argonians sometimes. Black robe? Shady type? Uh no, I don’t remember anyone like that. No, I really couldn’t say…
-------------------------------------------------
Argonian? Do you mock me, plebe? I’m too busy preparing for life as a free adventurer too bother with such trivialities—I aspire to heights greater than you've ever dreamed of. Do you think monsters and evil men will stand any chance when they behold this majestic specimen of humanity striding toward them? No! They will quail and faint at the sight of me. I will wave their corpses aside with a swipe of my hand…
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Well, I don’t get too many argonian customers. I think Effe-Tei, the palace mage, is my only argonian regular. That ‘Ten-Tongues’ fellow used to pester me a lot about how I did certain scroll enchantments, but I haven’t seen him lately…
------------------------------------------------
I was wondering when you’d get around to me, Bakh. Been a while since I’ve seen you slinking around here. What is it this time? Huh? Shady argonian character, some kind of killer? Yeah, I think I’ve seen somebody like that. Needed armor repair, had some exotic weapons…
Keeping to the Shadows
How long has he been in there? Ten minutes? Twenty? He must be getting some answers. I could burst in there, I think, spray him and everyone else with viper-bolts, escape the ordinators, and get the hell out of Mournhold.
No, no. I shake my head. One single spy isn’t worth it, isn’t worth all that. Crazed thought. I think I’ve had too much brandy this evening. No, the way is to wait for him to enter a nice shady spot and then strike, from behind, with one hand over his mouth and the other raking Kills-You-Dead across his throat. Or maybe I could perch on the roof of one of these manor buildings, put a bolt in his heart as soon as he steps outside the door of the damned Craftsmen’s Hall, let those elite ordinators frantically search the plaza for the shooter while I lounge around above them.
Too late; the orc spy is out the door and making for the Temple courtyard—maybe he’s on his way to the palace already, or maybe he’s heading for the Great Bazaar to so he can find more information. I don’t know—I have to follow. I eased my way over the balcony’s edge just as the spy went out through the gate.
It is getting darker by the moment in Mournhold, so I have little trouble following the orc even as he seems to grow ever more nervous. Perhaps he feels like he is being watched or followed; he takes cursory glances back but I blend easily into the shadows. But it may just be the spy’s normal paranoia. I too, know this feeling. Every Blade does. Even ex-Blades. In any case, he doesn’t see me. He does pause by the giant gate-door leading into the palace complex, but not long; he moves on to the way to the Great Bazaar, and enters. A moment later I follow.
The orc is making a beeline for Ten-Tongues’ shop. Of course. He figures that one of Mournhold’s few hist folk would remember if he ran into another, one who just happened to wear dark hooded robes and carry the tools of an assassin’s trade. And he figures correctly, more than he could have possibly guessed.
He doesn’t leave Ten-Tongues’ shop until forty minutes have passed.
How long has he been in there? Ten minutes? Twenty? He must be getting some answers. I could burst in there, I think, spray him and everyone else with viper-bolts, escape the ordinators, and get the hell out of Mournhold.
No, no. I shake my head. One single spy isn’t worth it, isn’t worth all that. Crazed thought. I think I’ve had too much brandy this evening. No, the way is to wait for him to enter a nice shady spot and then strike, from behind, with one hand over his mouth and the other raking Kills-You-Dead across his throat. Or maybe I could perch on the roof of one of these manor buildings, put a bolt in his heart as soon as he steps outside the door of the damned Craftsmen’s Hall, let those elite ordinators frantically search the plaza for the shooter while I lounge around above them.
Too late; the orc spy is out the door and making for the Temple courtyard—maybe he’s on his way to the palace already, or maybe he’s heading for the Great Bazaar to so he can find more information. I don’t know—I have to follow. I eased my way over the balcony’s edge just as the spy went out through the gate.
It is getting darker by the moment in Mournhold, so I have little trouble following the orc even as he seems to grow ever more nervous. Perhaps he feels like he is being watched or followed; he takes cursory glances back but I blend easily into the shadows. But it may just be the spy’s normal paranoia. I too, know this feeling. Every Blade does. Even ex-Blades. In any case, he doesn’t see me. He does pause by the giant gate-door leading into the palace complex, but not long; he moves on to the way to the Great Bazaar, and enters. A moment later I follow.
The orc is making a beeline for Ten-Tongues’ shop. Of course. He figures that one of Mournhold’s few hist folk would remember if he ran into another, one who just happened to wear dark hooded robes and carry the tools of an assassin’s trade. And he figures correctly, more than he could have possibly guessed.
He doesn’t leave Ten-Tongues’ shop until forty minutes have passed.
Ohh the subtleties of espionage. So very fun to read. It'll be interesting to see how Al will finally get his hands on this orc. Perhaps the orc will convince Al to spare him? We'll see I assume.
Postmachine alert! What Mallet said, this is fun to read.
Now with the forty minutes, I assume that Ten-Tongues let all ten of his tongues do their work well. Too bad for him, but Al is in a sensitive mood right now and rather easily provoked to 'silencing' the talker. The fact that they aren't exactly friends doesn't help the tongued one either.
Now with the forty minutes, I assume that Ten-Tongues let all ten of his tongues do their work well. Too bad for him, but Al is in a sensitive mood right now and rather easily provoked to 'silencing' the talker. The fact that they aren't exactly friends doesn't help the tongued one either.
Good read Canis! And as a matter of fact it was Trey who inspired me as well! Well I´m suffering from writer´s block, so I just try to catch up on the other stories here, and yours is a very enjoyable read!
Post-machine alert indeed! I told you the ideas were bursting forth!
An Old Friend
‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat was just about to put away a considerable sack of gold when a familiar figure, dressed in black, strode into his pawnshop. The pawnbroker took a deep breath before speaking. “This is unexpected, Heik-Auri. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another day.”
The newcomer, Heik-Auri, shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, but his eyes flashed red. But his voice was icy calm. “One tires of waiting around at the tavern, so I figured I'd stop by and see if my order came in early.”
“Well… you are in luck, Heik-Auri. I just picked up your viper-bolts this morning.” Ten-Tongues rummaged around below his counter until he could produce a cylinder full of the deadly projectiles. “Two hundred fifty bolts, Heik-Auri.”
“Excellent. How much?”
“For you, twelve hundred septims.”
Heik-Auri rummaged about in the folds of his robe until he could produce a number of fifty- and hundred-septim coins. He set them firmly on the counter and took up the cylinder of bolts. “Now we have other business, Ten-Tongues. Like the spy.”
Ten-Tongues went white. Or as close to white as an argonian can get.
“I—I swear I told him no—“
Heik-Auri interrupted. “He was in here for more than half an hour, Ten-Tongues. You told him everything, didn’t you. For how much? That sack of gold, there?”
“Five thousand septims.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Ten-Tongues. You always did have a way with words. I’m going to put a stop to that.”
Ten-Tongues pulled an old iron longsword up off the shelf—Heik-Auri burst into laughter. “You mean to fight me with that old thing? You couldn’t cut crab meat with that. Don’t you have anything better?”
The pawnbroker kept the sword raised. “I told you, Heik-Auri, that I am a Shadowscale no more. I haven’t been in a fight since—“
“Since you failed to hunt me down and kill me?” Heik-Auri interrupted.
“No. After they kicked me out I—I did a bit of freelancing.”
For a moment Ten-Tongues fell silent, and looked down to his feet.
“No one likes an unaffiliated assassin.”
“Yes, Heik-Auri, and that includes the assassin himself. But then I hired on with the Dark Brotherhood—I thought it was the burden of working alone that weighed most heavily upon me, but the Brotherhood was worse. I don’t care to speak of the things I did.”
“So you got out of that business. Why couldn’t you leave me to my own, Ten-Tongues? You’ve made trouble for me, and it will mean trouble for you.”
“I am sorry.”
Heik-Auri drew both his blades—the vicious glowing daedric dagger Kills-You-Dead and the simple, elegant, black shortsword of ebony. “I am impressed by your contrition, Ten-Tongues. And believe me; I know much of what plagues the assassin’s conscience. I too, have thought much of leaving the trade.” The assassin’s voice suddenly took a harsh turn. “And you have made that harder for me, here in this city of the damned.” He flipped the ebony blade around, thrusting the hilt Ten-Tongues’ way. “You will fight me with this.”
“A fine weapon, Heik-Auri. I’m afraid I’m no good with one of these anymore.”
“Take a moment to feel it out. I can do no more for you. If we weren’t of neighboring clans—if we hadn’t known the same hardships, the same suffering—I’d just have cut your throat. I don’t like to fight fair.”
“Yes, Heik-Auri, I understand. I thank you for the honor.” Ten-Tongues waved the blade about a little, getting a feel for the balance, how it might best be used. He thought of the sparring sessions deep in the swamps of interior Black Marsh, the occasional weekend rambles through Greenglade, the stern lessons of Sneaks-in-Shadows, and one drunken, stumbling student who tore it all asunder. Was it all for naught? Or for the best? He shook his head, and his thoughts returned to the blade—the heft felt inexplicably comfortable now, like the weight had never left his hand.
“I’m ready now, old friend.”
An Old Friend
‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat was just about to put away a considerable sack of gold when a familiar figure, dressed in black, strode into his pawnshop. The pawnbroker took a deep breath before speaking. “This is unexpected, Heik-Auri. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another day.”
The newcomer, Heik-Auri, shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, but his eyes flashed red. But his voice was icy calm. “One tires of waiting around at the tavern, so I figured I'd stop by and see if my order came in early.”
“Well… you are in luck, Heik-Auri. I just picked up your viper-bolts this morning.” Ten-Tongues rummaged around below his counter until he could produce a cylinder full of the deadly projectiles. “Two hundred fifty bolts, Heik-Auri.”
“Excellent. How much?”
“For you, twelve hundred septims.”
Heik-Auri rummaged about in the folds of his robe until he could produce a number of fifty- and hundred-septim coins. He set them firmly on the counter and took up the cylinder of bolts. “Now we have other business, Ten-Tongues. Like the spy.”
Ten-Tongues went white. Or as close to white as an argonian can get.
“I—I swear I told him no—“
Heik-Auri interrupted. “He was in here for more than half an hour, Ten-Tongues. You told him everything, didn’t you. For how much? That sack of gold, there?”
“Five thousand septims.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Ten-Tongues. You always did have a way with words. I’m going to put a stop to that.”
Ten-Tongues pulled an old iron longsword up off the shelf—Heik-Auri burst into laughter. “You mean to fight me with that old thing? You couldn’t cut crab meat with that. Don’t you have anything better?”
The pawnbroker kept the sword raised. “I told you, Heik-Auri, that I am a Shadowscale no more. I haven’t been in a fight since—“
“Since you failed to hunt me down and kill me?” Heik-Auri interrupted.
“No. After they kicked me out I—I did a bit of freelancing.”
For a moment Ten-Tongues fell silent, and looked down to his feet.
“No one likes an unaffiliated assassin.”
“Yes, Heik-Auri, and that includes the assassin himself. But then I hired on with the Dark Brotherhood—I thought it was the burden of working alone that weighed most heavily upon me, but the Brotherhood was worse. I don’t care to speak of the things I did.”
“So you got out of that business. Why couldn’t you leave me to my own, Ten-Tongues? You’ve made trouble for me, and it will mean trouble for you.”
“I am sorry.”
Heik-Auri drew both his blades—the vicious glowing daedric dagger Kills-You-Dead and the simple, elegant, black shortsword of ebony. “I am impressed by your contrition, Ten-Tongues. And believe me; I know much of what plagues the assassin’s conscience. I too, have thought much of leaving the trade.” The assassin’s voice suddenly took a harsh turn. “And you have made that harder for me, here in this city of the damned.” He flipped the ebony blade around, thrusting the hilt Ten-Tongues’ way. “You will fight me with this.”
“A fine weapon, Heik-Auri. I’m afraid I’m no good with one of these anymore.”
“Take a moment to feel it out. I can do no more for you. If we weren’t of neighboring clans—if we hadn’t known the same hardships, the same suffering—I’d just have cut your throat. I don’t like to fight fair.”
“Yes, Heik-Auri, I understand. I thank you for the honor.” Ten-Tongues waved the blade about a little, getting a feel for the balance, how it might best be used. He thought of the sparring sessions deep in the swamps of interior Black Marsh, the occasional weekend rambles through Greenglade, the stern lessons of Sneaks-in-Shadows, and one drunken, stumbling student who tore it all asunder. Was it all for naught? Or for the best? He shook his head, and his thoughts returned to the blade—the heft felt inexplicably comfortable now, like the weight had never left his hand.
“I’m ready now, old friend.”
