Sheogorath, The Elder Scrolls IV.V: The Shivering Isles (tata! Come visit again! Or I'll-)
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The Coyote of Lilmoth walked inside his tattered old robes of brown-beige, and camouflaged among an odd infinity of dunes, he glared with vulpine eyes. Cattail pensive. Both pupils lean distant, in search of something. With disposed outlook at least as world-weary as Ongar's, if not as fraught with contempt. A hope adamantine flared from within them.
From his days in the Black Marsh, to his nights in the Monastery, not once was he determined memorable. Trickster never saw fit to be Old Flu might have caught him if he did otherwise.
He walked within the dunes, a baby blue sky above him. Glittery streaks of planes of Oblivion shone through the daylight, matching the color of the tangy, intense sun. Like a dreamscape, nothing is in sight except the figure walking towards a destination. Then, the character's back is revealed, as is a cave.
And so (Do) M'raaj Dar-Khajay made a noise, "Hmgrh."
A shimmering light reflecting from somewhere in the cave. Diamonds. His khajiiti figure paced towards the cave. He had been searching for it for months, but something had just incited it right then and there. Obviously a trap. But the bait was far more than bait, and it was well worth whatever trap this may be.
Crisis 4E
by: Æ, or the Ethos Malevolent.
Chapter One
ArgonianBlack
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He had been pacing in the murk. Places to swim, trees to climb through. Or remedially trouble-swimming.
An-Xileel had often sent them monthly reminders of whom the clutch works for. To be on the safe side, this particular "check up" a league of deadly assassins in which the consigned must defeat. The units adhesive - not cohesive. A protective measure from any aspiring Shadowscale who might be contemplating defection, and a great physical/mental exercise in that failure meant death. Unlike all the rigorous training exercises, this one was most similar to in mission in that, if you fail, you die. It was also a test of loyalty. To trust the community of the Hist even when they send cold-blooded killers your way to test you. It was status quo for shadescales like him.
This brother, black-scaled, considered himself no different among the others. What had separated him from the orders was his penchant for poetic justice rather than thirst for blood, his wit rather than an obstinate obedience, and, of course, his dark complexion. He had been born under the Shadow. He had been a label. And that label? "The scariest monster in the bog," he picked his tooth with a low quality dagger before discarding it into the mire below a thick, lightless murk.
The Vampires had faced him, breathing. Motionless otherwise, most were Bosmer. Some, too, were Argonian. He also spotted maybe four Dunmer?- not many. A single Breton stood forth, "Farewell, I bid you adieu. My name is Gaston LaChance, and we are, of the course, my famous Shadowblades. So do be wary, brother, that the Night walks among you in thirst."
"Is it true? You really are? Goodness me! The walking dead!" brother mimicked a childlike surprise, carefully eyeing at their overdressed, theatrical clothes. Too many loose ends, from the collars to the coattails. And any assassin knew that these were easy trappings to handle in the deeper wilderness. Thirsty night indeed.
Gaston hissed forward, "We do not appreciate oblivious remarks. If we're going to kill you, you might as well try to make us laugh."
And as he finished his sloquent, if oblivious, soliloquy, five Bosmeri faces fell to the murk, inhaling some Black Marsh miasma in their last breaths. Brother had responded nebulously, in a cold and dry reptilian affection, "You-Walk-Dead. No relevan daedra pact. Welcome to Blackmarsh. You are dead."
LaChance turned around in fear as he noticed the blackness he had been staring at was not the Argonian. He noticed everyone else was gone. He had been isolated. Swing at the cypress trees in anger. Argonian was in trees. Argonian was in trees. Watch for black wolf-bats. Watch for black lizard-man. Trees may harm you. Argonian in trees. Run from trees.
After swinging violently in the midst of all his colleagues, Gaston ran from a section of wood into a swampy clearing. Sinking into the black mush of the clearing and not coming out, he wailed in fear until he had sunk under completely and suffocated. The Black Argonian had stood with aloof composure drifted on his face. One Bosmer cowered and tripped over a cypress knee.
"Would anyone else like a taste of Histsap?" Brother had held up a vial in his left hand, and suddenly, the congregation noticed that the gleam of silver in the moonlight had broken through their vampiric brethren's backs.
"No? Good. Because I have a game for us to play. A nice and fair game. It's called 'Hide and Seek'." The remaining (and fashionable) Shadowblades attentively listened. "Any one of you may form any alliance or team that you wish. I am 'it'. My goal is to eliminate you all, one by one. Do not think I am unable to. Remember that I do this every month."
This seemed, at first, absurd to the gladiators. Just hide around, forfeit the large sum pledged by Argonia? Damn, no. They needed a new source of income to attract more vampires to their faction. They had political goals, aspirations of becoming a name down in history. By Sithis, they were even thinking of establishing a chartered colony for vampires, just as the Orcs had Orsinium created.
