Sweet, hes back!

Nice update Canis!

27.

Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal

As it turned out Ulrich Leland, captain of the Cheydinhal guard, was the sort of impossible fool who would trouble a Blade.

It was still dark outside, but I was lucky enough (I thought at the time) to catch him eating breakfast at Newlands Lodge. Why the Breton swine chose to eat at a Dunmer bar escapes me. In retrospect I think he must have been shaking the place down.

“What the hell do you want?” he spat out as I took a chair at his table. Not a good omen for the remainder of the conversation, I suppose, but I had (I thought) spoken to surlier guards. Had I not lived nine years in Morrowind, after all?

“Captain,” I began, slipping him a sheet of parchment, “I am a representative of our late emperor’s Blades. I’m sure you’ll recognize the seal on that scroll.” While he gave it a cursory looking-over, I passed an envelope across the table. “And this,” I continued, “describes my purpose here in Cheydinhal. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, we believe that a cult dedicated to the worship of Mehrunes Dagon is responsible for Emperor Septim’s assassination. They are called the Mythic Dawn, and my job is to hunt them down and eliminate them. Just this morning I killed two of their operatives in this city.”

“Five thousand drakes.” Ulrich Leland’s face was completely impassive.

“Excuse me?”

“Five thousand, or I burn your fancy credentials here and send you up for murder.”

I was speechless. I kept expecting to see his mask slip, for that fish-eyed gangster stare to break up in a bout of laughter. Was he really trying to extort money from a Blade? Evidently, yes.

“Captain,” I started to speak—then reconsidered, struggling for words. “Captain, I’m giving you this one opportunity to start the conversation over. You should take it. If you peruse the information within that envelope further, you will find a passage authorizing me to take any action I deem fit to deal with anyone—anyone at all—who obstructs my mission. Now, I’m not what you’d call a traditional enforcer of the law, Captain. I’m an assassin. So you might want to consider what action that I, being what I am, would deem fit to deal with you.”

Ulrich Leland considered my little speech—gravely it seemed—for but a moment. Measuring me up, no doubt. Then he laughed in my face.

It was not a soft, friendly laugh. He was not humoring me, or trying to charm me. He was mocking me in no uncertain terms, announcing his disdain to all in earshot. Half a dozen dunmer faces stared. Finally the dirty n’wah stood up from his chair and clamped a strong, meaty hand onto my left shoulder. “I guess we can tack on a charge of threatening a peace officer onto that murder—“

I exploded out of my chair, right hand latching onto Leland’s throat. Together we staggered back toward the corner fireplace; he released his grip on my shoulder to reach for his battleaxe (I had not failed to notice that little trinket) while I got my left into play, the better to throttle the basterd… kill kill KILL! We slammed into the wall together, I with the advantage, keeping the axe out of play, gripping tighter tighter tighter! feeling the worm’s very breath scatter!, the larynx shatter!, bones breaking!, SOULS SHAKING!

I threw the very dead Ulrich Leland to the floor and roared up to the heavens, to Aetherius and Oblivion and beyond.

“What the [CENSORED] is wrong with this city?!”

Gods!!!!! It didn’t matter that they were staring; those mute, stone-faced, red-eyed, petrified damned dark elves. To hell with them! To hell with Cheydinhal! I stormed off into the morning determined to ride hard and fast, to be anywhere but here.

By Sithis!!

Okaaay... I think Al went a little too far that time..

Oh, Al, Al.... shakes head in resignation. On the other hand, if ever there was a person to whom the phrase- "he needed killing" applies, it's Ulrich Leland.

He is one of the few NPCs almost all of my characters would be happy to eliminate. In fact, several of them would resurrect him, just so they could kill him again....

28.

A Letter

C,

This is a brutal business that we are in. I suppose you could say that I’ve been more brutal than most. It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve stepped over the line once again. Is my career in the Blades not, after all, a stunning exemplar of the art of going too far?

I am lying by some forgotten lakeshore trying to put the pieces back together. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, but I was foolish enough to think that I had managed to put those times behind me. The events of recent days, however, make it clear that I am doomed to remake the mistakes of my past over and over again. Wasn’t it just months ago that we joked that my coming old age would put an end to such impulsiveness? Shouldn’t I be slowing down? I am almost forty years of age now, but I still carry on like I did at age twenty-five. I wish I felt old; maybe then I’d stop doing silly things like strangling city guards.