Hmmm, Al is acting honourable for a change. I guess he really respects his race, an admirable trait given his Argonian race. It'll be interesting to see if Ten Tongues can handle Al. He's currently has the reach advantage and an ebony weapon certainly provides some bite. Then again, with Kills-You-Dead it doesn't take long for it to live up to its namesake.
I look forward to the oncoming duel!
I look forward to the oncoming duel!
Yeah, the honour surprised me. Honestly, I thought Al would just take the viperbolts, pay and then do a 'try-out' by shooting one in ten's heart. After that, he would retrieve his money and the sack of gold.
Still, it is a good update. Good dialogue.
Still, it is a good update. Good dialogue.
The Old Ways
Two hist-folk faced each other on the bottom floor of the pawnshop, standing eight feet and eight years. On the east side of the room stood a figure wielding a daedric dagger, fearsome with its serrated edge and sickly glow of enchantment. The figure had just pulled off his black robe, revealing the chitin armor beneath—normal save for its blackened appearance. This argonian looked very fit in spite of the nicks and scars that could be seen in the few spots where his red-brown scaly skin was exposed. He took an aggressive stance, holding the dagger menacingly before him. His left hand he held back to his side, closed around a viper-bolt. He was accustomed to fighting with two blades, so carrying the bolt in his off hand was a comfort. It could also be brought into play in the fight to come, though neither combatant had to fear the venomous enchantment—they were both immune to poison.
The other combatant stood to the west, holding an ebony shortsword in a defensive position. He wore an exquisite shirt and his muscles were soft and undefined, in stark contrast to his opponent, who seemed hard as ebony yet limber as well-watered wickwheat. Yet the soft, unpracticed merchant was smiling almost serenely while his battle-hardened foe’s face was grim and rigid like stone.
The assassin, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, dressed dark as night—he made the first move, two syrupy stutter-steps forward. The merchant, Ten-Tongues Weerhat, managed to block the assassin’s dagger, slashing rightward, but could not defend himself from the viper-bolt planted in the soft flesh just beneath his right shoulder. He winced in pain and tried to push his assailant away. The combatants separated; blood dripped from the bolt clenched in the assassin’s left hand and trickled from the wound in Ten-Tongue’s chest.
“I had forgotten what it felt like to be stabbed.”
“You won’t forget again.”
The combatants assumed the same positions as before, and it was incumbent upon Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun to initiate the action once more. He darted in, feinting another slash with Kills-You-Dead but instead planted his left foot against the pawnbroker’s chest, sending Ten-Tongues flying into the wall. He, the assassin, did not press the attack—he resumed his fighting stance across the room.
“So you aim to punish me, Heik-Auri?” the merchant asked as he finally staggered to his feet.
“You need to get your bearings.”
Ten-Tongues assumed his defensive stance once more. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun dashed in the suddenly, made a quick leftward spin—Ten-Tongue’s attempted hack skidded uselessly off the assassin’s hard chitin armor—and brought the hilt of Kills-You-Dead down upon the merchant’s skull. Hard. Ten-Tongues collapsed in a heap.
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No, Weerhat, you need to really believe. If you do not believe that you cannot be seen, than how can you expect your opponent to believe it? Better, better—but you cannot forget your belief during the course of attack. This is difficult, but all born under the Shadow must learn to do so. Yes, excellent…..
You have come along way, shadowkin. Now we spar. Here is a new one. He thinks he is something special with that ebony blade, but we shall teach him some humility, eh? Go…..
Hmm… we must work on that blade work. Watch his arm tense there, but watch those hips all the more and you will see from where the strike is really coming. Let us make those strikes of yours really hit home. Do not just hack and slash—that is to be expected from any novice swordsman, is easily avoided. The thrust—quick, well-placed—is harder to see coming, difficult to block. Find the holes in his armor, Weerhat!
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Ten-Tongues staggered back to his feet, grinning widely.
“Again.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun looked a little puzzled now. He discerned something of a wild look in his opponent’s eyes—it didn’t worry him, but it was curious. A little bothersome. But he assumed his offensive stance once more, this time with a small flourish of his daedric dagger—it cut the air with a whistle. He moved in once more, spinning with the aim to place a great rent across Ten-Tongue’s chest—but the merchant was no longer there, had vanished almost in front of his eyes. The assassin heard a whistling blade distinct from his own; he dived to floor, rolling away. The slash caught Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun on the side, a glancing blow that still cut a slit along the length of his cuirass. The assassin stood up out of his roll. He could hear his opponent’s footsteps approach but not see. He heard the soft rustle of a silken shirt… he spun quickly away, took the attempted thrust to the heart on his left bicep, and came out of the spin with a savage swipe at what he thought was his opponent’s back.
“Ahhh!” Ten-Tongues Weerhat materialized before the assassin, his fine shirt torn across the middle of his back and bleeding through. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun threw him against the wall.
“I see you remember your old skills now—I toyed with you perhaps a bit too long. Still, your lack of training—weak muscles, dulled senses—betrayed you. But in a way, I suppose, that bit of remembrance has salvaged some of your honor. Or maybe just bad memories from bad times.” the assassin hissed harshly into Ten-Tongues’ ear.
“I remember… hate.”
“Isn’t that all they really taught us, Ten-Tongues? And isn’t that why you quit the business? I’d like to do that too, but not just yet. Not at your hand. Goodbye, old comrade.”
The assassin drew Kills-You-Dead across Ten-Tongues’ throat. An ebony shortsword fell to the floor.
Two hist-folk faced each other on the bottom floor of the pawnshop, standing eight feet and eight years. On the east side of the room stood a figure wielding a daedric dagger, fearsome with its serrated edge and sickly glow of enchantment. The figure had just pulled off his black robe, revealing the chitin armor beneath—normal save for its blackened appearance. This argonian looked very fit in spite of the nicks and scars that could be seen in the few spots where his red-brown scaly skin was exposed. He took an aggressive stance, holding the dagger menacingly before him. His left hand he held back to his side, closed around a viper-bolt. He was accustomed to fighting with two blades, so carrying the bolt in his off hand was a comfort. It could also be brought into play in the fight to come, though neither combatant had to fear the venomous enchantment—they were both immune to poison.
The other combatant stood to the west, holding an ebony shortsword in a defensive position. He wore an exquisite shirt and his muscles were soft and undefined, in stark contrast to his opponent, who seemed hard as ebony yet limber as well-watered wickwheat. Yet the soft, unpracticed merchant was smiling almost serenely while his battle-hardened foe’s face was grim and rigid like stone.
The assassin, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, dressed dark as night—he made the first move, two syrupy stutter-steps forward. The merchant, Ten-Tongues Weerhat, managed to block the assassin’s dagger, slashing rightward, but could not defend himself from the viper-bolt planted in the soft flesh just beneath his right shoulder. He winced in pain and tried to push his assailant away. The combatants separated; blood dripped from the bolt clenched in the assassin’s left hand and trickled from the wound in Ten-Tongue’s chest.
“I had forgotten what it felt like to be stabbed.”
“You won’t forget again.”
The combatants assumed the same positions as before, and it was incumbent upon Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun to initiate the action once more. He darted in, feinting another slash with Kills-You-Dead but instead planted his left foot against the pawnbroker’s chest, sending Ten-Tongues flying into the wall. He, the assassin, did not press the attack—he resumed his fighting stance across the room.
“So you aim to punish me, Heik-Auri?” the merchant asked as he finally staggered to his feet.
“You need to get your bearings.”
Ten-Tongues assumed his defensive stance once more. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun dashed in the suddenly, made a quick leftward spin—Ten-Tongue’s attempted hack skidded uselessly off the assassin’s hard chitin armor—and brought the hilt of Kills-You-Dead down upon the merchant’s skull. Hard. Ten-Tongues collapsed in a heap.
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No, Weerhat, you need to really believe. If you do not believe that you cannot be seen, than how can you expect your opponent to believe it? Better, better—but you cannot forget your belief during the course of attack. This is difficult, but all born under the Shadow must learn to do so. Yes, excellent…..
You have come along way, shadowkin. Now we spar. Here is a new one. He thinks he is something special with that ebony blade, but we shall teach him some humility, eh? Go…..
Hmm… we must work on that blade work. Watch his arm tense there, but watch those hips all the more and you will see from where the strike is really coming. Let us make those strikes of yours really hit home. Do not just hack and slash—that is to be expected from any novice swordsman, is easily avoided. The thrust—quick, well-placed—is harder to see coming, difficult to block. Find the holes in his armor, Weerhat!
------------------------------------------------------
Ten-Tongues staggered back to his feet, grinning widely.
“Again.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun looked a little puzzled now. He discerned something of a wild look in his opponent’s eyes—it didn’t worry him, but it was curious. A little bothersome. But he assumed his offensive stance once more, this time with a small flourish of his daedric dagger—it cut the air with a whistle. He moved in once more, spinning with the aim to place a great rent across Ten-Tongue’s chest—but the merchant was no longer there, had vanished almost in front of his eyes. The assassin heard a whistling blade distinct from his own; he dived to floor, rolling away. The slash caught Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun on the side, a glancing blow that still cut a slit along the length of his cuirass. The assassin stood up out of his roll. He could hear his opponent’s footsteps approach but not see. He heard the soft rustle of a silken shirt… he spun quickly away, took the attempted thrust to the heart on his left bicep, and came out of the spin with a savage swipe at what he thought was his opponent’s back.
“Ahhh!” Ten-Tongues Weerhat materialized before the assassin, his fine shirt torn across the middle of his back and bleeding through. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun threw him against the wall.
“I see you remember your old skills now—I toyed with you perhaps a bit too long. Still, your lack of training—weak muscles, dulled senses—betrayed you. But in a way, I suppose, that bit of remembrance has salvaged some of your honor. Or maybe just bad memories from bad times.” the assassin hissed harshly into Ten-Tongues’ ear.
“I remember… hate.”
“Isn’t that all they really taught us, Ten-Tongues? And isn’t that why you quit the business? I’d like to do that too, but not just yet. Not at your hand. Goodbye, old comrade.”
The assassin drew Kills-You-Dead across Ten-Tongues’ throat. An ebony shortsword fell to the floor.
Brilliant battle. That flashback added a nice touch. Now hopefully that scuffle won't bring the Ordinators along.
I have to agree with Mallet, you've done it again.
The last sentence only served to increase the impact of the whole scene. Good work.
The last sentence only served to increase the impact of the whole scene. Good work.
Inquisition
“Fedris ought to hear about this.”
“Sir?”
A pair of high ordinators stood at the door of Ten-Tongues Weerhat’s pawnshop, contemplating the pawnbroker’s corpse. The dead mer lay at the base of the stairway, in a pool of his own drying blood. One of the ordinators, the apparent leader of the two, dropped into a crouch over the balls of his feet, moving his gaze from side to side across the tiled floor. He murmured to himself, “Scratches. Clawed feet.” Then he spoke more loudly, “Liodris, check the wounds on that body. I want to know what kind of weapon did this. Be careful where you step.”
“Yes sir.” Liodris Aramel walked carefully across the floor to the body. It lay face down. “Slashing wound to the back, pretty deep. Not a totally clean slice—some ripping. I think the blade may have been a little jagged or serrated, sir.”
“Daedric dagger, Liodris?”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. A hard swing.”
“Any other wounds on the back?”
“No sir. But I do see a contusion on top of the head. Yes, it looks like the hilt of that dagger.”
“Alright, flip him over.”
“Well sir, I think we can pin down the cause of death. Weerhat’s throat is open wide. Same weapon, I’d guess.”
“Was it cut open from in front or behind?”
“Judging from the cut and the position of the body, behind. There’s some blood up on the wall there too—looks like the killer got the lizard up against the wall and finished him execution-style.”
“I can accept that. Any other wounds?”
“A few bruises—there was definitely a struggle—and a puncture next to the arm pit on the right side. Looks like… a bolt? Odd use of a bolt. Looks like he was stabbed with it and the assailant pulled it out. Like he was using it as a second blade or something.”
“Let me run this by you, Liodris. What I think we have here is a duel. Weerhat stood over there”—he pointed to a spot a couple paces north of the body—“and the killer stood opposite. The killer was the aggressor—I don’t see any sign of Weerhat advancing west but I see the killer dancing over his way. And the killer was toying with Weerhat; these moves are too fast for any pawnbroker to counter. Look at those marks.” He pointed to some indistinct scratches. “That’s a fast spin. Could you counter that? This killer was some kind of professional.”
“Pardon me sir, but who would send an assassin to kill a pawnbroker? And why the duel? Why not just take him by surprise and cut his throat?”
“The killer was an assassin, but this wasn’t an assassination.”
Liodris gaped at his commander from behind the silver mask. “Sir?”
“The killer was another argonian. And he knew Weerhat. It was duel, but do you see Weerhat’s weapon? No. And Weerhat didn’t have any proper dueling weapons anyway. I’ve visited this shop before—his blades were terrible. You couldn’t fight an honorable duel with one. So the killer loaned him one.”
