Full Version: The Dark Operation
I like how you turn the contemporary law system of "presumed innocent until proven guilty" to a mock-Imperial system of "presumed guilty until proven innocent". Great twist Canis! I also liked how Al considers such missions to be beneath him and how he doubts the power of the Dark Brotherhood. I suspect he shall have a big surprise, since the Brotherhood can be quite resourceful when its back is to the wall.
QUOTE(Agent Griff @ Mar 7 2008, 03:01 AM) 
I like how you turn the contemporary law system of "presumed innocent until proven guilty" to a mock-Imperial system of "presumed guilty until proven innocent". Great twist Canis! I also liked how Al considers such missions to be beneath him and how he doubts the power of the Dark Brotherhood. I suspect he shall have a big surprise, since the Brotherhood can be quite resourceful when its back is to the wall.
Actually, that is the real law of Tamriel. See this book from Daggerfall: "The Tamriel legal system has its basis in the civilized, reasonable credo uttered by the prophet Marukh in the first era: 'All are guilty until they have proven themselves innocent.' Were truer word ever spoke?"
Well the way things are heading...
Anyway nice update, quite ammusing. I can imagine Al enjoying a certain mission... if you get that far though the quest before diverging. Anyway good stuff.
Anyway nice update, quite ammusing. I can imagine Al enjoying a certain mission... if you get that far though the quest before diverging. Anyway good stuff.
I love Al.
He does have a point when he critiscizes the censoring, though. Even with the censoring, it's pretty damn obvious the organization is a pack of assassins. And what is the name of the big pack of assassins? That's right, the DB.
He does have a point when he critiscizes the censoring, though. Even with the censoring, it's pretty damn obvious the organization is a pack of assassins. And what is the name of the big pack of assassins? That's right, the DB.
11.
Bruma City Watch Report for Fredas, 17 Hearthfire, 3E433
9:15 AM: Chapel of Talos reports Stone of St. Alessia stolen by bandits. Referred to Fighter’s Guild. (Complete complaint attached)
3:31 PM: Bradon Lirrian, vampire, brought to justice by Raynil Dralas, vampire hunter. Lethal action authorized by Carius Runellius, Inquisitor of the Watch. (Complete report due Middas, 22 HF)
4:57 PM: Fetid Jonfhnild, occupation vagrant, cited for vagrancy. No fine assessed, though he was once again encouraged to take a bath.
7:17 PM: Caenlin, noble and nephew of the late Baenlin (investigation still pending), reports assault by unseen assailant. Received broken four broken ribs, broken collarbone, broken jawbone, severe concussion. Both eyes swollen shut. No suspects. Assailant reported to smell of brandy. Possible connection to case 433-01671 being investigated. (Complete complaint attached)
10:51 PM: Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for public indecency at Olav’s Tap and Tack. 10 septim fine assessed and paid.
11:15 PM: Olfand, occupation shopkeeper, cited for drunk and disorderly conduct. 25 septim fine assessed and paid.
11:18 PM Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for serial public indecency and for slandering the Watch. 40 septim fine assessed and paid.
Praise be to the Nine!
Bruma City Watch Report for Fredas, 17 Hearthfire, 3E433
9:15 AM: Chapel of Talos reports Stone of St. Alessia stolen by bandits. Referred to Fighter’s Guild. (Complete complaint attached)
3:31 PM: Bradon Lirrian, vampire, brought to justice by Raynil Dralas, vampire hunter. Lethal action authorized by Carius Runellius, Inquisitor of the Watch. (Complete report due Middas, 22 HF)
4:57 PM: Fetid Jonfhnild, occupation vagrant, cited for vagrancy. No fine assessed, though he was once again encouraged to take a bath.
7:17 PM: Caenlin, noble and nephew of the late Baenlin (investigation still pending), reports assault by unseen assailant. Received broken four broken ribs, broken collarbone, broken jawbone, severe concussion. Both eyes swollen shut. No suspects. Assailant reported to smell of brandy. Possible connection to case 433-01671 being investigated. (Complete complaint attached)
10:51 PM: Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for public indecency at Olav’s Tap and Tack. 10 septim fine assessed and paid.
11:15 PM: Olfand, occupation shopkeeper, cited for drunk and disorderly conduct. 25 septim fine assessed and paid.
11:18 PM Skjorta, occupation shopkeeper, cited for serial public indecency and for slandering the Watch. 40 septim fine assessed and paid.
Praise be to the Nine!
Hmm, smelled like Brandy? I wonder who that could have been. 
And the last sentence in the report is funny. Sure, the world is apparantly going all to hell, but damn, bless the gods for their mercy!
And the last sentence in the report is funny. Sure, the world is apparantly going all to hell, but damn, bless the gods for their mercy!
I like the varienty of different styles and sources you use to tell this story, keeps it really fresh and interesting.
Nice stuff.
Nice stuff.
Great update! You manage to relay such humour with such updates, I think you should try your hand at comedies, not just assassin fics. 
I am pleased with this update. My Al thirst is sated for now...
Me too...I love Al! Enjoyed the last two updates immensely..so keep'em comin huh!
12.
Underground, Cheydinhal
He’s all swagger and no faith, Vicente.
He’s bloody good with a blade.
He says he picked up a set of our armor in Morrowind, somewhere.
Exactly my point. He’s good.
He can’t be trusted!
Who can?
You don’t think it’s odd that he only came to the attention of the Night Mother just now? He looks like he’s been hitting for at least fifteen years, with all those scars.
More like twenty, I’d say.
You know something, don’t you?
Ocheeva my dear, I know nothing that Lucien doesn’t.
Is that so?
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun polished off a magnum of Gaston and David Surilie’s finest vino and reclined in his chair, thinking.
“You want to know the players? Ocheeva, one of my kind, more or less runs the sanctuary, given that LaChance is never about. She despises me, by the way, because I stole a little trinket from her precious Shadowscales. She’ll never trust me, but I doubt she’ll suspect imperial involvement either. And she’s so slow with a blade it ain’t even funny—all that time training, and she’ll never be any good in a fair fight. Her brother, I think his name is Teinaava, he’s a little better, carries a heavy shortsword and knows how to use it. But a more trusting type. I’m not sure what he thinks of me.”
The argonian paused his soliloquy to open a pint bottle of flin, to take in familiar and friendly surroundings. A triad of old legion buddies sat at the bar getting properly soused while a khajiit and a bosmer sat in opposing dark corners eying the stacks of gold coins accumulating on the counter. The local dunmer played poker, ashen voices rising with the conclusion of each hand, while the nords arm-wrestled. Caius Cosades sat across the table. All was right in Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun’s world.
“I haven’t bothered to catch the breton girl’s name. Not worth the bother. I’ve seen scribs more intimidating. The bosmer is out of the sanctuary a lot, not on jobs but something else. A spy? The orc is just ridiculous. Worthy of ridicule. Never would send him on a political assassination. Not a stealthy fellow, and what’s more, he doesn’t believe in it. But Gogron must be tough; otherwise I don’t see how he could still be alive.”
Caius Cosades puffed away at his skooma and smiled his knowing smile. “And what about the vampire?”
It was the argonian’s turn to smile. “I was wondering when you’d ask. But you’re a patient man, yes. Well, Valtieri is something of a curiosity. I think he knows or at least suspects more about me than he lets on. But I also think he likes me.”
“That is curious.”
“Anyway, he liked how I did the pirate and the rich wood elf. Called me some kind of gift from the Night Mother, damn his eyes. Has this odd sort of grin when he’s talking to me, like he and I are in on some kind of joke that we’re playing on everyone else. Strange fellow. Of course, he is a vampire.”
Caius thought on that a while, several moments in point of fact, until his pipe seemed in danger of burning all the way down. Finally, without looking up he asked, “What’s this about invading the Imperial Prison? To kill a prisoner?”
The argonian’s grin grew wider. “Valen Dreth, been in there… eleven years. Some rot about public indeceny, slander and libel against the Imperium, conspiracy, and breaking and entering. Into the Red Dragon bedchambers. Interesting fellow.”
“Your plan?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the Sun took a generous draught of flin, which he chased with a moment of thought. And another grin. “I’m going to walk in through the front door.”
Underground, Cheydinhal
He’s all swagger and no faith, Vicente.
He’s bloody good with a blade.
He says he picked up a set of our armor in Morrowind, somewhere.
Exactly my point. He’s good.
He can’t be trusted!
Who can?
You don’t think it’s odd that he only came to the attention of the Night Mother just now? He looks like he’s been hitting for at least fifteen years, with all those scars.
More like twenty, I’d say.
You know something, don’t you?
Ocheeva my dear, I know nothing that Lucien doesn’t.
Is that so?
* * *
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun polished off a magnum of Gaston and David Surilie’s finest vino and reclined in his chair, thinking.
“You want to know the players? Ocheeva, one of my kind, more or less runs the sanctuary, given that LaChance is never about. She despises me, by the way, because I stole a little trinket from her precious Shadowscales. She’ll never trust me, but I doubt she’ll suspect imperial involvement either. And she’s so slow with a blade it ain’t even funny—all that time training, and she’ll never be any good in a fair fight. Her brother, I think his name is Teinaava, he’s a little better, carries a heavy shortsword and knows how to use it. But a more trusting type. I’m not sure what he thinks of me.”
The argonian paused his soliloquy to open a pint bottle of flin, to take in familiar and friendly surroundings. A triad of old legion buddies sat at the bar getting properly soused while a khajiit and a bosmer sat in opposing dark corners eying the stacks of gold coins accumulating on the counter. The local dunmer played poker, ashen voices rising with the conclusion of each hand, while the nords arm-wrestled. Caius Cosades sat across the table. All was right in Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun’s world.
“I haven’t bothered to catch the breton girl’s name. Not worth the bother. I’ve seen scribs more intimidating. The bosmer is out of the sanctuary a lot, not on jobs but something else. A spy? The orc is just ridiculous. Worthy of ridicule. Never would send him on a political assassination. Not a stealthy fellow, and what’s more, he doesn’t believe in it. But Gogron must be tough; otherwise I don’t see how he could still be alive.”
Caius Cosades puffed away at his skooma and smiled his knowing smile. “And what about the vampire?”
It was the argonian’s turn to smile. “I was wondering when you’d ask. But you’re a patient man, yes. Well, Valtieri is something of a curiosity. I think he knows or at least suspects more about me than he lets on. But I also think he likes me.”
“That is curious.”
“Anyway, he liked how I did the pirate and the rich wood elf. Called me some kind of gift from the Night Mother, damn his eyes. Has this odd sort of grin when he’s talking to me, like he and I are in on some kind of joke that we’re playing on everyone else. Strange fellow. Of course, he is a vampire.”
Caius thought on that a while, several moments in point of fact, until his pipe seemed in danger of burning all the way down. Finally, without looking up he asked, “What’s this about invading the Imperial Prison? To kill a prisoner?”
The argonian’s grin grew wider. “Valen Dreth, been in there… eleven years. Some rot about public indeceny, slander and libel against the Imperium, conspiracy, and breaking and entering. Into the Red Dragon bedchambers. Interesting fellow.”
“Your plan?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the Sun took a generous draught of flin, which he chased with a moment of thought. And another grin. “I’m going to walk in through the front door.”
Now that's the way to start a (much-too-early) Wednesday morning- with a proper portion of Al!
Fun reading as always.
Fun reading as always.
I'm going to pretend as if we haven't been deprived of Al's adventures for several months. Reading this update more than makes up for it. Great work, Canis!
GaaaH!! Overdose of Al after getting him out of my blood for all this time! Addiction....returning!
13.
Office of the Imperial Watch, Prison District, the Imperial City
Itius Hayn looked up from the parchment in his right hand with a question on his face. Before he could speak, Adamus Philida had the answer.
“This matter in Bruma is our business because the Dark Brotherhood is mine. You just make sure that letter reaches the guard. I will be speaking personally with this Caenlin, in three days time. We have much to discuss, he and I.”
“Yes sir, Commander.”
“Tell the jailor to prepare a cell.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
This was shaping up to be a good day. His war against the Dark Brotherhood was going rather well, all things considered. And to receive this piece of intelligence from the Blades… he felt sure that his voice was finally getting through to the high command, to the Elder Council. It was just a shame that it had taken so long…
Philida shook the cobwebs loose from his head. Too early to reflect. He had still had weeks until retirement. Maybe longer, if he could extract a little more information from those Blades.
He walked outside and practically into the arms of the argonian fellow outside, reaching for the doorknob.
“Apologies my good fellow,” Philida managed to say after they managed to separate and straighten up. “Are you the courier?” He noted the satchel with the imperial seal, the dust on the teal mage robes.
