Full Version: Killing in the Emperor's Name
ok, I actually printed your story out last night and had a read away from the computer and first thought- 'Wow' Seriously you have set yourself a huge challenge in your writing styles, third person, first person, present tense, past tense- It makes for interesting reading and as the storyline progress I just get sucked in even more. Can't wait for more!
An Obsession - Part Three
“He means to burn Tear to the ground with just eighty men?” Heik-Auri was walking ahead of the raiding party, along with Nine-Toes. They were to be the scouts.
“We’re relying on surprise and stealth. We’re not going to be able to burn the whole of the city, but we’ll try to take out the centers of power, and the slaveyard. It’s not like we’re going to try and occupy the city. We sneak in, we strike, and we get the hell out of there.”
The two argonians stepped over a fallen log. “Yes, I know how the plan goes, Nine-Toes, but I worry. Eighty just seems wrong. If it were more we might overwhelm the city guard, for a while. If it were less we could sneak in easier and burn the city with no one ever knowing we were there.”
“We need the extra men to assault the slaveyard. It might take just a few of us to set the fires, but we need to free the slaves too—and it can’t be done so easily.”
“Yes, the slaveyard—say, did you see something move ahead?” Heik-Auri became quiet, and held up a hand.
“Just on the other side of that clearing ahead. You take the left, I the right.”
Heik-Auri nodded his response, and readied his bow. The argonians crept through the trees, each using every shadow to his advantage. They skirted the edge of the clearing, Heik-Auri on the west, Nine-Toes on the east. As they crept along a party of eight dark elves broke abruptly into the clearing, walking single file but not being especially careful; the one in the rear stopped briefly to roll and light a hackle-lo leaf while the two in the lead appeared to be engrossed in some sort of bawdy story-telling; the argonians couldn’t quite tell what.
“So then the filthy khajiit said…”
Heik-Auri took out the leader with a bow shot to the throat while Nine-Toes shot bolts into the rear of the party. Those who didn’t fall immediately broke into a running retreat, as they could not see their assailants. Two more, a male and female in chitin armor, fell at the edge of clearing. Two made it to the trees; one had an arrow stuck in his shoulder, one was somehow unwounded.
“No survivors! Come on!” Heik-Auri shouted as they took up the pursuit. He placed a running arrow shot in the back of the already-wounded elf; Nine-Toes finished him with a bolt.
The other dunmer, a female, kept running, fast. Nine-Toes snapped a shot off that sailed by her shoulder and lodged into a tree. Heik-Auri kept running, bow in hand, sending another running shot off that missed low, at her feet. The trail took a sharp turn to the left—to run straight through the marshy woods was to invite disaster—and she tried to take it too fast, slipping and falling. She tried to scramble up, but was pierced with an arrow shot, then another. She still struggled, but now Heik-Auri was on her, with his new daedric dagger drawn.
“She’s a tough one, Nine-Toes.”
“That she is. Lot of good that’ll do her. Let’s finish this and report to Gei-Tekri. He’ll want to know about this.”
Heik-Auri raised the dark elf’s head and raked the dagger across her throat, letting the blood spill freely and easily upon the sodden black earth.
“Shall we report to Gei-Tekri now? It’s about lunchtime. What do you say we have a bite to eat first, Nine-Toes?”
“He means to burn Tear to the ground with just eighty men?” Heik-Auri was walking ahead of the raiding party, along with Nine-Toes. They were to be the scouts.
“We’re relying on surprise and stealth. We’re not going to be able to burn the whole of the city, but we’ll try to take out the centers of power, and the slaveyard. It’s not like we’re going to try and occupy the city. We sneak in, we strike, and we get the hell out of there.”
The two argonians stepped over a fallen log. “Yes, I know how the plan goes, Nine-Toes, but I worry. Eighty just seems wrong. If it were more we might overwhelm the city guard, for a while. If it were less we could sneak in easier and burn the city with no one ever knowing we were there.”
“We need the extra men to assault the slaveyard. It might take just a few of us to set the fires, but we need to free the slaves too—and it can’t be done so easily.”
“Yes, the slaveyard—say, did you see something move ahead?” Heik-Auri became quiet, and held up a hand.
“Just on the other side of that clearing ahead. You take the left, I the right.”
Heik-Auri nodded his response, and readied his bow. The argonians crept through the trees, each using every shadow to his advantage. They skirted the edge of the clearing, Heik-Auri on the west, Nine-Toes on the east. As they crept along a party of eight dark elves broke abruptly into the clearing, walking single file but not being especially careful; the one in the rear stopped briefly to roll and light a hackle-lo leaf while the two in the lead appeared to be engrossed in some sort of bawdy story-telling; the argonians couldn’t quite tell what.
“So then the filthy khajiit said…”
Heik-Auri took out the leader with a bow shot to the throat while Nine-Toes shot bolts into the rear of the party. Those who didn’t fall immediately broke into a running retreat, as they could not see their assailants. Two more, a male and female in chitin armor, fell at the edge of clearing. Two made it to the trees; one had an arrow stuck in his shoulder, one was somehow unwounded.
“No survivors! Come on!” Heik-Auri shouted as they took up the pursuit. He placed a running arrow shot in the back of the already-wounded elf; Nine-Toes finished him with a bolt.
The other dunmer, a female, kept running, fast. Nine-Toes snapped a shot off that sailed by her shoulder and lodged into a tree. Heik-Auri kept running, bow in hand, sending another running shot off that missed low, at her feet. The trail took a sharp turn to the left—to run straight through the marshy woods was to invite disaster—and she tried to take it too fast, slipping and falling. She tried to scramble up, but was pierced with an arrow shot, then another. She still struggled, but now Heik-Auri was on her, with his new daedric dagger drawn.
“She’s a tough one, Nine-Toes.”
“That she is. Lot of good that’ll do her. Let’s finish this and report to Gei-Tekri. He’ll want to know about this.”
Heik-Auri raised the dark elf’s head and raked the dagger across her throat, letting the blood spill freely and easily upon the sodden black earth.
“Shall we report to Gei-Tekri now? It’s about lunchtime. What do you say we have a bite to eat first, Nine-Toes?”
Bloody Wonderful
I personally wouldn't feel like eating anything after spliting a mer's throat wide open, but I guess Al's got a strong stomach, or that stuff simply doesn't effect him.
Great work as usual.
Great work as usual.
Well, by this point in this life he's already far too familiar with death and murder--it usually doesn't affect him too much. And what assassin worth his salt doesn't have a strong stomach?
And as always, thanks for the compliments. I'll keep trying to live up to them.
And as always, thanks for the compliments. I'll keep trying to live up to them.
An Obsession – Part Four
The scouts emerged from the thinning marsh-forest onto the edge of a broad plain strewn with rough farm shacks and great far-flung manors of fired mud-brick. They had scarcely spoken since slaughtering the party of dark elves—the border patrol—and reporting to the Battlechief.
“Have you seen it before, Nine-Toes? The Deshaan Plain?”
“Yes, once. I was out hunting and got lost—I was still young then, and didn’t know my way as now. I crept around for a few hours, then fled back into the forest as the sun rose and I saw our kin working in those fields. I think it was over there” he pointed off to the west. “You see that manor house, two miles distant?”
“This is my first time, Nine-Toes. I approached the edge of the trees once, perhaps four years ago. I couldn’t bear to get any closer. I was afraid of what I might see. You know about my mother—“
“Don’t speak of it, friend. I know it was hard.”
“Oh, I guess I’m alright. I’ve seen too much now, I think. Father took it much harder.”
“Have you heard from him since he sailed for Hammerfell?”
Heik-Auir shook his head, slowly. “Another of our clan met him in Stros M’kai, or so he told me when he returned to the village. He’s tending the bar at a tavern there, or he was. Apparently they have a tradition of our people serving drinks in that city. That was two years ago.”
“Why didn’t you go with?”
“Unfinished business, Nine-Toes. Unfinished business.”
They stood there for another moment, silently taking in the scene.
“How are we going to lead our force through here, Heik-Auri?”
“I’m wondering myself. I don’t know. It’s so… open. I’ve never seen a place so open before. I think I can even see the lights of Tear itself…”
“Tear… if we are very fortunate we shall see it ever the more brightly on our way back.”
“Fortunate indeed. Nine-Toes, the way I see it we have only two options, and they’re neither very good. We can race by these plantations fast as we can and hope to reach the city before the alarm can be raised, and try to overwhelm the initial resistance. Like the fires they say can race through the dry brush in Elsweyr. Or, we wait until dark, try to sneak through these plantations with eighty hist, and maybe reach Tear by two or three in the deep night. Maybe. Then we might be able to do our work and flee town by sun’s rise, when we hope the Dres guards and the Legion aren’t cutting off our retreat.”
“Only those two options?”
“You have a better idea?”
Nine-Toes thought for a moment, then a moment longer.
“We get the hell out of here?”
------------------------------------------------------
“What is our course, Gei-Tekri? There isn’t a single tree on those plains to hide under, nor a single hill to slink behind.”
The band—it could hardly be called an army—had settled down within the last sheltering grove of trees before the opening of the grand Deshaan Plain, and Nine-Toes was consulting with Gei-Tekri while Heik-Auri kept up the watch.
“You don’t think we could fight our way through, Nine-Toes?”
“No. The manor guards alone, out on that plain, could outnumber us. The slaves might join us and rebel, but with what would they fight? They are sickly and weak, most of them. We all know the stories—some of us have lived them. Worse still, if a few survive and teleport away to the city, or ride off on their guars, or entire mission would be stunted before it could even start. I don’t know how many guards and legion troops there are around Tear, but they would all be sent our way.”
“And even if we could successfully fight through the plantations and to Tear, we would lose half our number along the way. Yes, I understand. Thank you Nine-Toes. So we must wait until dark, and take much care.”
“Wait!” Heik-Auri shouted from the edge of the forest. “I have a better idea.”
The scouts emerged from the thinning marsh-forest onto the edge of a broad plain strewn with rough farm shacks and great far-flung manors of fired mud-brick. They had scarcely spoken since slaughtering the party of dark elves—the border patrol—and reporting to the Battlechief.
“Have you seen it before, Nine-Toes? The Deshaan Plain?”
“Yes, once. I was out hunting and got lost—I was still young then, and didn’t know my way as now. I crept around for a few hours, then fled back into the forest as the sun rose and I saw our kin working in those fields. I think it was over there” he pointed off to the west. “You see that manor house, two miles distant?”
“This is my first time, Nine-Toes. I approached the edge of the trees once, perhaps four years ago. I couldn’t bear to get any closer. I was afraid of what I might see. You know about my mother—“
“Don’t speak of it, friend. I know it was hard.”
“Oh, I guess I’m alright. I’ve seen too much now, I think. Father took it much harder.”
“Have you heard from him since he sailed for Hammerfell?”
Heik-Auir shook his head, slowly. “Another of our clan met him in Stros M’kai, or so he told me when he returned to the village. He’s tending the bar at a tavern there, or he was. Apparently they have a tradition of our people serving drinks in that city. That was two years ago.”
“Why didn’t you go with?”
“Unfinished business, Nine-Toes. Unfinished business.”
They stood there for another moment, silently taking in the scene.
“How are we going to lead our force through here, Heik-Auri?”
“I’m wondering myself. I don’t know. It’s so… open. I’ve never seen a place so open before. I think I can even see the lights of Tear itself…”
“Tear… if we are very fortunate we shall see it ever the more brightly on our way back.”
“Fortunate indeed. Nine-Toes, the way I see it we have only two options, and they’re neither very good. We can race by these plantations fast as we can and hope to reach the city before the alarm can be raised, and try to overwhelm the initial resistance. Like the fires they say can race through the dry brush in Elsweyr. Or, we wait until dark, try to sneak through these plantations with eighty hist, and maybe reach Tear by two or three in the deep night. Maybe. Then we might be able to do our work and flee town by sun’s rise, when we hope the Dres guards and the Legion aren’t cutting off our retreat.”
“Only those two options?”
“You have a better idea?”
Nine-Toes thought for a moment, then a moment longer.
“We get the hell out of here?”
------------------------------------------------------
“What is our course, Gei-Tekri? There isn’t a single tree on those plains to hide under, nor a single hill to slink behind.”
The band—it could hardly be called an army—had settled down within the last sheltering grove of trees before the opening of the grand Deshaan Plain, and Nine-Toes was consulting with Gei-Tekri while Heik-Auri kept up the watch.
“You don’t think we could fight our way through, Nine-Toes?”
“No. The manor guards alone, out on that plain, could outnumber us. The slaves might join us and rebel, but with what would they fight? They are sickly and weak, most of them. We all know the stories—some of us have lived them. Worse still, if a few survive and teleport away to the city, or ride off on their guars, or entire mission would be stunted before it could even start. I don’t know how many guards and legion troops there are around Tear, but they would all be sent our way.”
“And even if we could successfully fight through the plantations and to Tear, we would lose half our number along the way. Yes, I understand. Thank you Nine-Toes. So we must wait until dark, and take much care.”
“Wait!” Heik-Auri shouted from the edge of the forest. “I have a better idea.”
Hmm, whats the better Idea?
Oooo! A plan! What could it possibly be!? I'd like to know, but nooooo, you have to tease me with this cliffhangers! 
I'd also like to point out how fleshed out the comraderie between Nine-Toes and Al are going. Nine-Toes seems to be one of the few to get a decent discussion with the Argonian; pretty neat.
I'd also like to point out how fleshed out the comraderie between Nine-Toes and Al are going. Nine-Toes seems to be one of the few to get a decent discussion with the Argonian; pretty neat.
Ok, I have a feeling that this raid will turn out to be a fiasco and cost a lot of lives. Still though, I'm sure that you'll be able to make it a good read. Fine as always.
Note: I really like the way this series has turned out. At first the stories all seemed loose without anything to bind them apart from the fact that the same character made appearances. Now it has involved into this subtle exploration into the depth's of Al's soul with a well-progressing recount of his past.
Note: I really like the way this series has turned out. At first the stories all seemed loose without anything to bind them apart from the fact that the same character made appearances. Now it has involved into this subtle exploration into the depth's of Al's soul with a well-progressing recount of his past.
An Obsession – Part Five
“Fine idea, Heik-Auri. Now we take all the risk.”
Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri slinked through the saltrice fields, perhaps fifty yards from a complex of mud-brick manor buildings and slave shacks.
“Three-and-a-half hours to sundown, Nine-Toes. And ten miles to cover with eighty hist, undetected, through three of these damned plantations. How else are we going to do this?”
“We could have taken a few others.”
“No, you and me. It’s the most discreet way to do it. If there weren’t so many Dres to take on I’d do it all myself.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That WOULD be crazy. Now you’re with me, so it’s fine. We clear the place up, send the signal, and the others advance. We can even arm some of the slaves, if they’re willing. Here, give me a boost.” The two argonians had reached one of the manor houses; it looked like a guard tower. After receiving a bit of push from Nine-Toes, Heik-Auri began to scale the exterior wall. “I’ll lower the line when I’m done.”
Nine-Toes waited at the bottom of the tower, crossbow ready in case he should be discovered. A few moments after Heik-Auri disappeared over the tower parapet a thin gray robe dropped down beside him, which he quickly ascended. At the top he found Heik-Auri, a trap door into the tower, and a figure in bonemold lying prone in a rapidly expanding pool of blood, chitin short-bow at the side.
“You didn’t hear me from down there, did you?”
“No, Heik-Auri. I believe that you were as silent as the dead.”
The assassin grinned. “For both our sakes let’s hope that continues. Care to silence the door? It would be a pity if we were detected on the way in.”
Nine-Toes cast a spell of silence upon the door, which Heik-Auir gently opened as his friend readied his crossbow. No one was waiting below.
“I’ll lead” Heik-Auri whispered as he lowered his body through the opening.
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The pair encountered four more guards in varied states of preparedness. Heik-Auri killed the first three by creeping up behind, clasping a free hand over the guard’s mouth, and slashing the throat with his new daedric dagger. The fourth turned immediately before the attack but died before he could bring his sword into play. Nine-Toes watched.
“That dagger... it is enchanted, yes? What does it do?”
“It absorbs health, Nine-Toes. A lot. And it never fails.”