But they couldn't match up to him. Hiding and running gave them a chance for survival. This would be where the stubborn and the prudent had separated. A number of around eight vampires had rushed towards Brother, proving imprudent. They were powerful, strong, fast, agile, and emotional. But Silence was powerful, strong, fast, agile, and cunning. A Dunmer led the charge. Typical of them to be taken in the rage of fear. His ashen skin stretched around his tendons and ligaments as he sprinted.
The Argonian thought back to his statement "every month." It was alien of him to say this, but he had needed to for the group to comprehend him. Argonians do not have a sense of time, hence his statement that they are walking dead. Everything is in one moment, there is no linear equation or sequence of events. Only the event and a sequence. It was a beastly outlook, but it provided a tactical perception in battle.
The Dunmer sprinted forth and on his fourth step, with his right leg, he propelled himself in the air and rotated 360º, unsheathing his sword within the rotation. Before he had reached the ground and launched his attack, he stumbled in mid-spin and fell into a patch of cypress knees. As his back uncomfortably shifted through points of support through the knees, he bent his head and saw a perfect stripe of red run diagonally across his lower-to-upper torso. He bent his head to his left to find the reptilian bastard grappling the shoulder of his cohort and jabbing him in the neck with the silver dagger.
The dagger must have been enchanted with a fire effect, because his torso began to burn with an intense pain. Clutching his stripe, he looked towards his party. The others had not moved a flinch. They were simply staring as his men were dying. He looked to the muck where Gaston had last been seen, hoping on the chance that LaChance would suddenly emerge out of it and slay the lizard bastard. No such luck.
He looked back towards Brother. Apparently, he had outlived the others. He knew he had always been a leader. The pain flared and he winced in discomfort. Of course only he could last so long. The Argonian began to walk towards him as he glared. Now the red stripe had become a deep puddle of blood depositing in his abdomen.
"Ah, yes, a Dunmer. Of course you'd last the longest," The Argonian bent down to the dark elf, "I have a deal for you. I will let you live, if the Hist decide it so."
The vampire spat blood on the roots he had rolled off earlier. In a raspy voice, he inquired, "How do you mean?"
"The swamp shall decide whether or not you die. I have done enough to kill you, now, you must do more than enough to stay alive. Because if you manage to survive out here with your curse, you deserve it."
The Dunmer felt a shimmer of internal relief. On the outside, he looked spiteful, "You mean you won't kill me?"
"Ah, but I will, if you die. Because you would have died due to the very mark you bear," The Saxhleel looked to his injury, "But in giving you this burden, I also give you the chance of great honor."
"What would you know of honor? You defected from your post!" the Dunmer spat more blood.
Cooly, the Argonian ignored his constant spitting and replied, "Because if you survive, you have the right of claiming superiority over me."
"S-Superiority? In what manner due? You left your mark on me, I should say."
"You are being narrow minded," the Argonian guided the Dunmer, "You see, if I take the measure to kill you, and you do not die, you are superior to me. You've proven superior in living to that I am in killing."
The Dunmer raised his hand and clenched his fist so that a white orb was begotten and multiple streams of bright misty streaks flowed around his person in a simple restoration spell. The last that the Argonian had seen of him was his struggling to get up and casting more spells.
He knew it would be a hard challenge. Dunmer like him were skilled in Destructive spells, not restoratives. But the vampire had a fair enough chance. So he had no qualms over striking him, however so ignorant the elf might have been. As he faced the rest of the crowd, they turned their heads from their proctor to the Argonian, who revealed his third and true name, and the hopeful name of his forefathers - "Silence-My-Brother." Most people took it as a formal salutation, but the Dunmer caught on to the inflection. Then, nodding his head in significance, he and the group fled fast from that dark arena.
Ch. 1, Segment 3: Tongue of a Sailor
The smell of amber and alcohol filled the bar. On the stools sat a woman by the name of Jean Shafaye.
"Ah, the GRAND City of Rimmen! M'aiq does like. So much more comforting than Leyawiin."
The Redguard nodded, "Yes, I've heard of Leyawiin. The only thing noble to its name are the Knights of the White Stallion, or as I call them, The Knights of Sitting on Their Asses and Doing Nothing All Day."
"M'aiq wishes these knights could find his stylish Colovian helm. M'aiq misses it dearly. Bartender, M'aiq wishes to give this lady a fishiestick."
"Does M'aiq jest? M'aiq knows that he has consumed all of the available fish-sticks in stock," The Bartender continued with a suspicious glare, "and M'aiq knows he must pay his tab at the end of the moon. M'aiq knows that the Regulators will not be friendly to him anymore should he not pay his tab."
M'aiq pursed his snout, "M'aiq must find desert pirates for fishiesticks. Perhaps Captain Erdad. M'aiq must go find this pirate immediately,"
Knowing this was a response to his tab comment, the Khajiit bartender rolled his eyes as he continued swiping the towel in the interior of the glass cup, cleaning his dish-wares.
