Author's Note: I don't own Oblivion. Bawwww.
DualKatanas – As ever, thanks for taking the time to help me out! I did realize that the consistent humor in this chapter was rather out of character for this story, but I have a reason for that. If I can remember what it is at that time (if I said it now, it'd be a slight spoiler for the direction this is going), I'll mention it later. As for the Necromancers acting unrealistically... yeah. I maintain that Mercator is a bloody idiot, though.
You're right about the staves. :S Again, not something I ever thought about. Maybe it's glue. :u Next time I describe it across her back, I'll mention a strap.
I only used parenthesis once D: Also, aren't brackets these things? [ ]
Arty – Thanks for the review! Yeah, I know the author's note is long. But I stress that I cannot handle private messaging everyone. :U Not to mention, I barely know how to use this site.
I love when Hassy comes to save me :U But I just plain love Hassy. Mind you, I often end up hitting him a lot. He always gets in your way. As for the guild questline and this story... Just don't always expect you know what happens next ;) Like I said, this isn't just the retelling of a character's ascendance to Arch-Champion-Listener-Sheogorath-Fox or something. I'm more using these quests as... framework. I'll say no more.
One last thing – I do copy some of Hassildor's dialogue word-for-word here. I'd like to point out that this is not something I usually do. In fact, it's something that I usually hate. But I love the way he tells you off, and it does rather fit with Avielle's character anyways.
Now here's the part you actually want to read. :D
"I am not a 'damn codger'," Hassildor muttered under his breath as Vicente laughed quietly.
"Well, you are getting up there in years... but coming from him, it's practically a compliment," the second vampire noted, while the first motioned for him to be silent.
"...sorry, miss..."
"Fradaun. Avielle Fradaun," she said, as she lunged forward with her staff, settling into a sort of battle stance.
Lounging on one of the ivy-covered rocks near the Gold Road, Vicente nodded in approval. "Avielle," he repeated, tasting the sound of it as he let the name roll off his tongue. "A pretty name. Comes from the old Breton tongue, if I'm not mistaken."
Inwardly, he was wondering why the name seemed so familiar. Not Avielle, necessarily, but the surname. Fradaun... He tossed it around in his mind for a moment, then gave up on it. When you had signed as many death warrants as he had, every name started to blend together. In any case, it most likely meant nothing.
Janus Hassildor was not listening, keeping his ears trained on the scene before him. He'd had his suspicions about Mercator, and Vicente had chanced upon the proverbial nail in the coffin. So ironically enough, Count Skingrad was near the sheepfold at two in the morning, rather concealed by the lush greenery that sprung from Skingrad's fertile soil.
He had not realized just how bad Mercator was at choosing his friends.
The girl had mistaken them for something not-quite-Necromancers, and the two mystery guests had been completely distracted, engaging in what had started to look like a full-blown storytelling before Mercator had nudged them back on track towards the inevitable fight.
There was no doubt that she was the Mages Guild representative he'd been expecting – her first move was to cast some sort of hex. He didn't see anything, but he felt the strange sensation of prickly frost crawl over him; he recognized that as a weakness effect.
"Not a bad spell," Vicente murmured, appreciating the tingle of foreign magicka on his skin as one might sample wine. Even if it was harmful, he could still admire the crafting. "Not terribly powerful, but it's reached us even over here. Fairly impressive range, no?"
"Shall we step in now, or..." Hassildor let the question trail off.
She lifted her staff, and he clapped a hand on the Count's shoulder.
"Let's see how she fares."
The staff was clearly paralysis, judging by the way the first Necromancer dropped as soon as the ball of light collided. It was a smart move, too, to go for the Altmer – High Elves were vulnerable to all sorts of magic. The Dunmer was next, yes... cutting off the flanks, and now she was delivering a one-liner to the steward. A bit amateurish, perhaps, but not everyone could have the patience that three hundred years granted.
He was paralyzed next, and the Breton approached him. Vicente noted the gleam of silver in her belt; any second, she'd reach for it and claim the lives that had reached up to threaten hers...
