Note: Yes, I will be finishing the original (and working on the 2nd) A.H.L.i.t.S. story eventually, but I've been on an Oblivion playing binge so I figured I'd strike while the game is still fresh for me. Without further ado...
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1.
Weynon Priory, Imperial Province
Jauffre’s lips eased into a droll smile when saw the figure in black approaching, up the stars. “What news from Morrowind, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun?” The figure in black pulled back his hood, revealing a red-brown, and scarred, argonian face. The grin was toothy, and Jauffre was reminded of the Naga from Waughin Jarth’s newest fiction. Jauffre thought it was fiction, at least.
“Call me Al, please. With Helseth consolidating his power, and everything else, I think I’ll be a frequent visitor.” The argonian handed over a large, sealed envelope.
“I imagine so… Al. How is the courier business treating you?”
“I have no complaints. I haven’t had to break into anyone’s home in six months.”
“Is that so? You did that a lot in the old days?”
“Almost as often as I cut a man’s throat.”
At that Jauffre’s eyes darted down to his katana. Quietly, he said, “I remember.” They were quiet for a moment, the two Blades, now a monk and a courier. The courier turned to leave, almost plowing into Brother Piner—running up the stairs.
“Jauffre! Jauffre! The emperor has been assassinated!”
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Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Province of Morrowind
A puff of skooma smoke on the air. “Full report.”
“My horse pulled up lame on the way down from the pass, while I was trying to outrun a bandit. I killed the bandit; claimed 342 septims from the body, some family’s jewels. Sold the jewels and the horse in Cheydinhal.”
“Healing magic didn’t work on Many-Gallops?”
A swig of beer. Old rhetorical trick—very common in the west. “Right. Well, it worked, but only well enough to trot into Cheydinhal. I’ve had an eye on a black horse anyway.”
“You bought one?”
“I call her ‘Outruns-Bandits’. Very fast. I included the receipt in my written report.”
“Fine. Go on.”
“Anyway, there wasn’t any trouble the rest of the way I couldn’t outrun. I collected the most recent reports from the Palace and the Prison, and stayed overnight in the Market District. In the morning I made for the monastery and delivered the package to our colleague there. And then I discovered that Uriel and all of his heirs had been killed. I think I broke all land speed records on the way back here.”
“You were right to do so, friend. The times demand urgency.”
“We don’t have orders from the City already, do we? I don’t think I could wrap my brain around that kind of efficiency from the Elder Council.”
A smile. “No, Al. I’m expecting some sort of word from the Council by tomorrow, though. And I can guess what they’ll say.”
“So can I. ‘Stay put, we can’t afford instability in the provinces.’ So very predictable.” Another swig of beer. A nod and a puff of smoke from the other side of the table, rueful.
The beer drinker went on. “You know Caius, we must be quite the sight. Me in my all black with half-a-dozen empty beer bottles in front of me. You in that ridiculous monk’s robe—with skooma! We never change, do we?”
“So very predictable.”
Full Version: The Dark Operation
2.
Kragenmoor – the next night
Two figures sat on the back steps of the Chapel of Akatosh—sans skooma, sans beer. The Imperial in the brown robes of a monk, the argonian in all-black. The argonian held a heavy daedric dagger loosely in front of him, between outstretched legs, pointed to the earth. The cyrodiil held a few sheets of parchment, an envelope bearing the imperial seal ripped open at his feet.
The argonian spoke first. “We’re not being recalled.”
Caius Cosades shook his head. “I’m not. You are.”
“Just me? They want me to assassinate the assassins?”
“Not exactly. At least, you’re not going to assassinate the Emperor’s assassins. You’re going to infiltrate the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Say again?”
“You heard me right, Al.”
“Why?”
“The Elder Council is concerned that in the chaos which—no doubt—will reign after the death of our sainted Emperor and his no-good heirs, individuals of faintly noble blood and unseemly ambition might seek to gain position through selective use of the Dark Brotherhood. They want somebody to get on the inside. They want an informant. They felt you were best qualified.”
“It’ll never work.”
That drew a laugh from Caius Cosades. “I happen to agree. But those are the orders. You are being tasked to discover how to join the Dark Brotherhood… and then you are to join.”
“And if they give me contracts…”
“The Elder Council has authorized you to kill anyone deemed ‘unimportant’, within the line of duty. I know that sounds immoral—it is. But those are the orders.”
“How do I determine who is ‘unimportant’?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun asked, now gazing up at the stars.
“You’ll still report to me—I’ll provide guidance. I’m giving you discretion, though, so you don’t need to ride that new horse of yours ragged to come see me. If a hit is questionable, do some research. If it passes the smell test, you can follow through.”
“I don’t care to kill any innocents.”
“Orders, my friend. You'll need to keep up cover. Of course, if you can find a way around killing someone, by all means do so. But don’t jeopardize the mission.”
“Of course, Caius. Of course. Now, one last question. How the hell do I find out how to join the Dark Brotherhood?”
A long pause. “Ask a Dark Brother.”
Kragenmoor – the next night
Two figures sat on the back steps of the Chapel of Akatosh—sans skooma, sans beer. The Imperial in the brown robes of a monk, the argonian in all-black. The argonian held a heavy daedric dagger loosely in front of him, between outstretched legs, pointed to the earth. The cyrodiil held a few sheets of parchment, an envelope bearing the imperial seal ripped open at his feet.
The argonian spoke first. “We’re not being recalled.”
Caius Cosades shook his head. “I’m not. You are.”
“Just me? They want me to assassinate the assassins?”
“Not exactly. At least, you’re not going to assassinate the Emperor’s assassins. You’re going to infiltrate the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Say again?”
“You heard me right, Al.”
“Why?”
“The Elder Council is concerned that in the chaos which—no doubt—will reign after the death of our sainted Emperor and his no-good heirs, individuals of faintly noble blood and unseemly ambition might seek to gain position through selective use of the Dark Brotherhood. They want somebody to get on the inside. They want an informant. They felt you were best qualified.”
“It’ll never work.”
That drew a laugh from Caius Cosades. “I happen to agree. But those are the orders. You are being tasked to discover how to join the Dark Brotherhood… and then you are to join.”
“And if they give me contracts…”
“The Elder Council has authorized you to kill anyone deemed ‘unimportant’, within the line of duty. I know that sounds immoral—it is. But those are the orders.”
“How do I determine who is ‘unimportant’?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun asked, now gazing up at the stars.
“You’ll still report to me—I’ll provide guidance. I’m giving you discretion, though, so you don’t need to ride that new horse of yours ragged to come see me. If a hit is questionable, do some research. If it passes the smell test, you can follow through.”
“I don’t care to kill any innocents.”
“Orders, my friend. You'll need to keep up cover. Of course, if you can find a way around killing someone, by all means do so. But don’t jeopardize the mission.”
“Of course, Caius. Of course. Now, one last question. How the hell do I find out how to join the Dark Brotherhood?”
A long pause. “Ask a Dark Brother.”
Oh boy oh boy! Our favourite Argonian is back in the spotlight! All ready we have some intriguing developments as well, though you are never one to dally around and I like that!
Glad to see more of Al and hopefully the creative juices shall flow freely with this new story!
Glad to see more of Al and hopefully the creative juices shall flow freely with this new story!
Dun dun dun. Al has returned.
I especially enjoy the bond between Al and Caius. Like the skooma and beer comment. 'We never change'. Good stuff.
I especially enjoy the bond between Al and Caius. Like the skooma and beer comment. 'We never change'. Good stuff.
3.
Prison, Lutemoth Legion Fort, Kragenmoor
It was 2 A.M. and Durius Carbo was on the watch. Nothing to worry about; Lutemoth Legion Fort had the most secure jail in Morrowind, he was sure. Not one of the locks could be picked—the smith had given the commander a money-back guarantee. Naturally then, Carbo ignored the impotent (and grisly) threats emanating from the only occupied cell.
“I’ll rip out your throat and vomit down your esophagus, imperial cur!”
Carbo could barely contain his mirth. It was always a treat to host a member of the Dark Brotherhood. He opened a bottle of brandy.
He had just brought the bottle to his lips when the door from the fort proper opened, and an argonian in black stepped in and rasped, “You Carbo?”
Feeling a little peeved (his brandy was waiting) the watchman answered, “Yeah. And who are you?”
“Call me Al.” The argonian handed Carbo an envelope. “This will explain my presence in unnecessary detail, so I’ll give the quick and dirty whys and hows. I’m with the Blades, and I’m going to question the prisoner by whatever means I see fit. You will help. Clear enough?”
“Yes sir” Carbo replied softly, straightening up. “What help do you need?”
“Mostly you can just stay out of my way, watch the door. I already have in my possession a full report of previous efforts at interrogation. I know who I’m dealing—“
“Hey [unnatural and untranslatable obscenity]! What the [censored] is going on out there! Choke on your [censored] brandy yet?”
“—with. Arrogant little s’wit, isn’t he?”
Carbo nodded.
“Good. Arrogance is useful. I’ll go in now.”