“Never fails? You mean...”
“Yes, I stole it from the Shadowscales. And yes, they’re probably still looking for me right now, trying to take my head. No more questions, no more answers.”
Silence reigned, for a moment.
“Alright Nine-Toes, let’s move on to the next building. Once we’ve cleared the main buildings we’ll take out the exterior guard. That might be a little harder. We’ll need your crossbow.”
“Back to the top of the tower?”
“Yeah, we can’t risk going out the front door. We’ll work outside in. No one escapes.”
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Three more guards patrol the grounds, unaware of the fate of their mercenary companions. Nine-Toes crouches behind the parapet atop the shipping house; Heik-Auri stalks the courtyard below, two blades drawn, edging up behind a fair-haired nord in heavy armor. He must be sweltering, Nine-Toes is thinking; Heik-Auri is thinking about a helmet-less skull. He spirits himself forward, bringing the hilt of his ebony blade hard down upon the nord’s skull. He is down, the nord; Heik-Auri cuts his throat and raises a free hand to the air. At the signal Nine-Toes launches bolts at the other two guards—the first is struck in the throat and falls, the second is struck in the shoulder and charges forward to the shipping house, totally unaware when an iron arrow launched from a hist bow strikes him from behind.
“Fine idea, Heik-Auri. Now we take all the risk.”
Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri slinked through the saltrice fields, perhaps fifty yards from a complex of mud-brick manor buildings and slave shacks.
“Three-and-a-half hours to sundown, Nine-Toes. And ten miles to cover with eighty hist, undetected, through three of these damned plantations. How else are we going to do this?”
“We could have taken a few others.”
“No, you and me. It’s the most discreet way to do it. If there weren’t so many Dres to take on I’d do it all myself.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That WOULD be crazy. Now you’re with me, so it’s fine. We clear the place up, send the signal, and the others advance. We can even arm some of the slaves, if they’re willing. Here, give me a boost.” The two argonians had reached one of the manor houses; it looked like a guard tower. After receiving a bit of push from Nine-Toes, Heik-Auri began to scale the exterior wall. “I’ll lower the line when I’m done.”
Nine-Toes waited at the bottom of the tower, crossbow ready in case he should be discovered. A few moments after Heik-Auri disappeared over the tower parapet a thin gray robe dropped down beside him, which he quickly ascended. At the top he found Heik-Auri, a trap door into the tower, and a figure in bonemold lying prone in a rapidly expanding pool of blood, chitin short-bow at the side.
“You didn’t hear me from down there, did you?”
“No, Heik-Auri. I believe that you were as silent as the dead.”
The assassin grinned. “For both our sakes let’s hope that continues. Care to silence the door? It would be a pity if we were detected on the way in.”
Nine-Toes cast a spell of silence upon the door, which Heik-Auir gently opened as his friend readied his crossbow. No one was waiting below.
“I’ll lead” Heik-Auri whispered as he lowered his body through the opening.
----------------------------------------------
The pair encountered four more guards in varied states of preparedness. Heik-Auri killed the first three by creeping up behind, clasping a free hand over the guard’s mouth, and slashing the throat with his new daedric dagger. The fourth turned immediately before the attack but died before he could bring his sword into play. Nine-Toes watched.
“That dagger... it is enchanted, yes? What does it do?”
“It absorbs health, Nine-Toes. A lot. And it never fails.”
“Never fails? You mean...”
“Yes, I stole it from the Shadowscales. And yes, they’re probably still looking for me right now, trying to take my head. No more questions, no more answers.”
Silence reigned, for a moment.
“Alright Nine-Toes, let’s move on to the next building. Once we’ve cleared the main buildings we’ll take out the exterior guard. That might be a little harder. We’ll need your crossbow.”
“Back to the top of the tower?”
“Yeah, we can’t risk going out the front door. We’ll work outside in. No one escapes.”
----------------------------------------------
Three more guards patrol the grounds, unaware of the fate of their mercenary companions. Nine-Toes crouches behind the parapet atop the shipping house; Heik-Auri stalks the courtyard below, two blades drawn, edging up behind a fair-haired nord in heavy armor. He must be sweltering, Nine-Toes is thinking; Heik-Auri is thinking about a helmet-less skull. He spirits himself forward, bringing the hilt of his ebony blade hard down upon the nord’s skull. He is down, the nord; Heik-Auri cuts his throat and raises a free hand to the air. At the signal Nine-Toes launches bolts at the other two guards—the first is struck in the throat and falls, the second is struck in the shoulder and charges forward to the shipping house, totally unaware when an iron arrow launched from a hist bow strikes him from behind.
Ahhh, so they've decided to systematically assassinate all the guards to allow safe passage of the "army", interesting. It definitely looks like it's working so far, hopefully the plan continues to be a success.
Hmm, well it does sound like it can work. On the other hand, that's a lot of guards to kill. I bet that at least one of them will be able to get a warning out.
An Obsession – Part Six
The rain began to fall, warm as guar piss, as Heik-Auri thrust his ebony through the heart of the lord of the Mastarzas Manor, at the edge of Tear. The sun had been down an hour-and-half. The argonian rifled through the dark elf’s robes.
“Nine-Toes! Here’s the slave key!” He tossed a tiny mass of iron his companion’s way.
“Excellent. I’ll free the slaves, you signal Gei-Tekri.” He took a step, then paused and looked back at Heik-Auri. “Did we just kill seventy dunmer in five hours, the two of us?”
“I guess we did. By the gods, we did kill seventy mer… I think I need a drink.” He took a bottle of mazte from the nearby table, and opened it.
Nine-Toes found a second bottle. “Yes, I think I need one too.”
-------------------------------------------
“Well done, scouts” Gei-Tekri scanned the manor courtyard, gazing over the figures in bonemold lying dead in puddles of their own blood, now diluted by the rain. “I’m glad that you are on our side.”
“It is a half-hour walk to the slaveyard, Gei-Tekri. Northwest. The administrative center of Tear is northeast, perhaps forty minutes walk. I would say that now would be the time to split the force, but I worry. It rains; how are we set the city aflame?”
“We can still set fire to the building interiors, can we not? Can we not still see the Dres Council consumed by flames?”
“Maybe we could just assault the slaveyard, and not bother with the rest. Or I could sneak into the councilors’ quarters and slay them…
“No Heik-Auri, Tear must burn!” the battlechief shouted. He stopped himself, and spoke more quietly, “I’m sorry… we could not have reached this point without you, and Nine-Toes. But could we not use magical fire? Could it resist the rain?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Perhaps a powerful mage… say, weren’t there a couple of bretons amongst the slaves?”
-------------------------------------------
“You say you can cast a fire spell that will outlast the rain?” Heik-Auri stood before a slightly built old breton man with long, unkempt gray hair and beard and dressed in a tattered brown shirt and pants.
“Aye. The trick is to cast a spell of ‘weakness to fire’ concurrently. But I’ll need a little help regenerating my magic—I’m still a bit drained from those bracers, y’know.”
“Comberries. We need comberries. Nine-Toes, wasn’t there some of that inside the manor?”
“Indeed. I’ll go fetch them.”
“Thanks. Oh, and pick up a decent robe for our wizard here while you’re at it.” Heik-Auri turned back to the old breton. “Say, if you’re a wizard, how’d these dunmer enslave you to begin with?”
“Well, it’s sort of embarrassing. I had two rather unpleasant habits in my middle-age; drinking and gambling. They don’t go well together.”
-------------------------------------------
One half-hour later Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri guided a detachment of forty hist through the dark, to the northwest and the infamous slave pens of Tear.
“It’s a good thing we found that breton, if he’s a talented as he says he is.”
“You think so, Nine-Toes? I’d rather we hadn’t found him; wizard or no wizard, burning Tear is a fool’s errand. I just hope Gei-Tekri realizes that before it’s too late.”
“You think his party won’t succeed? I must admit, I also have my doubts.”
“His anger blinds him. He is no fool, but he is not himself. Are we even ourselves? We killed so many back there… we’ve both killed before, you and I, but not like that. And now we are off to kill again. How many mer do you think guard the slaveyard?”
“Our spies say perhaps forty dunmer and almost as many mercenaries. But we have the darkness and the surprise in our favor.”
“Yes, that evens the odds, I think. I hope. Still, this will not be like the plantations. Now we have an army. This isn’t going to be an assassination—it will be a battle. I’ve never fought like this before.”
“Nor I.”
“I don’t think we will again, either.” They kept walking for another moment, quietly, before Heik-Auir spoke again.
“Nine-Toes?”
“Yes?”
“You think we’ll survive?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. You and me both. Why not? What do you think?”
“I think that we won’t be seeing Gei-Tekri again.”
The rain began to fall, warm as guar piss, as Heik-Auri thrust his ebony through the heart of the lord of the Mastarzas Manor, at the edge of Tear. The sun had been down an hour-and-half. The argonian rifled through the dark elf’s robes.
“Nine-Toes! Here’s the slave key!” He tossed a tiny mass of iron his companion’s way.
“Excellent. I’ll free the slaves, you signal Gei-Tekri.” He took a step, then paused and looked back at Heik-Auri. “Did we just kill seventy dunmer in five hours, the two of us?”
“I guess we did. By the gods, we did kill seventy mer… I think I need a drink.” He took a bottle of mazte from the nearby table, and opened it.
Nine-Toes found a second bottle. “Yes, I think I need one too.”
-------------------------------------------
“Well done, scouts” Gei-Tekri scanned the manor courtyard, gazing over the figures in bonemold lying dead in puddles of their own blood, now diluted by the rain. “I’m glad that you are on our side.”
“It is a half-hour walk to the slaveyard, Gei-Tekri. Northwest. The administrative center of Tear is northeast, perhaps forty minutes walk. I would say that now would be the time to split the force, but I worry. It rains; how are we set the city aflame?”
“We can still set fire to the building interiors, can we not? Can we not still see the Dres Council consumed by flames?”
“Maybe we could just assault the slaveyard, and not bother with the rest. Or I could sneak into the councilors’ quarters and slay them…
“No Heik-Auri, Tear must burn!” the battlechief shouted. He stopped himself, and spoke more quietly, “I’m sorry… we could not have reached this point without you, and Nine-Toes. But could we not use magical fire? Could it resist the rain?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Perhaps a powerful mage… say, weren’t there a couple of bretons amongst the slaves?”
-------------------------------------------
“You say you can cast a fire spell that will outlast the rain?” Heik-Auri stood before a slightly built old breton man with long, unkempt gray hair and beard and dressed in a tattered brown shirt and pants.
“Aye. The trick is to cast a spell of ‘weakness to fire’ concurrently. But I’ll need a little help regenerating my magic—I’m still a bit drained from those bracers, y’know.”
“Comberries. We need comberries. Nine-Toes, wasn’t there some of that inside the manor?”
“Indeed. I’ll go fetch them.”
“Thanks. Oh, and pick up a decent robe for our wizard here while you’re at it.” Heik-Auri turned back to the old breton. “Say, if you’re a wizard, how’d these dunmer enslave you to begin with?”
“Well, it’s sort of embarrassing. I had two rather unpleasant habits in my middle-age; drinking and gambling. They don’t go well together.”
-------------------------------------------
One half-hour later Nine-Toes and Heik-Auri guided a detachment of forty hist through the dark, to the northwest and the infamous slave pens of Tear.
“It’s a good thing we found that breton, if he’s a talented as he says he is.”
“You think so, Nine-Toes? I’d rather we hadn’t found him; wizard or no wizard, burning Tear is a fool’s errand. I just hope Gei-Tekri realizes that before it’s too late.”
“You think his party won’t succeed? I must admit, I also have my doubts.”
“His anger blinds him. He is no fool, but he is not himself. Are we even ourselves? We killed so many back there… we’ve both killed before, you and I, but not like that. And now we are off to kill again. How many mer do you think guard the slaveyard?”
“Our spies say perhaps forty dunmer and almost as many mercenaries. But we have the darkness and the surprise in our favor.”
“Yes, that evens the odds, I think. I hope. Still, this will not be like the plantations. Now we have an army. This isn’t going to be an assassination—it will be a battle. I’ve never fought like this before.”
“Nor I.”
“I don’t think we will again, either.” They kept walking for another moment, quietly, before Heik-Auir spoke again.
“Nine-Toes?”
“Yes?”
“You think we’ll survive?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. You and me both. Why not? What do you think?”
“I think that we won’t be seeing Gei-Tekri again.”
Interesting.....I never cared much about those Lizzards before, but now after reading your story...hmmm
Niiice Build-Up here!
I sense some foreshadowing going on here... Excellent update.
An Obsession – Part Seven
A tower, pieced together from fired bricks of marsh mud and a few wooden beams harvested from the swamps or from the north, stands at each corner of the slave compound. If you were standing at the top of the tower, seventy feet above the muddy ground below, you would see an unending procession of slaves being moved in and out of cages strung together with marsh reeds and thin wooden poles. The slaveyard of Tear never rests, for there is always a deal to be made in the largest slavemarket in Tamriel. On another night it might have been possible to see one of the reclusive sload touch down in his airship, purchasing chattels for necromantic experimentation. Tonight it was raining, so it was not quite so busy, but the slavers still liked to march their captives about from cell-to-cell, if only to enjoy their power over the assembled argonians and khajiit, even the occasionally human or elf.
Tonight, up on the tower, you would also see a slumping figure in bonemold reclining against the parapet as the blood flows from his throat and pools down to his feet, trickling down to the open trap door. Go down into the tower, down the stairs, and you would see two more bodies in bonemold lying upon the floor, force of life ebbing away. At the tower bottom you would find two argonians propping crates and tables, anything they can find, up against the door.
“We should use the bodies, too, Nine-Toes. A lot of extra weight on the tables, armored like that.”
“Sounds good. Let’s haul them down here.”
------------------------------------------------
“I’ll take out the archer on the northeast tower, you can take the southwest, and whoever gets the northwest first can have it” Nine-Toes announced, placing a bolt in his steel crossbow, “Then we open up the one’s below. They probably won’t even notice us taking out the archers, so we can take out a few more of them before the fight really begins.”
Heik-Auri nocked an arrow and took aim to the west. He could scarcely see the other tower through the rain, yet it was there, a lit lantern revealing yet another figure in bonemold, this one seated on a stool. As he drew back, he heard the crack and whistle of Nine-Toe’s shot and thought, “I guess he’ll be getting the northwest tower.” Then he released the arrow and the figure in bonemold fell back, tried to get up, then stayed down as it was pierced by another arrow. He turned to north, Heik-Auri, but he had beaten by Nine-Toes, as he had thought.
“I really need one of those crossbows.”
Nine-Toes just smiled, a bit sheepishly.
“I’ll give you a head start, this time. Pick your shot.”
Heik-Auri nocked another arrow and gazed out over the slave compound below. Off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, Heik-Auri thinks, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. He takes aim with his bow, Heik-Auri, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. He releases the arrow.
The khajiit slave looks up as the dunmer falls, but no one else notices. Then Nine-Toes releases a bolt, then Heik-Auir another arrow, and soon half a dozen dark elves are fallen and bleeding and now everyone notices. The slavers and mercenaries either scramble for cover or make for the tower door.
Forty argonians shouting for blood and revenge and for sheer madness charge into the compound.
------------------------------------------------
How long had the fight been going? They didn’t know, neither Heik-Auri nor Nine-Toes. They just leaned over the parapet, firing projectiles in the muddy, writhing monster below whenever they could distinguish foe from friend.
“Look, Heik-Auri! What the hell is—“
“Levitation!”
A pair of dark elves dropped from the sky onto the tower, swords drawn, while a third hovered in the air, cradling a crossbow. Heik-Auri dodged a bolt and drew his blades to engage the swordsmen, raking one across the chest with the dagger while blocking a blow from the other with his shortsword. Nine-Toes dodged behind the first, wounded and weakening swordsman and placed a dagger in his back. The crossbow-wielding dunmer searched for a target amidst the scrum—until he was struck by a bolt from Nine-Toes, while Heik-Auri sliced open his own combatant’s throat. Two dunmer fell.
A dwarven crossbow fell at Heik-Auri’s feet.