The fellow nodded, said yes, he was. He’d been requested?
“Indeed,” Philida answered. “Hayn will see you inside”.
So the two, man and betmer, went their separate ways. It wasn’t until much later that Adamus Philida discovered his entire set of keys had been lifted.
Inside, Hayn had just managed to seal the missive (addressed: Capt. Burd, Bruma City Guard - Castle Bruma, city of Bruma, county of Bruma, Cyrodiil) when the courier walked up rummaging about in his bag, not even looking up as he spoke—the harried, busy type. Has a schedule to execute. Perfunctory questions—are you Captain Hayn? You have a message for me? Where to?
“I am Captain Itius Hayn, yes.” (He was proud of the appellation, enjoyed the opportunity to answer in the affirmative). “This letter,”—he handed over the parcel—“should be delivered to the Captain of the Bruma City Guard with all due haste. Are you familiar with Bruma?”
The courier answered in the affirmative. He knew it. Had just been there recently.
“Oh, one more thing? Where’s the usual fellow? The legion vet? Severus his name?”
The courier shook his head and laughed, quietly. “Oh, him? I hear he got into a bar fight in Kragenmoor, busted a couple ribs. Got pissing drunk with two of his buddies, tripped over the feet of one of my kind, started a row, and got the worst of it. So here I am in his stead.”
The Bastion, Imperial Prison
The jailor, Destitrus by name, did not bother to rise from his chair at the opening of the door. Nor did he even look up from his copy of The Black Horse Courier. Guardsmen were always popping in and out with the shifting of the watch, or heading up into the barracks for a quick bite or nip from a flask. Balding, rotund, shiftless—Tobin Destitrus was perfectly made for his role, caretaker to Cyrodiil’s scoundrels and scalawags. But today his attention was actually required.
“Jailor! Watch needs one of your inmates to sign some form. Something about seizure of property, auction of assets, whatnot. You got a Claudius Arcadia here?”
Destitrus glanced up. “Give me a moment, eh?” He finished his reading (“A New Guild For Fighters?”) and finally stood up from his desk. “Give me that, I’ll bring it down to him.” He took a thick envelope from the courier’s scaly grasp (something familiar about this fellow, he thought) and opened the door to the medium-security cell block, the prison’s eastern wing, soon disappearing down the corridor. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made for the west wing, maximum security, and its unpickable door lock.
From within his robe (a little worse for wear, having been pierced by a pair of viper-bolts once upon a time) he pulled out a ring of keys (complete with Imperial Legion symbology) and a shortsword of ebony (pulled from a dunmer corpse in Black Marsh) and set to work. But nothing would work. Or more properly, none of the keys (four in all) fit, and lock picks were useless. He risked the flash of light from an unlocking spell, and it too failed.
A sigh. “To Oblivion with this garbage. I’ll go through the damned sewers.”
Office of the Imperial Watch, Prison District, the Imperial City
Itius Hayn looked up from the parchment in his right hand with a question on his face. Before he could speak, Adamus Philida had the answer.
“This matter in Bruma is our business because the Dark Brotherhood is mine. You just make sure that letter reaches the guard. I will be speaking personally with this Caenlin, in three days time. We have much to discuss, he and I.”
“Yes sir, Commander.”
“Tell the jailor to prepare a cell.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
This was shaping up to be a good day. His war against the Dark Brotherhood was going rather well, all things considered. And to receive this piece of intelligence from the Blades… he felt sure that his voice was finally getting through to the high command, to the Elder Council. It was just a shame that it had taken so long…
Philida shook the cobwebs loose from his head. Too early to reflect. He had still had weeks until retirement. Maybe longer, if he could extract a little more information from those Blades.
He walked outside and practically into the arms of the argonian fellow outside, reaching for the doorknob.
“Apologies my good fellow,” Philida managed to say after they managed to separate and straighten up. “Are you the courier?” He noted the satchel with the imperial seal, the dust on the teal mage robes.
The fellow nodded, said yes, he was. He’d been requested?
“Indeed,” Philida answered. “Hayn will see you inside”.
So the two, man and betmer, went their separate ways. It wasn’t until much later that Adamus Philida discovered his entire set of keys had been lifted.
Inside, Hayn had just managed to seal the missive (addressed: Capt. Burd, Bruma City Guard - Castle Bruma, city of Bruma, county of Bruma, Cyrodiil) when the courier walked up rummaging about in his bag, not even looking up as he spoke—the harried, busy type. Has a schedule to execute. Perfunctory questions—are you Captain Hayn? You have a message for me? Where to?
“I am Captain Itius Hayn, yes.” (He was proud of the appellation, enjoyed the opportunity to answer in the affirmative). “This letter,”—he handed over the parcel—“should be delivered to the Captain of the Bruma City Guard with all due haste. Are you familiar with Bruma?”
The courier answered in the affirmative. He knew it. Had just been there recently.
“Oh, one more thing? Where’s the usual fellow? The legion vet? Severus his name?”
The courier shook his head and laughed, quietly. “Oh, him? I hear he got into a bar fight in Kragenmoor, busted a couple ribs. Got pissing drunk with two of his buddies, tripped over the feet of one of my kind, started a row, and got the worst of it. So here I am in his stead.”
The Bastion, Imperial Prison
The jailor, Destitrus by name, did not bother to rise from his chair at the opening of the door. Nor did he even look up from his copy of The Black Horse Courier. Guardsmen were always popping in and out with the shifting of the watch, or heading up into the barracks for a quick bite or nip from a flask. Balding, rotund, shiftless—Tobin Destitrus was perfectly made for his role, caretaker to Cyrodiil’s scoundrels and scalawags. But today his attention was actually required.
“Jailor! Watch needs one of your inmates to sign some form. Something about seizure of property, auction of assets, whatnot. You got a Claudius Arcadia here?”
Destitrus glanced up. “Give me a moment, eh?” He finished his reading (“A New Guild For Fighters?”) and finally stood up from his desk. “Give me that, I’ll bring it down to him.” He took a thick envelope from the courier’s scaly grasp (something familiar about this fellow, he thought) and opened the door to the medium-security cell block, the prison’s eastern wing, soon disappearing down the corridor. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun made for the west wing, maximum security, and its unpickable door lock.
From within his robe (a little worse for wear, having been pierced by a pair of viper-bolts once upon a time) he pulled out a ring of keys (complete with Imperial Legion symbology) and a shortsword of ebony (pulled from a dunmer corpse in Black Marsh) and set to work. But nothing would work. Or more properly, none of the keys (four in all) fit, and lock picks were useless. He risked the flash of light from an unlocking spell, and it too failed.
A sigh. “To Oblivion with this garbage. I’ll go through the damned sewers.”
I like the fact that Al doesn't actually lie to Hayn. And I also like how he just 'happened' to be in Kragenmoor when the Legion courier got badly beaten up.
Also, the way in which he casually bumps into Philida and nicks his keys without him even noticing, that's pure Thieves Guild stuff.
Also, the way in which he casually bumps into Philida and nicks his keys without him even noticing, that's pure Thieves Guild stuff.
QUOTE(Agent Griff @ Jul 23 2008, 02:00 PM)
I like the fact that Al doesn't actually lie to Hayn. And I also like how he just 'happened' to be in Kragenmoor when the Legion courier got badly beaten up.
Also, the way in which he casually bumps into Philida and nicks his keys without him even noticing, that's pure Thieves Guild stuff.
Thank you much. And what can I say? Al is a talented fellow. Though to be honest in the course of playing this quest I actually lifted the jailor's keys... same difference, far as I'm concerned. You'd think the "Imperial Prison Key" would have worked on that door, but I'll be damned--it didn't.
Ihhhh, the Lizzy is back! great! Good as always Canis!
***Foaming at mouth, passed out on floor***
Very enjoyable as ever. The change of styles and points of view really work for this story.
14.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: the Imperial City
Arrows whistled through the air. For a change, they weren’t aimed at me by some assassin; instead, they were aimed by me at the hordes of rats and mudcrabs populating the sewers of Cyrodiil. I hadn’t intended to approach Dreth by the subterranean route, but once I was committed to it, it was actually rather pleasant. I didn’t care for the smell—I have far less affinity for stale air and swamp gas than most of my kind—but I did appreciate the quiet. I could think.
The vampire bothered me. He seemed to be under the impression that I had recently escaped from this very prison—his reason for assigning the job to me. It was puzzled me—I have not so much as spent a night in any prison, anywhere. Almalexia’s steward once locked me in the Mournhold’s Temple basement, true, but that hardly counts. I tried to think of where Valtieri could have gotten the notion—and failed. I cleared the thought from my mind by perforating a pair of rats.
I had been underground for only half an hour when I reached a hatch to something that the imperial architects’ called “The Sanctum”. Judging from the blueprints—a gift from Caius—the Sanctum would be where I’d likely run into my first opposition from the guards. It was the only place an assassin could get through, and could be easily defended. The emperor’s assassins had turned the equation on its head—it was the only escape route, and easily blocked. (Or so I heard. News travels quickly amongst the Blades, but as happens in covert organizations, the news isn’t always accurate.) Taking no chances, I cast a spell of silence upon the rusty old hatch.
I popped through the hatchway into dark corridor leading to a large, well-lit room—that was where the guards waited, just passing time.
“Of course I'm proud to do my duty. But... It's a waste of time. What are we guarding? Cold stone and shadow. That's it.”
“I'm not disagreeing with you, believe me. Those assassins got what they wanted. The Emperor is dead. They've got not reason to come back.”
Two men. From the sound of their voices, they would be a Nord and a Redguard. I crept forward for a peek around the corner, and found that I was correct. Big men with big swords, standing far too near for me to sneak past. I would need to wait.
“That's exactly what I'm saying! But will the Captain listen? Noooo... ‘We must have a presence!The prison must remain secure!’”
“Yeah, what a laugh, huh? Just who are we keeping secure? Dreth? Since that other one got away, he's the only one rotting down here.”
Could these men have contracted Valen Dreth’s execution? My instructions from Valtieri—“For Sithis’ sake, don’t kill any guards!” (I paraphrase)—suggested as much. But if these two fellows had anything to do with it, their conversation betrayed nothing.
“…well, I best be getting back to my watch…”
The raga made an about-face, striding into the darkness which was to be my path forward. The nord, too, turned away from me. It was time to move, and move I did. I darted into and out of the light with appropriate haste. Back in the darkness I stopped and listened. I’d not been heard or seen, of course.
What would I do if I were discovered? Surrender, blow my cover, and embarrass the Blades? (I could see the headlines: “Your Tax Dollars At Work: Blades Dabbling In Murder?”) Out of the question—I’d be even more a pariah than usual. Kill all the witnesses, preserving my anonymity? Also out of the question—the mission could continue, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My only choice would be to run. Run away. Be a fugitive, again.
The raga stopped adjacent to some stone steps, which was an issue. I needed to go that way, and I was tired of waiting in the dark. I decided to push my luck a bit (was being a fugitive really that bad? I mean, aside from everyone wanting me dead). The stairs were well lit but darkness reigned on either side of the steps. On one side, the left, the guard stood watch. I eased my way over on the right, waited a moment, and… jumped.
I was on the next level up, safely ensconced in shadow, still undetected.
It is a miracle that I am still alive.
I must confess that the rest of my journey through the undercity was rather uneventful. There was but one more guard to avoid—easily done by lingering in the shadows. I live in the shadows. I had been underground for about two hours when I finally emerged into a prison cell. I heard voices. It was the jailor. It was my mark.
“I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help...”
“Filthy cur! I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it.”
“Yeah, well, what's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday.”
“Eleven! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Oh yeah? And where will you go? Huh? What will you do? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You belong in that cage.”
“I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!”
“Right. And you'll be rich, too. Oh, and you'll become a king! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be back. You lot always come back...”
“You'll see, you Imperial dog! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!”
I felt a surge of pity for the criminal degenerate, and a surge of shame within myself. He will never again breathe free air, lay on warm sand, make love…
The jailor walked away, up the stairs, and closed the door. I pulled out my new bow, a fine thing of ebony, and nocked an arrow, a delicate sliver of glass slathered in deadly poison. Aim, draw, release.
Valen Dreth fell with hardly a sound.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: the Imperial City
Arrows whistled through the air. For a change, they weren’t aimed at me by some assassin; instead, they were aimed by me at the hordes of rats and mudcrabs populating the sewers of Cyrodiil. I hadn’t intended to approach Dreth by the subterranean route, but once I was committed to it, it was actually rather pleasant. I didn’t care for the smell—I have far less affinity for stale air and swamp gas than most of my kind—but I did appreciate the quiet. I could think.