“What? Sir, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Not much about argonians does, Liodris. But hear me out. The killer was using a bolt in his left hand because usually he uses two blades. The one he didn’t prefer, he let Weerhat use. Argonians are funny like that; even if they hate one of their countrymen they think it dishonorable to duel one unfairly.”
“How do you know all this, sir?”
“My family lived in Tear for a few years when I was not much younger than you, Liodris. I was glad when we moved to Vivec, but you never forget Tear, no matter how hard you try. Enough about that. Let’s follow this blood trail outside. It probably just leads to the canal, but maybe this one got careless.”
“Fedris ought to hear about this.”
“Sir?”
A pair of high ordinators stood at the door of Ten-Tongues Weerhat’s pawnshop, contemplating the pawnbroker’s corpse. The dead mer lay at the base of the stairway, in a pool of his own drying blood. One of the ordinators, the apparent leader of the two, dropped into a crouch over the balls of his feet, moving his gaze from side to side across the tiled floor. He murmured to himself, “Scratches. Clawed feet.” Then he spoke more loudly, “Liodris, check the wounds on that body. I want to know what kind of weapon did this. Be careful where you step.”
“Yes sir.” Liodris Aramel walked carefully across the floor to the body. It lay face down. “Slashing wound to the back, pretty deep. Not a totally clean slice—some ripping. I think the blade may have been a little jagged or serrated, sir.”
“Daedric dagger, Liodris?”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. A hard swing.”
“Any other wounds on the back?”
“No sir. But I do see a contusion on top of the head. Yes, it looks like the hilt of that dagger.”
“Alright, flip him over.”
“Well sir, I think we can pin down the cause of death. Weerhat’s throat is open wide. Same weapon, I’d guess.”
“Was it cut open from in front or behind?”
“Judging from the cut and the position of the body, behind. There’s some blood up on the wall there too—looks like the killer got the lizard up against the wall and finished him execution-style.”
“I can accept that. Any other wounds?”
“A few bruises—there was definitely a struggle—and a puncture next to the arm pit on the right side. Looks like… a bolt? Odd use of a bolt. Looks like he was stabbed with it and the assailant pulled it out. Like he was using it as a second blade or something.”
“Let me run this by you, Liodris. What I think we have here is a duel. Weerhat stood over there”—he pointed to a spot a couple paces north of the body—“and the killer stood opposite. The killer was the aggressor—I don’t see any sign of Weerhat advancing west but I see the killer dancing over his way. And the killer was toying with Weerhat; these moves are too fast for any pawnbroker to counter. Look at those marks.” He pointed to some indistinct scratches. “That’s a fast spin. Could you counter that? This killer was some kind of professional.”
“Pardon me sir, but who would send an assassin to kill a pawnbroker? And why the duel? Why not just take him by surprise and cut his throat?”
“The killer was an assassin, but this wasn’t an assassination.”
Liodris gaped at his commander from behind the silver mask. “Sir?”
“The killer was another argonian. And he knew Weerhat. It was duel, but do you see Weerhat’s weapon? No. And Weerhat didn’t have any proper dueling weapons anyway. I’ve visited this shop before—his blades were terrible. You couldn’t fight an honorable duel with one. So the killer loaned him one.”
“What? Sir, that doesn’t make sense.”
“Not much about argonians does, Liodris. But hear me out. The killer was using a bolt in his left hand because usually he uses two blades. The one he didn’t prefer, he let Weerhat use. Argonians are funny like that; even if they hate one of their countrymen they think it dishonorable to duel one unfairly.”
“How do you know all this, sir?”
“My family lived in Tear for a few years when I was not much younger than you, Liodris. I was glad when we moved to Vivec, but you never forget Tear, no matter how hard you try. Enough about that. Let’s follow this blood trail outside. It probably just leads to the canal, but maybe this one got careless.”
Hmm looks like we're dealing with a fairly intelligent (or at least observant) ordinator here. Perhaps his experience in Tear will give this character a certain demeanor on the Argonian race. I guess it all depends on his stance on slavery as I bet he was sure to see some terrible things down there.
I sense a very engaging hunt is bound to happen. Lots of hunting going on in Mournhold it appears...
I sense a very engaging hunt is bound to happen. Lots of hunting going on in Mournhold it appears...
Exciting continuation to the story- I really enjoyed the back-story you created for Ten-Tongues- and the duel. You make Mournhold into a seemingly real place- everyone has a story, nothing happens in a vacuum, and people tend to notice dead bodies.... Great work.
The Morning After
A faint strumming noise compliments the usual morning quiet in the downstairs bar of the Winged Guar, save for the occasional dull clang of a missed note. It is not unpleasant, but it is enough to rouse Ra’Tesh, the khajiti bartender. He steps out of his small back room to take in the typical early morning scene—a few stray bottles left sitting on the tables, a few dirty plates scattered about—and the less typical but still-familiar shape of Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun seated at one of the corner tables in his black robe. The argonian is carefully plucking the strings of the lute sitting in his lap. The tune he massaged out of the lute was slow and unsteady, soporific like a smoking leaf of hackle-lo. Ra’Tesh spoke first.
“The Sun-Lingerer returns. What happened?”
The argonian looked up from his playing, mildly surprised. “Five in the morning. I figured you’d be deep in sleep by now, after the night shift. You cut off the tap at three, right?” Ra’Tesh doesn’t answer. “So, what happened? Things that shouldn’t have, friend.”
“The kinds of things that Ra’Tesh does not want to know about?”
“You could say that.” For a moment Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun went back to playing the lute, hitting the notes a little better now, half-whispering half-singing the words in a tongue utterly unfamiliar to Ra’Tesh.
“So the orsimer is dead?”
The argonian hit a stray note, but kept on playing, shaking his head. “No, not him.”
“The pawnbroker?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun stopped playing and looked up at the khajiit. “How’d you guess?”
A faint grin spread across the khajiit’s face. “Ra’Tesh has seen that lute in Ten-Tongues’ shop in the Great Bazaar; the lute with the sloppy finish and bad tuning. Ra’Tesh wonders why one such as you would kill one such as him.”
“It’s complicated. Goes back to Black Marsh. I can tell you about it. But first I need some food. Got any crab meat?”
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At 7:30 Mitanne Limax stepped out of her rented room to the sight of a black-clad argonian and the khajiti bartender conversing quietly over plates of crab meat, scrib jerky, and scrambled kwama eggs. She dabbed on a little bug musk—the Cyrodiil had some bartering to do—and left the otherwise empty inn to the betmer.
“So you got out of there and the orsimer was gone?” Ra’Tesh asked, pouring himself a little flin.
“Yeah. I was kind of hoping he’d stick around the Bazaar a little longer asking questions, so I could keep tracking him, but I must have messed around with Ten-Tongues too much. Wishful thinking, anyway—I’m sure the son of a guar told him everything he needed to know.”
“So what’s next?”
“Ideally, I’d just find Sethyas Velas and get the hell out of a Mournhold. I’ve already got a good hiding place back on Vvardenfell, if I can just get the Morag Tong to leave me alone. He still hasn’t come back?”
Ra’Tesh shook his head.
“I may have to start asking around about him, again. But that brings attention.” The argonian swore softly under his breath. “Dammit, nothing is ever simple in this town.”
“Are you thinking that killing Weerhat was a bad idea?”
“I don’t regret killing him—but it does interfere with my larger goals. I don’t think I should be seen around Mournhold any more than necessary. Do you know a place to get armor repairs outside the Holy District?”
“In Almalexia? There’s the Fighter’s Guild in the Moraelyn Plaza. A few smaller armorers scattered about.”
“I’ll try the Fighter’s Guild, then. My chitin got a bit torn up in the fight.”
“So you said. And your arm.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine. I took a couple potions. And I’ve been hurt worse before. But I should get some sleep.” the argonian said, finishing his breakfast and washing it down with a pull of brandy.
“If you see Sethyas Velas don’t hesitate to wake me. Otherwise, I’m not here.”
With that Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun marched over to his rented room, locking the door behind him.
A faint strumming noise compliments the usual morning quiet in the downstairs bar of the Winged Guar, save for the occasional dull clang of a missed note. It is not unpleasant, but it is enough to rouse Ra’Tesh, the khajiti bartender. He steps out of his small back room to take in the typical early morning scene—a few stray bottles left sitting on the tables, a few dirty plates scattered about—and the less typical but still-familiar shape of Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun seated at one of the corner tables in his black robe. The argonian is carefully plucking the strings of the lute sitting in his lap. The tune he massaged out of the lute was slow and unsteady, soporific like a smoking leaf of hackle-lo. Ra’Tesh spoke first.
“The Sun-Lingerer returns. What happened?”
The argonian looked up from his playing, mildly surprised. “Five in the morning. I figured you’d be deep in sleep by now, after the night shift. You cut off the tap at three, right?” Ra’Tesh doesn’t answer. “So, what happened? Things that shouldn’t have, friend.”
“The kinds of things that Ra’Tesh does not want to know about?”
“You could say that.” For a moment Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun went back to playing the lute, hitting the notes a little better now, half-whispering half-singing the words in a tongue utterly unfamiliar to Ra’Tesh.
“So the orsimer is dead?”
The argonian hit a stray note, but kept on playing, shaking his head. “No, not him.”
“The pawnbroker?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun stopped playing and looked up at the khajiit. “How’d you guess?”
A faint grin spread across the khajiit’s face. “Ra’Tesh has seen that lute in Ten-Tongues’ shop in the Great Bazaar; the lute with the sloppy finish and bad tuning. Ra’Tesh wonders why one such as you would kill one such as him.”
“It’s complicated. Goes back to Black Marsh. I can tell you about it. But first I need some food. Got any crab meat?”
-------------------------------------------------------
At 7:30 Mitanne Limax stepped out of her rented room to the sight of a black-clad argonian and the khajiti bartender conversing quietly over plates of crab meat, scrib jerky, and scrambled kwama eggs. She dabbed on a little bug musk—the Cyrodiil had some bartering to do—and left the otherwise empty inn to the betmer.
“So you got out of there and the orsimer was gone?” Ra’Tesh asked, pouring himself a little flin.
“Yeah. I was kind of hoping he’d stick around the Bazaar a little longer asking questions, so I could keep tracking him, but I must have messed around with Ten-Tongues too much. Wishful thinking, anyway—I’m sure the son of a guar told him everything he needed to know.”
“So what’s next?”
“Ideally, I’d just find Sethyas Velas and get the hell out of a Mournhold. I’ve already got a good hiding place back on Vvardenfell, if I can just get the Morag Tong to leave me alone. He still hasn’t come back?”
Ra’Tesh shook his head.
“I may have to start asking around about him, again. But that brings attention.” The argonian swore softly under his breath. “Dammit, nothing is ever simple in this town.”
“Are you thinking that killing Weerhat was a bad idea?”
“I don’t regret killing him—but it does interfere with my larger goals. I don’t think I should be seen around Mournhold any more than necessary. Do you know a place to get armor repairs outside the Holy District?”
“In Almalexia? There’s the Fighter’s Guild in the Moraelyn Plaza. A few smaller armorers scattered about.”
“I’ll try the Fighter’s Guild, then. My chitin got a bit torn up in the fight.”
“So you said. And your arm.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine. I took a couple potions. And I’ve been hurt worse before. But I should get some sleep.” the argonian said, finishing his breakfast and washing it down with a pull of brandy.
“If you see Sethyas Velas don’t hesitate to wake me. Otherwise, I’m not here.”
With that Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun marched over to his rented room, locking the door behind him.
The Searchers
The guard captain sat easily in the Hall of Ministry as he waited for the Temple steward to finish some business out front—some talk about goblins beneath the city. But what went on beneath the city was hardly his concern—Varus Heleran was much more interested in Mournhold’s mundane problems. These were the sorts of things he was familiar with, the problems that plague all large cities. His father had worked the streets of Tear; Varus knew the cantons, plazas, shops, and manors of Vivec and Mournhold.
He sat easily. Fedris Hler made many ordinators uneasy—not an easy thing to do—but Heleran was secure in the knowledge of his own competence. It was what had brought him to Mournhold to begin with—Fedris Hler had personally seen to his promotion. Finally the Temple steward appeared—tall, bald, and scarred; Heleran could understand how Fedris Hler intimidated others.
“Captain Heleran, it is good to see you. Now, what thing has happened in our fair city that you deem worthy of my attention?”
“There has been a murder, Sera Fedris. I know that murders do occur in our city from time to time, but I think you will see that this is an unusual case.”
“Very well, Captain. Please continue.”