A tower, pieced together from fired bricks of marsh mud and a few wooden beams harvested from the swamps or from the north, stands at each corner of the slave compound. If you were standing at the top of the tower, seventy feet above the muddy ground below, you would see an unending procession of slaves being moved in and out of cages strung together with marsh reeds and thin wooden poles. The slaveyard of Tear never rests, for there is always a deal to be made in the largest slavemarket in Tamriel. On another night it might have been possible to see one of the reclusive sload touch down in his airship, purchasing chattels for necromantic experimentation. Tonight it was raining, so it was not quite so busy, but the slavers still liked to march their captives about from cell-to-cell, if only to enjoy their power over the assembled argonians and khajiit, even the occasionally human or elf.
Tonight, up on the tower, you would also see a slumping figure in bonemold reclining against the parapet as the blood flows from his throat and pools down to his feet, trickling down to the open trap door. Go down into the tower, down the stairs, and you would see two more bodies in bonemold lying upon the floor, force of life ebbing away. At the tower bottom you would find two argonians propping crates and tables, anything they can find, up against the door.
“We should use the bodies, too, Nine-Toes. A lot of extra weight on the tables, armored like that.”
“Sounds good. Let’s haul them down here.”
------------------------------------------------
“I’ll take out the archer on the northeast tower, you can take the southwest, and whoever gets the northwest first can have it” Nine-Toes announced, placing a bolt in his steel crossbow, “Then we open up the one’s below. They probably won’t even notice us taking out the archers, so we can take out a few more of them before the fight really begins.”
Heik-Auri nocked an arrow and took aim to the west. He could scarcely see the other tower through the rain, yet it was there, a lit lantern revealing yet another figure in bonemold, this one seated on a stool. As he drew back, he heard the crack and whistle of Nine-Toe’s shot and thought, “I guess he’ll be getting the northwest tower.” Then he released the arrow and the figure in bonemold fell back, tried to get up, then stayed down as it was pierced by another arrow. He turned to north, Heik-Auri, but he had beaten by Nine-Toes, as he had thought.
“I really need one of those crossbows.”
Nine-Toes just smiled, a bit sheepishly.
“I’ll give you a head start, this time. Pick your shot.”
Heik-Auri nocked another arrow and gazed out over the slave compound below. Off in the corner a khajiit, exiled from the deserts of Anequima, curses the rain, shaking clawed shackled paws at the invisible Masser and Secunda. He is calling on Azura, Heik-Auri thinks, pleading or cursing or crying at whatever gave him his form, his life, this hell. A long-haired red eyed dark elf in flowing robes strides purposefully to the rebelling slave, club in one hand and whip in the other; a cohort of argonians walk past—they are all staring into the mud. He takes aim with his bow, Heik-Auri, searching for the dunmer’s forehead. He releases the arrow.
The khajiit slave looks up as the dunmer falls, but no one else notices. Then Nine-Toes releases a bolt, then Heik-Auir another arrow, and soon half a dozen dark elves are fallen and bleeding and now everyone notices. The slavers and mercenaries either scramble for cover or make for the tower door.
Forty argonians shouting for blood and revenge and for sheer madness charge into the compound.
------------------------------------------------
How long had the fight been going? They didn’t know, neither Heik-Auri nor Nine-Toes. They just leaned over the parapet, firing projectiles in the muddy, writhing monster below whenever they could distinguish foe from friend.
“Look, Heik-Auri! What the hell is—“
“Levitation!”
A pair of dark elves dropped from the sky onto the tower, swords drawn, while a third hovered in the air, cradling a crossbow. Heik-Auri dodged a bolt and drew his blades to engage the swordsmen, raking one across the chest with the dagger while blocking a blow from the other with his shortsword. Nine-Toes dodged behind the first, wounded and weakening swordsman and placed a dagger in his back. The crossbow-wielding dunmer searched for a target amidst the scrum—until he was struck by a bolt from Nine-Toes, while Heik-Auri sliced open his own combatant’s throat. Two dunmer fell.
A dwarven crossbow fell at Heik-Auri’s feet.
The battle begins! And what a battle! Great work canis.
So the fabled Crossbow arrives. I knew there was some crazy background to it...just didnt think it was that crazy!
Well Done Canis.
Well Done Canis.
Wow, the situation sure has become hectic. And another souvenir to add to our assassin. Yippee!
An Obsession – Part Eight
“Spare a few more bolts?”
The question came as Heik-Auri and Nine-Toes steadily launched the tiny steel projectiles into the crowd below; there were perhaps twenty-five of their own band still fighting, along with whatever slaves had been loose within the compound—a motley crew of argonians and khajiit perhaps twenty in number still stood fighting with claws and weapons taken from the dead. Nearly fifty slavers and mercenaries still stood and fought; one more fell to a bolt before Nine-Toes responded to the request and passed over seven bolts.
“I’m running low myself. We’ll have to get down there soon.”
“Yeah… hey, is that lightning to the east?”
“I think it was. But no thunder. And no fires.”
“Damn.”
“No use worrying about. We’ve got fifteen bolts between us—let’s make them count.”
Two shots Nine-Toes used to bring down a big nord in chainmail. Heik-Auri used one from his powerful new crossbow to bring down the imperial crossing blades with two khajiit slaves, a second to fell a spear-wielding slaver sitting atop a plain strider—the dunmer tumbled off to face the wrath of the slaves and saviors. It took Nine-Toes three more shots to drop a pair of bonemold-clad mercenary guards swinging great axes. Heik-Auri was sizing up yet another shot—targeting a huge, claymore-swinging figure resplendent in orcish armor—when he heard Nine-Toes shout, “The Legion is here! Run!” He looked up, almost annoyed—until he saw a phalanx of one hundred imperial spearmen marching from the south. Blocking the way back to Argonia.
“Come on Heik-Auri, we must flee!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here!”
------------------------------------------------
The streets of Tear were mostly empty, which Heik-Auri supposed was reasonable considering that it was long after midnight and still raining. Still something wasn’t right—hell, nothing was right, and everything was completely opposite of what he and Nine-Toes could have hoped. There was no panicked populace racing through the streets, no fleeing of burning buildings, no desperate screams. Instead, they heard the sound of armored footsteps to their rear, to the fore, in any and all directions. The House Guards and the Imperial Legion were everywhere, Heik-Auri thought.
“We can’t keep running! They’ll catch us!”
Nine-Toes pointed to his right, a little south. “That alley. I think I see a door there. At least we might be able to steal a change of clothes—that might throw them off a little.”
They ran into the alley—and there was a door, locked. Heik-Auri quickly pulled out a pick from within his robe and jammed it into the lock. One… two… three…
“We’re in.”
------------------------------------------------
“I guess I’ll need to find a better lock-maker. That was supposed to be a ninety-point lock.”
“Um… it was.” Those were the only words Heik-Auri could expel from his mouth. What stood before him was, if not quite an anachronism, rather unusual. The imperial man standing before him, shirtless, showed no fear, no anger. He took a puff from a skooma pipe.
“So it was. Is that why you sought fit to break into my safehouse?”
“Safehouse? Oh shi… would you excuse me while I consult my friend here?”
The imperial nodded.
“Nine-Toes, what the hell did I just break us into? I swear I won’t do it again, any of this—I just want to lie on the beach and drink and linger in the sun, forever and ever—“
“Get yourself together! We’ll deal with it!”
“Times up” the imperial interrupted. “I hope you had a nice conversation, but I’m afraid that we have a problem. You, obviously, are involved in all this ruckus about town. Can’t say I’m surprised, what with all that activity down in Black Marsh lately—“
“You knew? Who—“
Heik-Auri was cut off. “Who am I? I’m with the Blades, of course. You didn’t think that we wouldn’t pick up on this little stunt of yours, did you?”
“It was none of your business! It was between us and the Dres!”
“Morrowind IS my business, young marshwalker.”
Nine-Toes stepped forward. “So you told the Legion to be ready for us, eh? But,” he said, looking over his unarmed foe and the bare room, “you didn’t get ready yourself.”
“Is that a threat, marshwalker?”
“Absolutely. But my honor compels me to fight you upon even terms. Are you prepared to fight hand-to-hand, to the death?”
“Let the first blow be yours.”
Nine-Toes dropped his crossbow and his dagger, and raised his scaly fists, moving forward for the first strike. He missed; or rather the blow was dodged expertly, as a dragonfly might elude an ogrim’s grasp. The imperial ducked low and delivered a savage blow below the argonian’s ribcage, dropping him to the floor.
“Stop it!” Heik-Auri called. “This fight is unfair; Nine-Toes is no master of unarmed combat, and you, Blade, clearly are. There can be no honor in such a mismatch. Will you fight me instead?”
The imperial considered, scratching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “As you say, I have some skill in unarmed combat, and this one” he said, referring to Nine-Toes, who was just staggering back to his feet, “is clearly not. You think you are good enough?”
“It is not my strength, but neither is it my weakness.”
“I would rather see your strength.”
Heik-Auri raised his two blades, of ebony and daedric metal.
“You pack some rather fancy hardware for a guerilla, marshwalker.”
“Would you like to try one out?”
“Short blades aren’t my own strength I’m afraid. My greatest weapon is no weapon at all. And I hope you would rather see my strength, as well.”
“Indeed. Shall we?”
The imperial nodded and eased back into a defensive position. Heik-Auri held the dagger in his left hand, the shortsword in his right—the dagger he held in back almost like a shield, ready to block. The argonian stepped forward easily, with almost imperceptible effort; he feinted a thrust with the shortsword but brought the dagger down at a diagonal across the imperial’s chest—or where the chest had been but a split-second before. The imperial dodged the slash and instead brought his right fist down upon Heik-Auri’s shoulder, which accepted the blow easily, slipping away. Heik-Auri slashed with the shortsword, missing but pulling into a spin, bringing the dagger back around only to be blocked by his foe. The Blade delivered a kick; Heik-Auri intercepted it by bringing the hilt of his ebony shortsword down upon his opponent’s knee. Hard. Both went sprawling as the man somehow managed to kick Heik-Auri with his other leg.
The two combatants struggled to get up. Heik-Auri was first—he leaped upon the imperial and brought his dagger up to the man’s throat.
“Any last words, Blade?”
The Blade was remarkably calm, considering that a dagger was held to his throat. “Yes, as a matter fact. Do you want a job?”
Both marshwalkers’ eyes opened wide. “What?”
“I’m assembling a team of Blades to work under my command, on Vvardenfell. I could use you. Both of you.”
Heik-Auri frowned, then grinned. “And what if we say no? I could just kill you and be done with this business, head home.”
“That would be rather short-sighted of you, I think. You still have the Dres and the Legion looking for you. You’re good; but they’ll be out in force—and blocking the way back to Argonia. You have no choice but to head north.”
“Even if we join you, Dres still wants our heads. Are you just going to cast a fancy little spell, Blade, that will make that problem go away?”
“Well, I could invoke the Emperor’s name, but that attracts attention. No, I have a secret way out of here. And you can use it, if you join the Blades.”
Heik-Auri pulled the dagger away from the imperial’s throat and looked up at his clanbrother. “What do you think?”
“Let’s take the deal and get the hell out of here.”
“Done. We are at your service, sera—“
“Caius. Caius Cosades,” he accepted a hand from Heik-Auri, “and you are?”
“He’s Nine-Toes,” Heik-Auri said, gesturing to his friend. Then he grinned widely, thinking of… something.
“You can call me Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.”
“Spare a few more bolts?”
The question came as Heik-Auri and Nine-Toes steadily launched the tiny steel projectiles into the crowd below; there were perhaps twenty-five of their own band still fighting, along with whatever slaves had been loose within the compound—a motley crew of argonians and khajiit perhaps twenty in number still stood fighting with claws and weapons taken from the dead. Nearly fifty slavers and mercenaries still stood and fought; one more fell to a bolt before Nine-Toes responded to the request and passed over seven bolts.
“I’m running low myself. We’ll have to get down there soon.”
“Yeah… hey, is that lightning to the east?”
“I think it was. But no thunder. And no fires.”
“Damn.”
“No use worrying about. We’ve got fifteen bolts between us—let’s make them count.”
Two shots Nine-Toes used to bring down a big nord in chainmail. Heik-Auri used one from his powerful new crossbow to bring down the imperial crossing blades with two khajiit slaves, a second to fell a spear-wielding slaver sitting atop a plain strider—the dunmer tumbled off to face the wrath of the slaves and saviors. It took Nine-Toes three more shots to drop a pair of bonemold-clad mercenary guards swinging great axes. Heik-Auri was sizing up yet another shot—targeting a huge, claymore-swinging figure resplendent in orcish armor—when he heard Nine-Toes shout, “The Legion is here! Run!” He looked up, almost annoyed—until he saw a phalanx of one hundred imperial spearmen marching from the south. Blocking the way back to Argonia.
“Come on Heik-Auri, we must flee!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here!”
------------------------------------------------
The streets of Tear were mostly empty, which Heik-Auri supposed was reasonable considering that it was long after midnight and still raining. Still something wasn’t right—hell, nothing was right, and everything was completely opposite of what he and Nine-Toes could have hoped. There was no panicked populace racing through the streets, no fleeing of burning buildings, no desperate screams. Instead, they heard the sound of armored footsteps to their rear, to the fore, in any and all directions. The House Guards and the Imperial Legion were everywhere, Heik-Auri thought.
“We can’t keep running! They’ll catch us!”
Nine-Toes pointed to his right, a little south. “That alley. I think I see a door there. At least we might be able to steal a change of clothes—that might throw them off a little.”
They ran into the alley—and there was a door, locked. Heik-Auri quickly pulled out a pick from within his robe and jammed it into the lock. One… two… three…
“We’re in.”
------------------------------------------------
“I guess I’ll need to find a better lock-maker. That was supposed to be a ninety-point lock.”
“Um… it was.” Those were the only words Heik-Auri could expel from his mouth. What stood before him was, if not quite an anachronism, rather unusual. The imperial man standing before him, shirtless, showed no fear, no anger. He took a puff from a skooma pipe.
“So it was. Is that why you sought fit to break into my safehouse?”
“Safehouse? Oh shi… would you excuse me while I consult my friend here?”
The imperial nodded.
“Nine-Toes, what the hell did I just break us into? I swear I won’t do it again, any of this—I just want to lie on the beach and drink and linger in the sun, forever and ever—“
“Get yourself together! We’ll deal with it!”
“Times up” the imperial interrupted. “I hope you had a nice conversation, but I’m afraid that we have a problem. You, obviously, are involved in all this ruckus about town. Can’t say I’m surprised, what with all that activity down in Black Marsh lately—“
“You knew? Who—“
Heik-Auri was cut off. “Who am I? I’m with the Blades, of course. You didn’t think that we wouldn’t pick up on this little stunt of yours, did you?”
“It was none of your business! It was between us and the Dres!”
“Morrowind IS my business, young marshwalker.”
Nine-Toes stepped forward. “So you told the Legion to be ready for us, eh? But,” he said, looking over his unarmed foe and the bare room, “you didn’t get ready yourself.”
“Is that a threat, marshwalker?”
“Absolutely. But my honor compels me to fight you upon even terms. Are you prepared to fight hand-to-hand, to the death?”
“Let the first blow be yours.”
Nine-Toes dropped his crossbow and his dagger, and raised his scaly fists, moving forward for the first strike. He missed; or rather the blow was dodged expertly, as a dragonfly might elude an ogrim’s grasp. The imperial ducked low and delivered a savage blow below the argonian’s ribcage, dropping him to the floor.
“Stop it!” Heik-Auri called. “This fight is unfair; Nine-Toes is no master of unarmed combat, and you, Blade, clearly are. There can be no honor in such a mismatch. Will you fight me instead?”
The imperial considered, scratching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “As you say, I have some skill in unarmed combat, and this one” he said, referring to Nine-Toes, who was just staggering back to his feet, “is clearly not. You think you are good enough?”
“It is not my strength, but neither is it my weakness.”
“I would rather see your strength.”
Heik-Auri raised his two blades, of ebony and daedric metal.
“You pack some rather fancy hardware for a guerilla, marshwalker.”
“Would you like to try one out?”