The vampire bothered me. He seemed to be under the impression that I had recently escaped from this very prison—his reason for assigning the job to me. It was puzzled me—I have not so much as spent a night in any prison, anywhere. Almalexia’s steward once locked me in the Mournhold’s Temple basement, true, but that hardly counts. I tried to think of where Valtieri could have gotten the notion—and failed. I cleared the thought from my mind by perforating a pair of rats.
I had been underground for only half an hour when I reached a hatch to something that the imperial architects’ called “The Sanctum”. Judging from the blueprints—a gift from Caius—the Sanctum would be where I’d likely run into my first opposition from the guards. It was the only place an assassin could get through, and could be easily defended. The emperor’s assassins had turned the equation on its head—it was the only escape route, and easily blocked. (Or so I heard. News travels quickly amongst the Blades, but as happens in covert organizations, the news isn’t always accurate.) Taking no chances, I cast a spell of silence upon the rusty old hatch.
I popped through the hatchway into dark corridor leading to a large, well-lit room—that was where the guards waited, just passing time.
“Of course I'm proud to do my duty. But... It's a waste of time. What are we guarding? Cold stone and shadow. That's it.”
“I'm not disagreeing with you, believe me. Those assassins got what they wanted. The Emperor is dead. They've got not reason to come back.”
Two men. From the sound of their voices, they would be a Nord and a Redguard. I crept forward for a peek around the corner, and found that I was correct. Big men with big swords, standing far too near for me to sneak past. I would need to wait.
“That's exactly what I'm saying! But will the Captain listen? Noooo... ‘We must have a presence!The prison must remain secure!’”
“Yeah, what a laugh, huh? Just who are we keeping secure? Dreth? Since that other one got away, he's the only one rotting down here.”
Could these men have contracted Valen Dreth’s execution? My instructions from Valtieri—“For Sithis’ sake, don’t kill any guards!” (I paraphrase)—suggested as much. But if these two fellows had anything to do with it, their conversation betrayed nothing.
“…well, I best be getting back to my watch…”
The raga made an about-face, striding into the darkness which was to be my path forward. The nord, too, turned away from me. It was time to move, and move I did. I darted into and out of the light with appropriate haste. Back in the darkness I stopped and listened. I’d not been heard or seen, of course.
What would I do if I were discovered? Surrender, blow my cover, and embarrass the Blades? (I could see the headlines: “Your Tax Dollars At Work: Blades Dabbling In Murder?”) Out of the question—I’d be even more a pariah than usual. Kill all the witnesses, preserving my anonymity? Also out of the question—the mission could continue, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My only choice would be to run. Run away. Be a fugitive, again.
The raga stopped adjacent to some stone steps, which was an issue. I needed to go that way, and I was tired of waiting in the dark. I decided to push my luck a bit (was being a fugitive really that bad? I mean, aside from everyone wanting me dead). The stairs were well lit but darkness reigned on either side of the steps. On one side, the left, the guard stood watch. I eased my way over on the right, waited a moment, and… jumped.
I was on the next level up, safely ensconced in shadow, still undetected.
It is a miracle that I am still alive.
I must confess that the rest of my journey through the undercity was rather uneventful. There was but one more guard to avoid—easily done by lingering in the shadows. I live in the shadows. I had been underground for about two hours when I finally emerged into a prison cell. I heard voices. It was the jailor. It was my mark.
“I have to admit, I'm going to miss you, Dreth. The late-night beatings, your pitiful little cries for help...”
“Filthy cur! I told you I was going to get out of here! My time's almost up, and there's nothing you can do about it.”
“Yeah, well, what's it been? Seven, eight years? We've had a good long run, you and me. I always knew it would end someday.”
“Eleven! Eleven years in this rat-infested hole! But I'm getting out, and you'll still be stuck in here! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Oh yeah? And where will you go? Huh? What will you do? You can't survive out there, Dreth. You're an animal. You belong in that cage.”
“I'll remember that when I'm lying on the beaches of Summerset Isle with your wife, you Imperial pig!”
“Right. And you'll be rich, too. Oh, and you'll become a king! You know what I think, Dreth? I think you'll be back. You lot always come back...”
“You'll see, you Imperial dog! When I get out of here, all of Tamriel will know my name! Valen Dreth! Valen Dreth!”
I felt a surge of pity for the criminal degenerate, and a surge of shame within myself. He will never again breathe free air, lay on warm sand, make love…
The jailor walked away, up the stairs, and closed the door. I pulled out my new bow, a fine thing of ebony, and nocked an arrow, a delicate sliver of glass slathered in deadly poison. Aim, draw, release.
Valen Dreth fell with hardly a sound.
15.
A Letter
C,
I hope you were not unduly alarmed by my last missive. The amulet is lost, yes, but both I and the heir are safe at our sanctuary—I dare not write its name, lest this communication be intercepted, but you know of what I speak. In spite of our troubles I hold much hope for the future. Considering the many advantages of our foe, that the Septim line survives at all strikes me as an omen—fate is still on our side.
Now, as to the true purpose of my writing—surely you did not think, pious as I may be, that I would write to you strictly of fate! I inquire, of course, as to your argonian associate and his work. As you know, I have always been uncomfortable with this project, and lament that the Elder Council would direct any of our resources away from the Oblivion crisis. It would be far better for your man to pursue the Mythic Dawn. (Remind me again, why I agreed to this arrangement?) But now, after perusing his file, I must also admit concern for the demands this project puts on the fellow’s psyche. You must admit that his past record of service is, for lack of a better term, troubling.
On this matter I must ask your opinion, for you know the man better than any file. Is there not some risk that we might lose him to the very organization he infiltrates? And if he were lost, would he not be extremely dangerous? Aside from the Nerevarine (who you tell me is in Akavir), is there a more formidable killer in our employ?
I urge you give me some reassurance. And if you cannot do that, then we must find some other productive work for your friend.
Yours,
Jauffre
A Letter
C,
I hope you were not unduly alarmed by my last missive. The amulet is lost, yes, but both I and the heir are safe at our sanctuary—I dare not write its name, lest this communication be intercepted, but you know of what I speak. In spite of our troubles I hold much hope for the future. Considering the many advantages of our foe, that the Septim line survives at all strikes me as an omen—fate is still on our side.
Now, as to the true purpose of my writing—surely you did not think, pious as I may be, that I would write to you strictly of fate! I inquire, of course, as to your argonian associate and his work. As you know, I have always been uncomfortable with this project, and lament that the Elder Council would direct any of our resources away from the Oblivion crisis. It would be far better for your man to pursue the Mythic Dawn. (Remind me again, why I agreed to this arrangement?) But now, after perusing his file, I must also admit concern for the demands this project puts on the fellow’s psyche. You must admit that his past record of service is, for lack of a better term, troubling.
On this matter I must ask your opinion, for you know the man better than any file. Is there not some risk that we might lose him to the very organization he infiltrates? And if he were lost, would he not be extremely dangerous? Aside from the Nerevarine (who you tell me is in Akavir), is there a more formidable killer in our employ?
I urge you give me some reassurance. And if you cannot do that, then we must find some other productive work for your friend.
Yours,
Jauffre
Oh excellent! A double-dose of Canis. I really like the deep introspection and then Jauffre's doubts about Al....
Most pleasant to read this continuing adventure.
Most pleasant to read this continuing adventure.
Yay more Al! As ever it was good. The mixture of perspectives works very well to develop the plot.
16.
A Letter
J,
It is good to hear from you, and I share your optimism. Martin will do great things—of that I am certain.
I will try to address your concerns in something resembling order. You agreed to this infernal project because with no emperor in place, it seemed appropriate to (for once) acquiesce to the Council’s concerns. And yes, his past record is a bit checkered. That, said, Al has met with nothing but success on the assignments I have given him. His troubles have always been apart from his work, even if they have occasionally interfered with his service. I worry less about Al than I do about the conflict one of these jobs with the D.B. could have with our professional ethics. Are we really prepared the sanction the death of innocents so we can keep a man inside the organization? The wood elf in Bruma was merely the first of what could be many. True, that one didn’t trouble Al much… but enough assassinations will wear down anyone. Al already retired from it once.
No, I don’t think we could lose Al to them. He has his own ethic, far different from theirs—or even ours for that matter. If we lose Al, it won’t be to anyone but himself. It already happened once before.
I have been thinking about your Mythic Dawn proposal. Perhaps we should give Al a second assignment, a mental reprieve from the D.B.? As you say, his skills are formidable. I can think of no one better to pursue the Mythic Dawn in our cities. Shall I give the order?
Your servant,
C.C.
A Letter
J,
It is good to hear from you, and I share your optimism. Martin will do great things—of that I am certain.
I will try to address your concerns in something resembling order. You agreed to this infernal project because with no emperor in place, it seemed appropriate to (for once) acquiesce to the Council’s concerns. And yes, his past record is a bit checkered. That, said, Al has met with nothing but success on the assignments I have given him. His troubles have always been apart from his work, even if they have occasionally interfered with his service. I worry less about Al than I do about the conflict one of these jobs with the D.B. could have with our professional ethics. Are we really prepared the sanction the death of innocents so we can keep a man inside the organization? The wood elf in Bruma was merely the first of what could be many. True, that one didn’t trouble Al much… but enough assassinations will wear down anyone. Al already retired from it once.
No, I don’t think we could lose Al to them. He has his own ethic, far different from theirs—or even ours for that matter. If we lose Al, it won’t be to anyone but himself. It already happened once before.
I have been thinking about your Mythic Dawn proposal. Perhaps we should give Al a second assignment, a mental reprieve from the D.B.? As you say, his skills are formidable. I can think of no one better to pursue the Mythic Dawn in our cities. Shall I give the order?
Your servant,
C.C.
Thanks for the exciting updates. I'm enjoying the heavy use of correspondence in your story; you've been using it well.
Wow! This story is amazing. Al is a very compelling character, and I like the dark humor that runs through the story, as well as the different devices you use to tell it. I can't think of much criticism to add. I'll be waiting for the next part!
17.
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Morrowind
“This is a funny business, Caius. Just when the Dark Brotherhood points me at someone I really want to kill, I’m supposed to keep him alive.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun paused for effect, and to take a draught of flin. “This guy, Francois Motierre, needs protection from an enforcer for some real hard cases. And I’d just as soon let him die—the Brotherhood demanded a life, and he offered his mother!”
Caius Cosades opened his eyes. He’d been reclining in his chair, smoking, ruminating. Now he spoke, “But they didn’t send you for that part of the job?”
The argonian shook his head. “LaChance took care of it. No, I just get to save that weasel’s behind, cut him with this blade”—he brandished a steel dagger—“and let the poison make him look dead.”
“But you’d rather use that nasty daedric blade of yours, I’ll wager.”
The argonian laughed, ruefully. “I was thinking I’d use the ebony instead, but you get the idea.”
Cosades smiled. “You know I can’t let you do that. It would jeopardize the mission. We’ll do this like we dealt with the job in Bruma. You did deliver Philida’s package to the guard in Bruma, right?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll let the courts deal with Motierre—none of your vigilante justice, Al. I’m assigning Nine-Toes to clean this up, once you’re done with the s’wit. He’ll be arrested. Can you live with that?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun thought for a moment. “Just like Bruma. Fine.” He did not sound enthusiastic.
Cosades leaned forward in his seat, more than a little exasperated. “Dammit Al, I know this is a compassionate mission, and none of us like it. But, by Akatosh, I need you to show some bloody restraint!” And then the Cyrodiil unleashed a wolfish grin—slowly morphing into a broad smile. He finished, “Especially with this new assignment coming in.”
“New assignment?” The argonian’s face remained impassive, but his voice betrayed his curiosity.
Cosades had reeled his protégé in, once more. And he was enjoying it, eyes agleam, even as he forced his smile back inside. “What have you heard of the Mythic Dawn cult?”
It was Al’s turn to smile. “You want me to go after them, too?”
“Maybe. What have you heard?”
The argonian’s smile broadened. “Not much that isn’t public knowledge. Uriel, Kvatch, all that. Though I hear these rumors…”—he says, eyes shining with the perverse glee that comes with purloined knowledge—“something about a fellow named Mankar Camoran and some books. Rumors about city folk acting strange—kind of like the sleepers back in Morrowind. Like this one fellow in Leyawiin…”
“You’ve been waiting for this conversation, haven’t you?” said Caius Cosades, no longer able to restrain his mirth.
