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Word count.
Original: 1,134.
Re-write: 3,017
Chapter I
Angelus Mortis
Mortis
The inn reeks of piss and sweat, stale mead and blood. The Imperial legion have no authority here and they know it, this is Stormcloak territory and that means anyone not wearing the blue armour of their "just" cause is treated second rate or like a traitor. Apparently if you're not on their side then you're the enemy.
Skyrim's not even on the edge of war anymore it just hasn't fully tipped over yet. The people know a storm is coming and they'll have to pick a side. There won't be innocents or objectors in this coming war. Everyone will either pick up their iron and steel or they'll fall to someone else's. I lean back in my chair, just watching the door.
Sven said the Stormcloak sergeant normally comes in for a drink, meal and bed. Apparently he's tall, like most Nords. Bulky and muscled. He's greying and walks with a pronounced limp. According to Sven he comes into to sit with the younger soldiers and older Nords who due to a variety of reasons cannot aid the Stormcloaks in the war apart from words of encouragement and all their war stories of when they fought against the Dominion in the last war. When they helped the Empire.
The tavern wench flitters from table to table, swaying her hips and enticing the young soldiers to buy more drinks and food. She laughs at the right moments in their jokes and stories, earning her tips and more orders. Must be why Sven keeps her around.
Guy who hired me went through so many middlemen and smokescreens I'm not even sure why he wants this guy dead, only that he wants the younger soldiers to see him go down. Really I should've gotten paid before I came here. I didn't realise how many there'd be. At least a lot of them are drunk by now.
This many Stormcloaks I can't fight and this close to Windhelm, I'll be chased down hung, drawn and quartered. If I'm lucky. I move the bottle away from myself slightly, sliding it along the table. Sven walks over to my table in the corner, in the shadows. He sits down opposite me. He scratches at his chin, at the scraggily hair growing on the bottom half of his face. He looks tired and he has bandages covering his left forearm.
"How're you going to do it?" He asks leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table. Leaning more to the right.
"Don't know yet." I lean back in my chair, adjusting my dagger. "Might stab him." I mumble, looking away from the man in front of me and back to the Stormcloaks.
Sven just nods absently, looking around at all of the young soldiers around the inn. "You got plans for Ulfric?" He asks, looking back at me.
I squint slightly, looking him in the eyes. "If someone pays me, aye." I glance back at them.
"Only if they pay you?" Sven quickly asks.
I lean forward getting closer to Sven. "I don't appreciate your questions."
Sven quickly leans back and noticeably gulps. A large Orc walks in, taking a seat at the bar, an odd axe hanging from his belt. Orcs round these parts, Skyrim's a dangerous place for non-Nords especially this close to Windhelm. I turn back to Sven, he's a strange looking man. Small for a Nord, thin too. I'd be surprised if the Stormcloaks haven't bullied him into paying taxes for the war, after all they'll need all the weapons and armour they can get a hold of and all that costs money. Although with so many of their men coming to his inn they probably don't want to scare him off. A man like him runs at the first sign of trouble.
The sergeant limps in. A few of the Stormcloak recruits stand up out of respect. Miss-placed, but so is the respect in the Empire. They salute it's an old Nord salute, one that the Skyrim divisions of the Imperial Legions used to do before they "lost" the last war.
"That's him." Sven says, watching the man.
I glance at him, before quickly turning my attention back to the sergeant. "Aye?" He nods, not looking at me.
"When you going to do it?" He asks turning around in his chair so he can watch the sergeant talk to the young recruits and the older Nords. He walks over to some other Stormcloak officers, tankard of mead in hand. Greeting them loudly, too loudly. It'd make it easier to get up behind him, his shouting looks to be distracting everyone around him. I could do it now, walk up behind him and stab him in the back. Or I could wait for him to drink himself to bed and slit his throat while he sleeps. Both plans are simple but both have the potential to fail. Getting into the room he's staying in will be difficult, apparently the majority of these soldiers stay here all night. If I'm lucky I can stab him in the back and slip out during the confusion.
I look at Sven, he's alternating between watching the sergeant and me. "Now." I stand up, pushing the chair back as I do. The legs scrape loudly against the floor. The rooms full of laughter and shouting. The sergeant speaks too loud. I quickly move towards the centre of the room where he is, still laughing and talking with the older Nords and the older more senior Stormcloaks. The ones who were around when they were still part of the Imperial forces.