“Short blades aren’t my own strength I’m afraid. My greatest weapon is no weapon at all. And I hope you would rather see my strength, as well.”
“Indeed. Shall we?”
The imperial nodded and eased back into a defensive position. Heik-Auri held the dagger in his left hand, the shortsword in his right—the dagger he held in back almost like a shield, ready to block. The argonian stepped forward easily, with almost imperceptible effort; he feinted a thrust with the shortsword but brought the dagger down at a diagonal across the imperial’s chest—or where the chest had been but a split-second before. The imperial dodged the slash and instead brought his right fist down upon Heik-Auri’s shoulder, which accepted the blow easily, slipping away. Heik-Auri slashed with the shortsword, missing but pulling into a spin, bringing the dagger back around only to be blocked by his foe. The Blade delivered a kick; Heik-Auri intercepted it by bringing the hilt of his ebony shortsword down upon his opponent’s knee. Hard. Both went sprawling as the man somehow managed to kick Heik-Auri with his other leg.
The two combatants struggled to get up. Heik-Auri was first—he leaped upon the imperial and brought his dagger up to the man’s throat.
“Any last words, Blade?”
The Blade was remarkably calm, considering that a dagger was held to his throat. “Yes, as a matter fact. Do you want a job?”
Both marshwalkers’ eyes opened wide. “What?”
“I’m assembling a team of Blades to work under my command, on Vvardenfell. I could use you. Both of you.”
Heik-Auri frowned, then grinned. “And what if we say no? I could just kill you and be done with this business, head home.”
“That would be rather short-sighted of you, I think. You still have the Dres and the Legion looking for you. You’re good; but they’ll be out in force—and blocking the way back to Argonia. You have no choice but to head north.”
“Even if we join you, Dres still wants our heads. Are you just going to cast a fancy little spell, Blade, that will make that problem go away?”
“Well, I could invoke the Emperor’s name, but that attracts attention. No, I have a secret way out of here. And you can use it, if you join the Blades.”
Heik-Auri pulled the dagger away from the imperial’s throat and looked up at his clanbrother. “What do you think?”
“Let’s take the deal and get the hell out of here.”
“Done. We are at your service, sera—“
“Caius. Caius Cosades,” he accepted a hand from Heik-Auri, “and you are?”
“He’s Nine-Toes,” Heik-Auri said, gesturing to his friend. Then he grinned widely, thinking of… something.
“You can call me Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.”
Nicely Done! So Caius had something to do with the Dres disaster, eh? Makes you wonder....
Brilliant addition of Caius into this whole mess. Nice was to see the origin of Heik's "Blades Name" I'll call it. Superb job canis!
Caius! Oh, good old Skoomie is one of my favourite characters. I mean, who's ever seen a master spy without a shirt? And James Bond doesn't count because Caius is cool even without a woman in his bed. (Actually, he's cooler without a woman than he'd be with one.)
SGM.
SGM.
Bad Memories
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun awoke with Kills-You-Dead in hand—the floorboards were creaking, out on the dock, in the characteristic rhythm of sneaking footsteps. He sat up in the hammock and quietly swung his feet down to the floor. Crouching low, the assassin moved forward to the door, ready to strike—if he needed to. The footsteps had ceased—in front of the door, he thought. The door opened. “Nine-Toes?”
“Sun-Lingerer?”
Nine-Toes stood up from his crouch, as did Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. They smiled and laughed—how ridiculous it was, two old friends getting the jump on each other.
“What are you doing here, Nine-Toes?”
“What am I doing here? Wasn’t it I who told you about this place? I’ve been using it as a rest stop while I’m out mapping the Bitter Coast, of course. It sure beats laying down in the swamp. But what the hell are you doing here?”
The assassin sat down upon one of crates piled inside the shack. “So you haven’t heard. Elone got upset about that job with Orvas Dren I pulled, and then all hell broke loose in Arille’s. I think I sent half of that fool altmer’s customers to see a healer.”
“So you figure that’s enough to kick you out of the order?” asked Nine-Toes, pulling up a barrel upon which to sit, “I mean, that job with the slavehouse was a lot worse, if you ask me. They let you back in after that one.”
“Hell, I don’t know. How much trouble have I caused the Blades now?”
“Well, there was that Sadrith Mora job, for one. The guard in Blacklight—though I fought that was more fun than trouble. Suran. This. Am I missing anything?”
“That one time in Ghostgate.”
“Oh yes, the Armigers. Sore losers, if you ask me.”
“Yes, well. The point is, I think this one was the last straw. The imperial guard is looking for me, I’m sure. I had to get out of Seyda Neen faster than a guar on moonsugar.”
“So what are you going to do? You aren’t just going to sit around in this shack all day and night, are you?”
“I don’t know, Nine-Toes. I need some time to think about my situation. I need to clear my head. You know what I mean?”
“The dreams?”
“Yeah, the dreams. It was Tear, again, last night. I don’t know how often it’s run through my head, but I thought it would have been more than enough times by now. But I can’t forget it.”
“Tear isn’t exactly the sort of thing you forget.”
“I still wonder what happened to Gei-Tekri. We got out of there so fast…” The words hung in the air; as the two argonians hung their heads.
“I think that your premonition was right. It troubles me to think of what the Dres must have done—so I try not to think of it much. Those were bad times, clanbrother.”
“I’m not sure they’ve improved much.”
“We’ve made lives here on Vvardenfell, haven’t we? What did we have then? I tell you, we had hate, hate and fear.”
“Nine-Toes, I do not fear anymore but I must say it. I still have that hate.”
“Yes, yes I know. What can I say? Your trade keeps you close to those bad memories, I think. Do you agree?”
“It’s what I know.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. All we knew, those years ago, was killing dunmer and saving our own skins. Now you kill all the races, but how has your life really changed? You rented a nice room, you drink brandy instead of greef, and you work for the Empire instead of the clan. Is that it?”
“That’s it.” His eyes burned, slightly, from anger or sorrow—perhaps both. “And there’s no way out, is there? What can I do besides killing people?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun awoke with Kills-You-Dead in hand—the floorboards were creaking, out on the dock, in the characteristic rhythm of sneaking footsteps. He sat up in the hammock and quietly swung his feet down to the floor. Crouching low, the assassin moved forward to the door, ready to strike—if he needed to. The footsteps had ceased—in front of the door, he thought. The door opened. “Nine-Toes?”
“Sun-Lingerer?”
Nine-Toes stood up from his crouch, as did Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. They smiled and laughed—how ridiculous it was, two old friends getting the jump on each other.
“What are you doing here, Nine-Toes?”
“What am I doing here? Wasn’t it I who told you about this place? I’ve been using it as a rest stop while I’m out mapping the Bitter Coast, of course. It sure beats laying down in the swamp. But what the hell are you doing here?”
The assassin sat down upon one of crates piled inside the shack. “So you haven’t heard. Elone got upset about that job with Orvas Dren I pulled, and then all hell broke loose in Arille’s. I think I sent half of that fool altmer’s customers to see a healer.”
“So you figure that’s enough to kick you out of the order?” asked Nine-Toes, pulling up a barrel upon which to sit, “I mean, that job with the slavehouse was a lot worse, if you ask me. They let you back in after that one.”
“Hell, I don’t know. How much trouble have I caused the Blades now?”
“Well, there was that Sadrith Mora job, for one. The guard in Blacklight—though I fought that was more fun than trouble. Suran. This. Am I missing anything?”
“That one time in Ghostgate.”
“Oh yes, the Armigers. Sore losers, if you ask me.”
“Yes, well. The point is, I think this one was the last straw. The imperial guard is looking for me, I’m sure. I had to get out of Seyda Neen faster than a guar on moonsugar.”
“So what are you going to do? You aren’t just going to sit around in this shack all day and night, are you?”
“I don’t know, Nine-Toes. I need some time to think about my situation. I need to clear my head. You know what I mean?”
“The dreams?”
“Yeah, the dreams. It was Tear, again, last night. I don’t know how often it’s run through my head, but I thought it would have been more than enough times by now. But I can’t forget it.”
“Tear isn’t exactly the sort of thing you forget.”
“I still wonder what happened to Gei-Tekri. We got out of there so fast…” The words hung in the air; as the two argonians hung their heads.
“I think that your premonition was right. It troubles me to think of what the Dres must have done—so I try not to think of it much. Those were bad times, clanbrother.”
“I’m not sure they’ve improved much.”
“We’ve made lives here on Vvardenfell, haven’t we? What did we have then? I tell you, we had hate, hate and fear.”
“Nine-Toes, I do not fear anymore but I must say it. I still have that hate.”
“Yes, yes I know. What can I say? Your trade keeps you close to those bad memories, I think. Do you agree?”
“It’s what I know.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. All we knew, those years ago, was killing dunmer and saving our own skins. Now you kill all the races, but how has your life really changed? You rented a nice room, you drink brandy instead of greef, and you work for the Empire instead of the clan. Is that it?”
“That’s it.” His eyes burned, slightly, from anger or sorrow—perhaps both. “And there’s no way out, is there? What can I do besides killing people?”
It looks as if Al is about to make up his mind. Even if the Blades want him back, he might leave. He's obviously sick of the endless killing.
The deep scars of pain and regret, how they seem to sharpen us into,...interesting beings. As I wrote once: "Who we are, is not neccesarily connected to what we do."
Serious Business
Nine-Toes and I sat around on the porch for a few days, sharing my brandy and flin and commiserating upon the sunset.
“I think,” I said, in between sips of brandy, “that Magnus must be hanging over the Imperial City right now.”
“You think either of us will ever see it? Do we want to?”
“I don’t know. You’re a hunter—I don’t know if they have much use for that, there. It’s a big city. I’m told that it dwarfs even Almalexia.” I paused to open up another bottle. “An assassin like me I guess they could use, though there are already so many. All those petty nobles and frustrated city folk—I’m sure they have no end of work for assassins.”
“Not that you want to do that anymore.” Nine-Toes took a pull and grinned.
“Right. Hah! Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion, either, I’d think. Pathetic fools… but nonetheless, fools to be reckoned with, if only for their numbers. Well, they won’t have to worry about me intruding upon their business anytime soon.”
---------------------------------------------
Nine-Toes had to hustle back to Balmora to file a report, and I needed to restock my liquor cabinet, so to speak. I ferried us over to Gnaar Mok in Has no Sails, and hoped that I might go unrecognized. Fortunately the town fits the archetype of a ‘backwater’ perfectly—the Hlaalu guards showed no signs of recognizing me. I wonder if they would even care, here on the Smuggler’s Coast.
I must admit that I haven’t spent much time in Gnaar Mok—the only mer who have are the smugglers, the poor, the guards, and the resident nobles—who must have offended somebody.
“I don’t suppose they stock brandy at the tradehouse, do they?” I asked Nine-Toes, just before he set on his way up-trail.
“Well, they do and they don’t. Druegh-jigger’s Rest doesn’t officially sell brandy—they smuggle it in, to keep it off the books.”
“Thieves Guild?”
“Of course. They’re not advertising, but Wadarkhu the khajiit hangs around there; he’s very serious business—the Guild’s big-shot smuggler, I hear.”
---------------------------------------------
“What can khajiit do for you?”
The question came from a green-robed suthay-raht who looked rather self-assured. Seeing as how the only other occupants of the tradehouse were redguards, I guessed that this was Wadarkhu. And I was right.
“Do I come to the right place for brandy?”
“You come to the right place for many things, marshwalker. How much do you need?”
“How’s twenty bottles, for a start?”
“Twenty? Wadarkhu brings only twenty bottles in an entire shipment, if Wadarkhu is very fortunate. Wadarkhu only has fifteen bottles in his entire stock now.”
Just my luck. A backwater town, indeed. But I had little choice.
“I’ll take them all,” I said, holding out a substantial bag of drakes out to the khajiit. “And please, think of me first when your next shipment comes in.”
“Do that, Wadarkhu will. Wadarkhu has only heard of one marshwalker with such an appetite for booze before…”
“No, you haven’t.” I passed over another sack of gold—500 septims. He took the proffered gold with a smile, “Wadarkhu’s memory has been known to be a little faulty. But you are generous, so Wadarkhu instead remembers this; the smugglers working out of Shurinbaal lost their contact in Balmora. Wadarkhu hears they’re working now with someone in Ald’ruhn.”
I nodded. I didn’t particularly care about smugglers and smuggling, at the moment, but it pays to know the local news.
--------------------------------------------
I awoke in the middle of the night, my cross-bow in hand. So very strange, I thought, for all was quiet. I heard no footfalls upon my porch, no strange noises emanating from the dark—yet something didn’t feel right. Someone was trying to sneak up on me, I could feel, as it seemed I could always feel it.
The smallest light flashed outside my door; like someone was casting a spell. A spell of silence. Of course, I thought; it makes sense now, everything but why. The door opened slightly; one inch then two, and as soon as I saw a head appear I released the bolt—the spell of silence died with my would-be assailant, and he fell loudly and heavily to the floor.
---------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun
The afore-mentioned has been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild. The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.
So I would have to pay another visit to Eno Hlaalu.
Nine-Toes and I sat around on the porch for a few days, sharing my brandy and flin and commiserating upon the sunset.
“I think,” I said, in between sips of brandy, “that Magnus must be hanging over the Imperial City right now.”
“You think either of us will ever see it? Do we want to?”
“I don’t know. You’re a hunter—I don’t know if they have much use for that, there. It’s a big city. I’m told that it dwarfs even Almalexia.” I paused to open up another bottle. “An assassin like me I guess they could use, though there are already so many. All those petty nobles and frustrated city folk—I’m sure they have no end of work for assassins.”
“Not that you want to do that anymore.” Nine-Toes took a pull and grinned.
“Right. Hah! Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion, either, I’d think. Pathetic fools… but nonetheless, fools to be reckoned with, if only for their numbers. Well, they won’t have to worry about me intruding upon their business anytime soon.”
---------------------------------------------
Nine-Toes had to hustle back to Balmora to file a report, and I needed to restock my liquor cabinet, so to speak. I ferried us over to Gnaar Mok in Has no Sails, and hoped that I might go unrecognized. Fortunately the town fits the archetype of a ‘backwater’ perfectly—the Hlaalu guards showed no signs of recognizing me. I wonder if they would even care, here on the Smuggler’s Coast.
I must admit that I haven’t spent much time in Gnaar Mok—the only mer who have are the smugglers, the poor, the guards, and the resident nobles—who must have offended somebody.
“I don’t suppose they stock brandy at the tradehouse, do they?” I asked Nine-Toes, just before he set on his way up-trail.
“Well, they do and they don’t. Druegh-jigger’s Rest doesn’t officially sell brandy—they smuggle it in, to keep it off the books.”
“Thieves Guild?”
“Of course. They’re not advertising, but Wadarkhu the khajiit hangs around there; he’s very serious business—the Guild’s big-shot smuggler, I hear.”
---------------------------------------------
“What can khajiit do for you?”
The question came from a green-robed suthay-raht who looked rather self-assured. Seeing as how the only other occupants of the tradehouse were redguards, I guessed that this was Wadarkhu. And I was right.
“Do I come to the right place for brandy?”
“You come to the right place for many things, marshwalker. How much do you need?”
“How’s twenty bottles, for a start?”
“Twenty? Wadarkhu brings only twenty bottles in an entire shipment, if Wadarkhu is very fortunate. Wadarkhu only has fifteen bottles in his entire stock now.”
Just my luck. A backwater town, indeed. But I had little choice.
“I’ll take them all,” I said, holding out a substantial bag of drakes out to the khajiit. “And please, think of me first when your next shipment comes in.”
“Do that, Wadarkhu will. Wadarkhu has only heard of one marshwalker with such an appetite for booze before…”
“No, you haven’t.” I passed over another sack of gold—500 septims. He took the proffered gold with a smile, “Wadarkhu’s memory has been known to be a little faulty. But you are generous, so Wadarkhu instead remembers this; the smugglers working out of Shurinbaal lost their contact in Balmora. Wadarkhu hears they’re working now with someone in Ald’ruhn.”
I nodded. I didn’t particularly care about smugglers and smuggling, at the moment, but it pays to know the local news.