...What she did next looked like it hurt, but it was most definitely not fatal.
The vampire's involuntary smile faded as she continued on in this vengeful but not necessarily effective course of action.
She has the killer instinct of a sweetroll.
The Dunmer was starting to break free of the enchantment; Avielle noticed this, and aimed a quick bolt at him. He stiffened again, once more rendered harmless, but the girl didn't seem to snap back into what seemed like common sense. She'd been reminded that her enemies were not completely neutralized, and she just kept on going.
Mercator was next to stir – Vicente had never taken a jab from an active staff in quite that location, but he assumed it hurt, even if vampirism would have made him immune to the muscle-lock that followed.
He waited for her to pull out her dagger and end it, to cast some kind of spell, to... to take the fight seriously, damn it! But the little pixie just kept on with her pointless little game that was just begging to blow up in her face.
He'd seen assassins do this sort of thing before, and he'd met his fair share of vampires that preferred to play with their food. There was a difference, though – chiefly, this girl was acting like she was in control of the situation, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was not.
Vicente's casual grip on his shoulder tightened, and Janus was silently surprised to see his friend's omnipresent composure slipping. It was rather unlike him to care.
"What does she think she's doing?" the assassin hissed, teeth gritted.
"Wasting charges on a very fine piece of equipment, setting herself up for a premature death, and sterilizing my wayward steward," the Count replied. "I told you that the Mages Guild is full of fools. They may bandy to each other all day about complex magical theory, but put ten of them in a room and give them a day to light a torch? Odds are, they can't do it." He turned back to the spectacle at hand, half-frustrated by the girl's idiocy and half-amused in spite of himself. Although he'd never admit that anyone could get under his skin, Mercator had made him want to do this sort of thing for a long time.
For some odd reason, though, Vicente – who was by far the more humorous of the two – was not finding the display funny at all. Janus shot him a glance; he doubted the other vampire even knew that his teeth were bared, his fangs extended to their full length. His eyes were locked on the painfully naïve girl, and his whole body was taut, like the string on a bow – ready to pounce.
The inevitable finally happened – the staff gave a sputtering of sparks and refused to continue on. Avielle shook the staff as if expecting it to suddenly spring to life again, wasting precious seconds contemplating the obvious. One by one, her enemies began to break free of her spell; reality finally seemed to sink in, and she backpedaled, searching for her dagger. But that fear was back; Avielle Fradaun seemed completely unable to function when she suddenly found herself in tangible danger.
Janus sighed, conjuring a crackling ball of destruction magic in one hand.
"Put your hood up," he reminded Vicente. "You don't have my good looks."
And then he leapt.
The assassin was a second behind him, having paused only to follow the sound advice. Janus was not nearly as old as him, and could pass as human to the untrained eye, despite vampirism's hawkish effect on his features. Vicente did not have such luck; his sunken cheeks, crimson irises, and barely retractable fangs made sure that even a child could recognize him as a vampire.
Mercator was picking himself up from the ground, snarling quietly to himself. All three necromancers were working severe aches and cramps from their muscles as they struggled to their feet, but only he was grappling with the urge to double over.
Regardless, she was the one helpless now, fumbling for her dagger like a child searching for a toy. And he was pissed.
He took a long stride forward and seized her, pressing the dagger to her throat.
"Don't worry," he growled, "I won't make this quick."
There was a flash, a blur, a tongue of green fire.
Avielle watched, unable to make a sound, as the dagger clattered to the grass and blood began to spill from the shallow slice on her neck.
And Mercator joined her in watching when his sword arm, suddenly and inexplicably disconnected from the rest of his body, joined the dagger on the ground with a thump.
For a second, the Imperial and the Breton stared dumbly at the severed limb, eyes wide as saucers, and then the pain finally registered.
And Vicente Valtieri did not like the screaming ones.
