Author's Note: I do not own Oblivion or any of its subsequent awesomeness. Sorry to disappoint. D:
NoSoundComes – Thank you! I know what you mean – the first chapter was action (and fully presented from the PoV of everyone's favorite vampire assassin), and writing about Avielle isn't as engaging. Regardless, Vicente can't be off being awesome all the time.
Arty – even taking the time to review makes me happy. :D I hope you like this next chapter, I tried to work some humor into here.
DualKatanas – spelling errors? D: I'm using an annoying offshoot of Microsoft Word because my good computer was just crashed – my mom refuses to let me use it for anything now. I don't like this new program and my fingers just aren't used to this keyboard – a bit small, so I'm finding myself typoing more a lot. If you see any in the future, can you please point them out to me? I'm not a perfectionist, but I get nitpicky about that sort of thing.
With her personality – I'll fully admit, when I first started this story, I was writing for the heck of writing something. I wasn't even sure what her name was when I wrote that chapter, much less the plot. :B Now I have a destination in mind, so I'll probably keep things more consistent from here on out. Again, I tried to show a hint of her panicky side in this chapter, blended in with her typical mages' arrogance.
Long author's notes? The fact is, I hate private messaging. I don't know why, but it's true. I get tangled up if I can't keep all of my conversations in one place, like a review board and its story (or where I can directly tack a reply onto your review, which I can't do here). Also, posting replies to my reviewers up here is a way of thanking them for taking the time to check out my work. I figure if somebody don't want to read me prattling on, it's easy enough to scroll down anyways. If you'd prefer to not have me reply to your reviews up here, just let me know. :s
And with the upload rate – I write fast when I'm into it, as I am now. You can expect it to peter out at some point. Also, I'll update more frequently during the weekends, when I have the time. (I do my writing on weekends and my story planning in class, so it evens out.)
Lastly – I started writing this story out of a desire to write, not actually knowing where it was going, but I just had an epiphany regarding some of Avielle's backstory – and from that, an epiphany as to where I'm going to go with this. I can't wait to get to it. I won't spoil it, but I promise that this isn't going to be your average depiction of a character performing a questline or whatever. :D
"Bad day?" Vigge the Cautious sympathetically asked Avielle as she made her way into the Mages Guild of Skingrad.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that the mage was not in a good mood. If posture was weather, the Breton would be a towering thundercloud, ready to burst forth lightning and hail at the slightest provocation. One could practically see the steam coming from her ears.
Still, she allowed the big Nord to give her a hearty pat on the shoulder that caused her to nearly trip into a wall.
"You could say," she grumbled, rubbing her shoulder. "This one guy at the University, Raminus Polus? He's even worse than Adrienne."
The Nord giggled, possibly the deepest and manliest sound ever to be defined as such. "Keep your voice down, she's just a floor above us."
"That one probably has her nose too deep in a book to hear you if you were to shout her name in her ear," commented Druja, climbing out of the basement. She nodded respectfully to Avielle.
"I beg to differ. She wouldn't hear you if you were shouting her name in her ear while cartwheeling on top of the alchemy tables. Naked," added Sulinus Vassinus with a grin, who was also leaving the basement – probably getting ready to prepare dinner, by the ears of corn he held.
"Sulinus!" admonished Avielle, but the Imperial's good-natured and occasionally bawdy humor was always contagious.
Druja tsked. "You smoothskins and your obsession with the exposed body. I do not understand why the Imperials mandate us to wear second skins when all you seem to wish to do is tear them off each other."
And the Argonian's curious tactlessness that could only come from being born in the exotic tropics of the Black Marsh. This time, Avielle did laugh along with the others, the tension easing from her shoulders. This was the Skingrad she liked, and perhaps the Skingrad she should try to see. She followed the two to the kitchens, ready to lend a hand and maybe show off a bit of her fire magic with heating up the water.
Glarthir had been a freak accident, and it really wouldn't help to dwell on the nightmares of the past, like raving lunatics with war axes and mysterious hooded men...