--------------------------------------------
I awoke in the middle of the night, my cross-bow in hand. So very strange, I thought, for all was quiet. I heard no footfalls upon my porch, no strange noises emanating from the dark—yet something didn’t feel right. Someone was trying to sneak up on me, I could feel, as it seemed I could always feel it.
The smallest light flashed outside my door; like someone was casting a spell. A spell of silence. Of course, I thought; it makes sense now, everything but why. The door opened slightly; one inch then two, and as soon as I saw a head appear I released the bolt—the spell of silence died with my would-be assailant, and he fell loudly and heavily to the floor.
---------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun
The afore-mentioned has been marked for honorable execution in accordance to the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild. The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.
So I would have to pay another visit to Eno Hlaalu.
The Grandmaster
“Ulmesi, have you heard from Yatuse?” the orc’s voice boomed. If Ulmesi had not seen the concern on his face she would have thought that Rogdul was angry with her somehow. She sighed, “No, I haven’t heard from him yet. But that’s no reason to worry; Gnaar Mok is far away, and such a backwater, and I did tell him to be careful with this one.”
“Careful?” the orc nearly shouted. He composed himself before continuing, “I know I’ve said it three times already, but this should have been a writ for the Grandmaster. The mark is too dangerous for Yatuse. Look at what happened to—“
“I know what happened Rogdul, and I appreciate your concern. But I think that this writ is not worthy of the Grandmaster’s attention, and anyway, he isn’t anywhere on Vvardenfell right now. And Yatuse is a very promising assassin. His grasp of the school of illusion is unprecedented for a mer his age.”
“I’m sorry Ulmesi, you are right. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Still, I hope he can make it back tonight. I worry about him… he’s a little arrogant in his use of nightblade magick.”
“We’ll work on his strategy when he returns. Perhaps he can see Master Andarys.”
------------------------------------------
Long past midnight a faint sound, close by her bedside, roused Ulmesi from her slumber. She tried to look around, but she found she couldn’t move at all.
“Yes, Miss Baryon, I’ve paralyzed you,” a masculine voice hissed into her ear, “the better for you to listen. It would be a shame if you cried out before I have my say. Your… cult here just last night made a second attempt upon my life—in spite of an accord I made with your Grandmaster, Eno Hlaalu, some time ago. I would talk to him directly, but he doesn’t seem to be here. I want to know where he is, so I’m going to un-paralyze you, and you are going to answer me quietly—or I’ll kill you and every one of your associates. I hope you understand.”
Ulmesi felt restorative magic flow through her—a great pressure upon her chest vanished, and her muscles all relaxed at once. She whispered, “E-E-Eno retired, he’s gone.”
“Then who is the Grandmaster now? Surely it isn’t you.” She thought she heard a mocking quality enter the hiss in her ear.
“I can’t tell you.”
“What? Don’t be foolish, Miss Baryon.” She felt cold, jagged daedric metal pressed to her throat—but she didn’t dare look. “Feel that, dunmer? That is your fate, unless you tell me what I need to know.”
“A Morag Tong assassin does not fear death. I will go to my ancestors, with honor.”
The hiss grew harsher, if that were possible. “Don’t try to feed me that guar dung, Baryon. I know assassination—far more than you. When was the last time you struck another living, breathing soul down? When was the last time you faced death? We fear death, all of us assassins. Any who don’t are guar-dung crazy. We overcome fear, fight through it—but we don’t forget it.” The hiss paused, but its dagger continued to press firmly down upon Ulmesi’s throat—and then it spoke again, “But death is not the worst. No, Miss Baryon, before I kill you and everyone else here, I think I’ll torture you. Have you ever been treated to a barrage of destructive magicka, while paralyzed? It can be quite brutal to watch. I can’t imagine how it feels. You have fifteen seconds to tell me what I want to know, or you won’t need to use your imagination. One…two… three… four…five… six…”
“The new Grandmaster is Sethyas Velas!” Ulmesi croaked out, eyes wide and brow sweating.
“Ah, I know this mer. Yes, I believe you. But where can I find him?”
“I think—I think he went to Mournhold.”
“Ulmesi, have you heard from Yatuse?” the orc’s voice boomed. If Ulmesi had not seen the concern on his face she would have thought that Rogdul was angry with her somehow. She sighed, “No, I haven’t heard from him yet. But that’s no reason to worry; Gnaar Mok is far away, and such a backwater, and I did tell him to be careful with this one.”
“Careful?” the orc nearly shouted. He composed himself before continuing, “I know I’ve said it three times already, but this should have been a writ for the Grandmaster. The mark is too dangerous for Yatuse. Look at what happened to—“
“I know what happened Rogdul, and I appreciate your concern. But I think that this writ is not worthy of the Grandmaster’s attention, and anyway, he isn’t anywhere on Vvardenfell right now. And Yatuse is a very promising assassin. His grasp of the school of illusion is unprecedented for a mer his age.”
“I’m sorry Ulmesi, you are right. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Still, I hope he can make it back tonight. I worry about him… he’s a little arrogant in his use of nightblade magick.”
“We’ll work on his strategy when he returns. Perhaps he can see Master Andarys.”
------------------------------------------
Long past midnight a faint sound, close by her bedside, roused Ulmesi from her slumber. She tried to look around, but she found she couldn’t move at all.
“Yes, Miss Baryon, I’ve paralyzed you,” a masculine voice hissed into her ear, “the better for you to listen. It would be a shame if you cried out before I have my say. Your… cult here just last night made a second attempt upon my life—in spite of an accord I made with your Grandmaster, Eno Hlaalu, some time ago. I would talk to him directly, but he doesn’t seem to be here. I want to know where he is, so I’m going to un-paralyze you, and you are going to answer me quietly—or I’ll kill you and every one of your associates. I hope you understand.”
Ulmesi felt restorative magic flow through her—a great pressure upon her chest vanished, and her muscles all relaxed at once. She whispered, “E-E-Eno retired, he’s gone.”
“Then who is the Grandmaster now? Surely it isn’t you.” She thought she heard a mocking quality enter the hiss in her ear.
“I can’t tell you.”
“What? Don’t be foolish, Miss Baryon.” She felt cold, jagged daedric metal pressed to her throat—but she didn’t dare look. “Feel that, dunmer? That is your fate, unless you tell me what I need to know.”
“A Morag Tong assassin does not fear death. I will go to my ancestors, with honor.”
The hiss grew harsher, if that were possible. “Don’t try to feed me that guar dung, Baryon. I know assassination—far more than you. When was the last time you struck another living, breathing soul down? When was the last time you faced death? We fear death, all of us assassins. Any who don’t are guar-dung crazy. We overcome fear, fight through it—but we don’t forget it.” The hiss paused, but its dagger continued to press firmly down upon Ulmesi’s throat—and then it spoke again, “But death is not the worst. No, Miss Baryon, before I kill you and everyone else here, I think I’ll torture you. Have you ever been treated to a barrage of destructive magicka, while paralyzed? It can be quite brutal to watch. I can’t imagine how it feels. You have fifteen seconds to tell me what I want to know, or you won’t need to use your imagination. One…two… three… four…five… six…”
“The new Grandmaster is Sethyas Velas!” Ulmesi croaked out, eyes wide and brow sweating.
“Ah, I know this mer. Yes, I believe you. But where can I find him?”
“I think—I think he went to Mournhold.”
Oooooo the plots are being woven here quite intricantly; I'm certainly enjoying it. Just when you think Al might be making a career change, the Morag Tong comes along and gets our Argonian pal angry. I wonder if Sethyas knew anything about allowing this writ to be done.... We'll have to see.
Amazing work canis!
Amazing work canis!
Probably not. I doubt that the Grandmaster is aware of anything in the Guild right now. Nice work here as usual Canis! I look forward to seeing what you can do with Sethyas. (If he even appears. I mean, how many stories can one character guest-star in?)
I wonder who pushed forward that writ? Not Sethyas, I'm sure of that. I don't remember it perfectly, but I wouldn't be surprised if the deal Al made with Eno was a private one. In other words, once Eno was gone no one knew about the 'don't try to kill Al' deal and so no one thought twice when seeing the new writ.
QUOTE(Black Hand @ Feb 24 2007, 02:29 AM) 
Probably not. I doubt that the Grandmaster is aware of anything in the Guild right now. Nice work here as usual Canis! I look forward to seeing what you can do with Sethyas. (If he even appears. I mean, how many stories can one character guest-star in?)
Well seeing how often Trey is mentioned among other's fan fics, I would say that we could potentially see Sethyas in a few stories. Let's see, he's all ready in yours, mine, canis', and minque's. I'd say that's quite impressive.
Note: I might edit a little more into this post later, or just put up a new, short post... I've got to run off to ultimate frisbee practice soon, though, so I couldn't add in all I wanted. That's real life for you.
On the Trail of the Black Hand
The swirling of magicka—and my stomach—finally stopped, and I found myself in the courtyard of the Royal Palace, in Mournhold. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable teleporting in amongst all those guards and tourists, but no one really pays attention to folk materializing outside the Imperial Cult shrine—they just assume divine intervention. I’d placed a mark—I sometimes needed to do business in the capital of Morrowind. Business of all sorts.
First I needed to visit an old friend.
“Hello, Effe-Tei. Been a while.” I spoke, from under my hood. I had eased up quietly next to my elegantly attired acquaintance.
“Heik-Auri? What brings you to Mournhold today? I had heard that you were lying low.”
“I still am, so keep our meeting quiet, eh? I need some information. Have you seen a dunmer with a black hand tattooed upon his face recently?”
Effe-Tei lowered his voice, “I had one teleport in just the other day. We chatted for a while—he’s new to Mournhold. And he said he’s been marked by the Dark Brotherhood.”
“That’s most irregular… but regardless of why he’s here, I need to find the mer. Any idea where he might have gone?”
“I suggested The Winged Guar. It’s the only place to say in this part of Almalexia.”
“Yes, naturally. And Velas could certainly afford it, I think. I’ll talk to Ra’Tesh. Thanks, friend.” I turned to the door.
“Hey, hold up Heik-Auri. Why do you need to find this elf? He a mark of yours?”
“Well, you could say that I’m a mark of his, actually.”
----------------------------------------------
“Brandy, please… Ra’Tesh.” I spoke quietly to the bartender’s back. The khajiit turned around—he was smiling.
“Ra’Tesh had wondered when he would see you again, Al. Ever since you drank Holmar under the table, that one time. Ra’Tesh has never seen anyone put so many away. What can Ra’Tesh do for you?”
“Aside from the brandy?” I returned his smile. “Actually, I need something else. Have you seen a dunmer with a black facial tattoo?”
The khajiit passed me a bottle. “Yes, Ra’Tesh has seen this one. The dunmer rents the room just across from the bar.”
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“No, Ra’Tesh knows not. The dunmer asks Ra’Tesh last night for the Dark Brotherhood, so Ra’Tesh tells him to look in the sewers, because they smell of death and waste.”
“Where’s the nearest entrance?”
-----------------------------------------------
I entered the Residential Sewers of Old Mournhold via a trap door in an empty corner of Godsreach. I could have waited in The Winged Guar for Velas, but I was feeling impatient. There is something about this city that doesn’t feel quite right—I might sell some goods here, on occasion, and I might do a job here and there, but I refuse to stick around for long. The people of Mournhold call it a city of light and magic but to me it is a city of suffocation, watched ever-so-closely by a king and a god. So much authority thrown together in such a small space cannot be healthy.
Down in the sewer I found myself greeted by the smell of swamp gas, rich in decay. It was not an unfamiliar smell—any home-bred argonian knows it well—but it was one that I had been happy to leave behind. Before I could go very far I spied a few goblins, which fell from two shots apiece by my crossbow, two viper bolts. They are tough creatures.
Across the way I encountered three dunmer—well armored and armed—holding a naked Breton hostage. I wasn’t interested in what they were doing but I need information, so I approached, carefully. The apparent leader—a mer wearing glass boots and greaves—called a greeting, “Welcome to MY world, where we do things MY way.”
He continued, “Well, well, look what the scrib dragged in. I suppose you're here to rescue our little Dilborn, eh? Then I suggest you don't make any sudden moves. You see, when people owe me money, I get a bit touchy. Attack me, and my men have orders to kill Dilborn first -- poor, naked, defenseless Dilborn. But if you're here to settle Dilborn's debts, we may be able to work something out.”
“I’m not interested in the breton.” I noticed Dilborn’s face fall, but I continued, “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen another dunmer crawling around these sewers, maybe a black hand tattooed on his face?”
“Huh.” He seemed a little disappointed himself that I hadn’t come to barter for the breton’s life. “Only folk I know crawling around here are some fool adventurers. Other places you might run into a dark brother or the Black Dart Gang, but I don’t consort with them. I haven’t seen your mer.”
That was disappointing, but I didn’t show it. I mumbled a grudging thank-you to the thug and moved on to the west—and ran into a ladder leading to, as the scratches on the trapdoor indicated, the West Sewers. It appeared that the door had actually been used fairly recently—perhaps Velas had simply avoided the thugs.
-------------------------------------------
Inside the West Sewers I was immediately greeted with a choice—left or right, elegantly constructed sewer-way or tunnel carved out of the rock. I chose the tunnel, and found the way clear of any opposition, until I spied a nord decked out in steel up ahead. It appeared that he had been camping here in the sewer—he had a bedroll laid out adjacent to a roaring fire, and bottles of booze scattered about. I decided to take a direct approach, but kept my blades ready at my side.
“Ho there, nord! Mind if I join you? I’ve got brandy!”
“Brandy? Aye, ye can join me lad. What brings you down here? Don’t want to pay for rent, like me?”
I handed the nord a bottle, which he accepted eagerly. “Not exactly. I’m looking for someone, a dunmer.”
“Ah, well, there’s that Drathas Nerus in the Residential Sewers—“
“No, I’ve already talked to him, if you mean the thugs and the naked breton.” I paused while the nord took a swig from my brandy. “No, I’m looking for a mer with a black hand tattooed upon his face. You seen him?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Damn. Sorry I bothered you then.”
“No need to be sorry—I’ll have brandy with you anytime.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. I prefer not to share.”
On the Trail of the Black Hand
The swirling of magicka—and my stomach—finally stopped, and I found myself in the courtyard of the Royal Palace, in Mournhold. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable teleporting in amongst all those guards and tourists, but no one really pays attention to folk materializing outside the Imperial Cult shrine—they just assume divine intervention. I’d placed a mark—I sometimes needed to do business in the capital of Morrowind. Business of all sorts.
First I needed to visit an old friend.
“Hello, Effe-Tei. Been a while.” I spoke, from under my hood. I had eased up quietly next to my elegantly attired acquaintance.
“Heik-Auri? What brings you to Mournhold today? I had heard that you were lying low.”
“I still am, so keep our meeting quiet, eh? I need some information. Have you seen a dunmer with a black hand tattooed upon his face recently?”
Effe-Tei lowered his voice, “I had one teleport in just the other day. We chatted for a while—he’s new to Mournhold. And he said he’s been marked by the Dark Brotherhood.”
“That’s most irregular… but regardless of why he’s here, I need to find the mer. Any idea where he might have gone?”
“I suggested The Winged Guar. It’s the only place to say in this part of Almalexia.”
“Yes, naturally. And Velas could certainly afford it, I think. I’ll talk to Ra’Tesh. Thanks, friend.” I turned to the door.
“Hey, hold up Heik-Auri. Why do you need to find this elf? He a mark of yours?”
“Well, you could say that I’m a mark of his, actually.”
----------------------------------------------
“Brandy, please… Ra’Tesh.” I spoke quietly to the bartender’s back. The khajiit turned around—he was smiling.
“Ra’Tesh had wondered when he would see you again, Al. Ever since you drank Holmar under the table, that one time. Ra’Tesh has never seen anyone put so many away. What can Ra’Tesh do for you?”
“Aside from the brandy?” I returned his smile. “Actually, I need something else. Have you seen a dunmer with a black facial tattoo?”
The khajiit passed me a bottle. “Yes, Ra’Tesh has seen this one. The dunmer rents the room just across from the bar.”
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“No, Ra’Tesh knows not. The dunmer asks Ra’Tesh last night for the Dark Brotherhood, so Ra’Tesh tells him to look in the sewers, because they smell of death and waste.”