Mercator Hosidus opened his mouth, and his head was the next to disconnect, a fine blade of glass slipping though muscles and tendons alike as effortlessly as a knife would pare an apple. He remained upright for a second more – his restraining hand slipped from Avielle's throat, and he swayed in an ironic parody of the headless zombies his cult so frequently summoned. Then the moment was over, and he crumpled like a deflated sack.
Avielle watched as what was left of the man in green brocade fell to the grass, unable to register the signals from her eyes as she made out the figure in the gloom behind him. That jet-black traveling cloak, the hood that masked his features, the green blade – now slick and red with blood – that gleamed brilliantly in the moonlight...
She'd been saved from death. Again. And it was the same man.
She heard the crackle of elemental magic, and turned to see that they were not alone – another man, this one not hooded and instead dressed in burgundy nobles' clothes, was remedying the issue of the other two foes, wielding a mixture of fire and lightning that she'd never seen before. Probably his own spell – even at a glance, the man looked important enough to create them.
But even so, he was not the one that held her attention.
This time, the robed man did not leave – he simply stood there, casually withdrawing a cloth from somewhere in his cloak to clean his sword with. They were close enough to touch... Avielle reached for his hood impulsively, and he did look up, leaning backwards as smoothly as a swaying reed. Her hand grasped only empty air, and she stared at the black fabric... all she could make out was a narrow, chiseled chin. A pale hand appeared from the folds of the robe, his pianist's fingers as white as the stars above. His robe was much smoother than those of the necromancers, by the way the wan light played off of them – the sheen was silky rather than coarse. She watched, strangely mesmerized, as the hand drew the hood fully down again, erasing even the point of his chin from view. Only then did he speak, and her memories hadn't done his voice justice. The High Rock cadence sounded purely lyrical on his tongue, a light tenor.
"You're a curious one, aren't you?"
Somehow, she found her voice. "I just want to know who you are," she said evenly.
He laughed. It was music.
"Not the person you came here to talk to," he said, making a sweeping gesture towards Count Hassildor, who stood watching them a few yards away. "Janus, I'll take my leave."
The faint smile that toyed with the Count's lips was only visible to one who knew him well. "So you know her? That explains a good deal."
"Hardly," Vicente replied. "Glarthir thought she was a spy of some sort and attacked her. I took offense."
"Hm," Hassildor mused. "I'm surprised you didn't mention that earlier. Well, safe travels. I have some business to handle here."
"As I can see." The assassin was much more eager to part than he let on; recognition was not a good thing in his line of work, and this Avielle Fradaun was expressing far more interest in his person than he was comfortable with. "Good luck, and good night."
Avielle's jaw nearly dropped. He was leaving, just like that. Again.
As he passed by her, he leaned down to whisper in her ear.
"And please, do take better care of your life."
Within moments, he was swallowed up by the night.
No – not swallowed up by it. It was more like he was one with it; the darkness embraced him as a part of itself. Everything about him was veiled up in its shroud of secrets.
A furious blush made its was up her cheek as his words finally registered, but before she could reply to the night, another voice spoke, this one clipped.
"That was foolish, mage."
Avielle opened her mouth to retort, quickly silencing the remark in her throat as she realized that she was finally face-to-face with the real Count Skingrad. She'd expected a small, wizened man, or a tall and bearded warlock as some rumors whispered – Janus Hassildor was neither of these. He'd ruled Skingrad for seventy years, as records went, but the man before her looked no older than forty or fifty. Harsh, that was the best way to describe his features; the planes of his face were all sharply angled, dark circles stretched under his eyes, and he had a sunken look about him, like a man who had lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. But he did not strike her as weak – he seemed to radiate authority and power. And alertness – his eyes were unnerving her, and not just because they were so oddly penetrating – it took her almost a second to realize it was because they were like nothing else she'd ever seen. The irises were startlingly scarlet amongst the whites, and there was no way he was a Dunmer... Wheels began to turn in the back of her head.
"What possessed you to think I would arrange a meeting here, of all places?"