“The pawnbroker Ten-Tongues Weerhat was found dead in his shop in the Great Bazaar. Even as pawnbrokers go he was shady, so this isn’t too surprising, but the manner of his death is odd. It appears that he was killed by an assassin, only this wasn’t an assassination, it was a duel. He was killed by another argonian.”
The Temple steward sat for a moment, thinking. The look on his face, Heleran thought, was rather curious—like Hler had just thought of something brilliant and was trying to suppress a triumphant grin. His eyes shown an even brighter red and he struggled to keep his lips from parting—very odd, the guard captain thought. Finally Fedris Hler spoke—slowly, with care.
“I share your concern about this assassin in our city, Captain. Do you think he was very skilled?”
“I have reason to believe so, Sera Fedris. And I believe he was also well-armed.”
“Do you think you can track down this assassin?”
“He left a blood trail, but it stopped when he washed himself off in the canal. Still, there aren’t all that many argonians in Mournhold. If he doesn’t leave the city we ought to be able to find him. Of course, you never know with assassins.”
“Yes, yes. That’s very true. But I would like you to pursue this case, Captain Heleran. With great care.”
“Of course, Sera Fedris.”
“And when you find this assassin—and knowing you, he will be found—I want you to bring him immediately to me.”
The guard captain sat easily in the Hall of Ministry as he waited for the Temple steward to finish some business out front—some talk about goblins beneath the city. But what went on beneath the city was hardly his concern—Varus Heleran was much more interested in Mournhold’s mundane problems. These were the sorts of things he was familiar with, the problems that plague all large cities. His father had worked the streets of Tear; Varus knew the cantons, plazas, shops, and manors of Vivec and Mournhold.
He sat easily. Fedris Hler made many ordinators uneasy—not an easy thing to do—but Heleran was secure in the knowledge of his own competence. It was what had brought him to Mournhold to begin with—Fedris Hler had personally seen to his promotion. Finally the Temple steward appeared—tall, bald, and scarred; Heleran could understand how Fedris Hler intimidated others.
“Captain Heleran, it is good to see you. Now, what thing has happened in our fair city that you deem worthy of my attention?”
“There has been a murder, Sera Fedris. I know that murders do occur in our city from time to time, but I think you will see that this is an unusual case.”
“Very well, Captain. Please continue.”
“The pawnbroker Ten-Tongues Weerhat was found dead in his shop in the Great Bazaar. Even as pawnbrokers go he was shady, so this isn’t too surprising, but the manner of his death is odd. It appears that he was killed by an assassin, only this wasn’t an assassination, it was a duel. He was killed by another argonian.”
The Temple steward sat for a moment, thinking. The look on his face, Heleran thought, was rather curious—like Hler had just thought of something brilliant and was trying to suppress a triumphant grin. His eyes shown an even brighter red and he struggled to keep his lips from parting—very odd, the guard captain thought. Finally Fedris Hler spoke—slowly, with care.
“I share your concern about this assassin in our city, Captain. Do you think he was very skilled?”
“I have reason to believe so, Sera Fedris. And I believe he was also well-armed.”
“Do you think you can track down this assassin?”
“He left a blood trail, but it stopped when he washed himself off in the canal. Still, there aren’t all that many argonians in Mournhold. If he doesn’t leave the city we ought to be able to find him. Of course, you never know with assassins.”
“Yes, yes. That’s very true. But I would like you to pursue this case, Captain Heleran. With great care.”
“Of course, Sera Fedris.”
“And when you find this assassin—and knowing you, he will be found—I want you to bring him immediately to me.”
And so the hunt has begun. Will Al be able to escape the clutches of everyone who has an interest in him? Or will he be shackled and brought before the steward? Will the steward get a viperbolt up his nose? Only the next update can tell. Good work.
I share Jack's same sentiments. Seems like there's a lot of pursuers looking for our oftentimes drunk assassin (though it seems that this city has been keeping him sober for the most part, probably a good thing too). I fear though that with some many curious people looking for him, the snare will be too large for Al to escape. Nice work as always, canis.
The Alleys of Almalexia
When I awoke from my blessedly dreamless sleep in the early evening I discovered a note from Ra’Tesh had been slipped under my room door.
Ra’Tesh tells you that an ordinator has been around asking about one fitting your description. Ra’Tesh tells him nothing, and thinks that most people are too distrustful to tell an ordinator much, but Ra’Tesh also thinks that the Sun-Lingerer would want to know.
This city just keeps getting better and better.
I knew that I needed to get some work done on my outfit, and that I didn’t want to do it in Mournhold proper. I’d already used the services in the Craftsmens’ Hall, and while Bols Indalen was a superb smith I also knew that the orc weaponsmith he worked next to had already talked once and probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. And, I admit, I also feared that I might not be able to resist killing him.
Instead, after going through the motions of my typical fitness routine—forty push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, a few stretches, a bottle of brandy—I made straight for the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and the Gates of Symmanchus.
Naturally the plaza was crawling with guards—both the elite ordinators of Almalexia and the royal guards of King Helseth. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the high walls of Mournhold cast enough of a shadow for me to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. I’m sure Almalexia would have been most displeased that I didn’t stop to admire the statue of her fighting Mehrunes Dagon, but then, I had higher concerns—notably, self-preservation.
Lamentably, the Gates were manned by a pair of elite ordinators. I thought I might try to bluff my way through—I don’t need to use a blade to be persuasive—but I didn’t want to take any chances. I made for the nearest shadows and scaled the wall.
Climbing walls, I hear, is something of a lost art in the Empire. Rumor has it that guards in Cyrodiil will arrest any who care to try, and in Vvardenfell most folks cast a spell or down a potion—levitating wherever they wish to go.
Once atop the wall it was an easy matter to slip down into the shadows beyond, the alleys of Almalexia.
---------------------------------------------------------
“We’re closing, argonian.” The tall, lightly bearded redguard was about to shut the door—about to until I pulled out my bag of fifty-septim pieces. His eyes, already reflecting the nearest streetlamp, glowed brighter.
“Alright, you’ve got my ear. What do you need?”
“I need repairs—and a place to wait while they’re done.”
“Our smith left half an hour ago, so the repairs will have to wait until morning. But you can spread out a bedroll in the training room tonight, if you don’t mind the smell.”
“That’s fine by me.” I handed the redguard a few coins and stepped inside.
He murmured, “Welcome to the Almalexia Guild of Fighters.”
When I awoke from my blessedly dreamless sleep in the early evening I discovered a note from Ra’Tesh had been slipped under my room door.
Ra’Tesh tells you that an ordinator has been around asking about one fitting your description. Ra’Tesh tells him nothing, and thinks that most people are too distrustful to tell an ordinator much, but Ra’Tesh also thinks that the Sun-Lingerer would want to know.
This city just keeps getting better and better.
I knew that I needed to get some work done on my outfit, and that I didn’t want to do it in Mournhold proper. I’d already used the services in the Craftsmens’ Hall, and while Bols Indalen was a superb smith I also knew that the orc weaponsmith he worked next to had already talked once and probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. And, I admit, I also feared that I might not be able to resist killing him.
Instead, after going through the motions of my typical fitness routine—forty push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, a few stretches, a bottle of brandy—I made straight for the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and the Gates of Symmanchus.
Naturally the plaza was crawling with guards—both the elite ordinators of Almalexia and the royal guards of King Helseth. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the high walls of Mournhold cast enough of a shadow for me to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. I’m sure Almalexia would have been most displeased that I didn’t stop to admire the statue of her fighting Mehrunes Dagon, but then, I had higher concerns—notably, self-preservation.
Lamentably, the Gates were manned by a pair of elite ordinators. I thought I might try to bluff my way through—I don’t need to use a blade to be persuasive—but I didn’t want to take any chances. I made for the nearest shadows and scaled the wall.
Climbing walls, I hear, is something of a lost art in the Empire. Rumor has it that guards in Cyrodiil will arrest any who care to try, and in Vvardenfell most folks cast a spell or down a potion—levitating wherever they wish to go.
Once atop the wall it was an easy matter to slip down into the shadows beyond, the alleys of Almalexia.
---------------------------------------------------------
“We’re closing, argonian.” The tall, lightly bearded redguard was about to shut the door—about to until I pulled out my bag of fifty-septim pieces. His eyes, already reflecting the nearest streetlamp, glowed brighter.
“Alright, you’ve got my ear. What do you need?”
“I need repairs—and a place to wait while they’re done.”
“Our smith left half an hour ago, so the repairs will have to wait until morning. But you can spread out a bedroll in the training room tonight, if you don’t mind the smell.”
“That’s fine by me.” I handed the redguard a few coins and stepped inside.
He murmured, “Welcome to the Almalexia Guild of Fighters.”
Ooo, creative leeways! Me likely a lot!
I look forward to seeing how this angle goes...
I look forward to seeing how this angle goes...
So Al is going for a disguise. Good thinking. Err, at least I think he's going for a disguise. He mentioned work on his outfit. I hope that that means more than simply repairs.
Plans
A single man, dressed in black, sat at a table in the palace basement. He was an imperial; his hair was black with flecks of gray, his face weathered but not worn. He looked a little bored, but he was alert to his surroundings. He heard the footsteps down the stairs almost before they happened, and his expression did not change when a tall, stocky Cyrodiil in blood-red armor pushed open the door. He nodded a greeting, the armored man, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The armored man spoke first.
"You are prompt. I had not expected you for another two days."
The man in black let a wry smile escape his lips. "We were en route already, Captain." The armored man frowned until he added, "An internal matter, Captain, that's all. It's nothing to do with the monarchy."
"Very well, Parnassus, very well." The guard captain placed a sack of gold on the table. "Two thousand. The rest after the job is done."
"That's a load of drakes. Who's the mark?"
"Argonian, name of Heik-Auri. Might also go by an alias. He's an assassin, but as far as we know he's unaffiliated. Wears a black or brown robe, black chitin armor underneath. Carries a fancy daedric dagger, an ebony shortsword, and a dwemer cross bow. He uses viper bolts." The guard captain passed a sheet of paper--a writ perhaps--to the man in black, who smiled.
"Lizard keeps himself well-armed. Where do we find him?"
"He's staying at The Winged Guar. Go now."
The man in black nodded. Taking the gold and the writ, he vanished down into the sewers.
-----------------------------------------------------
"What do you mean, 'No sign of him'? Have you found nothing at all, Liodres?"
"Nobody will tell us anything, Sera Heleran. You know how it is."
The ordinator captain sighed behind his mask, then pulled it off to reveal a still-youthful face, but with bags under his ruby-red eyes. "Yes Liodres, I know. Have you any suspicions, though?"
"Folks in Godsreach were nervous. The Winged Guar, the Craftsmen's Hall--they seemed really uneasy."
"Alright. We'll increase our patrols in that area. We can pull a guard or two out of Brindisi Dorom--nothing ever happens there anyway."
-----------------------------------------------------
"These are some fine blades, stranger."
"Everybody says that."
"It's true."
"Yeah, just don't go telling anybody about 'em"
A single man, dressed in black, sat at a table in the palace basement. He was an imperial; his hair was black with flecks of gray, his face weathered but not worn. He looked a little bored, but he was alert to his surroundings. He heard the footsteps down the stairs almost before they happened, and his expression did not change when a tall, stocky Cyrodiil in blood-red armor pushed open the door. He nodded a greeting, the armored man, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The armored man spoke first.
"You are prompt. I had not expected you for another two days."
The man in black let a wry smile escape his lips. "We were en route already, Captain." The armored man frowned until he added, "An internal matter, Captain, that's all. It's nothing to do with the monarchy."
"Very well, Parnassus, very well." The guard captain placed a sack of gold on the table. "Two thousand. The rest after the job is done."
"That's a load of drakes. Who's the mark?"
"Argonian, name of Heik-Auri. Might also go by an alias. He's an assassin, but as far as we know he's unaffiliated. Wears a black or brown robe, black chitin armor underneath. Carries a fancy daedric dagger, an ebony shortsword, and a dwemer cross bow. He uses viper bolts." The guard captain passed a sheet of paper--a writ perhaps--to the man in black, who smiled.
"Lizard keeps himself well-armed. Where do we find him?"
"He's staying at The Winged Guar. Go now."
The man in black nodded. Taking the gold and the writ, he vanished down into the sewers.
-----------------------------------------------------
"What do you mean, 'No sign of him'? Have you found nothing at all, Liodres?"
"Nobody will tell us anything, Sera Heleran. You know how it is."
The ordinator captain sighed behind his mask, then pulled it off to reveal a still-youthful face, but with bags under his ruby-red eyes. "Yes Liodres, I know. Have you any suspicions, though?"
"Folks in Godsreach were nervous. The Winged Guar, the Craftsmen's Hall--they seemed really uneasy."
"Alright. We'll increase our patrols in that area. We can pull a guard or two out of Brindisi Dorom--nothing ever happens there anyway."