“I’ll open—“
The argonian held up a hand. “I already have the key, Carbo. You just watch the door. I’ll let you know if I need a torch or something.”
Carbo sat down at his table, and picked up his brandy. A torch?
In the cell
A dark elf face snarled, “Who the [censored] are you?”
“No one to be trifled with. But you want more than that, yes? Fine. My name is Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. You are Alval Itarianastus, Dark Brotherhood assassin. Now that introductions are over, I’d like to make you a proposition. I know that the illusionists have already been here to interrogate you—so very thoroughly, I’m sure they thought—and I know that they failed. I’m not going to try any charm spells, or any of that junk. I’m only going to make this offer: I will give you my ebony shortsword. We will fight. If you win, you can take the cell key from my body. You can escape. If I win, you at least die in honorable combat, instead of rotting in jail. But before we fight, you must tell me how you joined the Dark Brotherhood. Do we have a deal?”
“What happens to me if I don’t agree to your offer? Don’t I get out eventually?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled grimly. “Maybe. But I’ve been authorized to torture you first.”
“I see. In that case, I accept your offer. Hand me the blade.”
Done.
“I like it; nice balance. I’ll enjoy killing you with it. Now for my part of the bargain—I killed an innocent man along the road, since he didn’t want to pay my ‘toll’. I didn’t get caught. The Brotherhood contacted me as I slept that night. Now let’s begin.” The dark elf took up an offensive posture.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun drew his dagger, Kills-You-Dead, and held the blade in blocking position. Itarianastus, the Dark Brother, sprung forward. The sun-lingerer sidestepped the thrust and swung the hilt of Kills-You-Dead into the dunmer’s temple. An ebony blade flew into the wall—the argonian picked it up, opened the cell door, and stepped out. The dunmer began to stir again.
“I lied. You still get to rot in jail.”
Prison, Lutemoth Legion Fort, Kragenmoor
It was 2 A.M. and Durius Carbo was on the watch. Nothing to worry about; Lutemoth Legion Fort had the most secure jail in Morrowind, he was sure. Not one of the locks could be picked—the smith had given the commander a money-back guarantee. Naturally then, Carbo ignored the impotent (and grisly) threats emanating from the only occupied cell.
“I’ll rip out your throat and vomit down your esophagus, imperial cur!”
Carbo could barely contain his mirth. It was always a treat to host a member of the Dark Brotherhood. He opened a bottle of brandy.
He had just brought the bottle to his lips when the door from the fort proper opened, and an argonian in black stepped in and rasped, “You Carbo?”
Feeling a little peeved (his brandy was waiting) the watchman answered, “Yeah. And who are you?”
“Call me Al.” The argonian handed Carbo an envelope. “This will explain my presence in unnecessary detail, so I’ll give the quick and dirty whys and hows. I’m with the Blades, and I’m going to question the prisoner by whatever means I see fit. You will help. Clear enough?”
“Yes sir” Carbo replied softly, straightening up. “What help do you need?”
“Mostly you can just stay out of my way, watch the door. I already have in my possession a full report of previous efforts at interrogation. I know who I’m dealing—“
“Hey [unnatural and untranslatable obscenity]! What the [censored] is going on out there! Choke on your [censored] brandy yet?”
“—with. Arrogant little s’wit, isn’t he?”
Carbo nodded.
“Good. Arrogance is useful. I’ll go in now.”
“I’ll open—“
The argonian held up a hand. “I already have the key, Carbo. You just watch the door. I’ll let you know if I need a torch or something.”
Carbo sat down at his table, and picked up his brandy. A torch?
In the cell
A dark elf face snarled, “Who the [censored] are you?”
“No one to be trifled with. But you want more than that, yes? Fine. My name is Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. You are Alval Itarianastus, Dark Brotherhood assassin. Now that introductions are over, I’d like to make you a proposition. I know that the illusionists have already been here to interrogate you—so very thoroughly, I’m sure they thought—and I know that they failed. I’m not going to try any charm spells, or any of that junk. I’m only going to make this offer: I will give you my ebony shortsword. We will fight. If you win, you can take the cell key from my body. You can escape. If I win, you at least die in honorable combat, instead of rotting in jail. But before we fight, you must tell me how you joined the Dark Brotherhood. Do we have a deal?”
“What happens to me if I don’t agree to your offer? Don’t I get out eventually?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled grimly. “Maybe. But I’ve been authorized to torture you first.”
“I see. In that case, I accept your offer. Hand me the blade.”
Done.
“I like it; nice balance. I’ll enjoy killing you with it. Now for my part of the bargain—I killed an innocent man along the road, since he didn’t want to pay my ‘toll’. I didn’t get caught. The Brotherhood contacted me as I slept that night. Now let’s begin.” The dark elf took up an offensive posture.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun drew his dagger, Kills-You-Dead, and held the blade in blocking position. Itarianastus, the Dark Brother, sprung forward. The sun-lingerer sidestepped the thrust and swung the hilt of Kills-You-Dead into the dunmer’s temple. An ebony blade flew into the wall—the argonian picked it up, opened the cell door, and stepped out. The dunmer began to stir again.
“I lied. You still get to rot in jail.”
While I personally consider the 'duel'-method a tad too risky, it worked.
And that's the way we know Al, a badass one-liner at the end of an update.
And that's the way we know Al, a badass one-liner at the end of an update.
QUOTE(jack cloudy @ Dec 28 2007, 01:12 PM) 
While I personally consider the 'duel'-method a tad too risky, it worked.
And that's the way we know Al, a badass one-liner at the end of an update.
Ah well, the Dark Brother wasn't the only arrogant assassin in that duel. Could we call Al a bit over-confident? Perhaps. But that's part of the charm, I think.
Enjoyable update. Al always brings a smirk to my face. 
Interesting way to deal with a trained killer, but I'm glad to see that Al pulled it off.
Interesting way to deal with a trained killer, but I'm glad to see that Al pulled it off.
Post-machine!
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4.
A Letter
C,
As instructed, I have purchased quarters in the Imperial City. As you know, housing in the imperial capital is of limited availability. It cost me 2000 drakes to buy a shack in the Waterfront District. I could have rented a room, of course, but I felt that such an arrangement would have been both prohibitively expensive (even the bloody boarding house would have cost me 200 drakes a month) and something of a security risk. See my expense report (attached) for additional details.
The shack is bare, but serves my purposes. The bed is worn but comfortable; the local beggars are fair-to-good sources of information, though I marvel at how the self-proclaimed center of civilization on Nirn could harbor such destitution. Flawed as it was, at least the dunmer Temple provided for the poor.
But I digress. I know that you enjoy the digressions, but I mean to get back to business.
I accosted one of the local beggars, whose name I shall omit lest this communication be intercepted, and asked if he knew of any local skooma dens. As you should recall, we discussed skooma dens as an acceptable starting point to qualify for entrance into the order in question. After a payment of 20 septims the beggar allowed that he didn’t know of any dens in the City, but that he had heard of such an establishment (if you could call one that) in the city of Bravil. I signaled my gratitude with an additional 20 septims. Again, this is all in my expense report.
After taking lunch on the Bloated Float, a ship-borne tavern and inn, I mounted Outruns-Bandits and rode south and southeast to Bravil. I estimate the ride at four hours, with a brief stop to dispatch a bandit in the process of holding up a breton woman. Suffice it to say he was surprised to take a viper-bolt to the back of the head while he perused the lady’s jewelry. As you know my crossbow is nearly worn out from use, and more or less beyond repair. I think that Sirollus Saccus in Ebonheart could fix it, but of course I am no longer in Ebonheart. It was fortunate then, to find an ebony long bow on the bandit’s corpse.
I purchased arrows from a fletcher’s shop upon arriving in Bravil. I did not sell my crossbow—sentimental value. I also commissioned a set of glass arrows (to be delivered in a week) to meet my particular specifications, which you well know.
Once in Bravil, not caring to search very hard, I simply paid another beggar 20 gold to pass me the local skooma den’s location. Gold in hand, she was more than happy to oblige. Information in tow, I rented a room and took dinner at the Lonely Suitor Lodge, in the south of town. I also indulged in an ale or five. This, again, is on the expense report.
After dinner I retired to my room, sleeping until about 2 A.M. At that time I gathered up my tools and crossed the canal to the north side of Bravil, where I found the door to the skooma den securely locked—I felt five tumblers, what the Cyrodiils call “very hard”. As you know my skills in breaking and entering are a little rusty, so I am ashamed to admit that I broke 2 picks on the lock. It won’t happen again. (The picks are, of course, on the expense report).
Now, for the inside. The den was in two levels. There was a pair of beds on the first floor, one occupied by a khajiit male. He smelled of skooma, far more than even you. I’m still amazed you can function (as you say you are amazed at me). But that was another digression. I slit the khajiit’s throat with my ebony shortsword, not wishing to waste Kills-You-Dead on an addict.
Upstairs I found another khajiit male, and in addition a nord male and a breton female. I cut their throats in the same manner as described above.
