(A/N: Thanks again for all the reviews; here's the new chapter.
Disclaimer: I'm not Bethesda. Morrowind isn't mine.)
Death's Kiss - Chapter Three - Flickering Lights.
Sometimes I wonder why I don't just kill myself. Flexing my fingers, I tap my claws against my throat teasingly, then lift them up and prepare to drive them through the scales and into the soft flesh below, letting the blood gush out in red spurts. Something stays my malevolent hand, however, and forces it to drop, as always. I have tested it before; no matter the method, I am unable to bring myself to commit suicide. I do not fear death, and have no scruples against it, so I have no idea what keeps me from doing away with myself. Snarling at the unknown preventor, I instead deliver a non-fatal but nonetheless painful blow to my ribs, ripping open a huge, glistening red gash and grinning broadly even as I utter a tormented moan. "Cut off the nose to spite the face" is a saying I live by anymore.
When I clambered down from the tree earlier and continued my journey, it was midnight. I have been wandering the marsh in the same bleak spirits since then, and it is now midday. The stubborn survivor inside me makes me pack the dire wound closed with mud, lest I bleed to death. Growling, hissing and cursing them, I push to my knees out of the soft, dank soil and trudge onward, tail twitching irritably.
Yelping sounds catch my attention, and I see a couple of the oddest creatures I have ever seen engaged in a fight. Rather than fur or flesh or feathers, they are encased in gray-green carapaces. Their protruding, swiveling balloons of eyes are red as fresh-spilt blood. Their four legs are ended in three-toed feet, their mouthparts bear uncanny resemblance to those of an insect, and they emit doglike noises as they bludgeon each other with their forefeet. I have heard of these creatures; they're called nix-hounds.
Under normal circumstances, the beasts would likely have aimed to attack me. But for the time being, they are precoccupied with dueling each other. I watch them as I walk, wondering what they fight for. Fun? Territory? A mate? I have heard that in the Black Marsh, male Argonians battle for such reasons, bashing their oversized horns together in tests of might. To this Argonian, such dueling seems a waste of the ultimately more powerful fangs, claws and flexible but strong bodies with which our kind has been blessed. Or cursed, considering these very "gifts" are the reason my race is so valued on the slave market. I look down at my clawed hands now, flexing them tentatively as I remember the many shades of flesh they have torn through. When I look back, the nix-hounds are out of view. My hands lower and hang at my sides as I continue on.
Even a murderer needs rest. To my right, the ground has risen gradually as I walked, by now forming a towering wall of dank mud. I pinwheel on my feet and let myself collapse backward into the wall, sliding down into a sitting position and momentarily enjoying the mud's cool, smooth texture against my scales. My eyes squeeze shut, then open slightly. Dragonflies and mosquitoes dance as they fly before my eyes, mudcrabs drag themselves through the slude, rats skip through bogs and shake their fur dry. Low squeaks, hums, howls and chirps fill the swamp with a peaceful, natural sort of music. It would be enough to lull one to sleep... but other sounds intrude. The sounds of humans and mer speaking, laughing and shouting, of food trolleys wheeling over cobblestone paths, of guards reprimanding citizens for petty crimes. My eyes open wide in confusion.
"Is my mind playing tricks on me?" I mutter to myself, sitting up tense and scratching the fringes on my left gill. I look up at the wall of soil behind me. "No... it's coming from up there." I am thoughtfully quiet for an instant; then I turn around and leap onto the wall, easily sinking my claws into the soft soil and clambering up it. Though the wall is not perfectly vertical, it is very steep, and the mud is too pliable, coming away in chunks under my weight and setting me back. I dig my limbs in deeper, to where the soil is more tightly packed, and haul myself all the way to the top at last. A strange sight meets with me there, though consistent with the sounds I heard earlier.
There is a city here. The rows and rows of buildings are squat and square, made of a tough tan substance akin to plaster in appearance, the same substance with which the streets are paved, and rails and steps built of. Green glass windows glint out of the buildings like verdant eyes. Men and women, human and mer, rich and poor, old and young, stride through the streets, keeping up lively conversations as they head for home, work or a tavern. Some are wheeling small food trolleys through the streets, selling gristly meats, sweet buns and milky candies to passersby. Dunmer guards keep watch, shelled in heavy golden armor that covers all but their calloused blue hands. The whole city seems to gleam golden in the waning sun, a silver-blue river cutting just through its center from what I can tell. It is a sight to see, worlds apart from the bleak marsh just below it.
Currently, I am pressed against the back of a small building, watching this all in secrecy. The harshness of my breath shocks me to my senses. Slipping the leather pack off my shoulders, I unbutton the flap and open it. I take out the robe and pull it over my head, noting that it only extends to my knees. For no reason in particular, I also take out the ridiculous triangular hat and jam it over my skull. Tail wagging restlessly under the robe, I step out into the open and walk out into the streets.
