A/N: Apologies for the ridiciulous update length. I have, however, rewritten the first chapter, wrote a one-shot and improved a lot of the characters. If you take a look at chapter one you'll see that Lorbul is a cold character who doesn't understand people so well and has barely any sense of humour (I mean to edit the other chapters to make him not so out of character in them). Quote for today...
"I never win anything," Dolorous Edd complained. "The gods always smiled on Watt, though. When the wildlings knocked him off the Bridge of Skulls, somehow he landed in a nice deep pool of water. How lucky was that, missing all those rocks?"
"Was it a long fall?" Grenn wanted to know. "Did landing in the pool of water save his life?"
"No," said Dolorous Edd. "He was dead already, from that axe in his head. Still, it was pretty lucky, missing the rocks."
- George R.R Martin.
Chapter Six: Loose Ends
Over three thousand years, the docks in the Imperial Waterfront were well used to the unusual. After all, it had been there that Tiber Septim had brought his naval forces, so very long ago, and smashed the Aldemri fleet, seizing the city and sending the elves scurrying back down south. A century or so later, the port had been home to another battle - when the armies of Leyawiin and Cheydinhal had combined forces in an attempt to wrestle the Throne of Talos from the grasp of the Septims. More recently, the Waterfront had been witness to the arrival of King Gortwog – first sword of Trinmac and leader of the Orcish people. The warrior-king had come to the city a representative of a foreign kingdom, and walked away with Orsinium forged into the Empire.
Yet despite all these strange and wondrous happenings, the sight that welcomed the Waterfront one bleak grim mondas morning was still undeniably strange. A fat wooden ship, the hull bloated and heaving, cut through the choppy black waves of Lake Rumare, the fog swirling around it like ghosts. In truth, the vessel was a ghost ship, or should have been by all rights. Over fifteen men had set off on the the night before, and now only three remained – the most obvious being the large Orc that stood at the prow, watching the approaching shoreline with only mild interest. The mer's complexion was a paler shade of green than normal, his features cold and pallid. The tangle of braided black hair that hung down to his shoulders was slick with sea salt, and instead of the raiment he usually donned, his muscled chest was bare to the world. A pair of soft lambswool breeches covered his lower section, and his massive feet were naked against the deck.
Though he did not look it, Lorbul gro-Kash was deeply troubled. A maelstrom of feelings boiled, barely kept under control. The most prominent of them was the pece of information he'd been fed almost an hour ago – regarding the Amulet of Kings. According to the annoying Altmer mage who possessed it, the item had been passed to her by the Emperor along with the task of seeking out his heir and restoring the dynasty. Not exactly a believable tale. hen she'd spun it to him the first time, he'd been sorely tempted to throw the stupid girl overboard. As if he'd indulge in such folly. There was no reason to take anything she said for granted, except… she saved my life. There it was; plain and simple. When the bandit Selene had thrust her sword through his chest, Rumare had intervened, even managing to overcome the criminal and heal him. The Grand Champion was many things, but ungrateful was not one of them. He couldn't truly believe that the person who'd saved his life would lie to him on such a matter. But how could he know? He barely knew the Elf?
Lorbul shrugged his head in annoyance. He wasn't sure what to think.
"You look troubled," came a lofty voice from behind him. The Orc glanced over his shoulder, noting the slender female Altmer that strolled towards him, his very thoughts seeming to summon Rumare. She joined him at the stern of the ship, cocking a light eyebrow.
"I was thinking," grunted the Orc in response.
"Explains the pained expression." She grinned wickedly, and in the cold shaft of dawn that shone through the slit in the clouds, the Grand Champion took his first proper look at the Elf.
She was slender as a sword, at least a third as broad as Lorbul. The robe she wore was a faded blue fabric, looking to have seen several owners in its time. The clothing reached down to her knees, the jagged ends frayed and salt-stained. Under the robe a pair of tight doeskin boots stretched up, their points wrinkled with age. Rumare's face was curious, her sharply lined features mature enough to mark her as more than a child, but her face still regaining some of the innocent look that came with youth. Her eyebrows were scarcely more than shadows above deep amber eyes, her complexion golden, as if she'd been gilded in the sun's gaze. A curtain of honey coloured hair – a shade darker than the face – fell down to her shoulders. She had her flaws, what with a nose that seemed a little too sharp and big, and a few slightly crooked teeth. Her breasts were small and her legs rather too long. Others might've thought her good looking, though, he supposed. Not him. Never him.