I was finished cleaning up the scene at roughly 3:30 A.M. I am, as you know, nothing if not meticulous. After exiting the scene I rode immediately for the Imperial City, arriving at roughly 7:45 A.M. I posted this report in the mail at 11:00 A.M. If what the prisoner said is true, I will be contacted by the organization in question as I sleep. If what the prisoner said is not true, you (and he) will be seeing me shortly.
Regards,
A.H.L.i.t.S.
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4.
A Letter
C,
As instructed, I have purchased quarters in the Imperial City. As you know, housing in the imperial capital is of limited availability. It cost me 2000 drakes to buy a shack in the Waterfront District. I could have rented a room, of course, but I felt that such an arrangement would have been both prohibitively expensive (even the bloody boarding house would have cost me 200 drakes a month) and something of a security risk. See my expense report (attached) for additional details.
The shack is bare, but serves my purposes. The bed is worn but comfortable; the local beggars are fair-to-good sources of information, though I marvel at how the self-proclaimed center of civilization on Nirn could harbor such destitution. Flawed as it was, at least the dunmer Temple provided for the poor.
But I digress. I know that you enjoy the digressions, but I mean to get back to business.
I accosted one of the local beggars, whose name I shall omit lest this communication be intercepted, and asked if he knew of any local skooma dens. As you should recall, we discussed skooma dens as an acceptable starting point to qualify for entrance into the order in question. After a payment of 20 septims the beggar allowed that he didn’t know of any dens in the City, but that he had heard of such an establishment (if you could call one that) in the city of Bravil. I signaled my gratitude with an additional 20 septims. Again, this is all in my expense report.
After taking lunch on the Bloated Float, a ship-borne tavern and inn, I mounted Outruns-Bandits and rode south and southeast to Bravil. I estimate the ride at four hours, with a brief stop to dispatch a bandit in the process of holding up a breton woman. Suffice it to say he was surprised to take a viper-bolt to the back of the head while he perused the lady’s jewelry. As you know my crossbow is nearly worn out from use, and more or less beyond repair. I think that Sirollus Saccus in Ebonheart could fix it, but of course I am no longer in Ebonheart. It was fortunate then, to find an ebony long bow on the bandit’s corpse.
I purchased arrows from a fletcher’s shop upon arriving in Bravil. I did not sell my crossbow—sentimental value. I also commissioned a set of glass arrows (to be delivered in a week) to meet my particular specifications, which you well know.
Once in Bravil, not caring to search very hard, I simply paid another beggar 20 gold to pass me the local skooma den’s location. Gold in hand, she was more than happy to oblige. Information in tow, I rented a room and took dinner at the Lonely Suitor Lodge, in the south of town. I also indulged in an ale or five. This, again, is on the expense report.
After dinner I retired to my room, sleeping until about 2 A.M. At that time I gathered up my tools and crossed the canal to the north side of Bravil, where I found the door to the skooma den securely locked—I felt five tumblers, what the Cyrodiils call “very hard”. As you know my skills in breaking and entering are a little rusty, so I am ashamed to admit that I broke 2 picks on the lock. It won’t happen again. (The picks are, of course, on the expense report).
Now, for the inside. The den was in two levels. There was a pair of beds on the first floor, one occupied by a khajiit male. He smelled of skooma, far more than even you. I’m still amazed you can function (as you say you are amazed at me). But that was another digression. I slit the khajiit’s throat with my ebony shortsword, not wishing to waste Kills-You-Dead on an addict.
Upstairs I found another khajiit male, and in addition a nord male and a breton female. I cut their throats in the same manner as described above.
I was finished cleaning up the scene at roughly 3:30 A.M. I am, as you know, nothing if not meticulous. After exiting the scene I rode immediately for the Imperial City, arriving at roughly 7:45 A.M. I posted this report in the mail at 11:00 A.M. If what the prisoner said is true, I will be contacted by the organization in question as I sleep. If what the prisoner said is not true, you (and he) will be seeing me shortly.
Regards,
A.H.L.i.t.S.
Most entertaining. A good read and I like Al's style 
, pleasingly confident.
Nicely done letter too.
, pleasingly confident.Nicely done letter too.
Killing "innocent" skooma addicts, that definitely is a nice and less guilty way of gaining the Brotherhood's attention. I look forward to seeing how Al will react to the Brotherhood's preachings.
This is going wonderfully. Al is such a fun character; and I like that Caius' original recall from Vvardenfell wasn't a death warrant.
QUOTE(treydog @ Dec 28 2007, 06:40 PM)
This is going wonderfully. Al is such a fun character; and I like that Caius' original recall from Vvardenfell wasn't a death warrant.
Well, as some of you may have noticed, I pay attention to TES lore (a Waughin Jarth reference in part I., anyone?) and like to base as much as I can on the "real" game-world. So, if you look on the Imperial Library's (great TES website) "obscure texts" section, you will find that Caius Cosades (it would appear) actually ended up at the Chapel of Akatosh in Kragenmoor at the time of the Oblivion crisis. I'm merely suggesting that his (not-so-divinely-inspired) work continued.
And it seemed oddly appropriate that Caius would suggest bumping off skooma addicts.
And thanks to everyone for the praise.
5.
Journal of an Imperial Courier: Waterfront District, the Imperial City
I heard a noise at the door. Anyone else, I’m sure, would have ignored it. I’m not anyone else. I felt a blade in each hand before I thought to grab them, and before I had chance to marvel at this I had the blades at the throat of tall imperial man wearing black.
“My, you are alert.”
Dark Brotherhood. I guess I wouldn’t need to go back to Kragenmoor and stick that dunmer’s head over a torch, after all. I drew my blades back from the assassin’s throat.
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer. Yet not too soundly. That's good. You'll need a clear conscience—and a clear head—for what I'm about to propose.”
I kept silent. And a strong grip on my blades, just in case something went wrong.
“You prefer silence, then? As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased... that is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity... to join our rather unique family...”
I stayed silent. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Who was I to interrupt?
“So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid. Now listen closely. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family.”
I nodded my agreement, and he handed me a blade. Decent balance, but not to my standards…
“Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence. Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again soon.”
And then Lucien Lachance was gone. Or that’s the impression he would like to give. He cast some sort of powerful chameleon spell and trotted away, quickly as he came. Once he was out of my door I tossed his “virgin blade” aside. It was clearly intended to be a nice weapon for a new initiate—someone relatively inexperienced. I had no use for it.
Rufio… Inn of Ill Omen. I wanted to know more about him. I had barely slept, but I knew that it was a three hour ride to the Inn of Ill Omen (I had passed it on the way back from the skooma den in Bravil) and that it was now 2:00 P.M. and that I wanted to do the job sometime shortly after midnight. That left me something like seven hours in which to discretely investigate this mark.
I pulled on my robe, secured my new bow on my back, and stepped out to look for the beggar. He wasn’t hard to find; his bedroll was laid out perhaps seventy yards from my waterfront lodgings. He was standing nearby, eating some day-old bread which I presume he bought with the coins I provided the day before.
I called to him, “Ancus, I need more information.” He smiled at my approach, and practically beamed when I held out a small sack of gold—forty pieces.
“Be ‘appy to oblige, friend. Most ‘appy. What d’ya need?”
“Ever heard of a man named Rufio?”
“I knows a man who ‘as. He’s in The Black ‘orse Courier. And in the impound.”
“In jail, you mean.”
“Aye, that’s what I says.”
I tossed the beggar another bag of gold and took my leave.
-----------------------------------------------
(Pasted into the journal; the name Claudius Arcadia underlined with a dark black mark)
Night Mother Rituals!
SPECIAL EDITION
NIGHT MOTHER RITUALS ON THE RISE!
"And won't be tolerated!"
warns Imperial Legion.
by Agnes "the quill is mightier than the ebony sword" Earheardt
The Imperial City -- pinnacle of art, entertainment, scholarship... and ritualistic murder? So says Adamus Phillida, commander of the Imperial Legion forces in the Imperial City, and a staunch opponent of the mysterious assassin's guild known as the Dark Brotherhood. According to Phillida, Imperial Legion soldiers have discovered thirteen separate instances of the macabre "Black Sacrament," a sinister rite purportedly used to summon a member of the Dark Brotherhood, in order to arrange an assassination.
Whether or not a card-carrying killer shows up on a ritual performer's doorstep remains to be seen, but the Black Sacrament itself is very real, and truly the stuff of nightmares. As documented in the rare and taboo work "A Kiss, Sweet Mother," the Black Sacrament involves an effigy of the intended victim -- created from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh -- within a circle of candles. To proceed with the ritual, one must stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering the plea, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." As gruesome as this ritual may be, even more frightening is its intention -- the summoning of a mysterious assassin (who some witnesseses claim is always clad in a black hooded robe) who will then receive money to kill an innocent victim. No remorse. No regret. It is, as the merchant's say, simply business. And that's what worries Adamus Phillida.