“Well hell,” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun started. “It’s been kind of painful sitting on the sidelines with this bloody crisis going on. The Empire is crumbling around us, and I’m supposed to sneak around with a pack of Sithis-worshipping spooks, a bunch of thrill killers getting their jollies from everyone else’s pain? It’s not what I joined the Blades for, and you know it. One tires of running errands for the wicked.”
The argonian paused for a drink, looking suddenly thoughtful. “I’d like to start with cleaning up Leyawiin. Dar Jee tells me that some Bosmer, Fighter’s Guild, just walks around the city day and night, hardly sleeps. Dar Jee is Thieves’ Guild, you know, so he stumbles into this mer’s house and sees things… anyway, that’s where I’ll start, if you don’t mind. I have some other business around there too, so I figure I can kill two cliff racers with one bolt.”
“Other business?”
“It’s Dark Brotherhood business, but it’s really personal business. Nothing for the Elder Council to worry about. But it might help get me in tighter with Teinaava…”
Shadow’s Gate Cornerclub, Kragenmoor, Morrowind
“This is a funny business, Caius. Just when the Dark Brotherhood points me at someone I really want to kill, I’m supposed to keep him alive.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun paused for effect, and to take a draught of flin. “This guy, Francois Motierre, needs protection from an enforcer for some real hard cases. And I’d just as soon let him die—the Brotherhood demanded a life, and he offered his mother!”
Caius Cosades opened his eyes. He’d been reclining in his chair, smoking, ruminating. Now he spoke, “But they didn’t send you for that part of the job?”
The argonian shook his head. “LaChance took care of it. No, I just get to save that weasel’s behind, cut him with this blade”—he brandished a steel dagger—“and let the poison make him look dead.”
“But you’d rather use that nasty daedric blade of yours, I’ll wager.”
The argonian laughed, ruefully. “I was thinking I’d use the ebony instead, but you get the idea.”
Cosades smiled. “You know I can’t let you do that. It would jeopardize the mission. We’ll do this like we dealt with the job in Bruma. You did deliver Philida’s package to the guard in Bruma, right?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll let the courts deal with Motierre—none of your vigilante justice, Al. I’m assigning Nine-Toes to clean this up, once you’re done with the s’wit. He’ll be arrested. Can you live with that?”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun thought for a moment. “Just like Bruma. Fine.” He did not sound enthusiastic.
Cosades leaned forward in his seat, more than a little exasperated. “Dammit Al, I know this is a compassionate mission, and none of us like it. But, by Akatosh, I need you to show some bloody restraint!” And then the Cyrodiil unleashed a wolfish grin—slowly morphing into a broad smile. He finished, “Especially with this new assignment coming in.”
“New assignment?” The argonian’s face remained impassive, but his voice betrayed his curiosity.
Cosades had reeled his protégé in, once more. And he was enjoying it, eyes agleam, even as he forced his smile back inside. “What have you heard of the Mythic Dawn cult?”
It was Al’s turn to smile. “You want me to go after them, too?”
“Maybe. What have you heard?”
The argonian’s smile broadened. “Not much that isn’t public knowledge. Uriel, Kvatch, all that. Though I hear these rumors…”—he says, eyes shining with the perverse glee that comes with purloined knowledge—“something about a fellow named Mankar Camoran and some books. Rumors about city folk acting strange—kind of like the sleepers back in Morrowind. Like this one fellow in Leyawiin…”
“You’ve been waiting for this conversation, haven’t you?” said Caius Cosades, no longer able to restrain his mirth.
“Well hell,” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun started. “It’s been kind of painful sitting on the sidelines with this bloody crisis going on. The Empire is crumbling around us, and I’m supposed to sneak around with a pack of Sithis-worshipping spooks, a bunch of thrill killers getting their jollies from everyone else’s pain? It’s not what I joined the Blades for, and you know it. One tires of running errands for the wicked.”
The argonian paused for a drink, looking suddenly thoughtful. “I’d like to start with cleaning up Leyawiin. Dar Jee tells me that some Bosmer, Fighter’s Guild, just walks around the city day and night, hardly sleeps. Dar Jee is Thieves’ Guild, you know, so he stumbles into this mer’s house and sees things… anyway, that’s where I’ll start, if you don’t mind. I have some other business around there too, so I figure I can kill two cliff racers with one bolt.”
“Other business?”
“It’s Dark Brotherhood business, but it’s really personal business. Nothing for the Elder Council to worry about. But it might help get me in tighter with Teinaava…”
I liked this update. Who is this mysterious Bosmer? If I'm supposed to know, then oh well I have no idea 
. Hey wait! I do believe I get first comment.
. Hey wait! I do believe I get first comment.
You are back with a vengeance, simply awesome!
18.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Blackwood
The landscape feels vaguely familiar. It is not quite home—the swamp is much thicker, darker, and more menacing in my part of Black Marsh—but riding through Blackwood, the unsettled territory along the border between Cyrodiil and Argonia, makes me prone to flashbacks and daydreaming. So it was that I rode along, remembering my (thankfully brief) time spent training with the Shadowscales.
“You know how it is in our homeland. Those born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood. A Shadowscale hatchling is trained in the arts of stealth and assassination, and lives a life in service to the mighty kingdom of Argonia.”
Teinaava’s words, of course. Words for which I had no response, and for which no response was needed. He knew my story—it had become part of Shadowscale lore: the ragged resistance fighter who didn’t fit in, the arrogant master, and a precious artifact stolen. The artifact I’d wielded for more than fifteen years now. I’d not rendered much in the way of service to my homeland.
“When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate, a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail. The three of us were inseperable. When our training was completed, we reluctantly parted ways. But now... Now, the unthinkable has happened! Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh and refuses to fulfill his duties as royal assassin! This is an act of treason! This treachery must be punished! Just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale. That is why you must go to Bogwater and eliminate that treacherous snake! Please kill Scar-Tail, so Ocheeva and I can put this matter behind us.”
Of course. One traitor deserves another, after all. As one might expect, I was not enamored of this particular ‘favor’. There had been a time when I admired the Shadowscales, but that was long past. The order of assassins may have once served some useful purpose, but the organization as I knew it was blind to reality, like Teinaava. “Mighty kingdom of Argonia”. Ha! Black Marsh is no kingdom, and as I far as I know never has been. Centralized government has little meaning in a land of impenetrable swamps and isolated clans. The empire itself has only nominal control over the province. To serve the “Mighty kingdom of Argonia” is to be a plaything for the imperialized city-states of the exterior—Gideon, Soulrest, Lilmoth, Thorn…
It was with such thoughts that I was occupied when Outruns-Bandits and I rode into the camp at Bogwater. I didn’t bother with stealth—for Scar-Tail to attack me on sight would have been an intolerable violation of Argonian courtesy. Visitors are so infrequent in Black Marsh—one might not see a fellow clansman for months or even years—that marshwalkers are predisposed to generosity toward guests. (Our persecution over the eras, sadly, has made it so such generosity is seldom extended to foreigners anymore. Such is life.)
Scar-Tail bade me to dismount and sit beside his fire. He cut right to the heart of the manner, as is our way.
“I guess I've been expecting you, assassin. Don't try to deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Dark Brotherhood, right? Let me guess, it was Ocheeva, right? No, wait. Teinaava. Yes, he put you up to this, didn't he? Ocheeva was always too busy to even be bothered. Well, you can kill me if you like. I'm afraid I won't make much of a challenge, though. The Duke of Blackrose already sent an agent to do the job,” he paused, nodding to a body, another of our countrymen, lying in the marsh. “He failed, of course. But he got in a pretty good hit. If I don't get some rest I'm probably dead anyway. So maybe I can appeal to your sense of good will, huh? Ha ha ha ha! You let me live, and I'll tell you where I stashed my treasure. Is it a deal?”
I waited quietly, for a moment, thinking of Blackrose. I’d been there once, two years before, tracking an escapee from the big imperial prison. A horrible place ruled by despicable men. I could imagine what sort of work Scar-Tail had been doing.
I stood up, walked to my horse, and pulled a healing potion from my saddlebags. I tossed the vial over to Scar-Tail. “You can keep your treasure, and your life. But you’d better clear out of Cyrodiil, fast. If the wrong person sees you, it means trouble for the both of us.” I stopped, thinking. “I suggest you try Stros M’kai. There’s a tavern there.”
He gave me a weak smile—a smile of relief mixed with a bit of confusion. “You have my thanks, marshwalker. Now, I imagine Teinaava wants proof that I'm dead, right? Let me guess -- my heart? I suggest you take the heart from that fellow”—he gestured to the dead agent—“over there. He doesn’t need it anymore, and Teinaava will be none the wiser. I wish you luck.”
A few minutes passed, and Scar-Tail was gone. I lingered on, watching him until he disappeared into the evening. It was only then that I pulled out my ebony and got to work carving out the agent’s heart, marveling at what could have driven all of us—me, him, Scar-Tail, Teinaava—to this madness.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Blackwood
The landscape feels vaguely familiar. It is not quite home—the swamp is much thicker, darker, and more menacing in my part of Black Marsh—but riding through Blackwood, the unsettled territory along the border between Cyrodiil and Argonia, makes me prone to flashbacks and daydreaming. So it was that I rode along, remembering my (thankfully brief) time spent training with the Shadowscales.
“You know how it is in our homeland. Those born under the sign of the Shadow are taken at birth and presented to the Dark Brotherhood. A Shadowscale hatchling is trained in the arts of stealth and assassination, and lives a life in service to the mighty kingdom of Argonia.”
Teinaava’s words, of course. Words for which I had no response, and for which no response was needed. He knew my story—it had become part of Shadowscale lore: the ragged resistance fighter who didn’t fit in, the arrogant master, and a precious artifact stolen. The artifact I’d wielded for more than fifteen years now. I’d not rendered much in the way of service to my homeland.
“When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate, a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail. The three of us were inseperable. When our training was completed, we reluctantly parted ways. But now... Now, the unthinkable has happened! Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh and refuses to fulfill his duties as royal assassin! This is an act of treason! This treachery must be punished! Just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale. That is why you must go to Bogwater and eliminate that treacherous snake! Please kill Scar-Tail, so Ocheeva and I can put this matter behind us.”
Of course. One traitor deserves another, after all. As one might expect, I was not enamored of this particular ‘favor’. There had been a time when I admired the Shadowscales, but that was long past. The order of assassins may have once served some useful purpose, but the organization as I knew it was blind to reality, like Teinaava. “Mighty kingdom of Argonia”. Ha! Black Marsh is no kingdom, and as I far as I know never has been. Centralized government has little meaning in a land of impenetrable swamps and isolated clans. The empire itself has only nominal control over the province. To serve the “Mighty kingdom of Argonia” is to be a plaything for the imperialized city-states of the exterior—Gideon, Soulrest, Lilmoth, Thorn…
It was with such thoughts that I was occupied when Outruns-Bandits and I rode into the camp at Bogwater. I didn’t bother with stealth—for Scar-Tail to attack me on sight would have been an intolerable violation of Argonian courtesy. Visitors are so infrequent in Black Marsh—one might not see a fellow clansman for months or even years—that marshwalkers are predisposed to generosity toward guests. (Our persecution over the eras, sadly, has made it so such generosity is seldom extended to foreigners anymore. Such is life.)
Scar-Tail bade me to dismount and sit beside his fire. He cut right to the heart of the manner, as is our way.
“I guess I've been expecting you, assassin. Don't try to deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Dark Brotherhood, right? Let me guess, it was Ocheeva, right? No, wait. Teinaava. Yes, he put you up to this, didn't he? Ocheeva was always too busy to even be bothered. Well, you can kill me if you like. I'm afraid I won't make much of a challenge, though. The Duke of Blackrose already sent an agent to do the job,” he paused, nodding to a body, another of our countrymen, lying in the marsh. “He failed, of course. But he got in a pretty good hit. If I don't get some rest I'm probably dead anyway. So maybe I can appeal to your sense of good will, huh? Ha ha ha ha! You let me live, and I'll tell you where I stashed my treasure. Is it a deal?”
I waited quietly, for a moment, thinking of Blackrose. I’d been there once, two years before, tracking an escapee from the big imperial prison. A horrible place ruled by despicable men. I could imagine what sort of work Scar-Tail had been doing.
I stood up, walked to my horse, and pulled a healing potion from my saddlebags. I tossed the vial over to Scar-Tail. “You can keep your treasure, and your life. But you’d better clear out of Cyrodiil, fast. If the wrong person sees you, it means trouble for the both of us.” I stopped, thinking. “I suggest you try Stros M’kai. There’s a tavern there.”