-----------------------------------------------------
"These are some fine blades, stranger."
"Everybody says that."
"It's true."
"Yeah, just don't go telling anybody about 'em"
Hmmm, it appears there's going to be a clash between pursuers coming up. Looks like it might prove to be an interesting meeting. I look forward to seeing where things might go from here....
Why oh why do I have the feeling he is going to tell despite the warning? Keep hiding, my friend.
The Ta'agra here can be figured out using The Imperial Library.
Training Day
The smith—a middle-aged redguard with a frosting of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and a long scar on his left bicep—spoke without looking up from his work.
“I can fix up your weapons good as new, stranger. Material of this quality will fix up no problem so long as you don’t screw around with it. The armor will be trickier; chitin is what I like to call a ‘temperamental’ material. It’ll take little scratches and slashes just fine, better than most even, but a full-on cut might never fix up right.”
I swore, quietly, as I looked over the rents in my cuirass and my left pauldron. “I understand. What can you do?”
The redguard smiled, “Lucky for you I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing. I can patch it up pretty good once I get that resin all cooked up—you probably won’t notice much difference when I’m finished. But I got to tell you, this armor probably won’t stand up to much more abuse. How long have you had this chitin, anyway?”
Twenty years, I thought. All I said was, “A while, smith. A while.”
As the smith continued his work I drifted back into the training room, where a lone khajiit worked over a practice dummy using Rain-of-Sand style. He could have been dancing, such is the elegance of the form. I’d practiced it some myself. I settled on the opposite side of the room and began pelting one of the dummies with throwing stars in the heart, throat, and arms. After fifteen minutes of this practice I put away the projectiles and began striking the dummy with my fingers and toes—the Way of the Exposed Palm. The khajiit had begun practicing with his silver staff—again, a whirling dervish spinning about his center.
After half an hour of the precise, methodical Exposed Palm I switched to the more brutal, more pleasing art of Ahzirr Trajijazaeri. With a smile.
The khajiit ceased his practice with the staff to watch, a considerable grin also crossing his face. “The argonian has been to Elsweyr, yes?”
Breathing hard now, I shouted out answers between kicks. “Once! Years ago!” I slammed the dummy’s head off with my clenched fist.
“Dro’Zizhirr is impressed. You fusozay var dar, yes?”
I stopped almost in the midst of yet another kick.
“How do you know that?”
The khajiit’s grin widened—khajiit love secrets, it seems—and he said, “No need to worry. Dro’Zizhirr hears all the time that curiosity killed the khajiit, and Dro’Zizhirr is no foolish little kitty, so Dro’Zizhirr will speak of this no more.”
------------------------------------------------------
More waiting. I did sit-ups until my abdominal muscles burned like Red Mountain, or like it used to until the Nerevarine—Velas—destroyed Dagoth Ur. I practiced every form of unarmed combat I knew upon the helpless dummies, and wondered at the khajiit and his secrets. He left the guild hall after our conversation, before I could determine if he was a lucky guesser, or if he was just extremely perceptive, or if he actually knew something.
The assassin’s greatest weapon is not his blade, or his bow, or even his stealth. The assassin thrives on knowledge, intelligence, information—and all I seemed to have were questions.
It was late in the day when the smith finished with my gear. True to his word, my weapons looked pristine—a twisted mockery of the very idea of purity, I suppose, that I could think of these arms, blood-stained so regularly, in such a fashion. They looked clean but deadly. My chitin looked good, but I felt more give than usual in the side of my cuirass, where Ten-Tongues had come so very close to wounding me, wounding my armor instead.
I would need to be on the lookout for better armor.
Still, I didn’t feel so vulnerable anymore. With my gear fixed, I felt like I could at least stick it out in Mournhold a little longer. All I needed to do was avoid the guards and Helseth’s spies a little longer, and find Sethyas Velas a little sooner. He couldn’t avoid me forever, after all. Or could he?
I expelled the doubt from my mind. We’ll speak soon, I murmured to myself. And then I’ll be able to get the hell out of this city.
I paid the smith—with a five hundred septim bonus to ensure his silence—and then stepped out into the muggy evening air. It felt good, and so did I. A day of rest, meditation, and training made me feel stronger, faster, wiser—the best I had felt since leaving Vvardenfell.
I cast a spell to return to my room at The Winged Guar. When the haze of magicka cleared I found myself looking two Dark Brotherhood assassins square in the eyes.
Training Day
The smith—a middle-aged redguard with a frosting of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and a long scar on his left bicep—spoke without looking up from his work.
“I can fix up your weapons good as new, stranger. Material of this quality will fix up no problem so long as you don’t screw around with it. The armor will be trickier; chitin is what I like to call a ‘temperamental’ material. It’ll take little scratches and slashes just fine, better than most even, but a full-on cut might never fix up right.”
I swore, quietly, as I looked over the rents in my cuirass and my left pauldron. “I understand. What can you do?”
The redguard smiled, “Lucky for you I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing. I can patch it up pretty good once I get that resin all cooked up—you probably won’t notice much difference when I’m finished. But I got to tell you, this armor probably won’t stand up to much more abuse. How long have you had this chitin, anyway?”
Twenty years, I thought. All I said was, “A while, smith. A while.”
As the smith continued his work I drifted back into the training room, where a lone khajiit worked over a practice dummy using Rain-of-Sand style. He could have been dancing, such is the elegance of the form. I’d practiced it some myself. I settled on the opposite side of the room and began pelting one of the dummies with throwing stars in the heart, throat, and arms. After fifteen minutes of this practice I put away the projectiles and began striking the dummy with my fingers and toes—the Way of the Exposed Palm. The khajiit had begun practicing with his silver staff—again, a whirling dervish spinning about his center.
After half an hour of the precise, methodical Exposed Palm I switched to the more brutal, more pleasing art of Ahzirr Trajijazaeri. With a smile.
The khajiit ceased his practice with the staff to watch, a considerable grin also crossing his face. “The argonian has been to Elsweyr, yes?”
Breathing hard now, I shouted out answers between kicks. “Once! Years ago!” I slammed the dummy’s head off with my clenched fist.
“Dro’Zizhirr is impressed. You fusozay var dar, yes?”
I stopped almost in the midst of yet another kick.
“How do you know that?”
The khajiit’s grin widened—khajiit love secrets, it seems—and he said, “No need to worry. Dro’Zizhirr hears all the time that curiosity killed the khajiit, and Dro’Zizhirr is no foolish little kitty, so Dro’Zizhirr will speak of this no more.”
------------------------------------------------------
More waiting. I did sit-ups until my abdominal muscles burned like Red Mountain, or like it used to until the Nerevarine—Velas—destroyed Dagoth Ur. I practiced every form of unarmed combat I knew upon the helpless dummies, and wondered at the khajiit and his secrets. He left the guild hall after our conversation, before I could determine if he was a lucky guesser, or if he was just extremely perceptive, or if he actually knew something.
The assassin’s greatest weapon is not his blade, or his bow, or even his stealth. The assassin thrives on knowledge, intelligence, information—and all I seemed to have were questions.
It was late in the day when the smith finished with my gear. True to his word, my weapons looked pristine—a twisted mockery of the very idea of purity, I suppose, that I could think of these arms, blood-stained so regularly, in such a fashion. They looked clean but deadly. My chitin looked good, but I felt more give than usual in the side of my cuirass, where Ten-Tongues had come so very close to wounding me, wounding my armor instead.
I would need to be on the lookout for better armor.
Still, I didn’t feel so vulnerable anymore. With my gear fixed, I felt like I could at least stick it out in Mournhold a little longer. All I needed to do was avoid the guards and Helseth’s spies a little longer, and find Sethyas Velas a little sooner. He couldn’t avoid me forever, after all. Or could he?
I expelled the doubt from my mind. We’ll speak soon, I murmured to myself. And then I’ll be able to get the hell out of this city.
I paid the smith—with a five hundred septim bonus to ensure his silence—and then stepped out into the muggy evening air. It felt good, and so did I. A day of rest, meditation, and training made me feel stronger, faster, wiser—the best I had felt since leaving Vvardenfell.
I cast a spell to return to my room at The Winged Guar. When the haze of magicka cleared I found myself looking two Dark Brotherhood assassins square in the eyes.
That was cool to add that Khajiit lore. I do hope that when Sethyas and Al finally meet again they talk before delivering any blows. We'll see eventually. Excellent as always.
Fight Night
The dunmer was looking forward to bedding down for the evening, however restless his dreams might be within the high walls of Mournhold. The work with which he was presently occupied was not the sort to set anyone’s mind at ease. He would have to order himself a drink or two before hitting the sack, he thought, and there was no better place than The Winged Guar. It was just after sundown and already the action at the bar must have been in full swing; he could hear the dull roar of conversation and the clinking of glass bottles from outside those sturdy doors. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the palace either.
From inside his red robe he pulled out a three sheets of paper. The palace, indeed. He needed to figure out what to do with three Royal Writs of Execution. Such was Sethyas Velas' lot in life.
Inside, he slowly made his way downstairs to the bar, to the drink or maybe five he knew he needed. It really didn't matter how many--it would be a simple matter to stumble into his room mere paces back of the barstools.
Sethyas let loose a weary smile when he descended the last step. The bar was indeed busy; so loud that Ra'Tesh could scarcely hear when he ordered himself a bottle of mazte. He was just settling down to drink when the door to the far guest room burst open, and a Dark Brotherhood assassin went staggering to a brief repose upon nearest table--interrupting an arm wrestling match between a pair of giant nords.
The bar immediately rose into bedlam--a dark-haired imperial woman screamed, Ra'Tesh called for the bouncer (drunk in the corner, of course), patrons began running, the nords picked up the assassin and threw him against the nearest wall, and Sethyas Velas drew his katana. When Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and another assassin emerged from the room, parrying each other's strikes, Galms Seles began taking bets from the two dozen revelers who backed away from the fight but couldn't bring themselves to leave.
Sethyas was trying to push through the crowd--to get to the Dark Brothers. Old habits die hard.
The second assassin was up by now--he had his adamantium jinkblade drawn but was staring up at two burly, angry nords.
Sethyas Velas couldn't quite get through the crowd--he leaped up on a table to try to see over the crowd, to see what was going on. The argonian had his foe backed against the bar--the Dark Brother blocked the thrusted ebony and ducked his head beneath a raking slash from Kills-You-Dead. The Dark Brother tried then to duck out of the corner but Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spun out of his slash and--while butting his knee up into the Dark Brother's stomach--slammed the hilt of the Kills-You-Dead down upon his assailant's skull.
Then he opened up the man's throat.
The other assassin, meanwhile, was still being held at bay by the nords. They greeted his slashes with the steel of their claymores; he ducked beneath their wild hacks.
"I'll finish him." Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's shout temporarily hushed the assembled masses--the viewing audience had grown to forty now (Still no guards, naturally, Sethyas thought)--and the nords parted, reluctantly giving way. The assassin charged the argonian, who spun out of the way to deliver a kick to the Dark Brother's back, sending him sprawling over another table. When the assassin finally struggled up, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had his crossbow drawn.
"Tell me who sent you, assassin." The words were spoken quietly, but the accompanying glare was hard as stone.
"No."
A pair of viper-bolts found the Dark Brother's heart.
The dunmer was looking forward to bedding down for the evening, however restless his dreams might be within the high walls of Mournhold. The work with which he was presently occupied was not the sort to set anyone’s mind at ease. He would have to order himself a drink or two before hitting the sack, he thought, and there was no better place than The Winged Guar. It was just after sundown and already the action at the bar must have been in full swing; he could hear the dull roar of conversation and the clinking of glass bottles from outside those sturdy doors. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the palace either.
From inside his red robe he pulled out a three sheets of paper. The palace, indeed. He needed to figure out what to do with three Royal Writs of Execution. Such was Sethyas Velas' lot in life.
Inside, he slowly made his way downstairs to the bar, to the drink or maybe five he knew he needed. It really didn't matter how many--it would be a simple matter to stumble into his room mere paces back of the barstools.
Sethyas let loose a weary smile when he descended the last step. The bar was indeed busy; so loud that Ra'Tesh could scarcely hear when he ordered himself a bottle of mazte. He was just settling down to drink when the door to the far guest room burst open, and a Dark Brotherhood assassin went staggering to a brief repose upon nearest table--interrupting an arm wrestling match between a pair of giant nords.
The bar immediately rose into bedlam--a dark-haired imperial woman screamed, Ra'Tesh called for the bouncer (drunk in the corner, of course), patrons began running, the nords picked up the assassin and threw him against the nearest wall, and Sethyas Velas drew his katana. When Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and another assassin emerged from the room, parrying each other's strikes, Galms Seles began taking bets from the two dozen revelers who backed away from the fight but couldn't bring themselves to leave.