I walk around the crowd of soldiers, there's a lot of them but the majority aren't armed. The ones that are have cheap iron weapons, most of which look blunt, a few of them only have knifes. I come to a stop behind him. I lean back behind one of the other soldiers, keeping out of the sight of the ones standing in front of the sergeant, facing my direction. I slowly slide my dagger out of the sheath on my belt, hiding it in my sleeve.
"Assassin!" Sven screams, managing to be heard over all the other noise.
Everyone stops talking and moving.
The sergeant turns around, searching for the assassin.
We lock eyes.
I move forward driving the dagger up in-between his ribs. He gasps as I force the dagger in higher and deeper. There's some shouting behind me, a lot of movement in the corner of my eye. Slipping out isn't happening.
His legs buckle. He falls. The dagger slides out. I'm left holding the weapon.
I look around, everyone's staring in silence.
"Bollocks."
One of the Stormcloaks draws his sword swinging it down overhead. I quickly move back, and swing my arm up to try and block the strike with the dagger. He slams his sword into the small blade and I have to brace my arm, lifting my left hand up to support the weapon. I quickly move forward, pushing all of my weight into him to try and push him back. He loses his footing and stumbles backwards, I quickly follow up on this and move my hands out of the way, slamming my shoulder into him and throwing him back into a small group of soldiers who were moving into attack.
Another soldier moves forward, slashing with his sword, I move back narrowly avoiding his broad swing. I stumble as I try to avoid the other soldiers around me. He steps forward and I take a risk, stabbing him in the shoulder, the weak point in his armour. He pulls back and I lose my grip on the daggers hilt. A mace is slammed into my stomach forcing me to the floor. I try to push myself up, onto my knees. A sharp blade on the back of my neck stops me.
"Hold it." A man with an incredibly strong Nord accent orders, he presses the blade harder against my neck. "Where's Sven?!" He shouts over the heavy silence. There's a loud bang and the sound of another chair scrapping against the wooden floor.
"Here!" One of the soldiers shouts, pushing the smaller man forward, he looks down at me and I make eye contact with him.
There's a small jangle. "The Stormcloak army would like to thank you for your help." The man grunts, he throws a small leather sack to Sven who only just manages to catch the small bag of coins. "Take the assassin away." He grumbles. There's a sharp pain on the back of my head, I feel myself fall forward before everything goes black.
"Wake up!" A voice shouts, there's a sloshing sound and then something being thrown in my face. "Wake up!" I open my eyes slowly, the bloke with the now empty bucket slaps my face hard. "You're lucky to still be alive." He snarls at me, showing off a mouthful of brown teeth. He's an older man, grey and black hair. He looks over me, then spits on me. "Traitor."
My hands are shackled together, braced against the wall over my head. We're in a dark room, the only light source being a couple of torches near the heavy wood and iron door. He walks over to a chair and table. A set of tools for torture on the surface. Thumbscrews, a pair of anguish and a tongue tearer. There's a wooden horse on the wall adjacent.
"No I'm not." I mumble looking at the tools, the man turns back to look at me. "I've missed a quick death."
He smiles grimly, showing off those dark brown teeth again. "Now you'll be executed for the good Nords of Skyrim." He walks back towards me, and crouches down in front of me.
"And for the pleasure of the great and honourable Ulfric Stormcloak?" I grumble, looking him dead in the eyes.
He leans forward, his face uncomfortably close to mine. "You'll do good to hold your tongue, cut throat." He stands up, moving to the door, he puts his hand on the heavy opening mechanism. "You'll rot in here until your time comes."
The guards moved me into a cell. I think I've been in here for about seven months. It's hard to keep track of the days but I've been scratching lines in the stone for each day that's passed. One of the Guards walks passed my cell, throwing a chunk of charred, questionable meat between the bars.
"Water?!" I call to his back, leaning against the bars and letting my arms dangle out of them.
He turns around, his blue and chainmail armour looking a lot more threatening in the dim light, he walks back over to the cell. His helmet doesn't give anything away about his emotions or what he's thinking. "You're lucky you're getting fed." He mumbles, staring down at me.
He stands there in silence, just watching me. He rests his hand on the top of his axe and walks around to the front of the cell. He looks down at the chunk of meat, before turning around and walking away.
There's a loud banging on the bars, metal on metal. Striking to the very core.
"Wake up. You've got a visitor." The guard mocks.
I open my eyes to see a large Orc, wearing thick and heavy plated armour. Unlike normal plate armour though the plates on his are made of leather. There's a guard stood next to him, the same one who normally brings the "food". The Orc looks down at me, his face has a few scars on it. Bad ones. He looks older than most Orcs you see around, probably around forty years old, maybe a few more.