"This brazen increase in Night Mother rituals is an affront to the decent, peace-loving citizens of the Empire. The Imperial Legion exists for one reason and one reason only -- to protect and serve the people of Tamriel. How in Azura's name can we do that when people take it upon themselves to contact paid assassins and have innocent people murdered? How can I sleep at night knowing my Legion can't possibly save the life of someone marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood? Anyone who carries out this "Black Sacrament" makes a mockery of the Imperial Legion, and as Commander, that's something I just can't tolerate. From this point forward, any citizen found in the possession of items related to the Night Mother ritual will be incarcerated in the Imperial Prison indefinitely, and their property seized by the Empire. There's no fine high enough, no standard prison sentence long enough, for the type of malcontent who would show such a blatant disregard for our dear Emperor's laws and the wellfare of the fine people of Tamriel"
To be sure, Adamus Phillida is not one to issue empty threats. Indeed, the Black Horse Courier has learned that one Claudius Arcadia, until recently a resident of the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City, is now residing in a cold, dank cell in the Imperial Prison, and his house has become the newest Imperial Legion outpost. So before you take the law into your own hands, dear reader, remember -- you'll go further in life with a warm smile than a cold blade. And if you've got a grudge that won't be soothed, a score that can't be settled, you can always move to Morrowind and have the government-sanctioned Morag Tong do the killing for you.
---------------------------------------------
I decided against breaking into Arcadia’s home to look for references to Rufio. It was likely that the legion had removed any pertinent evidence, and it was possible that they would have posted a guard to keep out curiosity seekers. The Black Horse Courier suggested as much. I decided to take the direct route—visiting Claudius Arcadia in prison.
I decided against wearing my black robes in to visit him. I didn’t want the Watch thinking me a Dark Brotherhood assassin, coming to visit a client. I donned mage’s robes instead, so very common in the City. I left the bow at home, and concealed my blades best as I could. From there it was a simple matter to talk to the jailer, who was quite receptive to bribery. Shortly I found myself standing face-to-face with Claudius Arcadia.
I started to introduce myself (dishonestly, of course, as a guard was watching) but as soon as he saw me he blurted, “So I wanted somebody murdered! So I prayed to the Night Mother! What, is that a crime now? They even took my house, those bastards!”
My lies thus delayed, I turned up the sympathy. “Mr. Arcadia, I saw notice of your trouble in the Courier, and I, Speaks-Well, would like to help you. While the Legion has a legitimate interest here, I believe they have acted too harshly. If you told me more of your case, I might be able to exert some public pressure in your favor.”
He seemed rather incredulous—and very, very bitter. “How could you possibly help me? What can you know of my pain?”
Putting on a grave face, I whispered close to his ear, “I know about Rufio.”
That opened his eyes wide, I dare say. “You know about that scum? What he did to my little…” His voice faded away into sobbing.
“I’m sorry, Claudius. I’ll leave you be. And I’ll see what I can do for you.” With that, I left. I could kill Rufio.
Journal of an Imperial Courier: Waterfront District, the Imperial City
I heard a noise at the door. Anyone else, I’m sure, would have ignored it. I’m not anyone else. I felt a blade in each hand before I thought to grab them, and before I had chance to marvel at this I had the blades at the throat of tall imperial man wearing black.
“My, you are alert.”
Dark Brotherhood. I guess I wouldn’t need to go back to Kragenmoor and stick that dunmer’s head over a torch, after all. I drew my blades back from the assassin’s throat.
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer. Yet not too soundly. That's good. You'll need a clear conscience—and a clear head—for what I'm about to propose.”
I kept silent. And a strong grip on my blades, just in case something went wrong.
“You prefer silence, then? As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased... that is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity... to join our rather unique family...”
I stayed silent. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Who was I to interrupt?
“So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid. Now listen closely. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family.”
I nodded my agreement, and he handed me a blade. Decent balance, but not to my standards…
“Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence. Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again soon.”
And then Lucien Lachance was gone. Or that’s the impression he would like to give. He cast some sort of powerful chameleon spell and trotted away, quickly as he came. Once he was out of my door I tossed his “virgin blade” aside. It was clearly intended to be a nice weapon for a new initiate—someone relatively inexperienced. I had no use for it.
Rufio… Inn of Ill Omen. I wanted to know more about him. I had barely slept, but I knew that it was a three hour ride to the Inn of Ill Omen (I had passed it on the way back from the skooma den in Bravil) and that it was now 2:00 P.M. and that I wanted to do the job sometime shortly after midnight. That left me something like seven hours in which to discretely investigate this mark.
I pulled on my robe, secured my new bow on my back, and stepped out to look for the beggar. He wasn’t hard to find; his bedroll was laid out perhaps seventy yards from my waterfront lodgings. He was standing nearby, eating some day-old bread which I presume he bought with the coins I provided the day before.
I called to him, “Ancus, I need more information.” He smiled at my approach, and practically beamed when I held out a small sack of gold—forty pieces.
“Be ‘appy to oblige, friend. Most ‘appy. What d’ya need?”
“Ever heard of a man named Rufio?”
“I knows a man who ‘as. He’s in The Black ‘orse Courier. And in the impound.”
“In jail, you mean.”
“Aye, that’s what I says.”
I tossed the beggar another bag of gold and took my leave.
-----------------------------------------------
(Pasted into the journal; the name Claudius Arcadia underlined with a dark black mark)
Night Mother Rituals!
SPECIAL EDITION
NIGHT MOTHER RITUALS ON THE RISE!
"And won't be tolerated!"
warns Imperial Legion.
by Agnes "the quill is mightier than the ebony sword" Earheardt
The Imperial City -- pinnacle of art, entertainment, scholarship... and ritualistic murder? So says Adamus Phillida, commander of the Imperial Legion forces in the Imperial City, and a staunch opponent of the mysterious assassin's guild known as the Dark Brotherhood. According to Phillida, Imperial Legion soldiers have discovered thirteen separate instances of the macabre "Black Sacrament," a sinister rite purportedly used to summon a member of the Dark Brotherhood, in order to arrange an assassination.
Whether or not a card-carrying killer shows up on a ritual performer's doorstep remains to be seen, but the Black Sacrament itself is very real, and truly the stuff of nightmares. As documented in the rare and taboo work "A Kiss, Sweet Mother," the Black Sacrament involves an effigy of the intended victim -- created from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh -- within a circle of candles. To proceed with the ritual, one must stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering the plea, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." As gruesome as this ritual may be, even more frightening is its intention -- the summoning of a mysterious assassin (who some witnesseses claim is always clad in a black hooded robe) who will then receive money to kill an innocent victim. No remorse. No regret. It is, as the merchant's say, simply business. And that's what worries Adamus Phillida.
"This brazen increase in Night Mother rituals is an affront to the decent, peace-loving citizens of the Empire. The Imperial Legion exists for one reason and one reason only -- to protect and serve the people of Tamriel. How in Azura's name can we do that when people take it upon themselves to contact paid assassins and have innocent people murdered? How can I sleep at night knowing my Legion can't possibly save the life of someone marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood? Anyone who carries out this "Black Sacrament" makes a mockery of the Imperial Legion, and as Commander, that's something I just can't tolerate. From this point forward, any citizen found in the possession of items related to the Night Mother ritual will be incarcerated in the Imperial Prison indefinitely, and their property seized by the Empire. There's no fine high enough, no standard prison sentence long enough, for the type of malcontent who would show such a blatant disregard for our dear Emperor's laws and the wellfare of the fine people of Tamriel"
To be sure, Adamus Phillida is not one to issue empty threats. Indeed, the Black Horse Courier has learned that one Claudius Arcadia, until recently a resident of the Talos Plaza District of the Imperial City, is now residing in a cold, dank cell in the Imperial Prison, and his house has become the newest Imperial Legion outpost. So before you take the law into your own hands, dear reader, remember -- you'll go further in life with a warm smile than a cold blade. And if you've got a grudge that won't be soothed, a score that can't be settled, you can always move to Morrowind and have the government-sanctioned Morag Tong do the killing for you.
---------------------------------------------
I decided against breaking into Arcadia’s home to look for references to Rufio. It was likely that the legion had removed any pertinent evidence, and it was possible that they would have posted a guard to keep out curiosity seekers. The Black Horse Courier suggested as much. I decided to take the direct route—visiting Claudius Arcadia in prison.
I decided against wearing my black robes in to visit him. I didn’t want the Watch thinking me a Dark Brotherhood assassin, coming to visit a client. I donned mage’s robes instead, so very common in the City. I left the bow at home, and concealed my blades best as I could. From there it was a simple matter to talk to the jailer, who was quite receptive to bribery. Shortly I found myself standing face-to-face with Claudius Arcadia.
I started to introduce myself (dishonestly, of course, as a guard was watching) but as soon as he saw me he blurted, “So I wanted somebody murdered! So I prayed to the Night Mother! What, is that a crime now? They even took my house, those bastards!”
My lies thus delayed, I turned up the sympathy. “Mr. Arcadia, I saw notice of your trouble in the Courier, and I, Speaks-Well, would like to help you. While the Legion has a legitimate interest here, I believe they have acted too harshly. If you told me more of your case, I might be able to exert some public pressure in your favor.”