Sethyas was trying to push through the crowd--to get to the Dark Brothers. Old habits die hard.
The second assassin was up by now--he had his adamantium jinkblade drawn but was staring up at two burly, angry nords.
Sethyas Velas couldn't quite get through the crowd--he leaped up on a table to try to see over the crowd, to see what was going on. The argonian had his foe backed against the bar--the Dark Brother blocked the thrusted ebony and ducked his head beneath a raking slash from Kills-You-Dead. The Dark Brother tried then to duck out of the corner but Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spun out of his slash and--while butting his knee up into the Dark Brother's stomach--slammed the hilt of the Kills-You-Dead down upon his assailant's skull.
Then he opened up the man's throat.
The other assassin, meanwhile, was still being held at bay by the nords. They greeted his slashes with the steel of their claymores; he ducked beneath their wild hacks.
"I'll finish him." Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's shout temporarily hushed the assembled masses--the viewing audience had grown to forty now (Still no guards, naturally, Sethyas thought)--and the nords parted, reluctantly giving way. The assassin charged the argonian, who spun out of the way to deliver a kick to the Dark Brother's back, sending him sprawling over another table. When the assassin finally struggled up, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had his crossbow drawn.
"Tell me who sent you, assassin." The words were spoken quietly, but the accompanying glare was hard as stone.
"No."
A pair of viper-bolts found the Dark Brother's heart.
I've only read the first two or three chapters, but it's a good story so far, technically. It's impossible to tell about the plot and so on at this juncture, but I think I'll end up enjoying this a good deal. I'll be sure to read through the rest, although it'll take me a while - you've written a good deal.
Hoo boy! It looks like their paths are crossing in real time finally! I can't wait until the next update now. Excellent work.
What Mallie just said! And the Khajiiji-thingy was awesome, there´s far to little Khajiijtis in this world....Now of course I want to hear more about the duo Seth-Al!
Interrupted
“Hmph. Cyrodiils.” I was searching the bodies of the pair of assassins who had beset me, muttering to myself. “Nice armor, though.” I began to remove the light, yet tough, black cloth—a worthy replacement for my own deteriorating chitin. How appropriate, I thought, that the assassins—sent by Helseth, likely—intended to kill me would instead augment my defenses. I just about had my cuirass of choice off the corpse of its bearer when I noticed Sethyas Velas—finally!—standing a few scant paces away.
I stood up from my work, then dipped into a mock bow. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to stop by—Grandmaster.”
Velas grinned—the type of smile that makes mer who don’t kill for a living uncomfortable—and responded, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“And you hear rightly. But first let us have a seat at the bar. I need a drink.” Now that I’d finally made contact with Velas, I figured that I needn’t hurry. It seemed that he was thinking along a similar line, for his smile broadened.
Seating was easy to find, as most folk had cleared out of The Winged Guar with the conclusion of the battle, save for the hardiest regulars. The two nords had already resumed their arm-wrestling.
We’d just taken our seats, but not quite settled in, when Galms Seles placed a hand upon my shoulder. I think I might have let out a sigh.
“You cost me a lot of gold tonight, lizard.” The archetypal raspy sneer of an irritated dark elf. I returned his kind attention by seizing the hustler by the throat.
“Then leave, lest I cost you your life as well,” I snarled. Then I threw Seles against the nearest convenient wall. I turned back to the bar, and the brandy so thoughtfully placed before me by Ra’Tesh. The Grandmaster of the Morag Tong was chuckling softly.
“What’s so funny, Velas?”
“No wonder the Brotherhood was after you. You do that enough and you’re sure to have some writs taken out on you.”
“You’re more right than you know, Velas. That’s exactly what I need to talk to you about.”
“Let me guess. You offended someone, and they hired my guild to assassinate you, so you want me to do something about the writ.”
It was now my turn to laugh, a little. “That’s about it. Eno told you about me?”
“Of course. But you must know that I hold the sanctity of a writ in high regard… what are you looking at, Al?”
I was looking up at the stairs. “Ordinators. compassion.” Two of them, making their way down those cold stone steps. I pulled my black hood overhead and looked down to my brandy.
“We can finish talking about the writ later, Velas. But listen, and listen well. It’s more than your Morag Tong that’s after me, and more than those Dark Brothers. For some reason the high ordinators have been asking around about me—I don’t know exactly why; I just settled some old business of little consequence. And I couldn’t find any evidence, but I’m sure it was the monarchy that hired those guys”—I nodded in the direction of the dead bodies—“to kill me. Everybody around here thinks I’m some kind of threat to somebody powerful.”
Sethyas Velas whispered back, “I know the feeling.” Then our conversation was interrupted, as rudely as guards are want to do, by harsh words from behind a harsh visage.
“You two see this here fight? Turn around and talk to me.” Rude, indeed. He sounded uneducated, uncultured. Probably didn’t know anything the Temple didn’t tell him. But we complied with the order nonetheless. One of the ordinators—the one who had not spoken, who was standing to the side and a few steps back of the other—drew his scimitar. “It’s him, Sandros! The lizard!”
After a moment of stunned silence, the other ordinator reached for his own scimitar, but didn’t draw it. His hand rested on the hilt, uneasily. Haltingly he growled, “You, argonian… are wanted for questioning… by order of the Lady Almalexia’s steward, Fedris Hler. Will you go with us to the Temple?”
“Wanted for questioning related to what, exactly?” I was not in the mood for this.
The ordinators exchanged fevered whispers. “Related to the murder of one ‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat, pawnbroker in Great Bazaar district.” He hastened to add, “And the deaths of those two,” referring to the dead assassins.
I sighed, heavily. “The pawnbroker died in an honorable, more or less, duel to which I freely confess. I can pay the fine right now. I killed those Dark Brothers in self-defense, of course, and I have several witnesses to that effect. But if you wish to charge me with that too I still have plenty of gold. There is no need to take me in for questioning.”
“We don’t want to charge you,” the ordinator growled, “We just want to question you.”
“And I wish to confess, pay my fine, and sob into my brandy while I meditate upon the horror and depravity of my crimes, sera.”
This only seemed to anger the ordinator—as I knew it would—as he began to pull his scimitar out of his sheath, if only a little. It was just enough to show a few inches of ebony, calculated to intimidate. I took a pull of brandy; once I finished it took another moment for the ordinator to speak, even more harshly.
“Are you resisting arrest, lizard?”
Sethyas Velas spoke up for me. “Don’t call him lizard. Trust me on this.”
“And why do you care, stranger?”
“S—Sandros, I think I recognize him from Velas Man—“the other guard tried to interject.
“Don’t interrupt my interrogation, Duls!” The first ordinator kept staring at Sethyas Velas. “What of it, stranger?”
“I am Sethyas Velas, Nerevarine, Protector of Morrowind. And you will not be so rude in my presence.”
The guard stood silent for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Nerevarine!? The Nerevarine is ten feet tall and has the strength of ten ogrims! By Almsivi, the Nerevarine…”
Sethyas Velas pulled off one of his black gloves to reveal a glowing ring. “Like I said—“
The guard continued to laugh, even more uproariously than before.
“He even got someone to make him a ring! Hah! The Nerevarine…”
“Sandros—“
“Shut up Duls! The Nerevarine…”
This was clearly going nowhere, but I waited for the ordinator to cease his laughter. Velas was clearly furious—his red eyes burning brighter than the Suran Tradehouse when I had set it aflame—and it must have taken great, and most unfortunate, restraint on his part not to slay the mer on the spot.
“Back to your question, sera—I’m not resisting arrest for, as you said, you are not arresting me. If you did arrest me, you would be required by Imperial law to present me with the choice to either go to prison or pay my fine. And if presented this choice, I would clearly choose to pay my fine and go about my business.”
“Fedris Hler demands to see you!”
“Tell him I’ll go see him tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy?” This, I think, was the proverbial wickwheat that broke the guar’s back, for the guard now pulled out and raised his blade.
“YOU WILL SUBMIT TO MY WILL!”
Before he could bring the hilt of his scimitar down upon my skull I managed to duck under his swing and spin away. I pulled out my blades; out of the corner of my eye I saw Sethyas Velas unsheathe a sinister-looking katana of daedric metal. The first ordinator—Sandros, evidently—was off-balance so I helped him find purchase atop the bar by applying the hilt of my ebony to the back of his ebony helmet. I suppose, then, that I could have killed him, but I had enough problems in Mournhold without becoming known as a killer of guards.
Velas, meanwhile, had Duls—I assume that it refers to the mer’s wit—backed against the wall. Duls did not look particularly prepared for a tangle with professional killers, so I eased his anxiety by flinging a bottle of sujamma at his head, a drink of which I can only hope would soothe his headache once he regained consciousness.
Velas turned to me, “We ought to find someplace more quiet to talk.”
“Right.”
We made for the stairs. Easy enough, since all the patrons were gone—in anticipation of the ordinators’ wrath?
We stopped. Half a dozen ordinators stood at the bottom of the steps.
“Hmph. Cyrodiils.” I was searching the bodies of the pair of assassins who had beset me, muttering to myself. “Nice armor, though.” I began to remove the light, yet tough, black cloth—a worthy replacement for my own deteriorating chitin. How appropriate, I thought, that the assassins—sent by Helseth, likely—intended to kill me would instead augment my defenses. I just about had my cuirass of choice off the corpse of its bearer when I noticed Sethyas Velas—finally!—standing a few scant paces away.
I stood up from my work, then dipped into a mock bow. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to stop by—Grandmaster.”
Velas grinned—the type of smile that makes mer who don’t kill for a living uncomfortable—and responded, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“And you hear rightly. But first let us have a seat at the bar. I need a drink.” Now that I’d finally made contact with Velas, I figured that I needn’t hurry. It seemed that he was thinking along a similar line, for his smile broadened.
Seating was easy to find, as most folk had cleared out of The Winged Guar with the conclusion of the battle, save for the hardiest regulars. The two nords had already resumed their arm-wrestling.
We’d just taken our seats, but not quite settled in, when Galms Seles placed a hand upon my shoulder. I think I might have let out a sigh.
“You cost me a lot of gold tonight, lizard.” The archetypal raspy sneer of an irritated dark elf. I returned his kind attention by seizing the hustler by the throat.
“Then leave, lest I cost you your life as well,” I snarled. Then I threw Seles against the nearest convenient wall. I turned back to the bar, and the brandy so thoughtfully placed before me by Ra’Tesh. The Grandmaster of the Morag Tong was chuckling softly.
“What’s so funny, Velas?”
“No wonder the Brotherhood was after you. You do that enough and you’re sure to have some writs taken out on you.”
“You’re more right than you know, Velas. That’s exactly what I need to talk to you about.”
“Let me guess. You offended someone, and they hired my guild to assassinate you, so you want me to do something about the writ.”
It was now my turn to laugh, a little. “That’s about it. Eno told you about me?”
“Of course. But you must know that I hold the sanctity of a writ in high regard… what are you looking at, Al?”
I was looking up at the stairs. “Ordinators. compassion.” Two of them, making their way down those cold stone steps. I pulled my black hood overhead and looked down to my brandy.
“We can finish talking about the writ later, Velas. But listen, and listen well. It’s more than your Morag Tong that’s after me, and more than those Dark Brothers. For some reason the high ordinators have been asking around about me—I don’t know exactly why; I just settled some old business of little consequence. And I couldn’t find any evidence, but I’m sure it was the monarchy that hired those guys”—I nodded in the direction of the dead bodies—“to kill me. Everybody around here thinks I’m some kind of threat to somebody powerful.”
Sethyas Velas whispered back, “I know the feeling.” Then our conversation was interrupted, as rudely as guards are want to do, by harsh words from behind a harsh visage.
“You two see this here fight? Turn around and talk to me.” Rude, indeed. He sounded uneducated, uncultured. Probably didn’t know anything the Temple didn’t tell him. But we complied with the order nonetheless. One of the ordinators—the one who had not spoken, who was standing to the side and a few steps back of the other—drew his scimitar. “It’s him, Sandros! The lizard!”
After a moment of stunned silence, the other ordinator reached for his own scimitar, but didn’t draw it. His hand rested on the hilt, uneasily. Haltingly he growled, “You, argonian… are wanted for questioning… by order of the Lady Almalexia’s steward, Fedris Hler. Will you go with us to the Temple?”
“Wanted for questioning related to what, exactly?” I was not in the mood for this.
The ordinators exchanged fevered whispers. “Related to the murder of one ‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat, pawnbroker in Great Bazaar district.” He hastened to add, “And the deaths of those two,” referring to the dead assassins.
I sighed, heavily. “The pawnbroker died in an honorable, more or less, duel to which I freely confess. I can pay the fine right now. I killed those Dark Brothers in self-defense, of course, and I have several witnesses to that effect. But if you wish to charge me with that too I still have plenty of gold. There is no need to take me in for questioning.”