As dusk sets in, the trolley owners begin to head for home, as do the rest of the city folk. The guards are understandably cautious at this hour, and bristle at my approach.
"Halt! Who goes there, stranger?" a guard demands of me, brandishing a shortsword. I hold my hands up to show I hold no weapons, though my claws certainly qualify on their own.
"A stranger goes here," I reply. "I am from out of the city. Could you tell a lost wanderer where they stand?"
"You are in Balmora, stranger," the guard informs. I blink.
"Balmora?" If I am correct, this is the place I am to take the message. I was wandering the marsh without aim; what are the odds I would end up here? A short, sharp laugh escapes my throat, which only heightens the guard's suspicions and causes him to clench his weapon tighter. Apparently, my look is as unaccommodating as my personality. The scars may have something to do with it. Still, this guard's skittishness tells me he is new to his job. Feigning oblivion to his fear, I draw a step closer. Sure enough, the guard backs up a step, realizing that even without armor I surpass him in height.
"Stay back, n'wah!" he snaps, hoarse voice quivering as rapidly as his blade. "I'll have no trouble out of you!" I let my hands fall to my sides.
"You'll have no trouble out of me, sera," I smile sadistically. "Not for the time being, that is." So saying, I turn and walk off.
"You should stay at an inn tonight," the guard calls after me. "Safer, that way." Safer for whom--me, or the public? I'm guessing the latter.
When the night is fully cast out over the sky in all its blackness, white pinpoints showing through in the shapes of many stars and twin moons, I am slinking through the streets, worming my way around corners and casting pointless looks through opaque green windows. The gold is gone from Balmora with the sun, faded to gray while the city sleeps, and here I am, still awake. The river cutting through the city shines silver in the light of the two moons, two arched bridges running smoothly out of the pavement, across the contained waters, and returning to pavement on the other side. I spare the bridges the feel of my feet and leap swiftly across without their aid, the sound of running river waters echoing up the manmade canal sides and throughout my skull.
The houses on this side of the river are packed together so tightly they form a wall, two arched openings allowing passage through to the next row. I pass under an arch, breath forming crystal smoke in the air. One part of this city that I can see still rings with laughter and light, a building far to my right, drawing nearer as I approach it. The lights inside shine through the windows and cast green rays on the ground, the sounds of merriment, drinking contests and bar fights barging through cracks. I open the door and slip inside.
There is, indeed, a bar in here. But it is downstairs; I shove my way around corners past flushed patrons on their way out, whisking down the stairwell in a single bound and landing unharmed on the lower floor. Here, people crowd around the bar and put their drakes down. The bartender slaps the drakes into a money pouch and serves the foaming flagons of alcohol the restless crowd craves. The drink flowing through their systems, the patrons dance and laugh, make foam beards and play-growl. A little play can launch into a full-fledged fight, however, and it is up to the bouncer--a tall orc man with flared nostrils--to eject such cases, and any directly involved, from the tavern. This seedy old place, however, is home to more than tired commonfolk, as is evidenced by the shady characters pressed up against the walls, muttering secretively to each other and paying little or no attention to the occasional slob who stumbles their way. I snarl at the underhanded connivers as I pass, reminded of my past slavery under such as them.
Pushing my way past the drunken groups, I lean on the counter and keep my place stubbornly, looking the bartender, a fair-skinned human man, straight in the eye. He pretends to ignore me, drying out a drained flagon with a grimy washrag, but my glare is piercing, and the tender can stand it no longer.
"What is it, Argonian?" he cries, exasperated. "I'm busy tonight!"
"I am looking for a man, name of Caius Cosades," I explain, unperturbed.
"He lives in the last row of houses on this side," the bartender informs, setting out three flagons and filling them with brew from a smoky brown bottle. Wiping his forehead of sweat with his sleeve, he jerks his thumb to the right. "Lives at the end. That way."
"Much obliged, sera." I slip my elbow off the bar and leave the man to his work, tromping toward the stairs. A drunken Dunmer staggers in front of me.
"What're you doin' off yer leash, lizard?" he slurs, poking me in the chest. "Huh? HUH?"
"Out of my way," I growl. The Dunmer and the Argonians have a long-standing hatred for each other, due to the Dunmer slavers who capture Argonians in their own marsh to be sold as slaves. I am too far removed from my own race to feel such a personal loathing, but I don't like being insulted.
"What if I don't wanna--don't wanna move?" he shoots back, pushing his face in mine and breathing an alcoholic stench on me. "What then? Huh? HUH? HUH??"
"Then this is going to hurt," I hiss, fangs bared.
"Huh?" the mer utters, confused. I grab his shoulders and slam him against the wall, knocking him unconscious. Of course, he would have passed out on his own later, anyway. That out of the way, I leap back up the stairs and exit the tavern.