Excessive force—the term is typically used to describe when the guards go too far to subdue some poor malefactor. That’s exactly what happened—only this time the guard was the malefactor. I could have paid the fetcher’s “fine”, stolen the money back, and arranged for Adamus Phillida or Hieronymus Lex or some other big-shot legion cop to arrest Leland. I wouldn’t have his blood on my hands, and I’m sure his trial would have been great theatre—there would have been no shortage of witnesses against him.

I don’t suppose that I’m about to get into any legitimate trouble for killing the man, but that’s never really the worry, is it? Since I joined the Blades I’ve tried to keep this assassination business as impersonal as possible—only kill who you’re supposed to kill, don’t get mad, don’t get excited… do it any other way and you risk losing part of yourself. In killing Ulrich Leland I violated damn near every rule I ever made for myself, save that he wasn’t exactly innocent. The idea, of course, is to not let this ugly business change me. But the biggest worry—the one that keeps me up at night—is not that I’m letting this mess change me. It’s that I was this way all along.

Some report this is, eh? Sometime soon I will come to Kragenmoor and discuss business, but now I feel a need to report my sorrows. If you keep records dedicated to the psychological state of your agents (as I suspect) you can file this letter in there. If you ever want to declare me crazy and wash your hands of this whole affair, it’ll be of some use. And if you don’t have such a file, well, at least this letter should help you understand me better.

This morning I explored the Ayleid ruins that lay just over the hill from this little lake of mine. I am not (as you know) much for adventuring, but I felt an urge to ramble. I know not the name of the ruin—it doesn’t really matter—but I tried my best to learn something of its nature. And failed. This Ayleid architecture seems every bit as mysterious, if not more so, as that of the Dwemer ruins of Morrowind. In our Dwemer ruins I can at least get some inkling as to how all that metal is held together—nuts and screws and bolts and gears and metallurgy all in concert. The construction is evident, even if one cannot imagine the tools they must have used to do it all.

Ayleid ruins make no sense to me. Sometimes I can see logic in the stonework… but most of the time I cannot. Huge sections of these ruins seem to be carved from but one enormous chunk of marble, and yet I cannot for the life of me discern where such rock would have come from. I know of not a single marble quarry in the vicinity (it’s long way to the Jeralls, for instance), and even if there were such a quarry, how would they move and manipulate such stone? The whole place reeks of magicka, and perhaps slavery too. An Ayleid ruin is both a marvel and a monstrosity.

I won’t bore you with details about the various monsters I dispatched. Cyrodiil being your native land, you are no doubt familiar with the hosts of minotaurs, trolls, and will-o-the-wisps to be found in these dark holes. The two zombies I encountered were unpleasant but simple enough to eliminate. The treasures, too, were typical: welkynd stones to sell to the mages, a varla stone to recharge the enchantment on Kills-You-Dead, potions and gold. I suppose that one could get rich exploring such places, but I can’t say I found it very fulfilling.

What I really ought to do, I often think, is board a ship in Anvil—hijack one, if necessary—and sail off to Stros M’kai and find my father. Tend bar at an inn, play my lute, beat up the drunks—proper work for a scalawag like myself. I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet, really. Hell, it was exactly what I intended after leaving Mournhold. Something always stops me, and I’ll be damned if I know why. Or maybe I do know and I just can’t acknowledge it.

The organization in quest… the Dark Brotherhood wants me to kill someone for them, some Altmer living in the Imperial City. I don’t know why. I’ll try to find out. I suppose that the answer to that question—why?—will determine whether or not I actually follow through with the job. In any case, I imagine I’ll take my time. I don’t honestly want to kill anyone, anymore, or at least I don’t want to kill anyone on the Brotherhood’s behalf. This Mythic Dawn business is different, but I’ll need to tread softly in the City. Fortunately, I know just the men to talk to.

wow. never read this one before, but I tackled a bunch of it today. (i'm up to number 14) I must say, great story; I like the journals, the letters, the narration from different character perspectives...

Keep it up!

Ok Canis....what can I say? ...Awesome..just awesome..hmmm in fact why don't I give you a

S.G.M

The introspection of that report is a reminder of why we love Al so much- even when we fear he has at last gone too far, he retains a rational humanity that prompts our forgiveness and understanding- without begging or debasing his essential self. In other words- brilliantly written.

Oooh Al's back.