It's the same Orc from the inn. I didn't notice much about him but the strange axe hanging from his waist is a giveaway. The intricate design carved into the steel.
I raise an eyebrow as he continues to look down at me. "The leader of the Dawnguard would like to extend an offer to you." He announces, resting his forearm against the bars.
I pull myself up using the bars. "Aye?" I ask, pulling myself up to my full height, the Orc is taller than me. At least by about four inches. "What would that be?"
He looks at the Stormcloak guard. "Five thousand septims for a couple of jobs." I look at the Orc, he doesn't smirk and his expression is dead serious. I glance at the guard.
I lean forward pressing my forehead against the bars, looking back at the Orc. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm in prison." I grumble.
He smirks, showing some very broad and sharp teeth. "Which doesn't put you in a situation for negotiations." He takes a step back, letting his arm fall back to his side.
I let my arms dangle through the bars, leaning heavily against the door. "Alright." I look down at the floor. "What's the deal?"
"We can get you out." The Orc says. "You get half, do the jobs, you get the other half." He leans closer to the bars, getting down to my level. "And you do the jobs."
"Aye?" I step back from the bars, stumbling ever so slightly as I spread my arms out a bit. "Let's go meet your leader then."
The carriage ride is long and relatively uneventful, I managed to talk "Durak" into going to an old cabin near Sven's inn so I could collect my equipment. Durak sits at the very front of the carriage, leading it to the fort near Riften. I wasn't even aware there was a fort near Riften. Well at least not one of note. I sit slightly behind him, I turn the ring around my finger, looking down at the old piece of dulled silver.
"What's his name?" I croak, having not said a lot for the past four hours.
"Isran." He brings the whips down onto the horses. "He said only a man with your specific skill sets could get these jobs done."
"Aye?" I lean back slightly. My shrouded armour needs repairing around the left arm. The cloak is already ripped to pieces. And the majority of the chainmail around the shoulders is only half hanging on. "Sounds like he knows what he's talking about."
Durak, just gives out half a scoff, spitting off to the side. "Here we are." He announces. "Fort Dawnguard."
I look up from my armour and my ring. The fort is larger than I expected. There's sentries of to the sides and the valley creates a natural choke point, should it ever come under attack. There's sharpened wooden supports, pointing out so that any invaders wouldn't be able to climb the sides of the valley. It's an impressive building no doubt, standing tall and proud with its architecture giving off an intimidating feel. Shame its empty.
The carriage comes to stop at the bottom of the steps leading to the keep doors. "Isran will be up there, waiting." Durak states. I look at the back of the Orc's head. He doesn't bother looking at me or the fort, just forward. I pull my glove back on, stretching my hand as the thick leather creaks loudly.
I climb off not saying anything to Durak, my feet hit the dirt ground and I glance at the Orc over my shoulder. He looks at me, turning his head to the side slightly. I turn away and start to walk up the steps, they're steep which would give the defenders the advantage during an attack. I reach the keep doors, their massive, made of wood, heavy planks stacked on top of each other and braced with iron. The doors are heavy, hard to push as I have to brace my footing and put all my weight into forcing it to move. Good should they ever come under attack.
The door finally opens, letting in a strip of light, illuminating the dark room. There's a Redguard sat up against the wall. Heavy armour, the same as what Durak was wearing, except his is covered in black, probably tar. He has a war hammer on his back, from my very limited view of the hammers head it has a very similar design carved into it as Durak's axe. He stands up, brushing a hand through his long beard. He's older as well, probably around a similar age to Durak.
"You're the assassin?" He asks, his voice is deep and gravelly. Carries a lot of authority in his tone. He walks over to me, coming to a stop around a metre away from me.
"Aye." I answer, watching his movements as he looks at me and squints. As if he's trying to look through me and decide if I'm telling the truth.
"Angelus Mortis." He says, starting to walk around me, in a broad circle, never straying from his metre of distance. "The Angel of Death, Azrael or whatever you go by." He comes to a stop in front of me again.
"Mortis is fine."
He lets a small grin spread on his face. "I've got a job for you." He tells me, looking my armour up and down.
I look off to the side, there's a stairwell, a spiral stairwell leading up to a higher level. I look up at the balcony, I turn my attention back to Isran. "So I've heard.
He moves his hands behind his back, clasping them together and straightening out his posture. "What do you know about vampires?"