He gave me a weak smile—a smile of relief mixed with a bit of confusion. “You have my thanks, marshwalker. Now, I imagine Teinaava wants proof that I'm dead, right? Let me guess -- my heart? I suggest you take the heart from that fellow”—he gestured to the dead agent—“over there. He doesn’t need it anymore, and Teinaava will be none the wiser. I wish you luck.”
A few minutes passed, and Scar-Tail was gone. I lingered on, watching him until he disappeared into the evening. It was only then that I pulled out my ebony and got to work carving out the agent’s heart, marveling at what could have driven all of us—me, him, Scar-Tail, Teinaava—to this madness.
QUOTE(seerauna @ Oct 4 2008, 08:45 AM)
I liked this update. Who is this mysterious Bosmer? If I'm supposed to know, then oh well I have no idea
. Hey wait! I do believe I get first comment.Next update you'll meet the Bosmer. Sort of. He's not real fleshed-out in game, but he's there. Walk around Leyawiin long enough in game and you're sure to meet him.
And thanks again to everyone for the praise.
Nice. This is as good as ever, the style is a joy to read.
I await the next installment with trepidation.
I await the next installment with trepidation.
19.
Leyawiin
Cingor was not especially worried. He was not the type. He was a Fighter, a good one, and he carried the confidence that comes with that knowledge. But he had noticed that someone had tampered the lock on his door, and that made him a mite uneasy. Sure, it was only a thief—his little stash of gold was missing—and thieves don’t talk much, but surely his copy of the Commentaries would have been noticed. It was an unusual book, as Cingor knew all too well.
Probably nothing would come of it. Only someone interested in the arcane arts, or a cult scholar, would realize the full implications of the book. Very few men or mer had any inkling of the Mythic Dawn’s existence. A thief would surely know nothing of them, or Mankar Camoran. Would they?
He shook his head—useless paranoia. He slept poorly enough as it was, what with his preparations to open a gate outside the city walls. The ritual was tricky if not complicated, and his guild duties had been getting in the way. Probably he should take some leave.
Leave. Cingor wished that the Argonian would go. He’d rode in on a black horse wearing a black robe and immediately gone to speak with Dar Jee, who was himself a bit of a shady character. The argonian stranger had seemed interested in Cingor, which only fed the bosmer’s paranoia.
Cingor paced about in the gathering darkness. What to do? He had wanted to go off into the forest a bit and practice the incantation, but that seemed too risky with the argonian about. It would be wise, he thought, to lie low for a day or two, maybe catch up on some lost sleep. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and it was wearying, so wearying…
For Lord Dagon!
The bosmer woke with a start. He’d almost falling asleep on his feet, and then the vision… he saw himself, or not quite himself, slaying some sort of hero… so wearying…
Cingor shook his head. No time for sleep yet. First he would walk back up the avenue and see if that argonian was still showing interest. He’d see if he needed to do something about it. The bosmer smiled, happy at the prospect of getting some practice with his warhammer. It would be a nice reprieve from the helplessness he lately felt.
He walked, passing into and out of torchlight, looking all about. Where was the fetcher? He looked at his own house, then to the one across the street. Nothing… no, there was someone on the rooftop. Someone now standing, bow in hand, with a whistling on the wind.
Leyawiin
Cingor was not especially worried. He was not the type. He was a Fighter, a good one, and he carried the confidence that comes with that knowledge. But he had noticed that someone had tampered the lock on his door, and that made him a mite uneasy. Sure, it was only a thief—his little stash of gold was missing—and thieves don’t talk much, but surely his copy of the Commentaries would have been noticed. It was an unusual book, as Cingor knew all too well.
Probably nothing would come of it. Only someone interested in the arcane arts, or a cult scholar, would realize the full implications of the book. Very few men or mer had any inkling of the Mythic Dawn’s existence. A thief would surely know nothing of them, or Mankar Camoran. Would they?
He shook his head—useless paranoia. He slept poorly enough as it was, what with his preparations to open a gate outside the city walls. The ritual was tricky if not complicated, and his guild duties had been getting in the way. Probably he should take some leave.
Leave. Cingor wished that the Argonian would go. He’d rode in on a black horse wearing a black robe and immediately gone to speak with Dar Jee, who was himself a bit of a shady character. The argonian stranger had seemed interested in Cingor, which only fed the bosmer’s paranoia.
Cingor paced about in the gathering darkness. What to do? He had wanted to go off into the forest a bit and practice the incantation, but that seemed too risky with the argonian about. It would be wise, he thought, to lie low for a day or two, maybe catch up on some lost sleep. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and it was wearying, so wearying…
For Lord Dagon!
The bosmer woke with a start. He’d almost falling asleep on his feet, and then the vision… he saw himself, or not quite himself, slaying some sort of hero… so wearying…
Cingor shook his head. No time for sleep yet. First he would walk back up the avenue and see if that argonian was still showing interest. He’d see if he needed to do something about it. The bosmer smiled, happy at the prospect of getting some practice with his warhammer. It would be a nice reprieve from the helplessness he lately felt.
He walked, passing into and out of torchlight, looking all about. Where was the fetcher? He looked at his own house, then to the one across the street. Nothing… no, there was someone on the rooftop. Someone now standing, bow in hand, with a whistling on the wind.
I found the whole thing with the prison key hilarious. All that trouble, and the game railroads you into taking the sewers. Now that was just unfair.
As for Cingor, assume that he's the one meant to open a big gate like the one that led to Kvatch's destruction? Well, unless Al misses (not a chance), or the inevitable poison is of the paralyzing sort instead of the killing one, our buddy won't be opening any gates soon.
As for Cingor, assume that he's the one meant to open a big gate like the one that led to Kvatch's destruction? Well, unless Al misses (not a chance), or the inevitable poison is of the paralyzing sort instead of the killing one, our buddy won't be opening any gates soon.
20.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Leyawiin and Chorrol
When I get brought in on a job, it usually isn’t for the purpose of arresting folks.
This is what I had to tell Dar Jee, shortly before I launched an arrow into my mark’s brain. He hadn’t known me in the old days, though he had some vague association with my clan, and I with his.
“What’s with the bow?”
I think that, in a way, he now regretted telling me about Cingor. I doubted that he would lament the mer’s death—he was indisputably Mythic Dawn—but he would feel responsible. What could I tell him? I muttered something about the inevitability of me finding the dirty kagouti out, but it was little consolation and I knew it. He walked meekly back home while I went over the evidence and the writ with the city watch captain, a woman named Draconis. In secret of course—I couldn’t afford to be seen in public chatting with the law.
Ah yes, one of the great sacrifices of this damned Dark Brotherhood operation. In Vvardenfell I associated with whoever I damned well pleased. Maybe I wasn’t going around singing about being a Blades operative, but I think I could have if I bloody wanted to. Anyone who reads this—future children, I dare hope?—will no doubt respond that the Dunmer hate imperial agents. This is true. But it is also true that as an argonian, the Dunmer already hated me. A little more hate could have hardly have impacted my safety much. In any case—and this is my point—public knowledge of my status as an imperial agent could hardly have impacted my work as the Emperor’s black hand. In my free time I could (and, much to Caius’ chagrin, did) do more or less whatever I pleased.
But now I’m undercover. A bloody covert operative.
A tiresome business, this is.
Meeting Nine-Toes in Chorrol was a relief, to say the least. By prearrangement we had drinks at the Grey Mare, the more homely of Chorrol’s two drinking establishments. It wasn’t quite the South Wall—it had none of the lively Thieves Guild banter I missed so badly, for instance—but what the joint lacked in action it made up for with a distinct unpretentious atmosphere. Everyone was blistering drunk. It was 10 A.M.
We drank quietly for perhaps half an hour, just enjoying each other’s company, before getting down to business. Nine-Toes, always the practical sort, spoke first.
“It goes down tonight, yes?”
I nodded. “Tonight the enforcer is supposed to pay Motierre a visit, yes. I’ll be there first, of course, to play at being a Dark Brother. You know, I’m bloody tempted to substitute Kills-You-Dead for the languorwine sleepy-time poison.”
“You mean kill Motierre? Blow the whole operation?”
“It’s tempting. Sooner this covert mess ends, sooner I get to have a life again. Anyway, he offered his own damn mother to Sithis. He deserves it.”
He thought about it. He thought for a long while. I downed half a bottle of the Surilie 415, waiting.
“I doubt they’d kick you out on the first screw-up. Mostly they’d just stop trusting you. Anyway, better to let Motierre rot in jail. And he will rot. We can’t lock him up in Cyrodiil—it would ruin your cover. So we’re sailing him off to the prison in Blackrose until this job of yours is done. You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.”
I think I smiled at that.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Leyawiin and Chorrol
When I get brought in on a job, it usually isn’t for the purpose of arresting folks.
This is what I had to tell Dar Jee, shortly before I launched an arrow into my mark’s brain. He hadn’t known me in the old days, though he had some vague association with my clan, and I with his.
“What’s with the bow?”
I think that, in a way, he now regretted telling me about Cingor. I doubted that he would lament the mer’s death—he was indisputably Mythic Dawn—but he would feel responsible. What could I tell him? I muttered something about the inevitability of me finding the dirty kagouti out, but it was little consolation and I knew it. He walked meekly back home while I went over the evidence and the writ with the city watch captain, a woman named Draconis. In secret of course—I couldn’t afford to be seen in public chatting with the law.
Ah yes, one of the great sacrifices of this damned Dark Brotherhood operation. In Vvardenfell I associated with whoever I damned well pleased. Maybe I wasn’t going around singing about being a Blades operative, but I think I could have if I bloody wanted to. Anyone who reads this—future children, I dare hope?—will no doubt respond that the Dunmer hate imperial agents. This is true. But it is also true that as an argonian, the Dunmer already hated me. A little more hate could have hardly have impacted my safety much. In any case—and this is my point—public knowledge of my status as an imperial agent could hardly have impacted my work as the Emperor’s black hand. In my free time I could (and, much to Caius’ chagrin, did) do more or less whatever I pleased.
But now I’m undercover. A bloody covert operative.
A tiresome business, this is.
Meeting Nine-Toes in Chorrol was a relief, to say the least. By prearrangement we had drinks at the Grey Mare, the more homely of Chorrol’s two drinking establishments. It wasn’t quite the South Wall—it had none of the lively Thieves Guild banter I missed so badly, for instance—but what the joint lacked in action it made up for with a distinct unpretentious atmosphere. Everyone was blistering drunk. It was 10 A.M.
We drank quietly for perhaps half an hour, just enjoying each other’s company, before getting down to business. Nine-Toes, always the practical sort, spoke first.
“It goes down tonight, yes?”
I nodded. “Tonight the enforcer is supposed to pay Motierre a visit, yes. I’ll be there first, of course, to play at being a Dark Brother. You know, I’m bloody tempted to substitute Kills-You-Dead for the languorwine sleepy-time poison.”
“You mean kill Motierre? Blow the whole operation?”
“It’s tempting. Sooner this covert mess ends, sooner I get to have a life again. Anyway, he offered his own damn mother to Sithis. He deserves it.”
He thought about it. He thought for a long while. I downed half a bottle of the Surilie 415, waiting.
“I doubt they’d kick you out on the first screw-up. Mostly they’d just stop trusting you. Anyway, better to let Motierre rot in jail. And he will rot. We can’t lock him up in Cyrodiil—it would ruin your cover. So we’re sailing him off to the prison in Blackrose until this job of yours is done. You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.”
I think I smiled at that.
As ever, an enjoyable read. I like the idea that the Gates don't just pop up "randomly," rather someone from Mythic Dawn has to perform a ritual and "invite them in."
Al's weariness at the whole "undercover" business is typical of our favorite Argonian- "Why can't I just kill everybody and let the gods sort them out?"
Al's weariness at the whole "undercover" business is typical of our favorite Argonian- "Why can't I just kill everybody and let the gods sort them out?"
21.
Chorrol, The Grey Mare
“Have you heard the odd noises coming from Eugal Belette's place?”
The words seemed to come from nowhere, but were clearly directed at the two argonians engaged in quiet conversation. They looked up into the face of Reynald Gemane. He was, as is his custom, completely blazed from a mix of brandy and mead. The argonians were not nearly so drunk—and suddenly very interested in what Gemane had to say.
None of which occurred to the imperial, sodden as he was. He did not perceive that both his listeners were well-armed, for instance—a steel crossbow slung over one’s shoulder, the other one carrying two wicked blades and an ebony bow. Nor did he notice the map of Chorrol, beer-stained and cluttered with marginal notes, sitting between them. No, he only noticed that he had an audience.
“I haven’t,” replied the one dressed in black. “But why don’t you pull up a chair”—the argonian proffered a bottle of wine—“and tell us about it?”