“Where’s the nearest entrance?”
-----------------------------------------------
I entered the Residential Sewers of Old Mournhold via a trap door in an empty corner of Godsreach. I could have waited in The Winged Guar for Velas, but I was feeling impatient. There is something about this city that doesn’t feel quite right—I might sell some goods here, on occasion, and I might do a job here and there, but I refuse to stick around for long. The people of Mournhold call it a city of light and magic but to me it is a city of suffocation, watched ever-so-closely by a king and a god. So much authority thrown together in such a small space cannot be healthy.
Down in the sewer I found myself greeted by the smell of swamp gas, rich in decay. It was not an unfamiliar smell—any home-bred argonian knows it well—but it was one that I had been happy to leave behind. Before I could go very far I spied a few goblins, which fell from two shots apiece by my crossbow, two viper bolts. They are tough creatures.
Across the way I encountered three dunmer—well armored and armed—holding a naked Breton hostage. I wasn’t interested in what they were doing but I need information, so I approached, carefully. The apparent leader—a mer wearing glass boots and greaves—called a greeting, “Welcome to MY world, where we do things MY way.”
He continued, “Well, well, look what the scrib dragged in. I suppose you're here to rescue our little Dilborn, eh? Then I suggest you don't make any sudden moves. You see, when people owe me money, I get a bit touchy. Attack me, and my men have orders to kill Dilborn first -- poor, naked, defenseless Dilborn. But if you're here to settle Dilborn's debts, we may be able to work something out.”
“I’m not interested in the breton.” I noticed Dilborn’s face fall, but I continued, “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen another dunmer crawling around these sewers, maybe a black hand tattooed on his face?”
“Huh.” He seemed a little disappointed himself that I hadn’t come to barter for the breton’s life. “Only folk I know crawling around here are some fool adventurers. Other places you might run into a dark brother or the Black Dart Gang, but I don’t consort with them. I haven’t seen your mer.”
That was disappointing, but I didn’t show it. I mumbled a grudging thank-you to the thug and moved on to the west—and ran into a ladder leading to, as the scratches on the trapdoor indicated, the West Sewers. It appeared that the door had actually been used fairly recently—perhaps Velas had simply avoided the thugs.
-------------------------------------------
Inside the West Sewers I was immediately greeted with a choice—left or right, elegantly constructed sewer-way or tunnel carved out of the rock. I chose the tunnel, and found the way clear of any opposition, until I spied a nord decked out in steel up ahead. It appeared that he had been camping here in the sewer—he had a bedroll laid out adjacent to a roaring fire, and bottles of booze scattered about. I decided to take a direct approach, but kept my blades ready at my side.
“Ho there, nord! Mind if I join you? I’ve got brandy!”
“Brandy? Aye, ye can join me lad. What brings you down here? Don’t want to pay for rent, like me?”
I handed the nord a bottle, which he accepted eagerly. “Not exactly. I’m looking for someone, a dunmer.”
“Ah, well, there’s that Drathas Nerus in the Residential Sewers—“
“No, I’ve already talked to him, if you mean the thugs and the naked breton.” I paused while the nord took a swig from my brandy. “No, I’m looking for a mer with a black hand tattooed upon his face. You seen him?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Damn. Sorry I bothered you then.”
“No need to be sorry—I’ll have brandy with you anytime.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. I prefer not to share.”
,,Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him."
Now that's cold, just cold. I love it.
Now that's cold, just cold. I love it.
The hunt continues! Wonder how ole Sethyas will react to find his Dren murdering buddy hanging out in the same sewers as him?
Survival
After my brief conversation with Hloggar the Bloody (for that was the nord’s name), I moved on into the more finished sections of the West Sewers. I crept up an incline and found myself looking upon four enormous figures—what looked like three huge goblins—the size of ogrims, they were—and some creature that was a bit like a nix-hound, only if a nix-hound had gulped down thirty-thousand bottles of sujamma. The beast wore a spiked collar, as if it were some kind of madman’s pet. Still, I had faced an ogrim or two before—they look a lot tougher than they are. I figured that these creatures would be much the same. I shot a viper-bolt into the hound-creature, and I found myself immediately regretting my rash action. The beast charged at me, with the giant goblins fast at its heels. I launched a few more bolts but they barely seemed to hurt the massive monsters—this was a problem.
I drew my blades and prepared to defend myself. It helped that the monsters couldn’t quite see me clearly—the light was scarce, I was crouching low, and I was wearing a dark brown robe. I got in a few blows with Kills-You-Dead as the creatures bit or swung at me wildly. One of the goblins finally made contact, striking down upon my right shoulder—I dropped my ebony and staggered backwards; I think my shoulder may have been separated or broken. The hound-creature dived in, to try to bite my head off I think, but I raked it across the eyes with Kills-You-Dead, sending a wave of healing into my own body as it stole the life out of the monster. Blinded, the creature ran; restored, I dodged a blow from one goblin as I raked my dagger across another’s torso. Dodging another blow, I rolled right and picked up my shortsword, just in time to take a crushing blow across the ribs.
“Ahhh!” I screamed; involuntarily—but the whole fight must have been echoing all through the sewer now; my pain, the goblins’ battle-cries, and that other creature tearing through the corridors blindly bumping into everything.
Another strike from Kills-You-Dead dulled my pain and sent a goblin to the ground, clutching a severed throat. Then I ran.
I ran as fast as I could, almost as blind as the creature who’s sight I’d stolen. Bounded may be the better word; I’m not a fast runner but I am a long leaper. I leapt and ran past still more goblins and another of those creatures until I was once-again face-to-face with Hloggar.
“How do you survive down here?” I asked, trying to regain my breath and my steadiness.
“Me?” The nord held up an enormous hunk of steel. “I’m pretty handy with a warhammer.” He continued, “Those goblins and durzogs aren’t dumb—they know to leave me well enough alone.”
“Durzogs?”
“The goblins use them as mounts, sometimes.”
“Oh, those hound-ish creatures.”
“Those are the ones. Sounds like one’s coming now, actually.”
Indeed, one did come around the corner. I put two bolts into its face, which Hloggar promptly smashed with his warhammer.
-------------------------------------
After regaining my equilibrium I crept quietly back into the sewers, being sure to keep my distance. I was not going to fight these beasts in close quarters. Instead, I inched along, filling my enemies with bolts—the larger goblins fell only after I launched half-a-dozen poisoned projectiles into their bodies. Finally I cleared the West Sewer, but I wasn’t about to continue my exploration beyond that. Not yet.
I was going to need a lot more viper-bolts.
After my brief conversation with Hloggar the Bloody (for that was the nord’s name), I moved on into the more finished sections of the West Sewers. I crept up an incline and found myself looking upon four enormous figures—what looked like three huge goblins—the size of ogrims, they were—and some creature that was a bit like a nix-hound, only if a nix-hound had gulped down thirty-thousand bottles of sujamma. The beast wore a spiked collar, as if it were some kind of madman’s pet. Still, I had faced an ogrim or two before—they look a lot tougher than they are. I figured that these creatures would be much the same. I shot a viper-bolt into the hound-creature, and I found myself immediately regretting my rash action. The beast charged at me, with the giant goblins fast at its heels. I launched a few more bolts but they barely seemed to hurt the massive monsters—this was a problem.
I drew my blades and prepared to defend myself. It helped that the monsters couldn’t quite see me clearly—the light was scarce, I was crouching low, and I was wearing a dark brown robe. I got in a few blows with Kills-You-Dead as the creatures bit or swung at me wildly. One of the goblins finally made contact, striking down upon my right shoulder—I dropped my ebony and staggered backwards; I think my shoulder may have been separated or broken. The hound-creature dived in, to try to bite my head off I think, but I raked it across the eyes with Kills-You-Dead, sending a wave of healing into my own body as it stole the life out of the monster. Blinded, the creature ran; restored, I dodged a blow from one goblin as I raked my dagger across another’s torso. Dodging another blow, I rolled right and picked up my shortsword, just in time to take a crushing blow across the ribs.
“Ahhh!” I screamed; involuntarily—but the whole fight must have been echoing all through the sewer now; my pain, the goblins’ battle-cries, and that other creature tearing through the corridors blindly bumping into everything.
Another strike from Kills-You-Dead dulled my pain and sent a goblin to the ground, clutching a severed throat. Then I ran.
I ran as fast as I could, almost as blind as the creature who’s sight I’d stolen. Bounded may be the better word; I’m not a fast runner but I am a long leaper. I leapt and ran past still more goblins and another of those creatures until I was once-again face-to-face with Hloggar.
“How do you survive down here?” I asked, trying to regain my breath and my steadiness.
“Me?” The nord held up an enormous hunk of steel. “I’m pretty handy with a warhammer.” He continued, “Those goblins and durzogs aren’t dumb—they know to leave me well enough alone.”
“Durzogs?”
“The goblins use them as mounts, sometimes.”
“Oh, those hound-ish creatures.”
“Those are the ones. Sounds like one’s coming now, actually.”
Indeed, one did come around the corner. I put two bolts into its face, which Hloggar promptly smashed with his warhammer.
-------------------------------------
After regaining my equilibrium I crept quietly back into the sewers, being sure to keep my distance. I was not going to fight these beasts in close quarters. Instead, I inched along, filling my enemies with bolts—the larger goblins fell only after I launched half-a-dozen poisoned projectiles into their bodies. Finally I cleared the West Sewer, but I wasn’t about to continue my exploration beyond that. Not yet.
I was going to need a lot more viper-bolts.
Excellent update canis! Those goblins can certainly be a handful, especially if there's Durzogs around. Looks like finding Sethyas will be tougher than it seems.
Keep it up buddy!
Keep it up buddy!
Ahhh....haven´t commented this one for a while, but it´s just so good! Maybe I will try out the Tribunal expansion....some day..after reading all your stories of course...so there will not be so many nasty surprises...
It seems our Seth appears in many stories.....that´s one famous Dunmer!
It seems our Seth appears in many stories.....that´s one famous Dunmer!
Well, I'm thinking of getting a job during summer and scrounge the shops for GOTY. All I can say about Tribunal (and Bloodmoon.) Is, I can't wait! Chrysamere needs a new challenge. Dagoths are too easy. Bring on the gods! 
And umm, keep writing, Canis.
And umm, keep writing, Canis.
Bazaar
I lurched through the door of the Craftsmen’s Hall looking a terrible mess. My robe had been nearly cut to pieces by the beasts of the Mournhold sewers, my armor was terribly scarred, and I was covered in dried blood—my own and that of the beasts. I needed to restore my armor and my arsenal. I was in the right place—I staggered up upon a dunmer and an orc working at their respective forges. I decided to talk to the dunmer first—the orc was working furiously upon a sword—I didn’t care to interrupt him.
“Bols Indalen, at your service.” He looked up from the piece of glass he was working over.
“You the armorer?”
Indalen pulled out a hankerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. It was hot in there—I started to pull off my now tattered robe. “Of course. What can I do for you—my, that chitin is battered, isn’t it? I reckon I can fix that up for you, if you like.”
“That was my plan, yes. I also need my weapons fixed.”
“Weapons?”
I set my crossbow, my ebony, and Kills-You-Dead on the near table, and Indalen let out a low whistle. “You arm yourself well, sera. I think only Her Hands can boast of superior arsenals.”
“Um, thanks. Don’t go talking about it too much.”
“Oh, of course not, sera. I’ll have these fixed up by sundown.”
“That soon?”
“Sera, I don’t I’m being immodest when I say that I am the finest armorer in Morrowind… in spite of that damn apprentice of mine, Ilnori—“
“Don’t talk about me, plebe!” I heard a shout from somewhere in the building, upstairs maybe.
“—Faustus. Damn idiot.”
--------------------------------------------------
Bols Indalen was good as his word. I retrieved my gear that evening, after whiling away a few nervous hours in The Winged Guar. I never do enjoy being without my weapons or armor. Still, the time was uneventful. I chatted up Ra’Tesh for a short time, and learned that my quarry’s exploits as a bouncer might have cowed the usual violent drunkards into enjoying their drinks more quietly.
But as I was saying and meant to say, I gathered up my armor and weapons from Bols Indalen and made my way over to the Great Bazaar, at his recommendation. He carried steel and silver bolts, but none enchanted to poison my foes. Since I’m lazy by both temperament and practice, I don’t enjoy poisoning my projectiles personally. Therefore, I decided to seek viper-bolts elsewhere in Mournhold—and the Great Bazaar does have a reputation as the greatest market in Morrowind. It all made sense, for once.
It was raining, so activity in the Bazaar was rather muted. I don’t much care for rain, usually—reminds me too much of Tear—but this rain was cool and rather pleasant, a respite from the usual heat of the city. I made my to a booth occupied by young redguard man—I guessed his age to be about thirty. Still, he's strong, thick in the arms and chest. An armorer.
“Greetings, redguard. Do you sell viper-bolts, by chance?”
“I’m afraid not, friend. I’ve got iron and steel bolts, though. You could get them enchanted.”
“No, thank you.”
Idiot. I wonder if he’s ever tried to enchant a couple hundred bolts before—each would need its own soul. But I concealed my contempt, smiled, and moved on. Perhaps someone else carried them. As they say, ‘if you can’t find it at the Bazaar, you won’t find it anywhere’.
A pawnbroker had his booth opposite the armorer—he didn’t carry bolts at all. I again concealed my disappointment and bought some marhsmerrow and saltrice—I’d be needing some more restorative potions, and it was cheaper to make my own. I also found a cheap broadsheet lying around the dunmer’s booth—something called The Common Tongue:
"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition." -- Lord Vivec
I have a little list. They never would be missed.
Appearing at the top -- three names... Anhar, Khajiit male -- Martyrius Arruntius, Imperial male -- Jusole Asciele, Breton male. What do these three names have in common?
All three at one time or another represented an inconvenience to a Western noble prince named Helseth.
Anhar was an agent for Eastern ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural
Martyrius Arruntius was a city alderman of Wayrest. Prince Helseth's liaison with the alderman's married daughter was potentially embarrassing to the Prince -- especially when Martyrius Arruntius forcefully pressed his suit for 'predatory adultery' in Wayrest's courts. Many thought it strange that Martyrius Arruntius should suddenly fall ill and die of 'exhaustion' on the eve of the trial. The suit was settled out of court, and charges dismissed. The Imperial coroners ruled that Martyrius Arruntius had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, admittedly, but natural.
Jusole Asciele was a diplomatic attache at the High Rock embassy in Wayrest. Widely rumored to be an intelligence officer, Jusole Asciele was often seen at court, taking a great interest in the affairs of Queen Barenziah and her family. It is said that Wayrest can be a beastly uncomfortable place in high summer. Perhaps the Breton's constitution was ill-suited to the relentless heat and pestilential swarms of the southern Iliac. Jusole Asciele took suddenly ill one evening, and within three days he was dead. Once again, Imperial coroners ruled that Jusole Asciele had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, yes, but natural.
And these, The Common Tongue notes significantly, are only the 'A's on the list.
Some have quietly suggested that Prince Helseth was the most accomplished and subtle poisoner in the West. But The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. [Admittedly, the absence of such proof could count as qualifying towards the title of a 'most accomplished and subtle poisoner'.]
And, further, The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner, or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan's was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.
----------------------------------------------
“No, I don’t. Have you tried the Craftsmen’s Hall?” I was answered by the imperial woman at the armory. I could only shake my head.
----------------------------------------------
The trader, Sunel Hlas, carried an amazing variety of bolts; bonemold, corkbulb, iron, silver, steel… but no viper-bolts.
“Almost as hard to find as a good woman, eh?” he said.
“Yeah.”
Dispirited now, and showing it, I stumbled out into the cool evening. The rain had finally stopped, and activity in the Bazaar was slowly picking up again. I stopped to chat with another of the horde of young dunmer populating this city (Mournhold—its women especially—attracts young mer like moon sugar draws khajiits). This one was at least well-informed, if still not very bright.
“You hear about that fella who laid out the Velas wizards?”
“What?”
“Aye, some fellow named Sethyas, I hear. Killed one of the wizards right here in the Bazaar. It was exciting!”