The second row of houses forms a wall as well. Again, two arches allow entrance into the next and final row. The third row is higher up than the previous two; beneath the arches are sets of stairs, made from the same substance as the pavement. Showing a blatant disregard for trivial conveniences as always, I hop up over these steps as well. These back houses are fewer and farther apart, their backs pressing right up against a high mountain range. Turning to my right as the bartender advised, I see a house sitting plainly at the very end, of the same make as all the rest. A tree grows right beside it, roots prying apart the house's foundation. The house faces me so directly that it's almost as if it's challenging me to come in. I don't pass it up.
I approach the door, then waver before it hesitantly. Conniving past the buttoned flap, my hand squeezes into my pack and withdraws the letter from the moneybag, then worms back out with it. I stare at the letter, and the cordially printed "Caius Cosades" on it, wondering if I really want to be here.
No time to reconsider. Apparently, the windows aren't so opaque on the inside; the house's inhabitant notices me and swings the door open before I can even knock. Said inhabitant is an aging human man, with thinning gray hair and, unfortunately, no shirt. He squints at me, trying to discern my reptilian features in the dark.
"Do I know you?" he wonders. I sniff the air.
"No," I say. "Did you know your house reeks of skooma?"
"Yes, I did," he replies irritably. "What are you here about?"
"I take it your name is Caius Cosades?" I query carelessly, looking around the house's interior behind him. It's a modest one-room abode, with a small shelf on one wall above a heavy chest, a table for meals, a small bedside table beside that, and a bed to accompany it. The man is far from a tidy housekeeper, with miscellany strewn about the place. I note that the skooma scent seems be coming from the bed, and a grainy pink substance that looks suspiciously like moonsugar rests on the end table. The man smells heavily of both drugs.
"That's me," he nods. "An old man with a skooma problem."
"And a moonsugar problem, from the smell of it," I add. "Why would the officials want me to see a man obviously addicted to illegal drugs, such as yourself?"
"What about the officials?" he asks curiously.
"Perhaps if I could come in..." I insinuate. Eying me mistrustfully, he relents and lets me inside. I duck inside, noting that I'm easily four inches taller than he. Caius shuts the door behind me, and I hand him the letter clutched in my hand.
"This should clear things up," I decide. "It's only gibberish to me, but I expect you'll know what it says." Taking the letter from me, Caius scans though it in a comprehensive way that tells me my guess was correct. Finishing up, he gazes at me with a studious expression.
"Yes. Very interesting." He coughs. "So. It says here the Emperor wants me to make you a Novice in the Blades. And that means you'll be following my orders. Are you ready to follow my orders, 'the Serpent'?" He cracks a smile despite himself upon saying my name.
"Call me what you will, if you have a better name for me," I glower. "What sort of 'orders' does the Emperor wish me to fulfill?" I assume that I am to serve as an assassin once more.
"Are you ready to follow my orders?" Caius repeats seriously.
"Yes," I answer reluctantly.
"Good," he smiles, holding out a hand amiably. "Welcome to the service, Novice Serpent. Now you belong to the Blades. We're the Emperor's eyes and ears in the provinces." I blink, hesitantly taking his hand and shaking it tentatively.
"So, essentially," I say, "you're a spy?"
"Essentially," he avers.
"Not an assassin?" I prod.
"...uh, no." A wave of relief washes over me at his reply.
"Good," I say. "Now, about those orders..."
"First thing, pilgrim," Caius says, clapping his hands together. "You smell like a swamp. Go clean yourself off and find a decent change of clothes, and then we'll talk."
"As you say, sera," I agree shamelessly, sarcastically bowing. The hat falls off in response to this inclination. Standing again, I notice that Caius looks slightly perplexed, his eyes fixated on my head.
"What is it?" I prompt.
"I just... hadn't realized you were female," he says honestly. I run a hand over the two short horns his eyes are trained on.
"Ah, no worries," I respond. "I forget myself, half the time." In truth, gender identity is not a top priority when one serves as little more than a killing machine for most of one's life. "Farewell." I head out the door and into the streets.
I am crossing the bridge again when it occurs to me that I actually held up a cordial conversation. I wasn't aware I could do such a thing. Perhaps my newfound freedom is bringing out the best in me.
A second thing occurs to me: I am free. The thought makes me smile, just a little. When I was a child, before my spirit was broken, I would have danced with joy at being released. My spirit is too darkened by years of murder for me to feel so ecstatic now, but I do feel a twinge of joy at the full realization of my emancipation.
I notice, then, the river below me. I should clean the marsh smell off me, as Caius said; but somehow, I don't think I'll fit in at the local bathhouse. It would likely be best to bathe in said river.
So in I jump, and away I swim.
(Tell me what you thought of that chapter, and Chapter Four will be on its way.)