New to town?
Check.
Strange behavior?
Check.
A creepy entryway into the house, including cobwebs, no carpet, and a filthy, unwashed bed? In an upscale town?
Check.
The stench of death and decay wafting up from the basement?
Double-check.
Chorrol, Eugal Belette’s Basement
A dark figure crept about in candlelight. He was talking to himself.
“…time to do inventory. Several portions gravedust, plus bones. A novice’s alchemical equipment. Could just be a necromancer, which is bad enough. But no. A red robe… let’s see… ah yes, just like Baurus described. And the 2nd volume of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes…”
The figure scribbled a few lines in a small notebook, pocket-sized, and turned for the door… which was opening, accompanied by a stranger’s voice.
“Bloody hell, why is the door unlocked? I could have sworn…”
The figure made no sound (though surely he must have thought, shiiit) but instead pressed himself up against the wall, a pair of blades drawn.
“Damn it all, Raven will have my head if…” the voice, attached to a tall, balding Breton, trailed off, sensing a presence. Sensing it too late. A strong, scaly hand suddenly clamped over Eugal Belette’s lips, accompanied by the sensation of cold daedric metal pressed against his throat. This was soon followed by the last words the Breton would ever hear, delivered in a cold, whiskey-scarred rasp. It was almost exactly what Eugal Belette expected.
“Eugal Belette, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that, by order of the Imperial Chancellor Ocato, you are to be executed immediately. Congratulations.”
Chorrol, The Grey Mare
“Have you heard the odd noises coming from Eugal Belette's place?”
The words seemed to come from nowhere, but were clearly directed at the two argonians engaged in quiet conversation. They looked up into the face of Reynald Gemane. He was, as is his custom, completely blazed from a mix of brandy and mead. The argonians were not nearly so drunk—and suddenly very interested in what Gemane had to say.
None of which occurred to the imperial, sodden as he was. He did not perceive that both his listeners were well-armed, for instance—a steel crossbow slung over one’s shoulder, the other one carrying two wicked blades and an ebony bow. Nor did he notice the map of Chorrol, beer-stained and cluttered with marginal notes, sitting between them. No, he only noticed that he had an audience.
“I haven’t,” replied the one dressed in black. “But why don’t you pull up a chair”—the argonian proffered a bottle of wine—“and tell us about it?”
* * *
New to town?
Check.
Strange behavior?
Check.
A creepy entryway into the house, including cobwebs, no carpet, and a filthy, unwashed bed? In an upscale town?
Check.
The stench of death and decay wafting up from the basement?
Double-check.
* * *
Chorrol, Eugal Belette’s Basement
A dark figure crept about in candlelight. He was talking to himself.
“…time to do inventory. Several portions gravedust, plus bones. A novice’s alchemical equipment. Could just be a necromancer, which is bad enough. But no. A red robe… let’s see… ah yes, just like Baurus described. And the 2nd volume of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes…”
The figure scribbled a few lines in a small notebook, pocket-sized, and turned for the door… which was opening, accompanied by a stranger’s voice.
“Bloody hell, why is the door unlocked? I could have sworn…”
The figure made no sound (though surely he must have thought, shiiit) but instead pressed himself up against the wall, a pair of blades drawn.
“Damn it all, Raven will have my head if…” the voice, attached to a tall, balding Breton, trailed off, sensing a presence. Sensing it too late. A strong, scaly hand suddenly clamped over Eugal Belette’s lips, accompanied by the sensation of cold daedric metal pressed against his throat. This was soon followed by the last words the Breton would ever hear, delivered in a cold, whiskey-scarred rasp. It was almost exactly what Eugal Belette expected.
“Eugal Belette, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that, by order of the Imperial Chancellor Ocato, you are to be executed immediately. Congratulations.”
Great stuff, lots of intregue but with enough payoffs to really hold interest and Al is such an awsome character. I'm loving this.
Where can I read more Al? I've read Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Telvanni affair, is there any more I haven't been able to find?
Where can I read more Al? I've read Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Telvanni affair, is there any more I haven't been able to find?
QUOTE(Olen @ Oct 26 2008, 10:41 AM)
Great stuff, lots of intregue but with enough payoffs to really hold interest and Al is such an awsome character. I'm loving this.
Where can I read more Al? I've read Killing in the Emperor's Name and The Telvanni affair, is there any more I haven't been able to find?
More Al? This is it, I'm afraid. I'm only so prolific, after all. And my next story (in progress, and likely not to appear for a fair piece of time) is going to be all the way over in Hammerfell. No Al to be found.
22.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Chorrol
When I re-entered The Grey Mare my friend was still holding our table.
“No trouble, I take it?” he asked, passing me a bottle.
“Not much,” I replied. “What is this?” Not knowing didn’t stop me from popping the top.
“Beer. A porter, to be precise. They brew it over at The Oak and Crosier. So everything worked out with the guard captain?”
I didn’t answer for a moment—I was taking a deep draught of the rich brew. Very nice. That settled, I answered, “Yeah, Bittneld understood. From his face, I don’t think he was too thrilled about having me skulking about in his jurisdiction, but then he doesn’t have any choice in the matter, does he?”
I sucked down some more beer.
“I walked him through the evidence, and he agreed with my conclusions, no problem. He also agreed to dispose of the corpse nice and quiet like, so hopefully word won’t spread too quickly among the rest of the Mythic Dawn.”
Nine-Toes nodded, looking off into space. “Sounds good. So now we wait here until it’s time for you to deal with Motierre?”
“Now we wait.”
“Oh! Well... um, hello. You must be the one Lucien Lachance told…”
“Lachance told you nothing!” I roared. “Nothing that counts, anyway. Just shut up and let me do my damn job, s’wit!” I glared at Francois Motierre fiercely, and he was frightened. He should have been. Kill him! My blood boiled. But his naked fear served to modify my rage—I still thought him a monster (he offered his mother to the Brotherhood!) but he was a toothless monster, animated by cowardice.
I unsheathed the languorwine blade and waved it in front of Motierre’s face.
“Listen up. As soon as that enforcer steps through the door, I’m slashing you across the chest with this—a touch’ll do the job, but then it wouldn’t look fatal, would it?”
A pause, and a thought.
“I’ll try to miss your heart… but no guarantees, eh?”
It was at that moment that Francois Motierre soiled himself.
We stood there a few moments, surely a more incongruous pairing than anything even Sheogorath himself could conjure up—the lean, hardened argonian assassin and the paunchy, pampered, piss-stained breton. The smell of urine was just beginning to saturate the room (tasteful, well-appointed, obviously expensive but not opulent) when the enforcer rapped on the front door. He spoke with the voice of one of my countrymen. Another marshbrother wrapped up in this business.
“Motierre! I know you're in there! My employers are most displeased. I'm coming in and you can beg for your life. Not that it will do any good! Ha ha!”
I could clearly hear the little *tink* of a lockpick at work—it would be any moment—and a tiny whisper from Motierre—“Hides-His-Heart”—and… where had I heard that name before? The question was immaterial, however, as the enforcer burst through the door—where have I seen that face?—and I slashed the exceedingly and gratifyingly terrified Motierre across the chest, clearing his heart by a safe and sane three inches. I threw down the pathetic poisoned blade, drew Kills-You-Dead, and faced Hides-His-Heart. I saw… recognition, in his face. Then surprise. Then abject, open fear.
“You? It can’t… but…”
Hides-His-Heart dropped his blade and fled out the door. Most strange…
But it gave me time. Time for what? Time to remember Nine-Toes’ words. To wit: “You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.” I looked at Francois Motierre, prostrate, sodden, bleeding, and helpless, and then imagined him with the addition of several broken ribs. Plenty of time to prove my dear old friend wrong.
Journal of an Imperial ‘Courier’: Chorrol
When I re-entered The Grey Mare my friend was still holding our table.
“No trouble, I take it?” he asked, passing me a bottle.
“Not much,” I replied. “What is this?” Not knowing didn’t stop me from popping the top.
“Beer. A porter, to be precise. They brew it over at The Oak and Crosier. So everything worked out with the guard captain?”
I didn’t answer for a moment—I was taking a deep draught of the rich brew. Very nice. That settled, I answered, “Yeah, Bittneld understood. From his face, I don’t think he was too thrilled about having me skulking about in his jurisdiction, but then he doesn’t have any choice in the matter, does he?”
I sucked down some more beer.
“I walked him through the evidence, and he agreed with my conclusions, no problem. He also agreed to dispose of the corpse nice and quiet like, so hopefully word won’t spread too quickly among the rest of the Mythic Dawn.”
Nine-Toes nodded, looking off into space. “Sounds good. So now we wait here until it’s time for you to deal with Motierre?”
“Now we wait.”
* * *
“Oh! Well... um, hello. You must be the one Lucien Lachance told…”
“Lachance told you nothing!” I roared. “Nothing that counts, anyway. Just shut up and let me do my damn job, s’wit!” I glared at Francois Motierre fiercely, and he was frightened. He should have been. Kill him! My blood boiled. But his naked fear served to modify my rage—I still thought him a monster (he offered his mother to the Brotherhood!) but he was a toothless monster, animated by cowardice.
I unsheathed the languorwine blade and waved it in front of Motierre’s face.
“Listen up. As soon as that enforcer steps through the door, I’m slashing you across the chest with this—a touch’ll do the job, but then it wouldn’t look fatal, would it?”
A pause, and a thought.
“I’ll try to miss your heart… but no guarantees, eh?”
It was at that moment that Francois Motierre soiled himself.
We stood there a few moments, surely a more incongruous pairing than anything even Sheogorath himself could conjure up—the lean, hardened argonian assassin and the paunchy, pampered, piss-stained breton. The smell of urine was just beginning to saturate the room (tasteful, well-appointed, obviously expensive but not opulent) when the enforcer rapped on the front door. He spoke with the voice of one of my countrymen. Another marshbrother wrapped up in this business.
“Motierre! I know you're in there! My employers are most displeased. I'm coming in and you can beg for your life. Not that it will do any good! Ha ha!”
I could clearly hear the little *tink* of a lockpick at work—it would be any moment—and a tiny whisper from Motierre—“Hides-His-Heart”—and… where had I heard that name before? The question was immaterial, however, as the enforcer burst through the door—where have I seen that face?—and I slashed the exceedingly and gratifyingly terrified Motierre across the chest, clearing his heart by a safe and sane three inches. I threw down the pathetic poisoned blade, drew Kills-You-Dead, and faced Hides-His-Heart. I saw… recognition, in his face. Then surprise. Then abject, open fear.
“You? It can’t… but…”
Hides-His-Heart dropped his blade and fled out the door. Most strange…
But it gave me time. Time for what? Time to remember Nine-Toes’ words. To wit: “You know what a hell that is. Far worse than anything you could do.” I looked at Francois Motierre, prostrate, sodden, bleeding, and helpless, and then imagined him with the addition of several broken ribs. Plenty of time to prove my dear old friend wrong.
Great stuff. It's good to see Al returned.
Mmm. Another Marshbrother with a mysterious connection to Al....this will be good.
23.
Chorrol: 25 Second Seed, 3E 433
Darius Lewontin left Castle Chorrol at precisely 1:25 A.M. He did so every night—it was his job, after all, as a member of the Watch.
It was a good job. He liked it well enough, even given his odd hours. Chorrol was a proper city, not given to excess frivolity, and so his patrols were almost always quite boring. That was fine by Darius—a contemplative fellow, he could fill the hours doing his own thinking and doing it on the city’s time.
That was how things usually were, at least. But only the night before Darius had the great misfortune of discovering the body of Francois Motierre. He felt a great sadness, a sag in his shoulders. Darius had not known Motierre well—indeed, hardly knew him at all—but had thought the Breton an amiable enough man.
How could someone so ineffectual, self-effacing, and fundamentally harmless deserve such a fate? It wasn’t just murder, though that was bad enough. No, it was much more. It was sadism. Darius remembered the blood, the bruises, the smell, and he grimaced. If he never saw a murdered man again, it would be too soon.
It wasn’t until reaching the Grey Mare that the watchman could wrest the image from his mind. The tavern sounded of music, conversation, bottles of ale clinking together… warm sounds to protect against the chill Highland night.
Through the night Darius espied the approach of two figures, coming from the Chapel district, one supporting the other as they limped along.
“You folks need a hand there?” Darius called out, hurrying along.
An argonian’s face appeared from within a black hood. “No, thank you. My friend here just had a bit much to drink”—the scent of mead was, indeed, on the air—“and needs to get back to his room at the Mare to sleep it off. I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
The argonian smiled, sheepishly. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to keep you, anyway, what with all the crime going around.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Nine Toes sat quietly in the Oak and Crosier, drinking as always.