I shook my head—exciting, for the sake of The Nine. Still, I needed to know more. “You haven’t seen this fellow—Sethyas you said his name was?—around again, have you?”
“No, I haven’t seen him in a couple days, I think."
“Oh… well, thanks.” I started to walk away, but decided to pose one more question. “You know where I can find some viper-bolts around here?”
He smiled, happy to be helpful, I think. “I’m not sure, but the pawnbroker always has some weird stuff. Maybe he could find what you need.” He pointed to another storefront. I thanked the mer—and went to see this pawnbroker.
The modest sign over the door beckoned, “Ten-Tongues Weerhat, Pawnbroker Extraordinaire”. That slime! I hadn’t seen him since…
I burst inside, blades drawn, and leapt across the counter—knocking my countryman over. He shielded his face with his hands.
“Ten-Tongues, you scum! I should have killed you back in Argonia!”
I lurched through the door of the Craftsmen’s Hall looking a terrible mess. My robe had been nearly cut to pieces by the beasts of the Mournhold sewers, my armor was terribly scarred, and I was covered in dried blood—my own and that of the beasts. I needed to restore my armor and my arsenal. I was in the right place—I staggered up upon a dunmer and an orc working at their respective forges. I decided to talk to the dunmer first—the orc was working furiously upon a sword—I didn’t care to interrupt him.
“Bols Indalen, at your service.” He looked up from the piece of glass he was working over.
“You the armorer?”
Indalen pulled out a hankerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. It was hot in there—I started to pull off my now tattered robe. “Of course. What can I do for you—my, that chitin is battered, isn’t it? I reckon I can fix that up for you, if you like.”
“That was my plan, yes. I also need my weapons fixed.”
“Weapons?”
I set my crossbow, my ebony, and Kills-You-Dead on the near table, and Indalen let out a low whistle. “You arm yourself well, sera. I think only Her Hands can boast of superior arsenals.”
“Um, thanks. Don’t go talking about it too much.”
“Oh, of course not, sera. I’ll have these fixed up by sundown.”
“That soon?”
“Sera, I don’t I’m being immodest when I say that I am the finest armorer in Morrowind… in spite of that damn apprentice of mine, Ilnori—“
“Don’t talk about me, plebe!” I heard a shout from somewhere in the building, upstairs maybe.
“—Faustus. Damn idiot.”
--------------------------------------------------
Bols Indalen was good as his word. I retrieved my gear that evening, after whiling away a few nervous hours in The Winged Guar. I never do enjoy being without my weapons or armor. Still, the time was uneventful. I chatted up Ra’Tesh for a short time, and learned that my quarry’s exploits as a bouncer might have cowed the usual violent drunkards into enjoying their drinks more quietly.
But as I was saying and meant to say, I gathered up my armor and weapons from Bols Indalen and made my way over to the Great Bazaar, at his recommendation. He carried steel and silver bolts, but none enchanted to poison my foes. Since I’m lazy by both temperament and practice, I don’t enjoy poisoning my projectiles personally. Therefore, I decided to seek viper-bolts elsewhere in Mournhold—and the Great Bazaar does have a reputation as the greatest market in Morrowind. It all made sense, for once.
It was raining, so activity in the Bazaar was rather muted. I don’t much care for rain, usually—reminds me too much of Tear—but this rain was cool and rather pleasant, a respite from the usual heat of the city. I made my to a booth occupied by young redguard man—I guessed his age to be about thirty. Still, he's strong, thick in the arms and chest. An armorer.
“Greetings, redguard. Do you sell viper-bolts, by chance?”
“I’m afraid not, friend. I’ve got iron and steel bolts, though. You could get them enchanted.”
“No, thank you.”
Idiot. I wonder if he’s ever tried to enchant a couple hundred bolts before—each would need its own soul. But I concealed my contempt, smiled, and moved on. Perhaps someone else carried them. As they say, ‘if you can’t find it at the Bazaar, you won’t find it anywhere’.
A pawnbroker had his booth opposite the armorer—he didn’t carry bolts at all. I again concealed my disappointment and bought some marhsmerrow and saltrice—I’d be needing some more restorative potions, and it was cheaper to make my own. I also found a cheap broadsheet lying around the dunmer’s booth—something called The Common Tongue:
"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition." -- Lord Vivec
I have a little list. They never would be missed.
Appearing at the top -- three names... Anhar, Khajiit male -- Martyrius Arruntius, Imperial male -- Jusole Asciele, Breton male. What do these three names have in common?
All three at one time or another represented an inconvenience to a Western noble prince named Helseth.
Anhar was an agent for Eastern ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural
Martyrius Arruntius was a city alderman of Wayrest. Prince Helseth's liaison with the alderman's married daughter was potentially embarrassing to the Prince -- especially when Martyrius Arruntius forcefully pressed his suit for 'predatory adultery' in Wayrest's courts. Many thought it strange that Martyrius Arruntius should suddenly fall ill and die of 'exhaustion' on the eve of the trial. The suit was settled out of court, and charges dismissed. The Imperial coroners ruled that Martyrius Arruntius had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, admittedly, but natural.
Jusole Asciele was a diplomatic attache at the High Rock embassy in Wayrest. Widely rumored to be an intelligence officer, Jusole Asciele was often seen at court, taking a great interest in the affairs of Queen Barenziah and her family. It is said that Wayrest can be a beastly uncomfortable place in high summer. Perhaps the Breton's constitution was ill-suited to the relentless heat and pestilential swarms of the southern Iliac. Jusole Asciele took suddenly ill one evening, and within three days he was dead. Once again, Imperial coroners ruled that Jusole Asciele had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, yes, but natural.
And these, The Common Tongue notes significantly, are only the 'A's on the list.
Some have quietly suggested that Prince Helseth was the most accomplished and subtle poisoner in the West. But The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. [Admittedly, the absence of such proof could count as qualifying towards the title of a 'most accomplished and subtle poisoner'.]
And, further, The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner, or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan's was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.
----------------------------------------------
“No, I don’t. Have you tried the Craftsmen’s Hall?” I was answered by the imperial woman at the armory. I could only shake my head.
----------------------------------------------
The trader, Sunel Hlas, carried an amazing variety of bolts; bonemold, corkbulb, iron, silver, steel… but no viper-bolts.
“Almost as hard to find as a good woman, eh?” he said.
“Yeah.”
Dispirited now, and showing it, I stumbled out into the cool evening. The rain had finally stopped, and activity in the Bazaar was slowly picking up again. I stopped to chat with another of the horde of young dunmer populating this city (Mournhold—its women especially—attracts young mer like moon sugar draws khajiits). This one was at least well-informed, if still not very bright.
“You hear about that fella who laid out the Velas wizards?”
“What?”
“Aye, some fellow named Sethyas, I hear. Killed one of the wizards right here in the Bazaar. It was exciting!”
I shook my head—exciting, for the sake of The Nine. Still, I needed to know more. “You haven’t seen this fellow—Sethyas you said his name was?—around again, have you?”
“No, I haven’t seen him in a couple days, I think."
“Oh… well, thanks.” I started to walk away, but decided to pose one more question. “You know where I can find some viper-bolts around here?”
He smiled, happy to be helpful, I think. “I’m not sure, but the pawnbroker always has some weird stuff. Maybe he could find what you need.” He pointed to another storefront. I thanked the mer—and went to see this pawnbroker.
The modest sign over the door beckoned, “Ten-Tongues Weerhat, Pawnbroker Extraordinaire”. That slime! I hadn’t seen him since…
I burst inside, blades drawn, and leapt across the counter—knocking my countryman over. He shielded his face with his hands.
“Ten-Tongues, you scum! I should have killed you back in Argonia!”
I've been enjoying your subtle weaving of Al and Sethyas' lives so far canis. Really neat way of doing things. It also appears that Al knows Ten-Tongues. Looks like their meetinigs were very civil.
Or perhaps he could be making a aggressive jest. But that would seem to be out of Al's character somewhat. We shall see I guess.
Or perhaps he could be making a aggressive jest. But that would seem to be out of Al's character somewhat. We shall see I guess.
Ooooo! Ten-Tounges and Al have a history, eh? This should be good.
Short update. It's a busy weekend.
Shady Characters
“You, and the rest of Shadowscales!” I raged over the cowering pawnbroker, Ten-Tongues.
“I was following orders! We all were!” he hissed out between his hands. “I have nothing to do with it anymore!”
“Liar! Always a liar! Why are you here? Why are you in Morrowind? Did you send you to find me?” I raised Kills-You-Dead, ready to strike.
“No! They kicked me out when—when—“
“When you couldn’t run me down and kill me.”
“That’s over now, Heik-Auri. Look at me… I sell cheap trinkets, scrolls, curiosities! I can’t even cast a decent chameleon spell anymore!”
I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard that last. “Hah! So you’ve finally learned that magick is fickle, eh? Ha-hah!”
Ten-Tongues finally lowered his hands. “Have a good laugh, will ya? Well, at least I’m out of that dirty business. I never wanted to be an assassin, anyway. Just because I was born under the Shadow… but from the looks of you, I’d say you’re still deep in it. You—you still carry Kills-You-Dead. Damn, and Sneaks-in-Shadows always said it wouldn’t stay long with someone unworthy—“
“He was the unworthy one. I don’t regret his death.” I looked at the blades in my hand. This was ridiculous—he wasn’t even armed, Ten-Tongues. “Alright, get up.”
“You’re—you’re not angry anymore?”
“No, I’m still angry. But I’ve got more important business than settling old scores. Like settling new scores.”
“New scores? Heik-Auri, you may be good with a blade, but someday you’re going to need to learn to stop making enemies.”
“Shut up. You know nothing of my business, these days. What you do know, as you say, is the acquisition of odd goods. And I need a somewhat uncommon item.”
“Ah, now we are speaking on my terms. What do you need? How can I atone for the wrongs of the past, marshbrother?”
I held up my crossbow. “I need viper-bolts. A lot of them.”
“Viper-bolts? Sounds unpleasant… I don’t carry them—but I can get them for you, I think. It might be a couple days.”
My face fell, I think. And I was disappointed. “A couple days? Damn… alright, I’ll have to lay low a few days, but we can make a deal.”
Ten-Tongues started to make a note in his ledger, and asked almost as an aside, “Where will you be staying? I can alert you when the bolts have arrived.”
“No need for that. I’ll stop by in a couple days, check on your progress.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“You did try to kill me once.”
He made a face as if to protest, but I turned abruptly and stepped out the door, into the cool dewy evening.
---------------------------------------------
Later I lay on my bed in The Winged Guar staring up at the ceiling. I had spoken once more to Ra’Tesh—still no sign of Sethyas Velas. I was having very little luck. He had mentioned something about Velas Manor, the abode of one of the wizards killed by the new Grandmaster of the Morag Tong. Perhaps I would investigate it, come morning. He may have left some sort of sign—beyond a dead wizard, I hoped.
I thought also of Ten-Tongues. He had earned his name for a reason—he went beyond having a forked tongue. What if he were still connected to the Shadowscales? He himself was a pathetic pawnbroker—I could kill him anytime I chose; if the need arose. But what if—what if he knew others still in the business? Pawnbrokers know all sorts of shady characters.
People like me.
Shady Characters
“You, and the rest of Shadowscales!” I raged over the cowering pawnbroker, Ten-Tongues.
“I was following orders! We all were!” he hissed out between his hands. “I have nothing to do with it anymore!”
“Liar! Always a liar! Why are you here? Why are you in Morrowind? Did you send you to find me?” I raised Kills-You-Dead, ready to strike.
“No! They kicked me out when—when—“
“When you couldn’t run me down and kill me.”
“That’s over now, Heik-Auri. Look at me… I sell cheap trinkets, scrolls, curiosities! I can’t even cast a decent chameleon spell anymore!”
I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard that last. “Hah! So you’ve finally learned that magick is fickle, eh? Ha-hah!”
Ten-Tongues finally lowered his hands. “Have a good laugh, will ya? Well, at least I’m out of that dirty business. I never wanted to be an assassin, anyway. Just because I was born under the Shadow… but from the looks of you, I’d say you’re still deep in it. You—you still carry Kills-You-Dead. Damn, and Sneaks-in-Shadows always said it wouldn’t stay long with someone unworthy—“
“He was the unworthy one. I don’t regret his death.” I looked at the blades in my hand. This was ridiculous—he wasn’t even armed, Ten-Tongues. “Alright, get up.”
“You’re—you’re not angry anymore?”
“No, I’m still angry. But I’ve got more important business than settling old scores. Like settling new scores.”
“New scores? Heik-Auri, you may be good with a blade, but someday you’re going to need to learn to stop making enemies.”
“Shut up. You know nothing of my business, these days. What you do know, as you say, is the acquisition of odd goods. And I need a somewhat uncommon item.”
“Ah, now we are speaking on my terms. What do you need? How can I atone for the wrongs of the past, marshbrother?”
I held up my crossbow. “I need viper-bolts. A lot of them.”
“Viper-bolts? Sounds unpleasant… I don’t carry them—but I can get them for you, I think. It might be a couple days.”
My face fell, I think. And I was disappointed. “A couple days? Damn… alright, I’ll have to lay low a few days, but we can make a deal.”
Ten-Tongues started to make a note in his ledger, and asked almost as an aside, “Where will you be staying? I can alert you when the bolts have arrived.”
“No need for that. I’ll stop by in a couple days, check on your progress.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“You did try to kill me once.”
He made a face as if to protest, but I turned abruptly and stepped out the door, into the cool dewy evening.
---------------------------------------------
Later I lay on my bed in The Winged Guar staring up at the ceiling. I had spoken once more to Ra’Tesh—still no sign of Sethyas Velas. I was having very little luck. He had mentioned something about Velas Manor, the abode of one of the wizards killed by the new Grandmaster of the Morag Tong. Perhaps I would investigate it, come morning. He may have left some sort of sign—beyond a dead wizard, I hoped.
I thought also of Ten-Tongues. He had earned his name for a reason—he went beyond having a forked tongue. What if he were still connected to the Shadowscales? He himself was a pathetic pawnbroker—I could kill him anytime I chose; if the need arose. But what if—what if he knew others still in the business? Pawnbrokers know all sorts of shady characters.
People like me.
I was convinced that Al would kill Tongue. Guess I was wrong. The conversation was nice though. Next one, please.
Alright, I've finally returned to this forum. I can't say how often I'll be updating in the future, as my job this summer will be taking me into the backcountry quite a bit. All I can say about these last couple of months--my absence--is that I was both busy, busy writing RL stuff (somewhat autobiographical in nature) and that I was a bit burned out from Morrowind and my character, a situation somewhat akin to Black Hand's past hiatus. I'll try to avoid staying away for so long again--I mean, I missed the beginning of a new tale from Treydog! It's good to be back, as inconstant as my being back might be. Here is my update.
Collecting Debts
Mournhold, it is said, is a city of light and magic. Gavis Velas had been drawn by its magic—the power within those indomitable walls. He had meant to put out the light, it would seem, or whatever light was left. Now all that was left of the powerful conjurer was blood, dried and drying. It pooled on the floor of his elaborate manor or it splattered on the walls—art, of a sort, if you look at the world from the hilt end of a blade.
An argonian crouched by the door, surveying the scene, reading the story of the battle, murmuring to himself.
“The wizard stood here… here was an ogrim, look at the size of that print…ooh, one of Sheogorath’s minions…”
He moved about easily and quietly in his dark brown robe, finally to opposite side of the room.
“Impressive leap… daedra spreading… the wizard turns to face…”
He looked up at the blood splattered on the manor walls.
“Long blade. Not bad, not bad at all.”
The argonian walked up the stairs, and found it undisturbed. The scattered chests, large and small, were still locked. The argonian opened them, yielding a smattering of septims and a few restorative potions of quality.
Seeing nothing else of interest, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made his way to the front door, letting out a sigh before taking the knob in hand.
“Where are you now, Sethyas Velas?”