Lorbul glared at her last comment, and then said, "You're awfully cheerful." He almost added for a thief and a liar, before deciding against it.
Rumare shrugged her slim shoulders. "I've got to keep my spirits up, no point dwelling on the darkness of the past." She said the words like she'd used them before, well-rehearsed.
"A strange view on life," grunted the gladiator.
"The correct view on life," proclaimed the girl smugly.
"Really?"
"Really."
A silence passed, the girl's gaze wandering across his face. She studied the scar that leapt from his nose to jawline intently, chewing her lip. She opened her mouth to comment a few times, and then closed it.
"Oh for fucks sake, if you're going to say something, then bloody say it," growled the Orc. "Don't just stand there gawping at me."
The look of annoyance on her face was replaced with one of annoyance. "I was going to ask how you got such an ugly scar, but thought it might sound rude," she glowered.
"Say what you want. I've no time for liars."
Rumare seemed to consider that. "Can I tell you that you're an ugly bastard with a thick skull who doesn't know when to admit he's wrong?" she asked him.
Lorbul stared at the wench for a long moment, his face cold. Suddenly, his features split into a small smile and he laughed, Well, you're no craven," he admitted. If only you could curb your damn squeamishness. The girl grinned shakily back at him, and posed him another question.
"What were you thinking about?" she asked, and then he knew what to do.
"Your little tale," he said, turning back to look at the waves. Rumare's faint eyebrows raised. "I've given it some thought," he continued, "and come to the conclusion that you are probably telling the truth. That or you're just completely insane..."
"Let's hope not."
"Aye," agreed the Orc. He realized what he had to do suddenly."Anyway, I owe you this much." He bent down on one knee, fist clenched across his chest. "I swear to you, on my honour as a warrior and in the eyes of Malacath," he began solemnly, "that I will do my upmost to protect you and your cause. My life is yours, and, until I have repaid my debt with blood and steel, I shall let no harm come to you."
The Altmer blinked. Her eyes were as round as Septims when she looked down on him again, startled. "W-why?"
"Because I must," Lorbul said simply.
"That doesn't explain anything," she said.
"It doesn't need to."
"Well, yes it does. If you're going to follow me around, I'll need to know your reason. Otherwise it's just creepy..."
"Malacath demands such oaths. You saved my life. I will save yours."
"We can take it in turns?"
"Stop jesting. This is serious." The warrior's tone was iron.
"I know it is. I'm just not a serious person."
Which is why you will die one-day. "Your will be from now-on," he promised.
A look of annoyance took on her heart-shaped face. "I thought you were going to guard me? I want to give the commands," she said, annoyed.
The Orc ground his teeth in frustration. "You have no expierience."
"I don't actually give a shit."
"Stop being such a damn child!"
"Stop trying to act like you're superior to me," she glared in response.
Lorbul took a deep breath, trying not to give in to the rather tempting prospect of crushing the girl's head like a nut. "I have more expierience than you, no matter how much you deny it," he said.
"Do you?" Rumare drew up as taut as a bowstring. "How would you know? How the hell would you know anything about me? How do you know what I've done?" She didn't give him time to answer. "You don't. So don't stand there an act like you do. If you're going to 'save my life' then you do as I say."
She is a child, he realized. A fucking child. He would have to be careful how to proceed. One slip and... "If you wish us both to end up dead, then go ahead," the Orc said coldly. He paused, waiting for her answer. For a while she didn't say anything, and Lorbul thought that she was going claim the leadership for herself. Instead she simply spat on the deck and walked off, striding down from the prow and back off into the bowels of the ship. Lorbul thought about going after her, but decided against it when he saw the Harbour coming closer. They'd be on land in a few minutes.
As the coast rushed towards them, the Grand Champion mused over what to do with the feisty young Elf.