He seemed rather incredulous—and very, very bitter. “How could you possibly help me? What can you know of my pain?”
Putting on a grave face, I whispered close to his ear, “I know about Rufio.”
That opened his eyes wide, I dare say. “You know about that scum? What he did to my little…” His voice faded away into sobbing.
“I’m sorry, Claudius. I’ll leave you be. And I’ll see what I can do for you.” With that, I left. I could kill Rufio.
Well that's an interesting way to discover whether a target is worthy to kill. Very nice detective work by Al indeed.
Beggars, they've got better intelligence than the professional spy network! 
Or maybe they are 'part' of the professional spy network. Apart from the fact that they serve everyone who pays in cash, they are reliable enough.
Or maybe they are 'part' of the professional spy network. Apart from the fact that they serve everyone who pays in cash, they are reliable enough.
QUOTE(jack cloudy @ Dec 29 2007, 12:25 PM)
Beggars, they've got better intelligence than the professional spy network!
Or maybe they are 'part' of the professional spy network. Apart from the fact that they serve everyone who pays in cash, they are reliable enough.Check out Beggar Prince. The beggars are also reputedly the eyes and ears of the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil. If you get the chance to play Oblivion, you'll find that they can be useful.
I'm liking this, very much. I too investigated Claudius' House for his journal. While I have my grumblings about OB< I have no complaints with the DB at all. They did a bang-up job on that part.
6.
The Green Road, south of Lake Rumare
Dro’Jayr’s ears perked up at the sound of a horse rushing southeast along the road. This was good; business had been poor of late. He rolled over and pushed himself up off of his bedroll, seizing his elven blade in the process. He was already arrayed in his glass armor—the bandit’s life being so perilous that he seldom dared to take it off, unless he was staying at the local inn. All his gear together, Dro’Jayr sprinted the distance to the road, maybe twenty yards. He could tell that the horse was fast, that he needed to hurry to be in position.
The bandit reached the roadside just in time to see a black horse—with a black rider—fly past. He didn’t bother to pursue it.
----------------------------------------------------
The Inn of Ill Omen, 11:35 P.M.
Manheim Maulhand had nearly finished wiping down the bar when the figure in black stepped in through his door. It was a warm night, yet the man—the figure was of fair height—was wearing a full black robe. Hood was up too. Odd, but the innkeeper knew that some folks were like that, always wear the same thing so long as it made their status clear. Finally the figure stepped into the candlelight and he could see the snout of an argonian peeking out of the hood. The argonian looked about for a moment—paying special attention to the basement hatch—and then approached the bar.
As the argonian took a seat Maulhand heard the rough utterance of a greeting of what passed for a greeting—“Evening”.
Eager for some business, the nord tried to ignore his customer’s gruffness. “We got plenty of rooms if you want one. Ain't nobody staying here these days 'cept old Rufio.”
The argonian nodded and—more politely than before—said, “Thanks. I would appreciate a room. How much for one?”
“I've got a small room available right upstairs, first door on the left. Only 10 gold. What do you say?”
The argonian fished into his robes and pulled out a small bag of gold, out of which he produced a 10-septim piece. “I’ll take it” he said as he passed over the gold. “If you have an ale I’ll take that too.” He fished out a few more coins. “And you can have one for yourself.”
After an hour Manheim Maulhand was thoroughly sloshed (no nord born can turn down a good drinking game), and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had confirmed that Rufio could be found downstairs.
---------------------------------------------------
The Inn of Ill Omen, 1:15 A.M.
Who are you? What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!
Oh yes you have, old man.
No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!
You always have a choice, Rufio. You chose wrong.
The Green Road, south of Lake Rumare
Dro’Jayr’s ears perked up at the sound of a horse rushing southeast along the road. This was good; business had been poor of late. He rolled over and pushed himself up off of his bedroll, seizing his elven blade in the process. He was already arrayed in his glass armor—the bandit’s life being so perilous that he seldom dared to take it off, unless he was staying at the local inn. All his gear together, Dro’Jayr sprinted the distance to the road, maybe twenty yards. He could tell that the horse was fast, that he needed to hurry to be in position.
The bandit reached the roadside just in time to see a black horse—with a black rider—fly past. He didn’t bother to pursue it.
----------------------------------------------------
The Inn of Ill Omen, 11:35 P.M.
Manheim Maulhand had nearly finished wiping down the bar when the figure in black stepped in through his door. It was a warm night, yet the man—the figure was of fair height—was wearing a full black robe. Hood was up too. Odd, but the innkeeper knew that some folks were like that, always wear the same thing so long as it made their status clear. Finally the figure stepped into the candlelight and he could see the snout of an argonian peeking out of the hood. The argonian looked about for a moment—paying special attention to the basement hatch—and then approached the bar.
As the argonian took a seat Maulhand heard the rough utterance of a greeting of what passed for a greeting—“Evening”.
Eager for some business, the nord tried to ignore his customer’s gruffness. “We got plenty of rooms if you want one. Ain't nobody staying here these days 'cept old Rufio.”
The argonian nodded and—more politely than before—said, “Thanks. I would appreciate a room. How much for one?”
“I've got a small room available right upstairs, first door on the left. Only 10 gold. What do you say?”
The argonian fished into his robes and pulled out a small bag of gold, out of which he produced a 10-septim piece. “I’ll take it” he said as he passed over the gold. “If you have an ale I’ll take that too.” He fished out a few more coins. “And you can have one for yourself.”
After an hour Manheim Maulhand was thoroughly sloshed (no nord born can turn down a good drinking game), and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had confirmed that Rufio could be found downstairs.
---------------------------------------------------
The Inn of Ill Omen, 1:15 A.M.
Who are you? What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!
Oh yes you have, old man.
No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!
You always have a choice, Rufio. You chose wrong.
Hehe, I love the fact that you used the term "sloshed". Solid update canis!
He's certainly direct. I like your writing style too, the pace is fast but you still get in nice details like the bandit.
And its got a pleasingly high body count.
And its got a pleasingly high body count.
7.
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor
It was Loredas night at Kragenmoor’s busiest, sleaziest dive, and the booze hall was crowded with merchants and bandits all fresh off the road. The typical troupe of bards vigorously playing the usual ballads of the Nerevarine—more popular than ever in the absence of an Emperor—was overwhelmed by the banter of the gathered horde. A pair of the shadowy figures sitting in the one (almost) quiet corner ruminated upon the gathering.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was first to speak. “I hear some folks wouldn’t mind if the Nerevarine marched on the Imperial City and took over. Kvatch must have been ugly.”
“That’s what we hear,” Caius Cosades said, somberly. Surprised you didn’t catch word of it back in Cyrodiil.”
“It was a long ride from the City; I didn’t stop for the news. They’ve got some other poor fool to deliver the reports now.”
“Indeed, indeed. So what of your work? You said LaChance told you to go to Cheydinhal to ‘meet the family’?”
“Yeah, but I decided to come here first. I guess I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll arrive there and everyone will jump me as a spy. I can’t believe that the Dark Brotherhood is this gullible. I mean, I was damn near infamous back on Vvardenfell, at least for a while. I burned down a slave market! The Morag Tong tried to kill me twice! And then there was Helseth… In any case, the Dark Brotherhood should know who I am—they were hired to kill me, after all.”
“I know, I know…”
“I’m saying, Caius, that something isn’t right.”
“Can you handle them if they jump you?” The Imperial looked into the argonian’s eyes.
“Depends on how many. Probably. Even an incompetent, wielding Kills-You-Dead, might take a couple with him. I figure I might be able to take four dark brothers at once, maybe more if they’re entry level and real stupid. But I don’t know, it’s been a couple years since I was in a more-or-less fair fight. And that was a rabble of bandits, not trained assassins.”
“Best be careful. Even if this operation with the Brotherhood doesn’t pan out, it would be no good having you dead.”
For ten minutes the two Blades drank their ales in silence, once again contemplating the music.
“Caius, was it your idea or Sethyas’ to make up the rumor about going to Akavir?”
“Mine. I heard that fame was putting a damper on his privacy, so I suggested a solution to him—Nine-Toes tells me folk have actually bought that load of guar [censored], too. The more far-fetched the lie, the more likely the people will believe it—the first rule of deception, my friend.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded gravely. And then he opened a bottle of brandy.
“Al, what else did LaChance tell you about the Dark Brotherhood?”
“They’re real head cases, Caius. They worship Sithis, like the books say. They’ve got a top-down structure: the Night Mother, whatever she is, gives instructions to the Listener, who passes on the information to the Speakers. LaChance is a speaker. The Listener and the Speakers compose the Black Hand, which I guess is their council of leadership. From what LaChance was saying, I gathered that each Speaker is in charge of his own sanctuary. The Cheydinhal sanctuary is LaChance’s.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it. I should learn more when I go to Cheydinhal tomorrow. You know, provided I don’t have to kill everyone.”