Regardless of those uncertainties, she did not miss the sudden realization that she was enjoying herself in the quaint guildhall far more than she had in the University.
0o0o0
With a priceless book tucked under one arm and a hood drawn over his face, Vicente waited.
He was sitting on one of the wooden benches in the castle's foyer, idly observing the details of the hall as he waited for the Count to meet him. He was at the far end, almost hidden in the shadows, and that was how he preferred it. One of the guards had noticed him, and was shooting him uneasy glances from time to time, but that was nothing to be concerned about. He was rather asking for it. A full-body black travelling cloak was rather unconditionally suspiscious. It was a bit ironic, really, he noted. He was a Dark Brotherhood assassin – and a vampire – and that guard had hit the nail on the head without even knowing why when he'd chosen to be uneasy about him. But at the same time... he was just here for a chat with a friend. Nothing shady about it at all.
But on the other hand, if he had been on the more shady type of business, he wouldn't have let himself be seen at all. Vicente was very careful on the job... and meticulous. Any guard unfortunate to spot him then wouldn't live to see the next sunrise, not that this had happened in the last eighty or so years.
The doors creaked open, and a figure stepped into the hall – with a mild shock, he realized that it was the same girl from before.
As a vampire, his eyesight was impeccable; any of the guards in the room would have barely been able to make out her features. The torchlight threw her into a much more flattering appearance than the Chapel's shadows had lent. Her face had seemed halfway child and halfway adult then, but the fire's resplendence made her seem closer to adult, casting her high cheekbones and delicate nose in a red-gold light...
...and Vicente was realizing belatedly that he did not see enough human women. Besides infants with sociopathic affinities for garlic and people who'd been scheduled for execution, anyways... but no. She was too young, still not grown completely into her adult body, to be beautiful, but there was a certain nonphysical quality about her that he quietly enjoyed from afar. Those eyes had been filled with fear last time he'd seen them, so what he detected now was a refreshing change; part determination and part defiance.
And obvious, completely unshrouded annoyance, but that wasn't so much a part of her personality as it was an event, perhaps.
It occurred to him that he was pleased to see her. Which made sense, he supposed; it would be a pity to go out of his way to actually protect somebody's life only to find out she'd fallen off the castle's bridge or something. He knew from experience and life in the Brotherhood that there was a difference between caring for somebody's life and caring for somebody's person, as much as the difference between ownership and familial love had ever been.
She'd been a whim, nothing more, and he was doing himself a disservice by even giving thought to such random notions.
He knew from experience that one could not live in the Brotherhood with ties to outside Tamriel. Janus was an exception, partially because he occupied another shadow world, his position so tenuous that he was in no position to harm the Brotherhood, and partially because nobody really wanted to go up to the two vampires and tell them to scatter. Still, even that simple friendship was dangerous. The vampire's omnipresent nightmares had more than once drifted to scenes where he'd had to assassinate Count Hassildor in Sithis's name.
"You there." Vicente turned to see one of the Count's stewards – an Imperial, Mercator something – approaching the mage from the general vicinity of the dining hall. "I have an update for you."
Avielle eyed the steward with thinly veiled distaste. She certainly seemed... fierier than she had before, but then again, nobody looked their best when being attacked by raving lunatics. She held herself upright, her brown hair falling in cascades over her shoulders, and Vicente noted with approval that she was armed this time. A staff – some kind of illusion magic, judging by the gleam – was slung across her back, and there was a small but functional dagger in her belt. So she had learned.
"What is it?" she asked in a tone that could only be described as mutinous.
"The Count has agreed to see you, but not here. He requests that you meet him in the pasture south of the Cursed Mine to the west of the town. Be there at two o' clock sharp in the morning. The Count does not like to be kept waiting. That is all."
Which struck Vicente as extremely odd, but the girl didn't seem to notice. She tossed her hair slightly and spun on her heel, making for the double doors. "Then I'll see him there tonight."
The Imperial watched her leave, and the vampire did not miss the small grin that played across his mouth when the doors closed behind her.