Alexander Vonius realized he was in trouble when the arrows began to run out. The battle had been decent enough to start with, standing proudly on the left side of the plaza with his quiver full and bow taut, raining down projectiles on anyone that entered the gates. Then the siege crawler sent a swirling inferno into the city, blasting the walls to smouldering ruins. With Dremora poured through the gaps, the armies clashing, he knew it was useless to continue firing. The young Imperial threw down his bow as a wave of Dremora at the archers on the left flank, exploding from too close a distance to notch an arrow and fire. His hands went to the knives at his side, and they came up with a flourish, two talons of cold steel. The Daedric forces smashed into them, blood spraying and limbs flying as they collided. A bulky Kynreeve came at him, bearing a massive axe down on him. Alexander retreated swiftly, and the weapon cleaved through the air instead, leaving the Daedric warrior to stumble forwards. The Imperial darted, one blade thrust through the Dremora's eye as he staggered towards him. The tip punched through the back of the Kynreeve's skull, red and glistening. As he pulled his knife free and stepped over the corpse, a scamp leaped out of nowhere and launched itself at Alexander, knocking him over. The creature but didn't realize it had thrown itself onto the knife in the man's left hand, and it screeched when it noticed the curved blade lodged in its stomach. He shoved the pathetic beast off him, fully aware of the gore that now drenched his boiled leather jerkin. The fur paddings that layered his leather hadn't served well so far, only being torn to shreds and increasing his sweat.
The Imperial didn't have to wait long for a new opponent. Almost as soon as he had risen a clannfear prowled towards him, fangs bared. The fight was quick and brutal, Alexander dodging the first lunge, then stepping forward and slashing off a claw. The Daedra howled in pain as a spray of blood burst out the stump, splattering into the Imperial's vision. He wasted no time in sliding his knife through its throat, leaving it to gurgle before collapsing in an every expanding pool of red.
That won Vonius a moment or so of respite, and he gazed around at how the rest of the men were faring. In the centre of the plaza, Caspian Venti and Savian Mattius held the vanguard, standing at the prow of an arrowhead formation that cut down any troops that entered the city gates. Yet even as he watched they were failing. A pair of magnificent fireballs blasted the arrowhead apart, and lightning bolts lanced off the shields of the remaining Guardsmen huddled behind the vanguard.
Alexander was jolted back to his own battle when a massive daedroth lumbered through a gap in the walls, snapping its head at the archers and veering towards them. A few managed to get a shot off, and arrows sprouted from the crocodile-headed Daedra's neck and shoulders, not seeming to do anything to stop it. The hunter brought his knife back and sent it tumbling tip over hilt through the air, whirling at the daedroth. The blade missed its eye, slashing open the thing's snout instead. Blood so dark it was almost black ran down its face, dripping onto the scorched ground. The Daedra howled in pain and spun towards Alexander, who had already thrown his second knife. It imbedded itself neatly in the Daedroth's chest, but didn't do anything more to deter it than the arrows had. And now he had no weapon. The behemoth roared and charged at the puny mortal that had dared to prick it, snapping its jaws in a vicious attempt to rip the Imperial in half. Alexander threw himself backwards at the last second, fangs gnashing unbelievably close to his face. He landed in a heap on his back, the massive beast towering over him, glaring down with cold yellow eyes.
Then a frost spell crackled over his head and caught the crocodile-headed Daedra in the chest, dappling the grey scales in a silvery-blue glow. The beast staggered back and fell over, tried to rise, and then went still, ensnared by the Destructive magicka's numbing grasp.
The side of the Bloated Float kissed the harbour wall, a heavy anchor - spotted with lichen - snaking out of the right side of the ship. It sank through the black waves, drifting down to the sands that lay at the bottom of the docks. With that task done, a heavy wooden plank was placed between the Tavern door and the stone steps of the Waterfront. The door opened, an overwhelming stench spilling out. Blood. Blood and death.
With the stink came a powerfully built Orc with a mess of dark hair, awkward on the plank. He stepped across it gingerly, looking as if he half-expected it to collaspe under his bulk. Next was a slim High Elf, wearing a disgusted expression, nose wrinkled in horror. Still, she was graceful as she walked over the plank, the frayed ends of her tattered blue shrawl playing with the sea-breeze. The last to cross was a ghost. Earlier, Lorbul had reflected how only three had returned from the voyage, but now he realized that it would be more realistic to say that two were alive. Ormil may still have been walking, but there was no joy in it, even now; when they had finally arrived back at the Waterfront. His eyes were haunted, blue and ghost-like themselves. A variety of cuts leapt across his face, several of them already looking to be festering from lack of attention. There had been no healing potions on the ship and Rumare had revealed an ineptness at Restoration. Amongst other things. If the High Elf had felt like smiling, the five gaping holes where his teeth should've been would become apparent. One of the poor mer's ears had been sliced nearly in half, hidden now by a bandage that would've served better for mopping up spilled wine. Even his golden complexion, before looking almost noble, had been dulled, the life seeping out of it. His hair was filthy and salt stained, dried blood crusting the once gleaming tips. Where a rich lemon-coloured doublet had once been, a dirty and ripped rag stood instead. The Grand Champion now wore a light silken shirt and a pair of lamb-wool breeches, riding boots going up to his knees. The Raiment of Valour had been thrown into the ocean, stinking of vomit and blood.