“We don’t want to charge you,” the ordinator growled, “We just want to question you.”
“And I wish to confess, pay my fine, and sob into my brandy while I meditate upon the horror and depravity of my crimes, sera.”
This only seemed to anger the ordinator—as I knew it would—as he began to pull his scimitar out of his sheath, if only a little. It was just enough to show a few inches of ebony, calculated to intimidate. I took a pull of brandy; once I finished it took another moment for the ordinator to speak, even more harshly.
“Are you resisting arrest, lizard?”
Sethyas Velas spoke up for me. “Don’t call him lizard. Trust me on this.”
“And why do you care, stranger?”
“S—Sandros, I think I recognize him from Velas Man—“the other guard tried to interject.
“Don’t interrupt my interrogation, Duls!” The first ordinator kept staring at Sethyas Velas. “What of it, stranger?”
“I am Sethyas Velas, Nerevarine, Protector of Morrowind. And you will not be so rude in my presence.”
The guard stood silent for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Nerevarine!? The Nerevarine is ten feet tall and has the strength of ten ogrims! By Almsivi, the Nerevarine…”
Sethyas Velas pulled off one of his black gloves to reveal a glowing ring. “Like I said—“
The guard continued to laugh, even more uproariously than before.
“He even got someone to make him a ring! Hah! The Nerevarine…”
“Sandros—“
“Shut up Duls! The Nerevarine…”
This was clearly going nowhere, but I waited for the ordinator to cease his laughter. Velas was clearly furious—his red eyes burning brighter than the Suran Tradehouse when I had set it aflame—and it must have taken great, and most unfortunate, restraint on his part not to slay the mer on the spot.
“Back to your question, sera—I’m not resisting arrest for, as you said, you are not arresting me. If you did arrest me, you would be required by Imperial law to present me with the choice to either go to prison or pay my fine. And if presented this choice, I would clearly choose to pay my fine and go about my business.”
“Fedris Hler demands to see you!”
“Tell him I’ll go see him tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy?” This, I think, was the proverbial wickwheat that broke the guar’s back, for the guard now pulled out and raised his blade.
“YOU WILL SUBMIT TO MY WILL!”
Before he could bring the hilt of his scimitar down upon my skull I managed to duck under his swing and spin away. I pulled out my blades; out of the corner of my eye I saw Sethyas Velas unsheathe a sinister-looking katana of daedric metal. The first ordinator—Sandros, evidently—was off-balance so I helped him find purchase atop the bar by applying the hilt of my ebony to the back of his ebony helmet. I suppose, then, that I could have killed him, but I had enough problems in Mournhold without becoming known as a killer of guards.
Velas, meanwhile, had Duls—I assume that it refers to the mer’s wit—backed against the wall. Duls did not look particularly prepared for a tangle with professional killers, so I eased his anxiety by flinging a bottle of sujamma at his head, a drink of which I can only hope would soothe his headache once he regained consciousness.
Velas turned to me, “We ought to find someplace more quiet to talk.”
“Right.”
We made for the stairs. Easy enough, since all the patrons were gone—in anticipation of the ordinators’ wrath?
We stopped. Half a dozen ordinators stood at the bottom of the steps.
Man this is getting juicy. I am excited!
ohhhhohohooo, showdown at the WG? This is getting better and better, shame I´ll go on vacation tomorrow morning, have to wait until the 18th to learn more!
I clearly see similarities in yours and mine interpretations of Seth! OMG this is awesome!
I clearly see similarities in yours and mine interpretations of Seth! OMG this is awesome!
Excellent update. It's always a treat to see Al and Sethyas interact with each other. They seem to compliment each other nicely. Their current situation doesn't look good though. Looks like they might be forced to talk with Fedris afterall.
Questions
There has to be a way out of here. Almalexia’s high ordinators were scanning the bar scene in disbelief and anger, it looked, and I was calculating the odds of escape in my head. Would it be possible, I wondered, to cast a spell of divine intervention, scramble over to Effe-Tei, and get transport back to Vvardenfell before any royal guards can nab me? And, assuming success, how much good would that actually do me?. I glanced over at Velas; it seemed like he was having similar thoughts. But then one of the ordinators took his helmet off—revealing sagging, tired eyes—and spoke up.
“Well, at least you were good enough not to kill those fools. Liodres,” he called to the ordinator immediately to his right, “see to it that Sandros and Duls are reprimanded for their lack of caution. After they regain consciousness, of course.” He appeared to let loose the barest of smiles at that.
The one called Liodres nodded briskly and said, “Yes captain.”
“Now then, back to you two. Knowing a little something about Sandros and Duls, I don’t think we’ll be charging you with assault.”
“So, we’re free to go then, right? Come on Sethyas…“ No luck. The captain interrupted my efforts to extricate myself from the tavern, harshly clearing his throat.
“Not so fast there. Serjo Velas is certainly free to go, as I feel no compelling need to detain the Protector of Morrowind, our sainted Nerevarine. But you,” the mer said, pointing at me, “you are still very much wanted for questioning.”
Once again it was time for me to release a heavy sigh. “Listen, I already told those two jokers,” I gestured towards the fallen guards, “that I can pay the damn fine. Why is it so important to question me?”
“It is the will of The Lady, and Her will is law in this city.”
“But I was told that it was Fedris Hler who wanted to speak with me.”
“This is technically true, but you must remember that, as a lawful representative of Almalexia, Serjo Hler’s word…”
“I get it, I get it. His word is as good as hers. Right. But I still want to know why.”
“I’m not certain myself. But I think I can assure you that, if you’ve done nothing worse than killing Ten-Tongues Weerhat, you won’t be detained beyond Serjo Hler’s questioning. I’ll see to that personally.”
“I see. Could I consult with Sethyas here for a moment?”
The captain nodded.
“What do you think?” I whispered.
“Sounds bad. But that’s Mournhold.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Still, it beats fighting six ordinators.”
“Yeah.” Then I turned back to the assembled guards and spoke up, “Alright, I’ll go see Fedris Hler.”
The guard captain smiled. “Excellent. Shall we?”
“Just one moment. I need to finish my brandy.” I grabbed the bottle—miraculously undisturbed during the melee—and gulped it down. “Let’s go." Before exiting I called back to Sethyas, "We'll talk when I get back. And I will be back."
At the very least, I figured, I’d have the opportunity to talk to one of my problems face-to-face.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Thank you Captain Heleran. You may leave us.”
I could see where the rumors—that Fedris Hler had been an assassin—came from. The great gash across the mer’s face spoke volumes, as did his choice of glass armor. He seemed almost unnaturally pleased by my presence; like I was some kind of great gift he’s just been delivered. And maybe I was.
“Let’s get down to business. I am Fedris Hler, steward of this Temple, loyal servant of our Lady Almalexia. Who are you?”
“You can just call me assassin.”
“Reticent, are you? Very well, I can understand that. What is your business in Mournhold?”
I decided to be honest, more or less. “I’m in Mournhold to convince, cajole, coerce, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise threaten the grandmaster of the Morag Tong into withdrawing a writ of execution upon my head. Unfortunately, I haven’t found him yet.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“I took the ranking member at one of their guildhalls hostage, so to speak, and threatened to kill everyone there if she didn’t tell me where he was.”
Hler seemed to perk up. “Would that be a credible threat, coming from you?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“I’ll put it to you this way—I’ve invaded their guildhall undetected twice, while they all slept.”
“I see… did you come to Mournhold for any other reason?”
“No. As soon as I get that writ taken care of I’m getting the hell out of here.” I desperately wanted to leap across the table, cut his throat, spill his blood…
“Interesting. You say that you are an assassin. For whom, if not the Morag Tong?”
“I don’t work for anyone but myself. But you could say that I’m retired, actually.” Technically true, at the moment. Of course, my present predicament didn’t allow me to particularly enjoy my practice of lying without really lying.
I don’t think that Hler liked my answer much—whether he thought I was being dishonest or was just disappointed, I don’t know—but he persisted with his creepily serene smiling. “Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin, eh? One more question… assassin. Could you do The Lady a great favor and discretely assassinate a certain king going by the name of Helseth?”
“What?”
There has to be a way out of here. Almalexia’s high ordinators were scanning the bar scene in disbelief and anger, it looked, and I was calculating the odds of escape in my head. Would it be possible, I wondered, to cast a spell of divine intervention, scramble over to Effe-Tei, and get transport back to Vvardenfell before any royal guards can nab me? And, assuming success, how much good would that actually do me?. I glanced over at Velas; it seemed like he was having similar thoughts. But then one of the ordinators took his helmet off—revealing sagging, tired eyes—and spoke up.
“Well, at least you were good enough not to kill those fools. Liodres,” he called to the ordinator immediately to his right, “see to it that Sandros and Duls are reprimanded for their lack of caution. After they regain consciousness, of course.” He appeared to let loose the barest of smiles at that.
The one called Liodres nodded briskly and said, “Yes captain.”
“Now then, back to you two. Knowing a little something about Sandros and Duls, I don’t think we’ll be charging you with assault.”
“So, we’re free to go then, right? Come on Sethyas…“ No luck. The captain interrupted my efforts to extricate myself from the tavern, harshly clearing his throat.
“Not so fast there. Serjo Velas is certainly free to go, as I feel no compelling need to detain the Protector of Morrowind, our sainted Nerevarine. But you,” the mer said, pointing at me, “you are still very much wanted for questioning.”
Once again it was time for me to release a heavy sigh. “Listen, I already told those two jokers,” I gestured towards the fallen guards, “that I can pay the damn fine. Why is it so important to question me?”
“It is the will of The Lady, and Her will is law in this city.”
“But I was told that it was Fedris Hler who wanted to speak with me.”
“This is technically true, but you must remember that, as a lawful representative of Almalexia, Serjo Hler’s word…”
“I get it, I get it. His word is as good as hers. Right. But I still want to know why.”
“I’m not certain myself. But I think I can assure you that, if you’ve done nothing worse than killing Ten-Tongues Weerhat, you won’t be detained beyond Serjo Hler’s questioning. I’ll see to that personally.”
“I see. Could I consult with Sethyas here for a moment?”
The captain nodded.
“What do you think?” I whispered.
“Sounds bad. But that’s Mournhold.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Still, it beats fighting six ordinators.”
“Yeah.” Then I turned back to the assembled guards and spoke up, “Alright, I’ll go see Fedris Hler.”
The guard captain smiled. “Excellent. Shall we?”
“Just one moment. I need to finish my brandy.” I grabbed the bottle—miraculously undisturbed during the melee—and gulped it down. “Let’s go." Before exiting I called back to Sethyas, "We'll talk when I get back. And I will be back."
At the very least, I figured, I’d have the opportunity to talk to one of my problems face-to-face.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Thank you Captain Heleran. You may leave us.”
I could see where the rumors—that Fedris Hler had been an assassin—came from. The great gash across the mer’s face spoke volumes, as did his choice of glass armor. He seemed almost unnaturally pleased by my presence; like I was some kind of great gift he’s just been delivered. And maybe I was.
“Let’s get down to business. I am Fedris Hler, steward of this Temple, loyal servant of our Lady Almalexia. Who are you?”
“You can just call me assassin.”
“Reticent, are you? Very well, I can understand that. What is your business in Mournhold?”
I decided to be honest, more or less. “I’m in Mournhold to convince, cajole, coerce, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise threaten the grandmaster of the Morag Tong into withdrawing a writ of execution upon my head. Unfortunately, I haven’t found him yet.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“I took the ranking member at one of their guildhalls hostage, so to speak, and threatened to kill everyone there if she didn’t tell me where he was.”
Hler seemed to perk up. “Would that be a credible threat, coming from you?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“I’ll put it to you this way—I’ve invaded their guildhall undetected twice, while they all slept.”
“I see… did you come to Mournhold for any other reason?”
“No. As soon as I get that writ taken care of I’m getting the hell out of here.” I desperately wanted to leap across the table, cut his throat, spill his blood…
“Interesting. You say that you are an assassin. For whom, if not the Morag Tong?”
“I don’t work for anyone but myself. But you could say that I’m retired, actually.” Technically true, at the moment. Of course, my present predicament didn’t allow me to particularly enjoy my practice of lying without really lying.
I don’t think that Hler liked my answer much—whether he thought I was being dishonest or was just disappointed, I don’t know—but he persisted with his creepily serene smiling. “Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin, eh? One more question… assassin. Could you do The Lady a great favor and discretely assassinate a certain king going by the name of Helseth?”
“What?”
Oh boy, I bet Al is going to get paid a lot of gold -or booze- otherwise he's really not going to like this. And I doubt the good high priest is going to give him the option to refuse.
Keep it rolling Canis!