Jean smiled, "Pirates? I'd love to find one. Especially desert pirates! Are they like caravaners?"
M'aiq frowned in sympathy, "M'aiq wishes to adventure alone. Others just get in the way. And they talk, talk, talk."
And with that, he quickly paced out the room.
Jean looked over to Sea-Tongue with a look of dismay on her face.
"Of course. First damned taste we get of skooma trade traces, we lose. Damn it all. Jean, why are we even in Elsweyr? It's just a giant barren desert ruled by some foolish, racial theocracy. And speaking of race, I don't feel very welcome here."
As Sea-Tongue finished the last sentence, Jean observed the feline eyes from around the cantina that had either been fixed or wandering to Sea-Tongue.
Sea-Tongue was, as all Argonians were, named quite appropriately. His first words were ones his clutchmates would rather not recall, and he had wanted to spend more time in the water than any of his peers. His forefather had wanted him to be a sailor, but his clan mother had wished he would follow his own dreams, establish New Roots. Perhaps it was fate, though - his dreams were to be a sailor.
His forefather had been very pleased when he discovered his son had been picked on by three older, stronger Argonians in his youth. They had been calling him names, and Sea-Tongue had bested them in insults. They had become angry and began to get physical with him. He had been punched into a deep pond and the adolescents had dived in to teach him a lesson. Before they could come to their senses, he had out-maneuvered them and, well, kicked their sorry asses. Water was his sanctuary. Nothing could best him there. And so Jean began forming the image of Sea-Tongue being away from the water too long. Didn't look good.
Jean herself had been an orphan since age fourteen. Her mother had been taken and slaughtered after her father had been killed by a gang of Orcish highwaymen. She had been adopted by a kind Breton sailor by the name of Jean Baptiste. Over the course of her seaside adventures, she had become the spitting image of Jean. Well, not in appearance, but in personality and determination. The crewmates and Jean himself had begun to call her "'Lil Jean," and the name stuck. She had become so accustomed to the name that she had nearly forgotten her original.
The inseparable two had met a few years ago on the wharfs of Anvil, at high noon. Cpt. Jean's ship had docked adjacent to Sea-Tongue's. As her father's crew was going to stay the night in The Fo'c's'le, she had some time to kill. Always the adventurer, she had decided to walk up the docks and head for the city gates of Anvil. She saw that Sea-Tongue was getting into a predicament with another Argonian, who had claimed he stole his satchel.
"I'm telling you, dammit, I don't have your satchel. Maybe you should retrace your footwork, fellow Saxhleel."
"Or maybe you stole it and lied to cover up your act. Perhaps I won't find it, and you'll be on your merry way through the sea. Hist damn me for being such a fool."
"What is so special about this bag, anyway?"
"You would know, thief. My silver calip-"
"Greetings, sir, but I couldn't help but overhear your argument with my friend here," Jean offered, shooting a wink at Sea-Tongue. Sea-Tongue understood immediately. (Sailors have a bond to the sea which connects them, so unless they first meet on bad terms, they're naturally inclined to help each other.)
This Argonian had lived in Anvil all his life, so he knew how sailors were.
"But you two came from different ships. Earlier, I saw that you two came from separate ships."
Sea-Tongue was very dismayed, and he suddenly resent himself for calling this Imperial trash a Saxhleel. He had sworn to the Hist, but he was born and raised here in Cyrodil. It was obvious: he spoke Imperial perfectly, he didn't trust sailors, and he uses that perturbing concept 'Earlier'.
"Yes, but we are a convoy. One crew on two ships, you see. That's why we arrive at the same time and park in the same place."
The Imperial lizard was pestered by this stroke of evidence, but kept listening as Jean went on.
"You see, my companion here is Tastes-Like-Saltwater. He is very trustworthy, and no one on our ships has ever heard of this goody-two shoes snatch anything. In fact, we entrust him with our wares and fares when the treasurer of the crew is sick. He manages the ropes, but, he's damned good with counting our money."
The Imperial Argonian had reluctantly accepted the Redguard's account and went back to searching for his satchel—but not before warning Sea-Tongue about stealing his things. So, the two sailors had spent the day together traversing around the town and had become the best of friends ever since.
"Well, why did you stick around here in the first place, Sea?"
"There was something familiar about that cat we were conversing with. It took my attention off all the staring eyes."
"What, you mean M'aiq?"
"Yes. I saw him that day we met when we went to the northern gates of Anvil. Same clothes, same everything."
Jean tried hard to remember, and she usually was successful, but this time, her brain had fallen short.
"I don't remember."
"I do. He had an open satchel by his feet and he was toying around with a fancy pair of calipers."
"'Silver calip-'"
"My point exactly."
At that moment, the two companions had unsuccessfully stifled their laughter.