The girl was the guild representative, then. She had to be a better mage than she'd appeared before, to be entrusted with running tasks for the main part of the guild... spying, Janus had said. But this didn't make sense in itself – a spy would not be arranging meetings with her mark, would she? Unless she was trying to waylay the Count in some sense, in which she'd definitely gotten way over her head. Janus Hassildor could play people and politics as easily as he played chess.
Mercator took a glance to the side, and then made his way towards what Vicente thought was the castle barracks. It was an unusual place for a steward to be, but the vampire could have mixed up the castle's layout.
No sooner had the Imperial left the hall when soft footsteps echoed on the stairs. Vicente got up and made his way to the middle of the foyer, where Janus Hassildor approached. His friend seemed to be doing well, he noted – he wore a fine suit of burgundy velvet with fur around the neck and cuffs, although he looked somewhat more gaunt than he had the last time they'd met. The noble's age was starting to catch up with him, having died over fifty years prior, but his eyes were still sharp, and he quickly found his visitor in the hall. With a nod, he gestured for Vicente to follow him, and returned back up the stairs.
This was usual for Janus, to not speak until they'd reached the complete privacy of his quarters. Vicente wasn't used to having to act with such caution within his own home; in some ways, he felt sorry for his friend. He followed the Count silently through the halls, stone-wrought just like the Sanctuary. The occasional maid shot them a curious look, but anyone who worked here knew better than to ask questions.
The Count's room was opulent but not garish – deep red was a constant color, and wide bookshelves and framed landscapes gave small glimpses into the personality of the man who perpetually kept himself hidden. A grand four-poster bed sat against the far wall; how Janus could stand it, he had no idea, and a low blaze crackled in the fireplace, lending a warmth to the room that neither of its current occupants had any need for.
Castle Skingrad was by no means a normal place, but the whole scenario struck Vicente as sketchy. It was very unlike the Count to leave his castle just to meet with a visitor, and the location... he had not lived for three hundred years by ignoring his instincts, and they were almost never wrong.
He settled down on one of the Count's gaudy armchairs, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar plushness of it. That was awful on his back.
"Er, not to skip the formalities, but Janus?"
The other vampire lifted an eyebrow fractionally. "What is it?"
"This may sound rather foolish, and do forgive me..." Vicente paused. "But did you actually make plans to meet with a guild representative in the sheepfold outside the city in two in the morning?"
0o0o0
Count Hassildor was bloody weird.
Never presenting himself to his citizens was strange enough for a Count, Avielle thought. He was about as outgoing as a mudcrab, and only slightly less socially apt. But in order to give her her fetching book back, he wanted to meet her in some random pasture in the dead of night? What did he think he was, a vampire?
Avielle was cold, tired, and only managing to keep her spirits up by replaying a mental image of herself freezing the smugness off of Brocade Guy's face with her staff.
When the three figures finally approached her from under the lean-to, it didn't even occur to her that they were coming from the wrong direction; from the West Weald rather than from Castle Skingrad's vicinity. She supposed the bloke in the middle was the Count, because he was wearing fancy clothes, but she'd honestly been expecting somebody taller. And were the two other ones bodyguards? Most Counts and Countesses only stuck with one, but maybe Hassildor was just a paranoid old-
...whyweretheywearinghoods.
Some primal part of the Breton's mind flew into fierce overdrive upon realizing that the two men flanking the 'Count' were dressed in head to toe in thick black robes, immediately drawing comparisons between the 'now' and that debilitatingly frightening night with the Wood Elf and the shadowy savior.
The more rational part of her mind was not in a happier place, noticing that these robes were not the same as that man... but they did bear a mordantly familiar insignia of a grinning, coppery red skull.
And if Count Skingrad was Conceited Brocade Guy, then she was the reincarnation of Tiber Septim.
She swore mentally. Screw the University. Screw the entire fetching Arcane University. Discreetly – or so she hoped – she slid a hand down to her belt, feeling for the hilt of her silver dagger. It felt uncomfortable to hold, and she was aware she was probably doing it wrong, but somehow it made her feel a lot braver just by being there.