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor
It was Loredas night at Kragenmoor’s busiest, sleaziest dive, and the booze hall was crowded with merchants and bandits all fresh off the road. The typical troupe of bards vigorously playing the usual ballads of the Nerevarine—more popular than ever in the absence of an Emperor—was overwhelmed by the banter of the gathered horde. A pair of the shadowy figures sitting in the one (almost) quiet corner ruminated upon the gathering.
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was first to speak. “I hear some folks wouldn’t mind if the Nerevarine marched on the Imperial City and took over. Kvatch must have been ugly.”
“That’s what we hear,” Caius Cosades said, somberly. Surprised you didn’t catch word of it back in Cyrodiil.”
“It was a long ride from the City; I didn’t stop for the news. They’ve got some other poor fool to deliver the reports now.”
“Indeed, indeed. So what of your work? You said LaChance told you to go to Cheydinhal to ‘meet the family’?”
“Yeah, but I decided to come here first. I guess I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll arrive there and everyone will jump me as a spy. I can’t believe that the Dark Brotherhood is this gullible. I mean, I was damn near infamous back on Vvardenfell, at least for a while. I burned down a slave market! The Morag Tong tried to kill me twice! And then there was Helseth… In any case, the Dark Brotherhood should know who I am—they were hired to kill me, after all.”
“I know, I know…”
“I’m saying, Caius, that something isn’t right.”
“Can you handle them if they jump you?” The Imperial looked into the argonian’s eyes.
“Depends on how many. Probably. Even an incompetent, wielding Kills-You-Dead, might take a couple with him. I figure I might be able to take four dark brothers at once, maybe more if they’re entry level and real stupid. But I don’t know, it’s been a couple years since I was in a more-or-less fair fight. And that was a rabble of bandits, not trained assassins.”
“Best be careful. Even if this operation with the Brotherhood doesn’t pan out, it would be no good having you dead.”
For ten minutes the two Blades drank their ales in silence, once again contemplating the music.
“Caius, was it your idea or Sethyas’ to make up the rumor about going to Akavir?”
“Mine. I heard that fame was putting a damper on his privacy, so I suggested a solution to him—Nine-Toes tells me folk have actually bought that load of guar [censored], too. The more far-fetched the lie, the more likely the people will believe it—the first rule of deception, my friend.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded gravely. And then he opened a bottle of brandy.
“Al, what else did LaChance tell you about the Dark Brotherhood?”
“They’re real head cases, Caius. They worship Sithis, like the books say. They’ve got a top-down structure: the Night Mother, whatever she is, gives instructions to the Listener, who passes on the information to the Speakers. LaChance is a speaker. The Listener and the Speakers compose the Black Hand, which I guess is their council of leadership. From what LaChance was saying, I gathered that each Speaker is in charge of his own sanctuary. The Cheydinhal sanctuary is LaChance’s.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it. I should learn more when I go to Cheydinhal tomorrow. You know, provided I don’t have to kill everyone.”
The plot thickens. I love the conversation about Sethyas as well. Good stuff!
Nice. I continue to watch with interest.
That was actually my line of reasoning too.....
I really like what you've done with both the Nerevarine and Cosades here - I never did buy that rubbish about Akavir. I'll be keeping an eye on this one.
QUOTE(Marcel Rhodes @ Jan 16 2008, 10:17 PM)
I really like what you've done with both the Nerevarine and Cosades here - I never did buy that rubbish about Akavir. I'll be keeping an eye on this one.
Thank you much... and welcome to the forum.
I always love Caius and Al together. They are so...I dunno....easygoing?
And I never believed the Akavir rumour either, though this is perhaps more because I simply can't see my Nerevarine going there without a VERY good reason.
I mean, seriously. Just what is in Akavir that the Nerevarine should be interested in? That continent hasn't been in the spotlight since the last invasion or so.
And I never believed the Akavir rumour either, though this is perhaps more because I simply can't see my Nerevarine going there without a VERY good reason.
I mean, seriously. Just what is in Akavir that the Nerevarine should be interested in? That continent hasn't been in the spotlight since the last invasion or so.
QUOTE(jack cloudy @ Jan 17 2008, 07:33 AM)
Just what is in Akavir that the Nerevarine should be interested in? That continent hasn't been in the spotlight since the last invasion or so.
I apologise for cluttering the thread on this one, but the only reason I could ever think of would be sheer boredom. No-one knows about the place, after all, and once Dagoth Ur's been cast down, Almalexia's been taught a lesson and so forth, what else is there to do? Buy a farm?
I could never imagine my original character from the game heading there either though, so I might be much the same on my disbelief.
8.
Journal of an Imperial Courier: Cheydinhal
I am exasperated. How could an organization so pathetic and trivial as the Dark Brotherhood have survived for so long?
Ah, but I should back up and start again, lest my thoughts lose order.
I arrived in Cheydinhal at about ten in the morning and proceeded directly to the battered old house to which LaChance had ordered me. The door was locked of course, but it was a lock of little consequence. I won’t anyone with much detail into the building’s interior, save to say that it was messy and dark, exactly as the Brotherhood intended for any intruders to see.
The basement was more interesting. A trail of dried blood lead to the foot of the Black Door, as LaChance called it. I suppose that it was designed to intimidate—the artwork consists of a great skull (Sithis, I imagine), and what I can only guess is the depiction of the Night Mother sacrificing her children to the aforementioned skull. I can’t say that I was impressed. But then, I grew up in Black Marsh—my people have seen too much to be taken aback by cheap tricks. Maybe all this display actually frightens the cyrodiils.
In any case, staring at the door wasn’t getting me anywhere. I tried to push it open. As expected, a disembodied voice (this actually scares the imperials?) asked me, “What is the color of night?” I was tempted to call out, “Black. Now let me the hell in, maudlin s’wits!” but I restrained myself and gave the correct answer, “Sanguine, my brother.” By the gods, I hate this assignment. By that point I was rather hoping that they would jump me, just so I could kill them and be done with all this nonsense.
The Black Door opened. I stepped inside and found that no pack of assassins waited to kill me, to my great disappointment. Instead I was greeted by a single female argonian—I guessed that she was a few years younger than I. She was smiling—until she saw my face.
“It’s—it can’t be. You. Heik-Auri. You’re the one who betrayed the Shadowscales. I should—“
I cut her off. “Yes, you should shut up. You don’t want to violate the Five Tenets, and I don’t want to paint the walls of this sanctuary with your blood.” I was lying about the second part.
We shared two minutes of awkward silence. I noted an armed and armored skeleton shambling about—some sort of sanctuary guard, undoubtedly. In the far corner was a small table with an adjoining bookcase—a blonde breton woman was seated by it, daydreaming. Pathetic rabble.
I broke the ice. “Who gives out the contracts?”
The dark sister stared at me coldly for a beat before answering, “Go and speak with Vicente Valtieri. He handles all assignments for new members. And take this armor—“
“Already picked some up in Morrowind,” I growled, walking by. I wasn’t hanging around in this place any longer than I had to. My job was to report suspicious contracts—period.
I found Vicente Valtieri at the end a long hallway. He looked… odd. I put it aside.
“Vicente? I understand that you supply the work.”
He smiled, revealing long fangs. A vampire—wonderful organization, this is. In any case, I think he saw the recognition in my eyes, and I think he enjoyed it.
“Warmest greetings to you. I trust you've already spoken with Ocheeva? I am Vicente Valtieri. I provide assignments for all new family members. Please, do not let my appearance... unnerve you. The needs and Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood come before my own needs as a vampire. Now, if you're ready to get to work, I can provide you with your first contract.”
“Of course I’m ready.” I forced a smile.
“Very good. I'm not sure how you feel about pirates, but you've got to kill one. A captain, in fact. On his ship. Surrounded by his crew. Interested?”
A pirate. Didn’t seem too problematic. “Yeah, I’ll accept the contract.”
“Excellent. Here is what you must do. Go to the Waterfront District of the Imperial City. There you will find a ship named the Marie Elena. Board the ship and find its captain, Gaston Tussaud. He'll be in his cabin. Eliminate Tussaud in any manner you see fit. The pirates have been moving a lot of cargo onboard lately. You may be able to smuggle yourself onboard in one of the packing crates.”
“Consider it done.”
I marched out fast as I could. Madness... Shadowscales, vampires, undead guardians, Black Doors... and none of them could tell that I was a spy.
Journal of an Imperial Courier: Cheydinhal
I am exasperated. How could an organization so pathetic and trivial as the Dark Brotherhood have survived for so long?
Ah, but I should back up and start again, lest my thoughts lose order.
I arrived in Cheydinhal at about ten in the morning and proceeded directly to the battered old house to which LaChance had ordered me. The door was locked of course, but it was a lock of little consequence. I won’t anyone with much detail into the building’s interior, save to say that it was messy and dark, exactly as the Brotherhood intended for any intruders to see.
The basement was more interesting. A trail of dried blood lead to the foot of the Black Door, as LaChance called it. I suppose that it was designed to intimidate—the artwork consists of a great skull (Sithis, I imagine), and what I can only guess is the depiction of the Night Mother sacrificing her children to the aforementioned skull. I can’t say that I was impressed. But then, I grew up in Black Marsh—my people have seen too much to be taken aback by cheap tricks. Maybe all this display actually frightens the cyrodiils.