------------------------------------------------------
I stepped out of Velas Manor and right into the path of a hulking nord. Any hope I had that he might know where to find my quarry disappeared as he blurted out, “Hello, nice man! You see Dilborn? Dilborn my friend! Dilborn gone three days now, and Thrud sad.” I had stumbled upon the dimmest bulb in the city of light. Thrud continued, “Dilborn big and mighty wizard. Dilborn read books to Thrud... all the words, big words, two, maybe three times. Now Dilborn gone, no one read books to Thrud. Thrud sad. Thrud miss friend Dilborn. You help Thrud find Dilborn?”
Dilborn, I now remembered, was the name of the naked breton I’d seen being held hostage down in the sewers. I felt a small pang of guilt as I remembered his face, crestfallen, as I practically told the thugs, “Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him.”
“Oh, all right Thrud, I’ll go find your friend Dilborn. You just stay up here and wait—I’ll go get him.”
I left the nord standing there—he tried to come along, but I distracted him by pointing away at a “dragon”—and hustled over to the sewer entrance. Thankfully the goblins had yet to repopulate that stretch of sewer, so I was able to make my way back to Drathas Nerus and his captive with relative ease. He greeted me warmly.
“Oh, the lizard again. Come to rescue your little debt-ridden friend, perhaps? How are you doing down there, Dilborn? Not so well, eh? Well, that's what happens to people who owe me money and neglect to pay.”
“Don’t call me…” I stopped myself. “Nevermind,” I sighed, “yes, this time I’m here to cover Dilborn’s debt.”
The thug smiled, and talked as only those who love the sound of their own voices can, “Excellent. That's right, lizard. We indulge in a bit of gambling down here from time to time, away from the prying eyes of the guards, you know? Dilborn is one of our best customers. He currently owes... if my memory serves me right... yes, Dilborn owes me the sum total of 3,000 septims. And he's not leaving here until he pays his debts.”
“Can you knock that down at all, Drathas? Professional courtesy, perhaps?”
The mer looked me over, smirking. I hate that. “Not for you, my little lizard friend. If they owe me money, even my closest associates have trouble persuading me to back off a debt.”
“Alright Drathas, I’ll pay you your 3000 drakes. Here.” I pulled out a small bag of hundred-septim coins and tossed it over, containing my frustration with the thug.
“All right, he can go.” The thug waved a hand to one of his lackeys. “Alam, remove his bracers. Dilborn, never show your face to me again, or I'll slice it off with a rusty spoon, you hear me?”
-----------------------------------------------------
“Thank you, argonian. I am in your debt. Alas, in my present financially embarrassed condition, it is a debt I cannot repay. I hope that, under the circumstances, your own virtue will be sufficient reward. I assure you ... I'm everlastingly grateful to be united with my faithful friend Thrud.”
“I figured as much, Dilborn. But I’ll deal with the loss of my gold a lot better if you take this robe of mine, too. You’re pathetic to look at, you know.” Dilborn hung his head, but he accepted my brown robe, after I emptied its pockets and pulled my other robe—the black one—on over my armor. “Now get the hell back to the surface, Dilborn—Thrud is waiting for you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Drathas owes me 3000 septims. And he’s not leaving here until he pays his debts.”
As I pulled out my crossbow I added, “Assuming that somebody collects his body.”
Collecting Debts
Mournhold, it is said, is a city of light and magic. Gavis Velas had been drawn by its magic—the power within those indomitable walls. He had meant to put out the light, it would seem, or whatever light was left. Now all that was left of the powerful conjurer was blood, dried and drying. It pooled on the floor of his elaborate manor or it splattered on the walls—art, of a sort, if you look at the world from the hilt end of a blade.
An argonian crouched by the door, surveying the scene, reading the story of the battle, murmuring to himself.
“The wizard stood here… here was an ogrim, look at the size of that print…ooh, one of Sheogorath’s minions…”
He moved about easily and quietly in his dark brown robe, finally to opposite side of the room.
“Impressive leap… daedra spreading… the wizard turns to face…”
He looked up at the blood splattered on the manor walls.
“Long blade. Not bad, not bad at all.”
The argonian walked up the stairs, and found it undisturbed. The scattered chests, large and small, were still locked. The argonian opened them, yielding a smattering of septims and a few restorative potions of quality.
Seeing nothing else of interest, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made his way to the front door, letting out a sigh before taking the knob in hand.
“Where are you now, Sethyas Velas?”
------------------------------------------------------
I stepped out of Velas Manor and right into the path of a hulking nord. Any hope I had that he might know where to find my quarry disappeared as he blurted out, “Hello, nice man! You see Dilborn? Dilborn my friend! Dilborn gone three days now, and Thrud sad.” I had stumbled upon the dimmest bulb in the city of light. Thrud continued, “Dilborn big and mighty wizard. Dilborn read books to Thrud... all the words, big words, two, maybe three times. Now Dilborn gone, no one read books to Thrud. Thrud sad. Thrud miss friend Dilborn. You help Thrud find Dilborn?”
Dilborn, I now remembered, was the name of the naked breton I’d seen being held hostage down in the sewers. I felt a small pang of guilt as I remembered his face, crestfallen, as I practically told the thugs, “Sorry, not interested. Go ahead and kill him.”
“Oh, all right Thrud, I’ll go find your friend Dilborn. You just stay up here and wait—I’ll go get him.”
I left the nord standing there—he tried to come along, but I distracted him by pointing away at a “dragon”—and hustled over to the sewer entrance. Thankfully the goblins had yet to repopulate that stretch of sewer, so I was able to make my way back to Drathas Nerus and his captive with relative ease. He greeted me warmly.
“Oh, the lizard again. Come to rescue your little debt-ridden friend, perhaps? How are you doing down there, Dilborn? Not so well, eh? Well, that's what happens to people who owe me money and neglect to pay.”
“Don’t call me…” I stopped myself. “Nevermind,” I sighed, “yes, this time I’m here to cover Dilborn’s debt.”
The thug smiled, and talked as only those who love the sound of their own voices can, “Excellent. That's right, lizard. We indulge in a bit of gambling down here from time to time, away from the prying eyes of the guards, you know? Dilborn is one of our best customers. He currently owes... if my memory serves me right... yes, Dilborn owes me the sum total of 3,000 septims. And he's not leaving here until he pays his debts.”
“Can you knock that down at all, Drathas? Professional courtesy, perhaps?”
The mer looked me over, smirking. I hate that. “Not for you, my little lizard friend. If they owe me money, even my closest associates have trouble persuading me to back off a debt.”
“Alright Drathas, I’ll pay you your 3000 drakes. Here.” I pulled out a small bag of hundred-septim coins and tossed it over, containing my frustration with the thug.
“All right, he can go.” The thug waved a hand to one of his lackeys. “Alam, remove his bracers. Dilborn, never show your face to me again, or I'll slice it off with a rusty spoon, you hear me?”
-----------------------------------------------------
“Thank you, argonian. I am in your debt. Alas, in my present financially embarrassed condition, it is a debt I cannot repay. I hope that, under the circumstances, your own virtue will be sufficient reward. I assure you ... I'm everlastingly grateful to be united with my faithful friend Thrud.”
“I figured as much, Dilborn. But I’ll deal with the loss of my gold a lot better if you take this robe of mine, too. You’re pathetic to look at, you know.” Dilborn hung his head, but he accepted my brown robe, after I emptied its pockets and pulled my other robe—the black one—on over my armor. “Now get the hell back to the surface, Dilborn—Thrud is waiting for you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Drathas owes me 3000 septims. And he’s not leaving here until he pays his debts.”
As I pulled out my crossbow I added, “Assuming that somebody collects his body.”
Excellent dialogue. I loved the rusty spoon comment and of course the final bit.
,,Yeah, I just paid. But I'm going to get it back anyway so why should I care?"
I know what you're thinking. Did I say Lizard two, or three times? Well, what is it? Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?
Sorry, I always wanted to say that. Don't mess with the Argonian assassin.
,,Yeah, I just paid. But I'm going to get it back anyway so why should I care?"
I know what you're thinking. Did I say Lizard two, or three times? Well, what is it? Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?
Sorry, I always wanted to say that. Don't mess with the Argonian assassin.
The rusty spoon comment is actually original game dialogue. Rogues like Drathas get great lines...
And yes, our argonian is definitely not one to be trifled with.
I like playing the encounter in-game in a similar way to what I've depicted here. Pay up, get Dilborn and Thrud reunited, then kill the thugs. It's a sort of "five-finger" discount if you will, although it might be more appropriate to call it a "many viper-bolts lodged in the chest" discount.
And yes, our argonian is definitely not one to be trifled with.
I like playing the encounter in-game in a similar way to what I've depicted here. Pay up, get Dilborn and Thrud reunited, then kill the thugs. It's a sort of "five-finger" discount if you will, although it might be more appropriate to call it a "many viper-bolts lodged in the chest" discount.
Yay! Al's back!
Oh yea, and canis as well. I won't forget about you.
Fun update. It seems that there's always something in between Al and his goal to find Sethyas. I wonder what'll actually happen once they meet?
Oh yea, and canis as well. I won't forget about you.
Fun update. It seems that there's always something in between Al and his goal to find Sethyas. I wonder what'll actually happen once they meet?
A Fist Full of Septims
An argonian in a black robe sat at the bar of The Winged Guar, the most exclusive inn of Morrowind’s most exclusive city. He was sharing a drink with the bartender, a nattily-attired khajiit—the argonian drank brandy, the khajiit drank flin. They seemed to be discussing the bag of gold that sat between them—not an argument, it seemed, but more a trading of stories.
Ra’Tesh remembers that one…
The little cloth sack of gold appeared to be stained red. Blood, perhaps? The two betmer are smiling though, laughing even. If that is blood on the sack, there is none to be found on the argonian, the one who produced it.
Ra’Tesh, the bartender, turned away from his friend to assist another customer, a young redguard man. He does not appear to be as well off as either the bartender or the argonian—his dress is drab and he orders shein. The redguard starts to chat up the black-clad argonian—he speaks loudly; snatches of conversation can be heard over the usual tavern clamor.
Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment… I got laid off from my job… the market for pillows has really bottomed out… 25 pillows per person…
The argonian made some sort of response, inaudible over the din. He seems a bit annoyed, but the redguard is a little sauced so he doesn’t notice.
It didn't take long for the money guys… all our pillow venture capital…1500-septim chairs… scamp skin… crafting pillows… creating the perfect pillow…days are over… need to find work.
The argonian said something else to the redguard—something like “I’ll let you know if I hear about anything” and then turned back to his drink and the bloody bag of gold. Ra’Tesh sat across from the argonian once more and they resumed their conversation, but more quietly, with none of the smiles and laughs of before.
An orc sitting at the far corner table is staring at the conversation but trying to look like he isn’t staring. He is trying to read the lips, trying to write something on a little notepad sitting on his knee, under the table. He is mumbling a little; whispering to himself.
“The hunter was here last night.” Who’s he talking about? Velas? Okay, so now the argonian asks “Where is he now?” This spook is looking for that assassin? Why? “Ra’Tesh thinks you should look around the palace.”
--------------------------------------------------
“Alright, so you tell me that The Winged Guar is this mer’s hangout, so I go there to scope it out, see who he might be dealing with. I don’t see the dunmer there—“
“You should have stayed around longer.”
“Could you let me finish please?”
“Go on.”
“I don’t see the dunmer, but I come back here because I see someone asking about the dunmer, some argonian dressed all in black. He sits there talking to the barkeep—I think they must have known each other already—with this sack of gold in front of him. The sack is bloody, like he might have killed someone for it. They were talking about it and laughing, and I think the barkeep said something about whoever was killed being a good customer but not so good that he’d be missed. I couldn’t tell exactly what the argonian was saying most of the time ‘cause he was wearing a hood and kinda facing away from me.”
“You’re a spy, Bakh, not a guard. What does this argonian have to do with Sethyas Velas?”
“I was getting to that! Ahem. So eventually they started talking about the dunmer and they get all serious. The argonian was trying to find out what Velas had been up to, trying to find out where would be. He said something about an “invalid contract”, whatever that means. I couldn’t catch all of what he said. But then the khajiit, the bartender, he told the argonian to check around here, around the palace. He said that Velas was doing some sort of work for the King.”
“The bartender knows too much.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, bartenders always know too much. I’d worry more about the argonian.”
“Why? So he killed somebody. I can have the guards keep an eye out for him.”
“I did some more asking around. I think the argonian is an assassin of some sort. A dangerous sort.”
“You think?”
“Well—and this is just what I hear—he trained with the some sort of elite assassination group in Black Marsh. And he keeps himself better armed than even you. But this is just what I hear.”
“Another assassin in our city.”
“Yes sir.”
“And he’s going to be sneaking around the palace.”
“Sounds like it, sir.”
“We may need to import some aid from Cyrodiil.”
An argonian in a black robe sat at the bar of The Winged Guar, the most exclusive inn of Morrowind’s most exclusive city. He was sharing a drink with the bartender, a nattily-attired khajiit—the argonian drank brandy, the khajiit drank flin. They seemed to be discussing the bag of gold that sat between them—not an argument, it seemed, but more a trading of stories.
Ra’Tesh remembers that one…
The little cloth sack of gold appeared to be stained red. Blood, perhaps? The two betmer are smiling though, laughing even. If that is blood on the sack, there is none to be found on the argonian, the one who produced it.
Ra’Tesh, the bartender, turned away from his friend to assist another customer, a young redguard man. He does not appear to be as well off as either the bartender or the argonian—his dress is drab and he orders shein. The redguard starts to chat up the black-clad argonian—he speaks loudly; snatches of conversation can be heard over the usual tavern clamor.
Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment… I got laid off from my job… the market for pillows has really bottomed out… 25 pillows per person…
The argonian made some sort of response, inaudible over the din. He seems a bit annoyed, but the redguard is a little sauced so he doesn’t notice.
It didn't take long for the money guys… all our pillow venture capital…1500-septim chairs… scamp skin… crafting pillows… creating the perfect pillow…days are over… need to find work.
The argonian said something else to the redguard—something like “I’ll let you know if I hear about anything” and then turned back to his drink and the bloody bag of gold. Ra’Tesh sat across from the argonian once more and they resumed their conversation, but more quietly, with none of the smiles and laughs of before.
An orc sitting at the far corner table is staring at the conversation but trying to look like he isn’t staring. He is trying to read the lips, trying to write something on a little notepad sitting on his knee, under the table. He is mumbling a little; whispering to himself.
“The hunter was here last night.” Who’s he talking about? Velas? Okay, so now the argonian asks “Where is he now?” This spook is looking for that assassin? Why? “Ra’Tesh thinks you should look around the palace.”
--------------------------------------------------
“Alright, so you tell me that The Winged Guar is this mer’s hangout, so I go there to scope it out, see who he might be dealing with. I don’t see the dunmer there—“
“You should have stayed around longer.”
“Could you let me finish please?”
“Go on.”
“I don’t see the dunmer, but I come back here because I see someone asking about the dunmer, some argonian dressed all in black. He sits there talking to the barkeep—I think they must have known each other already—with this sack of gold in front of him. The sack is bloody, like he might have killed someone for it. They were talking about it and laughing, and I think the barkeep said something about whoever was killed being a good customer but not so good that he’d be missed. I couldn’t tell exactly what the argonian was saying most of the time ‘cause he was wearing a hood and kinda facing away from me.”
“You’re a spy, Bakh, not a guard. What does this argonian have to do with Sethyas Velas?”
“I was getting to that! Ahem. So eventually they started talking about the dunmer and they get all serious. The argonian was trying to find out what Velas had been up to, trying to find out where would be. He said something about an “invalid contract”, whatever that means. I couldn’t catch all of what he said. But then the khajiit, the bartender, he told the argonian to check around here, around the palace. He said that Velas was doing some sort of work for the King.”
“The bartender knows too much.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, bartenders always know too much. I’d worry more about the argonian.”
“Why? So he killed somebody. I can have the guards keep an eye out for him.”
“I did some more asking around. I think the argonian is an assassin of some sort. A dangerous sort.”
“You think?”
“Well—and this is just what I hear—he trained with the some sort of elite assassination group in Black Marsh. And he keeps himself better armed than even you. But this is just what I hear.”
“Another assassin in our city.”
“Yes sir.”
“And he’s going to be sneaking around the palace.”
“Sounds like it, sir.”
“We may need to import some aid from Cyrodiil.”
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