And there was always her staff... and... wait. Staff... Brocade Guy...
Suddenly, this seemed like it had the potential for something like... therapy.
"Greetings, Mage. We've been waiting for you-" Mercator began.
"Shit, don't tell me you're one of the necrophiliacs too?"
Mercator blinked. For the first time in his life, somebody had actually gotten in a word over him, and seen through his brilliantly diabolical plans. He quickly ran a hand through his hair, making sure that his bowl cut had not been damaged by the blow to his ego.
...wait. What had she called him?
The three Necromancers exchanged confused glances. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Wasn't the girl supposed to cower in fear as Mercator thrashed her with words like 'impending doom' and 'I misled you'?
Arterion - more widely known as That Altmer Henchman, or Crony #1 to Mercator - finally broke the silence. "...Uh. I've been studying the Dark Arts for a while now. Five, six months? I've raised a lot of zombies. Couple of skeletons too. Once I even got a wraith. But I swear to Mannimarco, I've never done anything like that."
The Dunmer nodded frantically, his hood falling down enough to reveal the fact that he was a Dark Elf. "Yeah. That's just creepy. I mean, seriously. Who does that?"
Ah, the power of diplomacy at work. Avielle sighed. "That's a load off of my back. I mean, it's good to know you don't," she said sagely. "Hard to tell these days. But actually, with the who... have you ever heard of Falanu Hlaalu? That alchemist? You know, the creepy one?"
The Altmer necromancer flinched visibly. "By Mannimarco, please do not mention that name. Ever. There was this one time -"
Mercator cleared his throat. Amateurs. This was so not his day, this was so not following along according to plan, and this was so not going in his autobiography once he was the King of Worms.
"Er. Boys. We're here to kill her. Not chat her up. Less talking and more conjuring. You never know when Hassildor might show up, the damn codger is too resourceful for my liking."
"Oh. Right. Uh. Sorry, miss...?"
"Fradaun. Avielle Fradaun," she said, as she lunged forward with her staff.
All right. She was facing a bunch of necrowhatevers. Two of them were bittergreen green, and one of them had a superiority complex the size of Valenwood. It couldn't be too hard, could it?
She wiggled her fingers, casting a wide-range Weakness to Magicka aura around her. All three of them were encased in its invisible bubble. Perfect...
She fired a paralysis spell at the Altmer first – as haughty as High Elves were, they took spells twice as hard as anyone else, and it would only last all the longer for her extra weakness curse. She knew that much from teasing Volanaro back up at her stay in Bruma's guild. Arterion went down like a stone, and the Dunmer then lost all hesitation, charging forward. She got him next, and he quickly followed suit.
Avielle grinned at Mercator. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted to do this."
And the third fell, stiff as a plank, unable to yell, retaliate, or fix his badly affected hair as the fetching sadistic Breton started to pummel him. Avielle was not a skilled user of hand-to-hand fighting, but any punch hurts when you're completely unable to defend yourself and your tormentor is aware of basic male anatomy.
For about a minute, Avielle kept up the game, working off all her accumulated fury onto the poor, undeserving Necromancer, only pausing to renew the paralysis spell on the three whenever they began to move.
"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" she taunted. "Who's the unimpressive one now?" The Imperial struggled against the paralysis, his jaw working furiously as he started to break free of it. She moved to fire another bolt and renew the effect... and...
Nothing. Static. A few green sparks.
Mercator's eyes bulged with realisation. Behind her, one of the other cronies was stirring too, she could see the motion out of the corner of her eyes. It was definitely time to get on with it, cast the crippling Slowing spell and get the hell out of here...
And the damn staff had suddenly gone defunct.
Crap. What had Delmar told her? Why wasn't it working? She shook it once, vainly hoping to knock some sense into it. Piece of crap. The staff wasn't even humming in her hands any longer.
It ran out of charge quickly...
And she'd been taking her sweet time, just playing around...
Oh, no... She stumbled backwards, fumbling with her dagger. What had Rohssan told her? Think, think...
And the next thing she knew, the cold sting of iron was at her throat.