"Ahhh," exclaimed Rumare as she stood on the stone steps that led up to the street, inhaling the fresh air deeply. She smiled, stopping when Lorbul stepped past her. He continued up until he reached the street, observing the early morning congestion that was beginning to emerge. Ox-carts groaned across the roads and the white morning sun splilled out from behind the grey clouds, pale and wan. The Grand Champion lay a firm hand on the girl's shoulder, stopping her from walking out and being ran down by one of the numerous carts. She spun, anger flashing in her eyes.
"I was trying to help," he rumbled as she glared.
"I can cross the road without you holding my hand," the elf said, attempting to wrench his hand away. The gesture was ruined by her fingers slipping, making her lose her footing and stumble back down the stone steps. Lorbul sighed.
"Are you sure you don't need me to hold your hand?" he asked, once she'd got back up.
"Was that a joke?"
It continued like this for the rest of the journey. They were heading for the Imperial outpost a small and twisted tower that leapt out of a clove between two inns. Ormil had said that there was a reward for Selene's death, so it had been decided that they would claim it now they were back. If he and the girl were to embark on some epic quest to save the world, as she put it, they might as well be well-equiped. Lorbul had collected a fair amount of money in the Arena, though he'd spent most of it on wine and swords. The collection of Daedric weapons he'd bought had near beggared him, and he was still paying back much of the money. They needed all the gold they could get. Besides, the traumatized old High Elf was in dire need of help. The Legion had healers even in the Waterfront, and he needed treatment as soon as possible. Ormil hung behind as they walked through the harbour streets, not passing opinion on anything. The bandits had left scars on his outside, true, but the ones within... they ran much deeper.
They reached the ofice eventually, right at the end of the town, where the houses spilled into the woodland beyond the harbour. The buildings there were all skeletons, wooden and fragile, as if a single touch could bring them down. That was where the smugglers lurked. Huddled inside the hovels, away from the rain, waiting for a tide to pick up and take them and their ships back out to sea before they were discovered. Not that they ever were. The criminals were, strangely enough, had an excellent effect on the economy. The inns and brothels were always flowing with Septims, and if the occasional fight broke out, what of it? The gold far made up for the odd death.
Thieves on the other hand... The Legion weren't half so lazy with those brand of outlaws, because, after all, it's a very different matter when the rich themselves are being exploited, not just being sold illegal goods. The whole thing in itself was largely hypocritical, since the two guilds oft did business and complimented each-other's work in such a way.
Rust covered the outpost like a beard, the old iron walls freckled with it. Cobwebs clung to the windows, and the several tiles were missing from the roof. The Imperial Captain that was stationed there was bearded too, though his was short and neatly trimmed. His eyes were bright and alert, looking as if they didn't miss much. His hair was brushed and clean and cropped. He certainly didn't look as if he'd been in the job for long, appearance answered for that. The capatain sat at a desk immediately as the door was opened, the first floor of the outpost taken up entirely by paperwork. A curve of desks made a curtain around half of the room, several chairs and piles of papers piled behind them. A lantern burned coldly on two of the the wooden workplaces, and yet Lorbul still felt no warmth. He approached the man. The Imperial glanced up at them for a few seconds, eyes widening the more he saw. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out and the Orc was forced to speak.
"We came here for the bounty," he told him.
"There are a lot of bounties," the man said after a few seconds, still looking at Ormil, who hovered behind them near the door, as if he expected to have to make a break for it.
"The Blackwater Brigands. Heard of them?"
The Imperial sucked air through his teeth. "Selene?"
"Dead."
"How?" the Captain wanted to know.
"The girl," said Lorbul, pointing at her. The man's eyes narrowed in confusion. "How could sh-"
"Magic," cut in Rumare. The Imperial's gaze filled with mistrust. Mages were seldom seen by the Legion without that look. It was a look perfected from centuries of slavery to magic users, a look that had judged thousands and thousands before.
"Hmm," the Legionaire said. He looked at them for a while longer, and then scratched his nose. "Well, he certainly proves you're not having a joke."
Rumare muttered something about that being highly unlikely. The Grand Champion scowled at her and then replied to the Captain. "That's the innkeeper of the Bloated Float."