The assassin still wore the same sheepish grin as earlier. Finally, Nine-Toes lost his patience.
“What?”
“Damn lot of good I did myself, beating him like that. I practically had to carry him to the Grey Mare.”
“I saw that. It’ll make him easier for me to follow to Anvil, I guess. And he’ll be in no condition to resist arrest when the time comes, that’s for sure. You have any trouble that wasn’t self-inflicted?”
“Zombies.”
Nine-Toes set his glass on the table. “Zombies? In the Chapel?”
“Some sort of family curse, he said. To make a long story short, his Aunt Margaret is now resting in pieces. And I think one of his uncles, too.” The assassin took a drink and endeavored to change the subject. “Did you hear if the guard caught that enforcer?”
“I don’t think so. What did you say his name was?”
“Hides-His-Heart, I think, was the name. Seems so familiar…”
“Al, you don’t remember him? The hatchling who was always watching us train back in Black Marsh? Little fellow always looked up to you.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun froze, vacant eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular—a beer mug, a tapestry. Slowly those eyes narrowed, trembling with rage. With helpless outrage. And then finally with sadness.
“You okay, Al?”
Chorrol: 25 Second Seed, 3E 433
Darius Lewontin left Castle Chorrol at precisely 1:25 A.M. He did so every night—it was his job, after all, as a member of the Watch.
It was a good job. He liked it well enough, even given his odd hours. Chorrol was a proper city, not given to excess frivolity, and so his patrols were almost always quite boring. That was fine by Darius—a contemplative fellow, he could fill the hours doing his own thinking and doing it on the city’s time.
That was how things usually were, at least. But only the night before Darius had the great misfortune of discovering the body of Francois Motierre. He felt a great sadness, a sag in his shoulders. Darius had not known Motierre well—indeed, hardly knew him at all—but had thought the Breton an amiable enough man.
How could someone so ineffectual, self-effacing, and fundamentally harmless deserve such a fate? It wasn’t just murder, though that was bad enough. No, it was much more. It was sadism. Darius remembered the blood, the bruises, the smell, and he grimaced. If he never saw a murdered man again, it would be too soon.
It wasn’t until reaching the Grey Mare that the watchman could wrest the image from his mind. The tavern sounded of music, conversation, bottles of ale clinking together… warm sounds to protect against the chill Highland night.
Through the night Darius espied the approach of two figures, coming from the Chapel district, one supporting the other as they limped along.
“You folks need a hand there?” Darius called out, hurrying along.
An argonian’s face appeared from within a black hood. “No, thank you. My friend here just had a bit much to drink”—the scent of mead was, indeed, on the air—“and needs to get back to his room at the Mare to sleep it off. I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
The argonian smiled, sheepishly. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to keep you, anyway, what with all the crime going around.”
* * *
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Nine Toes sat quietly in the Oak and Crosier, drinking as always.
The assassin still wore the same sheepish grin as earlier. Finally, Nine-Toes lost his patience.
“What?”
“Damn lot of good I did myself, beating him like that. I practically had to carry him to the Grey Mare.”
“I saw that. It’ll make him easier for me to follow to Anvil, I guess. And he’ll be in no condition to resist arrest when the time comes, that’s for sure. You have any trouble that wasn’t self-inflicted?”
“Zombies.”
Nine-Toes set his glass on the table. “Zombies? In the Chapel?”
“Some sort of family curse, he said. To make a long story short, his Aunt Margaret is now resting in pieces. And I think one of his uncles, too.” The assassin took a drink and endeavored to change the subject. “Did you hear if the guard caught that enforcer?”
“I don’t think so. What did you say his name was?”
“Hides-His-Heart, I think, was the name. Seems so familiar…”
“Al, you don’t remember him? The hatchling who was always watching us train back in Black Marsh? Little fellow always looked up to you.”
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun froze, vacant eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular—a beer mug, a tapestry. Slowly those eyes narrowed, trembling with rage. With helpless outrage. And then finally with sadness.
“You okay, Al?”
24.
Journal of a Blades Assassin
I left Chorrol before sunrise on the 26th, hoping to reach the little inn at Aleswell before the tyranny of mid-day. There I would rest, take lunch, and decide if pushing on to Cheydinhal would be worth my while.
The ride was relatively peaceful, or as peaceful as one can be while tearing along on Outruns-Bandits, my black mare. Aside from outrunning a highwayman at Fort Ash and a minotaur outside Fort Nickel we hardly needed to break from an easy trot.
Normally on such a ride I would pass the time by admiring the scenery—the rolling hills, the delightful mix of aspen, white pine, and white oak, babbling brooks, deer dancing through sunny glades—but all I could think of was the foul mess that I continued to make of my life. The encounter with Hides-His-Heart was only the most recent exemplar. In the long run disappointing the youngster-turned-thug who once idolized me means little, but then in the long run we are all dead. Here’s what matters: his hero is now a Dark Brother.
No, he thinks his hero is a Dark Brother, I want to say. But what’s the difference between me and them? I’ve been hitting for the Blades since I was 25, after all, and killing slavers since I was little more than hatchling. What makes me so different from them?
I could retire. I have enough money. The Legion likes to say that crime doesn’t pay, but what am I but a direct refutation of the old aphorism? Crime pays, all right—as long as you’re doing it with the Empire’s backing. That’s the difference between me and the Brotherhood—when all this is over and the dust is settled they’ll be dead or in lockup and I’ll be hung over in some nameless tavern listening to the bards sing the glories of some prophesied hero. Maybe if I’m lucky and not too drunk they’ll let me play lute.
My morose mental monologue notwithstanding, I reached Aleswell without incident. I snubbed my horse’s reigns around a fencepost and ambled into the inn to take my lunch.
The publican, Diram Serethi, was full of the usual complaints—not enough rain for the crops, wolves getting at the sheep, local wizard causing the odd plague of rats—but he was happy to serve me roast mutton and a couple bottles of ale while we traded news and kept out of the sun. His sisters, on the other hand, just glared at me.
“They ever smile?” I quietly asked, casting a furtive glance at the two Dunmer women.
“Never,” he said. “Sometimes I wish they would just disappear.”
I arrived at Cheydinhal late, just short of midnight. I had my reasons—mostly I just wanted to not overwork Outruns-Bandits. I also stopped a few times to assist waylaid travelers fighting off brigands or beasts, which was really just a matter of letting loose a few bowshots. Just doing my measure of good for the day, and I didn’t even need to dismount.
Riding slowly also gave me more time to think. Cheydinhal would have Mythic Dawn cultists. But who? I admittedly did not like to linger long in the city—such is my distaste for the Dark Brotherhood—and had not taken the time to observe how its residents spent their time. My “brothers” would have perhaps noticed some odd behavior, but I was not about to risk blowing my cover by asking them. After some rumination I decided that I would first speak to Mach-Na and then, if necessary, speak with the beggars. Mach-Na ran the local bookstore, and perhaps didn’t get out much, but as a fellow marshwalker I felt certain that she would at least keep our conversation in confidence. If she knew anything, she would tell me. Probably she didn’t. But at least she wouldn’t tell anyone about my inquisition.
Journal of a Blades Assassin
I left Chorrol before sunrise on the 26th, hoping to reach the little inn at Aleswell before the tyranny of mid-day. There I would rest, take lunch, and decide if pushing on to Cheydinhal would be worth my while.
The ride was relatively peaceful, or as peaceful as one can be while tearing along on Outruns-Bandits, my black mare. Aside from outrunning a highwayman at Fort Ash and a minotaur outside Fort Nickel we hardly needed to break from an easy trot.
Normally on such a ride I would pass the time by admiring the scenery—the rolling hills, the delightful mix of aspen, white pine, and white oak, babbling brooks, deer dancing through sunny glades—but all I could think of was the foul mess that I continued to make of my life. The encounter with Hides-His-Heart was only the most recent exemplar. In the long run disappointing the youngster-turned-thug who once idolized me means little, but then in the long run we are all dead. Here’s what matters: his hero is now a Dark Brother.
No, he thinks his hero is a Dark Brother, I want to say. But what’s the difference between me and them? I’ve been hitting for the Blades since I was 25, after all, and killing slavers since I was little more than hatchling. What makes me so different from them?
I could retire. I have enough money. The Legion likes to say that crime doesn’t pay, but what am I but a direct refutation of the old aphorism? Crime pays, all right—as long as you’re doing it with the Empire’s backing. That’s the difference between me and the Brotherhood—when all this is over and the dust is settled they’ll be dead or in lockup and I’ll be hung over in some nameless tavern listening to the bards sing the glories of some prophesied hero. Maybe if I’m lucky and not too drunk they’ll let me play lute.
My morose mental monologue notwithstanding, I reached Aleswell without incident. I snubbed my horse’s reigns around a fencepost and ambled into the inn to take my lunch.
The publican, Diram Serethi, was full of the usual complaints—not enough rain for the crops, wolves getting at the sheep, local wizard causing the odd plague of rats—but he was happy to serve me roast mutton and a couple bottles of ale while we traded news and kept out of the sun. His sisters, on the other hand, just glared at me.
“They ever smile?” I quietly asked, casting a furtive glance at the two Dunmer women.
“Never,” he said. “Sometimes I wish they would just disappear.”
* * *
I arrived at Cheydinhal late, just short of midnight. I had my reasons—mostly I just wanted to not overwork Outruns-Bandits. I also stopped a few times to assist waylaid travelers fighting off brigands or beasts, which was really just a matter of letting loose a few bowshots. Just doing my measure of good for the day, and I didn’t even need to dismount.
Riding slowly also gave me more time to think. Cheydinhal would have Mythic Dawn cultists. But who? I admittedly did not like to linger long in the city—such is my distaste for the Dark Brotherhood—and had not taken the time to observe how its residents spent their time. My “brothers” would have perhaps noticed some odd behavior, but I was not about to risk blowing my cover by asking them. After some rumination I decided that I would first speak to Mach-Na and then, if necessary, speak with the beggars. Mach-Na ran the local bookstore, and perhaps didn’t get out much, but as a fellow marshwalker I felt certain that she would at least keep our conversation in confidence. If she knew anything, she would tell me. Probably she didn’t. But at least she wouldn’t tell anyone about my inquisition.
Yay, more Al! As ever it was a joy to read, you style is very easy to read and works so well with the character.
Still no answers though, I'm fascinated to see what he does next. I think that's a large part of what makes it so enjoyable, Al is always unpredictable and fresh.
Still no answers though, I'm fascinated to see what he does next. I think that's a large part of what makes it so enjoyable, Al is always unpredictable and fresh.
25.
Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal
First things first: I walked over to the east side of town, into the “abandoned” house, and down to the basement lair of the Dark Brotherhood.
I ran into Vicente Valtieri almost immediately.
“Ah, so Motierre has escaped? Well done! As payment, I am pleased to award you this amulet, Cruelty's Heart, as well as another advancement in rank.” The vampire handed me a heavily enchanted amulet, which I pocketed. Like everything else I received from the Dark Brotherhood, I intended to dispose of it. Valtieri continued on, saying, “I hereby bestow upon you the title of Eliminator. Your blood is cold, your heart hard. You exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for.”
Exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for?! I felt an impulse to vomit, though I did my damnedest to remain impassive on the exterior. My eyes nearly glazed over as Valtieri droned on, awarding me a key to the well that served as the quick-and-easy entry into the underground sanctuary. The vampire spent a full minute standing before me, smiling beatifically, waiting for my (no doubt grateful) response to the honor. Finally I asked about my next contract. That made him even happier, it seemed.
“Well now, you are an ambitious one, aren't you? I'm afraid I have no more contracts for you. Our time working together has come to an end. Instead, you must report to Ocheeva, here in the Sanctuary. She will be providing all your contracts from now on, and is waiting for you as we speak. Before you go, however, I intend to make good on an offer I made some time ago. As a vampire, I may pass my gift on to others as I see fit. You have served me well, and I choose now to extend that gift to you. Shall I use my dark powers and turn you into a vam…”
I interrupted, holding up my hand. “The answer is no, Vicente. No and never, as in I’ll never do it and you’ll never ask me ever again.”
And I left him standing there. Strangely, his smile seemed to grow wider than ever.
After a brief rendezvous with Teinaava to hand over the “proof” that I had killed Scar-Tail, the rogue Shadowscale, I stepped inside Ocheeva’s quarters.
“I’ve come for orders,” I announced. “Vicente told me to see you.”