Well written and enjoyable as ever. I like how the action and introspection are largly seperated by the structure, it's neat and works well with the long time Al has been going for (how many years?). I am interested to see what he does next though...

I sure hope to see an update to this! Al has been one of the colorful characters to read about, and i've really enjoyed this tale!!

I'll probably start working on this again in December, I'd guess--I figure to not be so busy. November--my schedule is packed.

I understand. RL can be hectic, especially this time of year. Well I look forward to your next installment!

First off, my apologies for the long delay between updates. All I can do is cite the usual pitiful excuses--writer's block, off-and-on disenchantment with Oblivion, a dangerous Fallout 3 habit, sloth, a combination of work and ultimate frisbee tournaments... you know the drill. And frankly, I'd prefer to return with a better update than this. I will make up for it.

29.

Journal of an Imperial Assassin

I woke at mid-morning, the sun burning my eyes. Where was I? Without sitting up, I gazed around the room best as I could. It took me a full thirty seconds to determine that I was in my own bed, in my very own house in the Imperial City’s waterfront district. Letting loose a sigh of relief, I sat up, head throbbing from last night’s drinking.

I swung my legs to the floor and stood, immediately seeking food—the venison and kwama eggs hidden away in my ice chest, kept cool by what little frost magic I’ve learned over the years. Skillet at the ready I stoked the fire, letting the hustle and bustle of making breakfast jog my brain, restart my memory, and remind me of what a fetcher I’d been last night. Had I really guzzled that much wine? Did I really challenge that orc bouncer to a fight? Was that really me vomiting in the harbor at 3 A.M.?

Two days wasted in the city. Baurus knew something about Mythic Dawn in the capitol, but Baurus was gone, and the note he left at Luther Broad’s boardinghouse was cryptic at best.

A,

Taking retreat back at the aerie—you know how it goes. I know you wanted to meet my new friends in the city, but we had a bit of a falling out. But if you want to give reconciliation a shot, I think a little prayer at the Temple of the One will do you some good.

--Baurus

The first part was standard Blades code, with the “aerie” being Cloud Ruler Temple, the big monastery in the Jeralls that my order calls home. I suppose. I’ve never actually seen it. The rest of the message? Some discussion with Luther confirmed that Baurus had been involved in a scuffle with some sort of an attacker—probably one of the Mythic Dawn he’d been trying to follow. But the Temple of the One meant nothing to me. The priests were no help—Baurus had left no clues with them, and thorough questioning yielded no suspects. No suspicious behavior, no newcomers to town, nothing. If I was going to find the Mythic Dawn in the Imperial City, I was going to need to get lucky. Or, failing that, I’d need to break into every residence and hotel room in the whole damn town.

The Dark Brotherhood problem seemed simpler, except that I wanted nothing to do with it. How to find Faelian? Why, the same way one finds any other elf in Cyrodiil—ask other elves. The only problem is that the person asking around immediately becomes suspect number one in the ensuing murder investigation. Was there a way around that? Surely there was—I just didn’t want to think about it. The Dark Brotherhood could wait.

Breakfast was ready. I scooped my venison and eggs onto a wooden slab and popped the top on a breakfast brandy and tried not to do any more thinking.


I spent the morning back in the Temple district, spying on its occupants and learning nothing. Nothing important, anyway. At one point a young imperial wench saw fit to engage me in a rather one-sided conversation. I learned that her name was Alessia Ottus, that she was a fervent believer in the Nine, and that she thought my time would be better spent in a chapel than sitting on a street corner drinking brandy. She learned that I didn’t give a s—t about what she thought.

I guess I can cross her off my list of suspected Mythic Dawn cultists.

Just to be sure, I spent the afternoon breaking into a number of houses in the district; all in the name of the emperor, of course. Found nothing. I did, however, leave a complimentary copy of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes in the Ottus home. No need to thank me, Alessia. I do what I can.

But back to business. A whole day spent in the damned Temple district, and nothing to show for it. Nothing, that is, until night fell and I stepped into the All-Saints Inn for a pint before bed.

“For Lord Dagon!”

Wooo Al returns. Nice update, as ever I want to know more and I enjoy Al's attitude.

Look forward to reading more.

30.

The Imperial City

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

It took me a moment to realize that the scream was my own, and another fraction of a second for my vision to clear. My left armed dragged at my side but I felt nothing. Where was I?

Then a Nord voice cried, “Die, unbeliever!” and I remembered that I was fighting for my life.