The man frowned in disbelief. "Ormil?" he asked. Ormil just looked at him.
"It's a long story," said the girl.
"Tell it." The captain stood up, allowing them to look at his armour for the first time. The breast-plate was a snowy white with golden chasings, a silver dragon glittering proudly on it. The gauntlets were pale, too, the knuckles gilded. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Lorbul immediately. The two High Elves looked less sure, but accepted all the same. The legionaire nodded and walked to a cabinet that stood against a wall, opening it. He returned to his desk with a cask of wine a few seconds later, sitting down and uncorking it. He offered tankards to the company. They took them. The Orc lifted the vintage, drinking deeply.
"Now, this... story?"
And so they told him. The Amulet was, of course, missed out - they didn't exactly want Rumare took over for the most of it, having been concious more than him. By the time she was finished, the Champion was onto his second cup and the captain was looking shocked. "You say that Selene is definitely dead?" he wanted to know.
"The corspe that lies on the ship is blackened and scorched, true. I see no reason for it not to be Selene's, though," Lorbul rumbled.
"Aye." The man looked undecided, fingering his beard. "Well, I suppose I could give you the reward. But..." he said, seemingly struck by a thought, "I'll only give you half the gold - since the evidence is so shaky. And if I hear of the Brigands alive in the future..." He didn't need to finish, the threat was obvious.
Rumare's nostrils flared, as if to say 'how dare you suggest that I might try to cheat you?' Lorbul fixed her with a steely look to stop her from verbally assaulting the poor man and losing them all the money.
"Thank you," he told the captain gratefully, though his eyes were devoid of any emotion.
They left the outpost after that, leaving Ormil behind. The Legion, the man had told them, had several battlemages that might be able to patch up his current frailty of a mind. What remained of the reward was considerable, certainly enough to buy them the mounts that would get them to the priory. The Orc insisted that they ride as soon as possible, to leave the horrors of the city behind. Truth be told, he was rather looking forward to the journey; it'd been a while since he'd ventured West.
The pair had saddled the horses and were half way through leading them out of the stables when Rumare announced that she had no idea how to ride.
Alexander stumbled through the ruins of the city gates, a bloodied longsword clasped in both hands. He couldn't remember when he'd picked it up, but it had served him faithfully since. The skies grumbled overhead, an angry red. Black clouds rolled across and lightning flickered behind them, dark against the glowing sky.
A flaming portal stood some way ahead, Daedric troops filing out. There it is If I can stop them coming out, we're saved. Or at least from one gate. A jagged archway, wide enough to allow twelve Dremora in full armour to pass. Only six charged now, though. Alexander raised his sword high, an invitation. Fourteen guardsmen stood with him, claymores brandished and faces grim. The Daedric squad appeared to notice them, for they raised their weapons in response, clanging them against their breastplates. The Imperial concluded they were mainly Dremora, though he spied one or two clannfear scurrying at the flanks.
The otherworldly soldiers came rushing in, moving faster than anyone had a right to in such heavy raiment. Within six strides they were upon them, red swords kissing the grey. He saw the Dremora men on his right cut down at least three Daedra in the first few seconds, his greatsword whirling and falling. The one on the left faired reasonably, too, taking off a clannfear's head with his first swing, and bringing down his sword on a Churl with his second. Alexander himself, who was not known for his swordsmanship, fought reasonably, darting in and putting a blade through a wounded Kynreeve's chest - already heavily feathered with arrows - when a blow send it stumbling, then taking his head clean off in a broad sweep of his longsword. Another stepped forth to take his place.
Blood soaked the Imperial's boiled jerkin and a fine sheen of sweat coated him, glistening with every move. "Fall back," shouted the guardsman on the left as he was stabbed at by a burly Kynval with a spear.
"Never," said Alexander triumphantly, slashing left then right in quick succession at the new foe - a low ranking scamp missing half an eye. Both the its arms dropped to the ground with a squelch, severed at the elbow. He drove his sword through the beast's chest and then slammed a shoulder into it, sending it sprawling.
"You're mad," shouted the guard in disbelief, ducking under a slash. Another slash raked across his chest, cutting him in half.
Only three Kyn remained now, and that number was lessened as the guardsman got the best of the spear-wielding foe, his claymore cutting the shaft in half, and then descending on the Dremora's head.
The last one looked to be a senior Dremora. Alexander came at the him from the side, his blade scraping across his armour and sending him stumbling. The three them set upon the Kyn together, eventually managing to get the better of him.