She looked up from a sheath of papers, still carrying a look of mild scorn on her face. She still didn’t trust me—a reasonable stance, considering how I had betrayed and nearly torn apart the Shadowscales. If I weren’t now a member of her organization she would have attacked me on sight. She glanced back down at the papers, then finally said, “Hmph. Your target is a High Elf named Faelian. He lives somewhere in the Imperial City, and fancies long walks. Unfortunately, that's all we know. We don't know which district he calls home, which establishments he frequents, or anything about his schedule. This contract will require a bit of detective work. I suggest you speak to your fellow Brothers and Sisters and see if they can offer any advice.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Ah yes, there is one more thing. The Imperial City is also home to an Imperial Legion captain named Adamus Phillida. Do you know who that is?”
I shrugged my shoulders, but otherwise remained impassive. I remembered, however that he was a big shot in the Legion—
“Heed my words. Phillida has dedicated his life to eradicating the Dark Brotherhood. He will not tolerate our operations within the Imperial City.”
—and that he was pursuing a vendetta against the Brotherhood. I pick pocketed him, once. Why was I now getting the feeling that our paths would cross again?
In any case, Ocheeva continued on. “When that happens, he tends to make our lives uncomfortable. Let's not give the good captain any reason to go poking around in our affairs, hmm? If possible, do away with Faelian someplace out of the way. Definitely indoors, with no other people around. A secure location, with no witnesses. This will make it look like a simple murder—you can do simple, right? Now get out of my sight.”
Happy to oblige. I spent another hour lurking in the sanctuary, gathering what intelligence I could (not for the contract, but for my report to Caius) before leaving the foul dark of the lair for the warmth, comfort, and familiarity of a glass of ale at Newlands Lodge. My remaining business would have to wait for the morning.
Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal
First things first: I walked over to the east side of town, into the “abandoned” house, and down to the basement lair of the Dark Brotherhood.
I ran into Vicente Valtieri almost immediately.
“Ah, so Motierre has escaped? Well done! As payment, I am pleased to award you this amulet, Cruelty's Heart, as well as another advancement in rank.” The vampire handed me a heavily enchanted amulet, which I pocketed. Like everything else I received from the Dark Brotherhood, I intended to dispose of it. Valtieri continued on, saying, “I hereby bestow upon you the title of Eliminator. Your blood is cold, your heart hard. You exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for.”
Exemplify everything the Dark Brotherhood stands for?! I felt an impulse to vomit, though I did my damnedest to remain impassive on the exterior. My eyes nearly glazed over as Valtieri droned on, awarding me a key to the well that served as the quick-and-easy entry into the underground sanctuary. The vampire spent a full minute standing before me, smiling beatifically, waiting for my (no doubt grateful) response to the honor. Finally I asked about my next contract. That made him even happier, it seemed.
“Well now, you are an ambitious one, aren't you? I'm afraid I have no more contracts for you. Our time working together has come to an end. Instead, you must report to Ocheeva, here in the Sanctuary. She will be providing all your contracts from now on, and is waiting for you as we speak. Before you go, however, I intend to make good on an offer I made some time ago. As a vampire, I may pass my gift on to others as I see fit. You have served me well, and I choose now to extend that gift to you. Shall I use my dark powers and turn you into a vam…”
I interrupted, holding up my hand. “The answer is no, Vicente. No and never, as in I’ll never do it and you’ll never ask me ever again.”
And I left him standing there. Strangely, his smile seemed to grow wider than ever.
* * *
After a brief rendezvous with Teinaava to hand over the “proof” that I had killed Scar-Tail, the rogue Shadowscale, I stepped inside Ocheeva’s quarters.
“I’ve come for orders,” I announced. “Vicente told me to see you.”
She looked up from a sheath of papers, still carrying a look of mild scorn on her face. She still didn’t trust me—a reasonable stance, considering how I had betrayed and nearly torn apart the Shadowscales. If I weren’t now a member of her organization she would have attacked me on sight. She glanced back down at the papers, then finally said, “Hmph. Your target is a High Elf named Faelian. He lives somewhere in the Imperial City, and fancies long walks. Unfortunately, that's all we know. We don't know which district he calls home, which establishments he frequents, or anything about his schedule. This contract will require a bit of detective work. I suggest you speak to your fellow Brothers and Sisters and see if they can offer any advice.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Ah yes, there is one more thing. The Imperial City is also home to an Imperial Legion captain named Adamus Phillida. Do you know who that is?”
I shrugged my shoulders, but otherwise remained impassive. I remembered, however that he was a big shot in the Legion—
“Heed my words. Phillida has dedicated his life to eradicating the Dark Brotherhood. He will not tolerate our operations within the Imperial City.”
—and that he was pursuing a vendetta against the Brotherhood. I pick pocketed him, once. Why was I now getting the feeling that our paths would cross again?
In any case, Ocheeva continued on. “When that happens, he tends to make our lives uncomfortable. Let's not give the good captain any reason to go poking around in our affairs, hmm? If possible, do away with Faelian someplace out of the way. Definitely indoors, with no other people around. A secure location, with no witnesses. This will make it look like a simple murder—you can do simple, right? Now get out of my sight.”
Happy to oblige. I spent another hour lurking in the sanctuary, gathering what intelligence I could (not for the contract, but for my report to Caius) before leaving the foul dark of the lair for the warmth, comfort, and familiarity of a glass of ale at Newlands Lodge. My remaining business would have to wait for the morning.
Sorry I'm not so good at commenting nowadays...but that doesn't mean I'm not reading, because I am! And I'm pretty fond of Al....yup I am.
As always, a very impressive work Canis!!!!
As always, a very impressive work Canis!!!!
26.
Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal
I slept in, for once. There was something comforting about the Newlands Lodge, beyond of course the fact that it is not the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary—which I refuse to sleep in, mainly to minimize the chances of getting my throat cut. I am not trusting.
But I digress. What I meant to say and was trying to say is that the lodge has the endearing quality of being, in spite of its typical Cyrodiilic construction, a Dunmer-run and Dunmer-patronized establishment complete with loud, profane music and the odd brawl. It felt like…home. Home? How strangely nostalgic! I have spent much of life hating Morrowind and the dark elves but now rather miss the blighters and their horrid home province.
After a late breakfast of bacon and kwama eggs I ambled over to Mach-Na’s bookstore, where I bought a copy of “Advances in Lock Picking” and listened to the proprietor complain about steep fines for minor offenses like littering and public intoxication for half an hour before I managed to ask her about strange goings on in town. Had she seen anyone wandering the street at odd hours? Was there anyone new in town? Had any copies of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes passed through her store? I got no answers. Well, that’s not true. What I got were a series of speculative non-answers—gossip—that made it clear that Mach-Na seldom left the confines of her bookstore.
Disappointed, I moved on to the beggars. Or a beggar, the one who called himself “Bruccius the Orphan”. Following common courtesy, before getting down to business we talked about the news, the city, the comings and goings of the Orum gang (a cult of a sort, I suppose, but one dedicated to money and the drug trade instead of Mehrunes Dagon), and life in general. Finally, I asked him (with aid of thirty drakes) where he thought I might find some Mythic Dawn cultists.
“I don’t know nothing for certs, but if I were looking for strange folks I’d start with the mage what lives in Willow Bank, the nice house near the guildhalls. Then I’d check out the parties that one rich fellow is always throwing at River View, the real big house by the creek.”
It was past midnight. The witching hour, I once heard it called. He was an old gray-bearded nord, Sigurd by name, and we sat across from each other at his tavern in Winter Hold trading stories and lies, the two being much the same. The witching hour was when the mists came over the lakes and rivers of that northern country—the few that weren’t frozen. Good cover for anyone that didn’t want to be seen, he said.
A good man, that one. I killed him, of course. He was bankrolling a gang of reavers, ship-borne bandits who’d been terrorizing the coast of some godsforsaken imperial colony out in the Sea of Ghosts. That must have been three years ago.
I shook my head—back to the present, Al. Starting to lose focus in my old age. In any case, it was past midnight and I was taking advantage of a misting off the water to skulk around the perimeter of the house called Willow Bank. A quick listen at the front door indicated that whoever was inside snored loudly—but nothing else. So far, so good. That just left with the problem of the locked door. Wait, did I say problem? My mistake; I had the door open in 20 seconds flat. I quickly rifled through the drawers, cupboards, chests, and dressers. I even pickpocketed the sleeping owner of the house. Found nothing; save a worn copy of Incident in Necrom and the sort of clutter one would expect in a hobby mage’s home.
River View, then, seemed likely to hold my Mythic Dawn cultists. Being careful, I stalked the entire perimeter of the manor. I found no alternate entrance to the front door. I listened; all was silent. No snoring, no nothing.
I found my quarry in the basement. Two dunmer women, two copies of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries. I cut their throats, made my notes, sketched the scene, and collected the evidence. The effort was probably unnecessary. After all, my meeting with the captain of the Cheydinhal guard was a mere formality—what kind of idiot would trouble an agent of the Blades?
Journal of a Blades Assassin: Cheydinhal
I slept in, for once. There was something comforting about the Newlands Lodge, beyond of course the fact that it is not the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary—which I refuse to sleep in, mainly to minimize the chances of getting my throat cut. I am not trusting.
But I digress. What I meant to say and was trying to say is that the lodge has the endearing quality of being, in spite of its typical Cyrodiilic construction, a Dunmer-run and Dunmer-patronized establishment complete with loud, profane music and the odd brawl. It felt like…home. Home? How strangely nostalgic! I have spent much of life hating Morrowind and the dark elves but now rather miss the blighters and their horrid home province.
After a late breakfast of bacon and kwama eggs I ambled over to Mach-Na’s bookstore, where I bought a copy of “Advances in Lock Picking” and listened to the proprietor complain about steep fines for minor offenses like littering and public intoxication for half an hour before I managed to ask her about strange goings on in town. Had she seen anyone wandering the street at odd hours? Was there anyone new in town? Had any copies of the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes passed through her store? I got no answers. Well, that’s not true. What I got were a series of speculative non-answers—gossip—that made it clear that Mach-Na seldom left the confines of her bookstore.
Disappointed, I moved on to the beggars. Or a beggar, the one who called himself “Bruccius the Orphan”. Following common courtesy, before getting down to business we talked about the news, the city, the comings and goings of the Orum gang (a cult of a sort, I suppose, but one dedicated to money and the drug trade instead of Mehrunes Dagon), and life in general. Finally, I asked him (with aid of thirty drakes) where he thought I might find some Mythic Dawn cultists.
“I don’t know nothing for certs, but if I were looking for strange folks I’d start with the mage what lives in Willow Bank, the nice house near the guildhalls. Then I’d check out the parties that one rich fellow is always throwing at River View, the real big house by the creek.”
* * *
It was past midnight. The witching hour, I once heard it called. He was an old gray-bearded nord, Sigurd by name, and we sat across from each other at his tavern in Winter Hold trading stories and lies, the two being much the same. The witching hour was when the mists came over the lakes and rivers of that northern country—the few that weren’t frozen. Good cover for anyone that didn’t want to be seen, he said.
A good man, that one. I killed him, of course. He was bankrolling a gang of reavers, ship-borne bandits who’d been terrorizing the coast of some godsforsaken imperial colony out in the Sea of Ghosts. That must have been three years ago.
I shook my head—back to the present, Al. Starting to lose focus in my old age. In any case, it was past midnight and I was taking advantage of a misting off the water to skulk around the perimeter of the house called Willow Bank. A quick listen at the front door indicated that whoever was inside snored loudly—but nothing else. So far, so good. That just left with the problem of the locked door. Wait, did I say problem? My mistake; I had the door open in 20 seconds flat. I quickly rifled through the drawers, cupboards, chests, and dressers. I even pickpocketed the sleeping owner of the house. Found nothing; save a worn copy of Incident in Necrom and the sort of clutter one would expect in a hobby mage’s home.
River View, then, seemed likely to hold my Mythic Dawn cultists. Being careful, I stalked the entire perimeter of the manor. I found no alternate entrance to the front door. I listened; all was silent. No snoring, no nothing.
I found my quarry in the basement. Two dunmer women, two copies of Mankar Camoran’s Commentaries. I cut their throats, made my notes, sketched the scene, and collected the evidence. The effort was probably unnecessary. After all, my meeting with the captain of the Cheydinhal guard was a mere formality—what kind of idiot would trouble an agent of the Blades?
Al should learn never to ask rhetorical questions- especially of the "How hard could it be?" variety....
I look forward to his dealings with Cheydinhal guard- which I predict will be short, sharp, and fatal.
I look forward to his dealings with Cheydinhal guard- which I predict will be short, sharp, and fatal.
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