Staggering forward, I tackled the figure in front of me—I think it was the man—before it could bring the mace down again. We crashed into a table and my left arm still wouldn’t work but my right found Kills-You-Dead and plunged it into the dirty s’wit’s throat. Blood gushed out into a torrent and I closed my eyes, if only for a moment. Everything smelled of blood and sweat and spilled beer, sweet and acrid and sickening all at once.

“The Master will have his vengeance!”

A woman’s voice. S—t.

I rolled over just in time to see another armored figure leap forward—that same strange armor that looks like daedric metal but isn’t quite right—and draw another of those infernal maces. It was time to finish me off—or would have been if she hadn’t paused to smash in the publican’s brains when he drew a mace of his own. I don’t care to remember it, but then I don’t have a choice. It’s seared into my retinas.

I think I heard some screaming then, but that part’s hazy. Using a chair for support I drew myself up, only peripherally conscious of the broken glass and flower vases underfoot. The woman with the mace, expressionless behind that daedric mask, raised her mace and slashed. I spun away, but clumsily—my left arm was hit but I could barely feel it. What the hell was wrong with my arm? I tried to draw my ebony but failed; the devil-woman lunged again but stumbled over a vase and I was on top of her.

“Only the Chosen will survive the Cl—“

“SHUT UP!”


I don’t know how many times I bashed her skull against the wall.

Woo Hoo! No Borders! I love that! I have to catch up still, but so far I love it!

31.

I don’t know how long I lay in the dark before I realized that I was finally awake. Even then, I made no move to stand, preferring to allow my eyes the chance to acclimate to the gloom. I was not in my shack on the waterfront—I knew that much. I could not see but felt the presence of cold stone, and heard nothing but my own breathing. My left arm itched under its cast. A cast? Now I remembered why I was in a strange bed, in this strange room. I looked around—eyes finally working—and confirmed that I was in an infirmary of some sort, though I appeared to be the only patient. I struggled to my feet and limped around the bed, over to a chest that I guessed held my gear. I had just found a healing potion when the door opened at the opposite end of the room.

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” Adamus Phillida was standing in the doorway.

“If someone would have saw fit just to give me a bloody potion I wouldn’t be here at all,” I said. I drank my homebrew and grimaced—the rapid reconstitution of bones, muscles, and ligaments does not produce a particular pleasant sensation. My stomach groaned in protest, but I kept the potion down and kept talking. “I could be in my own bloody bed, and not… where are we, anyway?” Not waiting for an answer and relishing the use of both arms, I ripped off the cast and began pulling on my armor.

“This is the legion infirmary—it seemed like a good place to keep a wounded man being hunted by assassins,” he said. “And speaking of assassins, I couldn’t help noticing that armor of yours. It’s rather unusual, don’t you think? I’ve only seen it three times before myself.”

Phillida fell silent for a moment, giving me the chance to speak up in my defense. I merely continued strapping on my armor. I didn’t like where the conversation was turning.

“It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve only ever seen it when someone is trying to kill me.”

“I’ve had that problem myself,” I muttered, as I strapped on a pair of blades.

“Have you now?” he answered, playing the game. I felt a headache coming on.

“Let’s cut the guars--t, huh? You want to know who the hell I am and if I’m a member of the Dark Brotherhood, right?” I reached into a hidden pocket, ripped out some paper, and scattered it across the room. “You can read that s--t and see that I’m [censored] Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, and that I work for our beloved late Emperor’s proud and valiant Blades in defense of the mighty and oh-so benevolent Empire we all call home. And I can tell you that I got this absolutely wonderful set of armor off a dead assassin in the glorious city of Mournhold—city of light and magic they told me, when they weren’t trying to make me dead.”

Phillida’s face registered a slight disappointment, then relief. He stooped over and picked up one of the scattered pages with mild interest, giving me a moment to compose myself—I was sweating and without thinking had rested my right hand on the hilt of my short sword.

Finished with his reading, Phillida set my paperwork down on a table and said, “I hope you can forgive my suspicions. You might say that I’ve spent my career crusading against the Dark Brotherhood, and in these turbulent times I imagine I’ve allowed myself to get a touch paranoid. Gods know, those slime feast on turmoil, conflict, and insecurity—it’s their history, their nature. You know much about the Dark Brotherhood?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. Too much is what I wanted to say.

“About their origins—their history.”