This is an interesting plot development. It certainly sounds like a nigh on impossible task though. We'll see whether Al is up for the task...
Basement Blues
“King Helseth intends to be the real power in Mournhold. This is unacceptable. The young king has the Emperor’s favor, however, so we cannot move openly against him at this time.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You will be compensated generously, of course.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You think yourself incapable?”
“He’s a king. A paranoid king. He probably keeps himself surrounded by guards, and doesn’t let anyone ever see him. He employs spies to root out enemies real and perceived. He hires the Dark Brotherhood to slice people open, or to poison folk. But I think I could kill him. Just not for you.”
“I see… could you kill him for ten thousand septims?”
“No.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“I have all the money I need, Hler, and you’re beginning to sound desperate. There is nothing you can offer me that will persuade me to accept this task. Nothing. I’m beholden to no one. I have few friends, and no family. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“But our conversation isn’t over yet, assassin.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“Guards! Seize him!”
----------------------------------------------------
Ach, my head… where… oh yes, the basement. The Temple basement. I remembered now, being surrounded by a quartet of guards, cutting a deep gash across the chest of one while being knocked over the head by another. I found my blades lying on the floor next to me—apparently they had vacated the room in the aftermath of the struggle, figuring that they could stop me if I tried to leave.
I tried to stand—I felt a wave of nausea pass over me, but it quickly subsided. My head ached, but it was nothing worse than the time I drank all that greef and mazte in the Arena. First I tried to cast a recall spell, back to the room at the Winged Guar, but the magicka dissipated faster than I could call it up. So they figured to keep me trapped down here. That’s OK, I thought, let them try. Diverting sport for me, at least. I tried the near door; locked, of course. I peeked through the keyhole in time to see a guard lurk by the door, then walk away. I waited a few more moments there; after a time he came by once more. But it was only the one. I fingered my picks and probes, and then my blades. I smiled.
“King Helseth intends to be the real power in Mournhold. This is unacceptable. The young king has the Emperor’s favor, however, so we cannot move openly against him at this time.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You will be compensated generously, of course.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You think yourself incapable?”
“He’s a king. A paranoid king. He probably keeps himself surrounded by guards, and doesn’t let anyone ever see him. He employs spies to root out enemies real and perceived. He hires the Dark Brotherhood to slice people open, or to poison folk. But I think I could kill him. Just not for you.”
“I see… could you kill him for ten thousand septims?”
“No.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“I have all the money I need, Hler, and you’re beginning to sound desperate. There is nothing you can offer me that will persuade me to accept this task. Nothing. I’m beholden to no one. I have few friends, and no family. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“But our conversation isn’t over yet, assassin.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“Guards! Seize him!”
----------------------------------------------------
Ach, my head… where… oh yes, the basement. The Temple basement. I remembered now, being surrounded by a quartet of guards, cutting a deep gash across the chest of one while being knocked over the head by another. I found my blades lying on the floor next to me—apparently they had vacated the room in the aftermath of the struggle, figuring that they could stop me if I tried to leave.
I tried to stand—I felt a wave of nausea pass over me, but it quickly subsided. My head ached, but it was nothing worse than the time I drank all that greef and mazte in the Arena. First I tried to cast a recall spell, back to the room at the Winged Guar, but the magicka dissipated faster than I could call it up. So they figured to keep me trapped down here. That’s OK, I thought, let them try. Diverting sport for me, at least. I tried the near door; locked, of course. I peeked through the keyhole in time to see a guard lurk by the door, then walk away. I waited a few more moments there; after a time he came by once more. But it was only the one. I fingered my picks and probes, and then my blades. I smiled.
Aftermath
“Parnassus, why are two of your underlings dead while that argonian still lives?”
The assassin was taken a bit aback by the presence of his employer. He had hurried through the sewers dodging rats, goblins, and undead with the purpose of reaching the Palace basement early—he didn’t like to be taken by surprise, by anyone. As to the question, he responded wearily, “That mark of yours is good, Tienius.”
Tienius Delitian frowned. “I’ve got worries enough without some rogue assassin loose in this city. The King is concerned, as you might expect. So my question is, what are you going to do about our problem?”
The assassin sighed. “I sent a courier to Cyrodiil to fetch reinforcements. Next time he’ll be facing more than two. I assume that your King is willing to finance another attempt? More men need more pay…”
-------------------------------------------------
Varus Heleran strode unhappily into the Temple, anger and regret in his head. It was 7 A.M. He arrived just in time to see Fedris Hler exit from the High Chapel—he had been speaking to the goddess, apparently.
“Serjo Fedris, we must speak about the argonian. I told him—“
“Yes, you told him that he would not be detained. It was a promise that you did not have the authority to give.”
“Serjo—“
“My apologies, Captain. Perhaps we should go down to the basement and see him?”
“Yes, I would very much like to do so. I’m afraid that I, at least, owe him an apology.”
Fedris Hler smiled, perhaps a bit cruelly, but he walked to the door leading deeper into the Temple—hallways that eventually lead to the basement—without hesitation. Captain Heleran followed. They did not speak until they came upon the prone bodies of two ordinators, in one pool of blood, in the Hall of Ministry, a few short steps from the basement door. Captain Heleran rushed forward.
“Are they dead?” asked Fedris Hler.
“No, not yet. But they must have been laying here a while; they’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ve got a couple of potions, but they really need a healer.”
“She ought to be in any moment—and I’m sure there must be more potions in the infirmary.”
The healer did arrive, and the fallen ordinators were carried to the infirmary—leaving time for Varus Heleran and Fedris Hler to try to piece together what happened.
“The lock’s been picked of course. He must have taken Sevil by surprise—knocked his weapon away and beat him over the head a couple of times. He’s bleeding some from the head, but it really isn’t too bad.”
“What about Kulsi?”
“You say he was scheduled to take over for Sevil?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“He must have just been coming in to relieve Sevil then—3 A.M. The argonian’s been loose for at least that long, then. It looks like Kulsi stumbled in on his escape and waded in to fight. He got the worst of it—thrown against the wall, armor torn to hell, stomach almost slashed open, helmet damn near split apart—he’s lucky to be alive.” Then the Captain bent to pick up a loose scrap of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A note, Serjo. From your escapee.”
--------------------------------------------------
To the honorable and wise Fedris Hler,
Serjo, I must recommend that you resist the urge to detain or to contact me in any way. I feel like I have shown great restraint, and yet you insisted on antagonizing me further. Therefore it is with great regret that I must issue something of an ultimatum. If anyone under your command ever attempts to apprehend again I will deal them in such fashion as I dealt with these two fellows here, except instead of merely wounding, I will kill. This is not a threat, but rather a guarantee.
I will not ever accept your contract, no matter the terms. Once again, if you attempt to discuss the matter with me in the future, it will give me great pleasure to kill you instead.
Regards,
The Assassin
“Parnassus, why are two of your underlings dead while that argonian still lives?”
The assassin was taken a bit aback by the presence of his employer. He had hurried through the sewers dodging rats, goblins, and undead with the purpose of reaching the Palace basement early—he didn’t like to be taken by surprise, by anyone. As to the question, he responded wearily, “That mark of yours is good, Tienius.”
Tienius Delitian frowned. “I’ve got worries enough without some rogue assassin loose in this city. The King is concerned, as you might expect. So my question is, what are you going to do about our problem?”
The assassin sighed. “I sent a courier to Cyrodiil to fetch reinforcements. Next time he’ll be facing more than two. I assume that your King is willing to finance another attempt? More men need more pay…”
-------------------------------------------------
Varus Heleran strode unhappily into the Temple, anger and regret in his head. It was 7 A.M. He arrived just in time to see Fedris Hler exit from the High Chapel—he had been speaking to the goddess, apparently.
“Serjo Fedris, we must speak about the argonian. I told him—“
“Yes, you told him that he would not be detained. It was a promise that you did not have the authority to give.”
“Serjo—“
“My apologies, Captain. Perhaps we should go down to the basement and see him?”
“Yes, I would very much like to do so. I’m afraid that I, at least, owe him an apology.”
Fedris Hler smiled, perhaps a bit cruelly, but he walked to the door leading deeper into the Temple—hallways that eventually lead to the basement—without hesitation. Captain Heleran followed. They did not speak until they came upon the prone bodies of two ordinators, in one pool of blood, in the Hall of Ministry, a few short steps from the basement door. Captain Heleran rushed forward.
“Are they dead?” asked Fedris Hler.
“No, not yet. But they must have been laying here a while; they’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ve got a couple of potions, but they really need a healer.”
“She ought to be in any moment—and I’m sure there must be more potions in the infirmary.”
The healer did arrive, and the fallen ordinators were carried to the infirmary—leaving time for Varus Heleran and Fedris Hler to try to piece together what happened.
“The lock’s been picked of course. He must have taken Sevil by surprise—knocked his weapon away and beat him over the head a couple of times. He’s bleeding some from the head, but it really isn’t too bad.”
“What about Kulsi?”
“You say he was scheduled to take over for Sevil?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“He must have just been coming in to relieve Sevil then—3 A.M. The argonian’s been loose for at least that long, then. It looks like Kulsi stumbled in on his escape and waded in to fight. He got the worst of it—thrown against the wall, armor torn to hell, stomach almost slashed open, helmet damn near split apart—he’s lucky to be alive.” Then the Captain bent to pick up a loose scrap of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A note, Serjo. From your escapee.”
--------------------------------------------------
To the honorable and wise Fedris Hler,
Serjo, I must recommend that you resist the urge to detain or to contact me in any way. I feel like I have shown great restraint, and yet you insisted on antagonizing me further. Therefore it is with great regret that I must issue something of an ultimatum. If anyone under your command ever attempts to apprehend again I will deal them in such fashion as I dealt with these two fellows here, except instead of merely wounding, I will kill. This is not a threat, but rather a guarantee.
I will not ever accept your contract, no matter the terms. Once again, if you attempt to discuss the matter with me in the future, it will give me great pleasure to kill you instead.
Regards,
The Assassin
Hoo boy! Those couple of updates were fun to read! Nice to see Al showing some backbone (of course he's always shown that though).
Well, for the ordinators' sakes I hope Hler has the "great wisedom and benevolence" to take our Argonian assassin's word.
Keep it coming!
Hmm, the way Al slices through Ordinators left and right (with proper preparation) shows me that he could indeed slay Helseth. But I believe I know why he refuses.
Anyway, good work.
Anyway, good work.
Yes yes....more Al......he´s a very tough lizzie, isn´t he? I really do like him! I´ll stay tuned now...
Trouble
“You must apprehend this assassin once more.”
“Serjo, with all due respect, he just put two of my men in the infirmary.”
“Exactly; that’s why we need him.”
“Need him for what?”
Fedris Hler motioned Captain Varus Heleran over to a lonely corner of the room. “This information must not leave this building, Captain. You understand?”
The ordinator nodded.
“The Temple wants this assassin to remove a particularly vexing presence from Mournhold. And he will do it whether he wants to or not.”
“Sir, the letter—“
“Varus, he will do it. He has proven himself capable, and we will persuade him.”
“Proven himself?” Heleran’s voice rose slightly.
“Why do you think we left him here, armed?”
Silence. Heleran’s face was grim indeed when the muttered, “You wanted to see how good he was. You tested him against my men.”
Hler placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “Varus, it had to be done. And so must this. Your guards will find this assassin once more. For safety, they will patrol only in groups of three or more—you may need to pull more out of the Plaza; that’s fine. But I want him found, and brought before me again. He will help us, or he will suffer.”
Varus Heleran stood and walked out the door, saying nothing.
“You must apprehend this assassin once more.”
“Serjo, with all due respect, he just put two of my men in the infirmary.”
“Exactly; that’s why we need him.”
“Need him for what?”
Fedris Hler motioned Captain Varus Heleran over to a lonely corner of the room. “This information must not leave this building, Captain. You understand?”
The ordinator nodded.
“The Temple wants this assassin to remove a particularly vexing presence from Mournhold. And he will do it whether he wants to or not.”
“Sir, the letter—“
“Varus, he will do it. He has proven himself capable, and we will persuade him.”
“Proven himself?” Heleran’s voice rose slightly.
“Why do you think we left him here, armed?”
Silence. Heleran’s face was grim indeed when the muttered, “You wanted to see how good he was. You tested him against my men.”
Hler placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “Varus, it had to be done. And so must this. Your guards will find this assassin once more. For safety, they will patrol only in groups of three or more—you may need to pull more out of the Plaza; that’s fine. But I want him found, and brought before me again. He will help us, or he will suffer.”
Varus Heleran stood and walked out the door, saying nothing.
Oooo Hler is a crafty mer! Though it seems he likes to take advantage of the liberties his rank gives him, much to the chagrin of others like Varus there. Al might have some problems dealing with that one.
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