In any case, staring at the door wasn’t getting me anywhere. I tried to push it open. As expected, a disembodied voice (this actually scares the imperials?) asked me, “What is the color of night?” I was tempted to call out, “Black. Now let me the hell in, maudlin s’wits!” but I restrained myself and gave the correct answer, “Sanguine, my brother.” By the gods, I hate this assignment. By that point I was rather hoping that they would jump me, just so I could kill them and be done with all this nonsense.
The Black Door opened. I stepped inside and found that no pack of assassins waited to kill me, to my great disappointment. Instead I was greeted by a single female argonian—I guessed that she was a few years younger than I. She was smiling—until she saw my face.
“It’s—it can’t be. You. Heik-Auri. You’re the one who betrayed the Shadowscales. I should—“
I cut her off. “Yes, you should shut up. You don’t want to violate the Five Tenets, and I don’t want to paint the walls of this sanctuary with your blood.” I was lying about the second part.
We shared two minutes of awkward silence. I noted an armed and armored skeleton shambling about—some sort of sanctuary guard, undoubtedly. In the far corner was a small table with an adjoining bookcase—a blonde breton woman was seated by it, daydreaming. Pathetic rabble.
I broke the ice. “Who gives out the contracts?”
The dark sister stared at me coldly for a beat before answering, “Go and speak with Vicente Valtieri. He handles all assignments for new members. And take this armor—“
“Already picked some up in Morrowind,” I growled, walking by. I wasn’t hanging around in this place any longer than I had to. My job was to report suspicious contracts—period.
I found Vicente Valtieri at the end a long hallway. He looked… odd. I put it aside.
“Vicente? I understand that you supply the work.”
He smiled, revealing long fangs. A vampire—wonderful organization, this is. In any case, I think he saw the recognition in my eyes, and I think he enjoyed it.
“Warmest greetings to you. I trust you've already spoken with Ocheeva? I am Vicente Valtieri. I provide assignments for all new family members. Please, do not let my appearance... unnerve you. The needs and Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood come before my own needs as a vampire. Now, if you're ready to get to work, I can provide you with your first contract.”
“Of course I’m ready.” I forced a smile.
“Very good. I'm not sure how you feel about pirates, but you've got to kill one. A captain, in fact. On his ship. Surrounded by his crew. Interested?”
A pirate. Didn’t seem too problematic. “Yeah, I’ll accept the contract.”
“Excellent. Here is what you must do. Go to the Waterfront District of the Imperial City. There you will find a ship named the Marie Elena. Board the ship and find its captain, Gaston Tussaud. He'll be in his cabin. Eliminate Tussaud in any manner you see fit. The pirates have been moving a lot of cargo onboard lately. You may be able to smuggle yourself onboard in one of the packing crates.”
“Consider it done.”
I marched out fast as I could. Madness... Shadowscales, vampires, undead guardians, Black Doors... and none of them could tell that I was a spy.
Hm, a change of tense in the story. Interesting, though I think the story was a little more mysterious when it was in the third person, I mean it was somewhat more fresh and factual. Still you've retained your classical style and I can't but praise it. Love the intro the Brotherhood. Al must be made of though stuff since, in-game at least, I find that place to be quite scary. The entrance I mean, the actual sanctuary ain't that much of a wonder.
Nice update. I suppose you get used to undead and disembodied voices... Certainly he has an amusing attitude.
I liked Vicente, you highlighted how excessive his dialogue is nicely against Al's rather grounded view.
I liked Vicente, you highlighted how excessive his dialogue is nicely against Al's rather grounded view.
Heh, I absolutely love Al's cocky attitude.
He's all:,, Oh, come on people. Just stop showing off and give me something good."
He's all:,, Oh, come on people. Just stop showing off and give me something good."
Things continue to move along nicely. Some fun lines by Al in this update.
QUOTE(Agent Griff @ Jan 26 2008, 01:30 AM)
Hm, a change of tense in the story. Interesting, though I think the story was a little more mysterious when it was in the third person, I mean it was somewhat more fresh and factual. Still you've retained your classical style and I can't but praise it. Love the intro the Brotherhood. Al must be made of though stuff since, in-game at least, I find that place to be quite scary. The entrance I mean, the actual sanctuary ain't that much of a wonder.
Oh, I just like to mess around with different perspectives... so I think here I've established Al's journal, his written reports to Caius (a little drier than the journal, more operation-oriented), and the third person (atmospheric). I'll have to make sure I don't overreach...
Always got to love Al's "Ohhh, scary! Not!" attitude. I like the change of pace in the writing- keeps it interesting.
I for one am I glad you changed tense. I write in first person as well I find it much easier. Good job, treydog...
Nice as always Canis! Your Al really is a funny guy to read about....My favourite Lizzy
Since I saw it mentioned in your story, I thought I'd ask you about it Canis. What exactly is a Shadowscale? It sounds like an intriguing character for roleplaying and I'm interested in creating just such a character to roleplay an assassin working for the Brotherhood.
Shadowscales are Argonians born under the sign of the shadow (self-explainitory when one knows its meaning). These children are taken at birth and trained as assassins (and if they live long enough to come of age, they are given to the Dark Brotherhood).
You find that out in the Dark Brotherhood plotline in OB.
What Revan said is good. I should also add that if you read one of my contributions to The Temple of Lore you'd get some nice background on Al's ad hoc connection to the Shadowscales.
9.
Waterfront District, the Imperial City
You want t’ know about the Cap’n of the Mah-ree Elena? Aye, s’pose I hear some things. He don’t ever come out of that cabin of ‘is, is what I hears. I sure ain’t never seen ‘im, and I’m on the Waterfront all day, if ya’ know what I mean, sir. Oh, yes sir, does all his business through that dark elf mate what patrols the docks. Real hard case, that one. Why, I was making me rounds the other day sir, you knows, singing for me supper, and I swear to old Aka she’d have slew me on the spot if it weren’t for the Watch.
Would I likes to earn some scratch? Aye sir. What’d you ‘ave in mind?
No doubt about it, Malvulis was agitated. Nervous, even, though her crew would never speak a questioning word; at least not to her face. Not now, on their last evening in port. In the morning they would sail down the Niben, bound for the Abecean. But until they reached the open sea they were vulnerable, and the First Mate knew it better than anyone.
“How many crates left, Hutsei?” It was more a command than a question.
A shirtless, red-scaled argonian answered thus: “Twenty-five, ma’am. Any faster and we’ll damage the cargo!” They were moving brandy, wine, hard booze—skirting tariffs—and a fair helping of skooma, all of it destined for Stros M’kai.
Twenty-five crates would take another three hours, at least, to haul down below deck and secure. Probably four. Malvulis swore, none too softly. Four more hours and she thought she would drive herself batty, imagining every passer-by would get curious and start poking into her cargo, or want to see a manifest. And then there was the other problem. She glanced back to the ship and saw the reassuring candlelight glow from Captain Tussaud’s quarters. She took a deep breath… everything was going to be alright.
“Ma’am,” a redguard’s voice interrupted, “the beggar is skulking about again.” She looked up and saw the fellow pointing dockside with his cutlass.
Letting loose a contemptuous snort, Malvulis turned and saw the bum. This time he had a drink in hand. This was why she hated the charitable. “I’ll take care of it, Bridger,” she groaned, “You just get back to loading. I want to be ready to leave at first light.”
The beggar seemed to be… singing? He must have found quite a benefactor tonight, Malvulis thought. He clearly already had a few in him. She strode quickly down the gangplank, fingering her cutlass, as the beggar staggered up to a stack of cargo.
“O, t’was never better… than to bed her… all ‘long the ‘becean Sea…”
The doddering fool took a deep swig of his libation—Malvulis smelled mead on the air—and then sat down heavily on a strongbox, a chest the dunmer first mate knew contained at least ten vials worth of skooma. The bum’s grimy fingers idly played with the padlock…
“Away from that cargo, s’wit! Now!” Malvulis’ cutlass was drawn, her gaze enough to make an ogre think twice. The bum practically vaulted up from his seat, terror full in his eyes. He looked anything but drunk, now, and stammered, “Many apologies milady, I meant nothing by it, nothing a’tall! Just wetting me whistle, is all!”
The dunmer raised her sword, “Just wetting your whistle! Why—“
The watchman rounded into view. Malvulis froze. The beggar turned and ran, forgetting his mead. And the redguard Bridger shouted, “Ma’am! I hear noises in the Captain’s cabin!”
“What!” The dunmer turned and ran shipboard, shouting. “Open that door! Now!”
Hutsei fumbled with the key, then dropped it, then kicked in the door. Three pirates burst inside, finding the Captain slumped onto a table sticky with his own blood. The aft door was open wide.
All that remained of the killer were the ripples in Lake Rumare.