“I’ve spent most of my career in Morrowind. Not really their territory.” I was trying desperately not to lie, even more desperately not to confess.

“I see you’re not a history buff. Well, anyway, the last time we didn’t have an Emperor was way back in the 2nd Era—that’s when the Dark Brotherhood was at the height of its power. They killed the Akaviri Savirien-Chorak and all his heirs, the Empire collapsed, and 400 years of chaos followed. Even if history isn’t quite repeating itself, you can see my concern. The Dark Brotherhood didn’t kill Uriel Septim, but they damn well figure to profit from his death. I’ve been hearing word of a number of professional killings around the province. More than that, we’ve had two in the Imperial City itself—one killed right under the nose of our prison guards, for Talos’ sake. I’m worried. We’ve got problems enough without those Dark Brotherhood parasites.” Phillida paused, for a moment, and let out a weary sigh. “But you wouldn’t know about that?”

I shook my head. It was still a lie.

“Figures. Why would the Blades know or care about the Dark Brotherhood. You’re off in your own little shadow world—never let the right hand know the what the left is up to. Fair enough. But if you want this”—he held up a stained piece of parchment with some writing on it—“you might consider trading some information. It’s a letter, from someone with the initials ‘MK’ addressed to a fellow named Styrbjorn. We found it on the body of one of your assailants.”

“You do realize that you’re withholding vital evidence from a Blades investigation, right?” I said, stepping forward. “Caius gets word of this and you’re in a world of s--t, you know.”

Phillida smiled. “I’m retiring soon. The worst they can do is fire me, maybe fine me a little. I know the penalty—it’s nothing. I’m too old to worry about petty trifles—and this is bigger than any fine. If you want to do it that way, fine. But if you want to do the right thing, you know where to find me.”

And with that, Adamus Phillida turned and walked out the door.

Good as ever, it's nice to see Al back and with full vigor

I am almost caught up! Yeah!

Two things I love:

1. The style of writing this as if it were a diary - I love that, you do it extremely well!

2. Your asides in the diary entries are hilarious!

Awesome sense of humor and your ability to put a huge amount if story into a diary entry is second only to one (Lorca1 on the BGSF) - Awesome write!

Al has the most original and distinctive voice of any character I have ever read. Even when he is going down the oubliette, he has a sarcastic remark to make.

And leaving the Commentaries in Alessia's house was sheer genius.

32.

The Blades are an odd sort of organization. What the common people of Cyrodiil usually see, the public face of the Blades, is rather different from what I see and experience as an actual member of the Blades. When most people think of the Blades, if they think of us at all, they think of the Emperor’s guards—literally knights in shining armor. My armor, to say the least, doesn’t shine. My colleagues have always been spies. No Emperors to guard in Morrowind, after all. So there we have the big distinction—knights and spies, under one roof.

And then there’s me. There must be other assassins in the employ of the Blades, but I’ve never met any save for Sethyas Velas but he doesn’t really count. The normal rules don’t apply to reincarnated Dunmer heroes. But back to my problem. I’m an assassin. I kill people. Killing people can be difficult, in its way, but there is a certain simplicity to the art as I have always practiced it. The process, as I see it, can be broken down into five steps.

1. Receive the name of the target.
2. Find the target.
3. Eliminate the target.
4. Get out alive.
5. Get paid.

Some readers might protest that killing people isn’t that simple. “What about morality?”, they ask. That’s a good question. It is best ignored.

But I digress. What I am trying to say is this: when Adamus Phillida left that infirmary, I was left with a problem. In order to kill members of the Mythic Dawn, I needed to find out who they were. In short, I had to become a spy. Spies need information. Getting information is complicated, much more complicated than simply hunting down and killing those who inconvenience the Empire. Worse, the information I needed was held by Adamus Phillida—a stubborn man holding a very important letter. To do my duty as a Blade, I needed that letter. And to get that letter, I was going to have to compromise my other mission.

Of course, I hated my other mission. Maybe this wasn’t so complicated after all.

I stepped out into the open air, shielded my eyes from the mid-morning sun, and found the office of Commander Adamus Phillida. I found him inside, sitting at a desk of fine mahogany and waiting. “Listen,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I can but first I’ve got to set the ground rules. One, I can’t tell you exactly how I found out what I know. Two, if I anything I tell you leaves this room, and I get in trouble because of it, I will make you disappear. If you can’t agree to those conditions, then we have nothing to discuss. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Phillida said. “Have a seat and tell me why the Blades are suddenly interested in the Dark Brotherhood. They never seemed to care before, but then a few weeks ago, out of the blue, I started getting tips. Some fellow up in Bruma.”