The young Imperial panted, out of breath. His longsword was chipped and stained with blood, and his coal-black hair was plastered to his brow, once piercing eyes now bloodshot and exhausted. This was his fifth battle in the last few days, and by far the most isolated.
"What now?" asked a guard bitterly, glaring hatefully at the corpses of the slain Daedra.
The slender boy pointed his sword towards the Oblivion Gate. "We have to get to that. If we can stop them from coming through, we might have a chance."
"How?"
"They're transporting their weapons, soldiers, healers, everything, using the Gates. If we cut it off, they've lost."
The ten men nodded, sliding their swords onto their backs and setting off. The ground was scorched and crumbled under their heavy steel boots, spilled blood soaked well into the earth. They drew closer to the gate, glancing around to find no enemies. Screams were audible back in the city behind them, but they sounded far off, no near threat. Closer and closer they got to the jagged archway, the flames in it beating with an unsteady rhythm.
And then, as the gateway was no more than five yards away, it happened. The wall of fire flickered, and another squad came leaping out the redness. There were five in total, two Xivilai in the centre and three Dremora on their sides. One of the Xivilai held a massive greatsword, five feet of gleaming Daedric steel, scarred from numerous usage. It was a mighty weapon, yet he only used one hand to wield it. The other was without a sword or axe, preferring his hands – they glowed with Destructive magicka. Both of the Xivilai were bare-chested, and stood at least a foot taller than their comrades, their skin iron grey.
The Catiffs threw themselves at the three Imperials, eager to impress the higher-ranking Daedra. The claymores flashed off the guards' backs and they met the charge, blows raining down as they fought – two against three. That left the Xivilai for Alexander. He brandished his longsword and charged towards them, certain that they would fall as easily as the rest of their kind. They didn't. The one with the blade chuckled darkly and said something in an alien tongue, the words vicious and guttural. The Imperial tried a stab at the Daedra, whose greatsword came up in a looping cut to knock the strike aside and stagger him. The Xivilai grinned hungrily, and slashed at him, the massive blade very nearly slicing him in half, the hunter stepping back at the last second to avoid it. Alexander dodged another swing and lunging forward, the tip of longsword going straight to the Daedra's bare chest. The blade shattered in a hundred shards when it touched the Xivilai. He stared blankly at what remained of his weapon, letting it fall to floor numbly. The warrior tipped his head back and laughed again, sounding half an animalistic roar. Alexander turned to run, but he barely made it three steps before the other Xivilai – the barehanded mage - sent a tendril of darkness snaking into his back, lifting the Imperial off the floor and suspending him in the air; completely incapable of moving a muscle.
And then the pain hit. Such pain he had never known, feeling as if countless knives were cutting into every inch of his skin, as if searing flames that licked against him, melting his flesh and burning, burning like hellfire. It felt as he was being ripped apart, as if his bones were bending and snapping, his very essence being torn to pieces. He screamed, screamed and wept till his throat was raw, his eyes were red and the world began to fade, until there was just the pain, the unbearable pain…
And then, when he begged wordlessly for death, for relief, the torturous spell lifted, knives retracting, flames fanning out, and Alexander dropped like a stone to a crumpled heap on the floor. Slowly, colour began to return to the world. As he lay there shivering, out of the corner of his eye the young man glimpsed one of the guards being mowed down by a Dremora with a morningstar, the spiked head smashing into the Imperial's skull and rupturing it like an overripe melon.
A man loomed over him – no, wait, not a man; men didn't have grey skin and red eyes, and in all his years, Alexander had never seen such a vicious look on a human face. The Xivilai mage stared down at the mortal and smiled.
"D-don't kill me," pleaded the young man, tears streaming. "I n-need to say sorry… sorry… to-"
A dagger glinted in the Daedra's hands, eight inches of otherworldly steel. The Xivilai leaned down and seized him roughly by his hair, pulling his head back and pressing the cold edge of blade to his adam's apple. He dragged the blade across his throat, a great gout of black blood spraying out. He fell back, arms splayed out s if he'd been pinned to a crucifix. Alexander Vonius was dead before he hit the ground.
A/N: Well, that felt like a marginably good chapter. I'd appreciate it if you tell me everything I've done wrong (which I'm sure is a lot), since it really helps me improve. Please review if you've got any questions you want me to answer. I don't care if the review is just 'well done, nice chapter', as long as you review. See you in my next update.