Waterfront District, the Imperial City
You want t’ know about the Cap’n of the Mah-ree Elena? Aye, s’pose I hear some things. He don’t ever come out of that cabin of ‘is, is what I hears. I sure ain’t never seen ‘im, and I’m on the Waterfront all day, if ya’ know what I mean, sir. Oh, yes sir, does all his business through that dark elf mate what patrols the docks. Real hard case, that one. Why, I was making me rounds the other day sir, you knows, singing for me supper, and I swear to old Aka she’d have slew me on the spot if it weren’t for the Watch.
Would I likes to earn some scratch? Aye sir. What’d you ‘ave in mind?
* * *
No doubt about it, Malvulis was agitated. Nervous, even, though her crew would never speak a questioning word; at least not to her face. Not now, on their last evening in port. In the morning they would sail down the Niben, bound for the Abecean. But until they reached the open sea they were vulnerable, and the First Mate knew it better than anyone.
“How many crates left, Hutsei?” It was more a command than a question.
A shirtless, red-scaled argonian answered thus: “Twenty-five, ma’am. Any faster and we’ll damage the cargo!” They were moving brandy, wine, hard booze—skirting tariffs—and a fair helping of skooma, all of it destined for Stros M’kai.
Twenty-five crates would take another three hours, at least, to haul down below deck and secure. Probably four. Malvulis swore, none too softly. Four more hours and she thought she would drive herself batty, imagining every passer-by would get curious and start poking into her cargo, or want to see a manifest. And then there was the other problem. She glanced back to the ship and saw the reassuring candlelight glow from Captain Tussaud’s quarters. She took a deep breath… everything was going to be alright.
“Ma’am,” a redguard’s voice interrupted, “the beggar is skulking about again.” She looked up and saw the fellow pointing dockside with his cutlass.
Letting loose a contemptuous snort, Malvulis turned and saw the bum. This time he had a drink in hand. This was why she hated the charitable. “I’ll take care of it, Bridger,” she groaned, “You just get back to loading. I want to be ready to leave at first light.”
The beggar seemed to be… singing? He must have found quite a benefactor tonight, Malvulis thought. He clearly already had a few in him. She strode quickly down the gangplank, fingering her cutlass, as the beggar staggered up to a stack of cargo.
“O, t’was never better… than to bed her… all ‘long the ‘becean Sea…”
The doddering fool took a deep swig of his libation—Malvulis smelled mead on the air—and then sat down heavily on a strongbox, a chest the dunmer first mate knew contained at least ten vials worth of skooma. The bum’s grimy fingers idly played with the padlock…
“Away from that cargo, s’wit! Now!” Malvulis’ cutlass was drawn, her gaze enough to make an ogre think twice. The bum practically vaulted up from his seat, terror full in his eyes. He looked anything but drunk, now, and stammered, “Many apologies milady, I meant nothing by it, nothing a’tall! Just wetting me whistle, is all!”
The dunmer raised her sword, “Just wetting your whistle! Why—“
The watchman rounded into view. Malvulis froze. The beggar turned and ran, forgetting his mead. And the redguard Bridger shouted, “Ma’am! I hear noises in the Captain’s cabin!”
“What!” The dunmer turned and ran shipboard, shouting. “Open that door! Now!”
Hutsei fumbled with the key, then dropped it, then kicked in the door. Three pirates burst inside, finding the Captain slumped onto a table sticky with his own blood. The aft door was open wide.
All that remained of the killer were the ripples in Lake Rumare.
Another good update, and a refreshing style telling it from the point of view of a minor character.
Good stuff, but I want more.
Good stuff, but I want more.
Heh, Al handled this assignment much like one of my own Oblivion characters handled it. Only, in my case, the distraction wasn't provided by a beggar but by an Imperial Watch member. As my character tried to hide in one of the crates waiting to be loaded onto the ship, I looked up and saw that all three pirates who were outside the ship were franticly fighting against a lone Watch patrolman. As they killed each other, I carefully sneaked into the Captain's quarters. After the deed was done, I could hear knocks on the door. Realizing that the pirates were onto my scheme, I quickly looked for places to escape. It was, by chance, that I saw the door behind the Captain's desk and opened it to plunge into the waters of the harbour. Much like Al.
Great update. I also liked the point-of-view character. Using minor characters as witnesses to the deeds of the protagonist is a time-proven method and I'm glad to see it pulled off so well. Great work! A tad short though.
Great update. I also liked the point-of-view character. Using minor characters as witnesses to the deeds of the protagonist is a time-proven method and I'm glad to see it pulled off so well. Great work! A tad short though.
Well, that's the good thing about being an Argonian. You can escape underwater real easy. Heck, Al can hide under the boat for over an hour till things cool down. Bet those pirates will never look there. I wonder if Al is going to 'drop an anonymous hint' at the guards about the smuggling, just for fun.
Exemplary work as usual canis.
QUOTE(The Metal Mallet @ Feb 29 2008, 08:49 PM)
Exemplary work as usual canis.
Wha Mallie said.....excellent and very well written, as usual
10.
A Letter
C,
And so this exasperating operation continues. I write from Bruma, where the organization in question has dispatched me to eliminate a bosmer aristocrat. (Is there really such a thing as an aristocratic bosmer? Why not? We are a generous people.)
Booze-addled digressions aside, there is not much to report. Per our agreed protocol, I nosed around town, trying to figure out why Baenlin—the target—was slated to die. I have concluded that the hit was arranged by a relative, looking to inherit the old wood elf’s estate. I base my conclusion upon these facts, listed in no particular order:
1) Baenlin had a substantial estate
2) His manservant was explicitly not be killed
3) His death was arranged as an accident
Once the dust clears from this mission, I suggest that whoever inherits Baenlin’s estate be arrested. Of course, the evidence I list here is completely circumstantial—but the law of the Empire is clear: “All defendants are considered guilty until proven innocent.”
The details of the dirty deed itself are rather dull. I know I was bored. I broke in through the cellar and made my way up to the crawlspace without incident. That was at about four in the afternoon. Then I settled down to wait—Valtieri noted that the target did not settle into his chair, below the minotaur head, until 8:00 PM. I killed time (hopefully without damaging eternity, unlike those crazy Maruhkatis) with that flask of brandy you sent me. (Forward my compliments to Ra’tesh, will you?)
I think I may have drifted off into sleep, which is well enough. The organization in question (are you really that worried that these bloody messages will be intercepted?) isn’t worthy of my wakefulness, anyway. In any case, I woke up at about a quarter past nine, at which point I took another swig of brandy and cut the bindings that held the minotaur head in place. Crash, bang, et cetera, and Baenlin was dead.
That’s about the sight of it. Gromm (the manservant), I last saw standing guard over the wood elf’s corpse. Loyal fellow—probably won’t respond well to whatever scum inherits the place. Speaking of scum, I think I might lay about town a few days and see who shows up… I’ll try to show restraint. Or at least I’ll try to be hung over.
Groggily,
A.H.L.i.t.S.
A Letter
C,
And so this exasperating operation continues. I write from Bruma, where the organization in question has dispatched me to eliminate a bosmer aristocrat. (Is there really such a thing as an aristocratic bosmer? Why not? We are a generous people.)
Booze-addled digressions aside, there is not much to report. Per our agreed protocol, I nosed around town, trying to figure out why Baenlin—the target—was slated to die. I have concluded that the hit was arranged by a relative, looking to inherit the old wood elf’s estate. I base my conclusion upon these facts, listed in no particular order:
1) Baenlin had a substantial estate
2) His manservant was explicitly not be killed
3) His death was arranged as an accident
Once the dust clears from this mission, I suggest that whoever inherits Baenlin’s estate be arrested. Of course, the evidence I list here is completely circumstantial—but the law of the Empire is clear: “All defendants are considered guilty until proven innocent.”
The details of the dirty deed itself are rather dull. I know I was bored. I broke in through the cellar and made my way up to the crawlspace without incident. That was at about four in the afternoon. Then I settled down to wait—Valtieri noted that the target did not settle into his chair, below the minotaur head, until 8:00 PM. I killed time (hopefully without damaging eternity, unlike those crazy Maruhkatis) with that flask of brandy you sent me. (Forward my compliments to Ra’tesh, will you?)
I think I may have drifted off into sleep, which is well enough. The organization in question (are you really that worried that these bloody messages will be intercepted?) isn’t worthy of my wakefulness, anyway. In any case, I woke up at about a quarter past nine, at which point I took another swig of brandy and cut the bindings that held the minotaur head in place. Crash, bang, et cetera, and Baenlin was dead.
That’s about the sight of it. Gromm (the manservant), I last saw standing guard over the wood elf’s corpse. Loyal fellow—probably won’t respond well to whatever scum inherits the place. Speaking of scum, I think I might lay about town a few days and see who shows up… I’ll try to show restraint. Or at least I’ll try to be hung over.
Groggily,
A.H.L.i.t.S.
Hehehe. You seem to have a "This mission isn't everything they cracked it up to be" tone in this great update.
I agree.
I agree.
"Crash, bang, et cetera..."
Haha. Great line. This was definitely an amusing update for sure.
Haha. Great line. This was definitely an amusing update for sure.
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