I searched Phillida’s words for a trap. It was easy enough to find and avoid. “While I can never be absolutely certain about our motives—we are spies, after all—I’d say that we’re interested in the Brotherhood for the same reason you’re worried about them. We don’t want them feeding off all the panic and confusion going around. We thought it prudent to keep tabs on them.”

“But you can’t tell me how you’re doing that.”

“Of course not. It would compromise the mission.”

“I think I can guess,” Phillida said. His eyes registered no emotion. “Earlier I mentioned that we had a killing in the prison,” he said, changing the subject. “Any idea who would have commissioned that?”

“Who was it that got killed?”

Phillida’s expression told me that he thought I knew damn well the name of the victim. Not unexpected. He said, “The victim was Valen Dreth, career criminal. A nobody. He’d been locked up a long time. Still, I don’t like the Dark Brotherhood operating in my backyard.”

“Dreth, eh? I heard something about it. But I’m guessing here. I’d investigate the prison guards, and maybe someone who had good reason to keep Dreth from seeing the light of the day.” I added, “But I bet you’ve been doing that anyway.”

“Yes. We have. Do you know of any upcoming commissions in the City? Anybody important in the Brotherhood’s sights?”

I sighed, “No, anybody important we already would have dealt with. That’s the whole point. And,” I added, lying, “no upcoming work in the Imperial City. That I know of. I don’t hear everything, you know.”

“Can you give me any names? Locations?”

I shook my head.

“You can’t tell me.”

I shook my head again. “I wish. Most I can say is that you’re not likely to find any based here. I don’t know of any assassins worked out of the Imperial City.”

Phillida, unsatisfied, stood up from his chair and began pacing around the room. “I’m not sure why I should hand over this letter. I had hoped that you might give me at least one good lead. As I said earlier, I’m retiring soon. I’ve fought the Dark Brotherhood nigh on thirty years now—and I want to win.”

“Look Phillida, you’ve got your duty and I’ve got mine. I’m sympathetic to your aim, but I’ve given you all the help I can. I’ve got zero interest in getting myself kicked out of the Blades, just because you won’t give me a bloody letter. If you don’t want to give it to me, I’ll just take it.”

Phillida snorted. “Just take it?”

Grinning wickedly, I pulled a set of keys out of my pockets. “Same way I got these,” I said. I held up one key. “This one opens the front door of the prison.” Another. “This one opens your office.” One more. “This one opens the city armory. You see how easy it would be for a fellow of my talents?”

“I wondered where those had gotten off to,” Phillida said. “Now I know. That was you, here, the day Valen Dreth was murdered in his cell.” His face was turning red. “Tipped us off to the wood elf in Bruma and killed a man under our very noses on the same bloody day. Clever.” He crumpled up some paper into a ball and tossed it down at my feet. “You can have your letter, Blade. But you'd best pray our paths don’t cross again.”

I have not had the chance to read all the way from the beginning. It is a bit daunting when it is this big (I am sure guys love to hear that... ) So far I just started on this last post.

I like A.H.L.i.t.S's voice. It is very casual and down to Nirn. He sounds like a regular person, who just happens to kill people for the government. It makes him feel very real and believable.

It is good to see the two faces of the Blades acknowledged. How on one hand they are bodyguards, but on the other secret agents. Quite a bit of difference between the two!

nits:
I [i[will make you [/i]
Looks like you have a backwards bracket in your italics code here.

Corrected. Was a little hard to find, seeing as how it was a bit of a long update.

I appreciate the compliments. He's a fun character to write--also fun to play.

Really interesting character too!

Now this is what I’m talking about! Just finished the first two chapters and I am loving this so far. Through the subtle use of imagery and an engaging economy of words you are able to give us a glimpse of the history that Al and Caius share. I felt as if I were privy to the private conversation of two spies getting back into the game . . .

This sentence:

Just floored me!

Please excuse me while I go back for more.

Some readers might protest that killing people isn’t that simple. “What about morality?”, they ask. That’s a good question. It is best ignored. - I loved that line- very Al.

Great to see him back. And for those who haven't read it I suggest you do, it's one of the better stories here.

More?

Hadn't even seen most of these updates, been out of commission for a while. Good job!