"Your corpse-hugging steward, that's what," she said, second-guessing her inappropriate words a second too late. And then, on an afterthought, "You are Hassildor, right?"
"That's Count Hassildor to you, mage. Humbly at your service. I do believe a 'thank you' is in order at this point."
"Who was that friend of yours, then?" Avielle skipped over the 'thank you' with about as much tact as a land dreugh.
Count Hassildor was in no mood to divulge his friend's secrets. "A man who would much rather we talked about the task at hand than himself."
As he continued to speak, she caught the glimpse of light off canine teeth that were just a modicum too long and acute to be human, and the gears turning in her mage's mind clicked into place.
Vampire.
The next thoughts that went through her brain were entirely incoherent. Completely forgetting that the staff was out of charge and therefore no more useful than a carved switch, she took a step back, overbalancing slightly as she aimed it at the expressionless Count.
"Don't come any closer, you monster!"
She wasn't sure what she was expecting next; the Count to lunge at her and bite her neck, maybe. Perhaps an evil laugh as he twirled his fingers in a particularly menacing fashion. She was not expecting the bitterly amused smile that tugged at his thin lips.
"I don't know if you've ever heard, girl, but vampires are immune to paralysis."
He took a step forward, which she matched in the same direction, but his stride was wider than hers. He took the end of her staff, and slowly but firmly guided it downward until it was pointing uselessly at the grass. The Breton looked up at him, her face white as chalk.
This was why he hated mages.
"I'm going to assume your Council did not bother to tell you about who they sent you to spy upon?" That same cynical humor was in his voice; somehow, it made him seem slightly more human. She was beginning to realize she'd overreacted, and to a Count, no less... but this was just so damned dysfunctional. The hell, he really was a vampire, even if he wasn't acting at all like she'd been led to believe.
"No, the fetchers... and wait, what? I only came here to get back a book."
"Is that so?" The sardonic grin grew by another fraction. "Perhaps your Council has been less honest with you than I initially realized. Do you really believe they sent you here for a book? No, they sent you here to spy on me, although I cannot be sure how they intended you to do so without actually telling you to look for. Regardless, they want information on myself and what is going on here, and they shall have it."
Raminus Polus climbed yet another rank up Avielle's hate list. "Why would they want to spy on you? Well, besides the fact that, well..." She gestured helplessly. "You know."
"Vampirism?" He would have snorted, had he allowed himself such undignified expressions. At least she'd gotten over it fairly quickly, and she didn't look like she was trying to turn him into a case study from afar. "It's a part of it. They're prejudiced. Personally, I have a prejudice against fools who march around the Arcane University with their faces permanently glued in their spellbooks, handing off duties as simple as lacing up their shoes to their lackeys."
Which somewhat included Avielle, but even so, the remark made the Breton feel a sudden kinship with Janus Hassildor.
"The main reason they've turned their sights on me again is because they've become aware of the growing presence of the Necromancers' Cult in Cyrodiil, and they seem to think that I have dealings with them. Perhaps you can guess by now that I do not. I was aware of Mercator Hosidus and his alliance with them, but I was unwilling to deal with him for fear of driving any other of his cult in the area underground."
She was irritated at how she'd been used as bait, but after the Guild had tossed her around like a pawn, being used as one by Skingrad's nobility was taken with more resignation. At least Hassildor had stepped in to look after her. "How did you know it was him, anyways?"
"Occam's razor. He was the newest addition to my staff, and the one who took the greatest number of unexplained absences." The Count pinched the bridge of his nose. "Politics is the game of the elite, mage. I have my sources, my connections to otherwise closed networks of information. And the fact that I possess these connections means nothing about my alliances. Being aware of your guild's old archenemy hardly means I've taken up their side." His tone grew more stern. "I've not thrown in with the Necromancers, and would never do so. You can tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they can come and get it themselves. They don't send somebody under false pretenses."
Avielle's sudden and unexpected grin prompted the vampire to raise one of his thin brows a fraction.
"Yes, sir."
Now that was an order she could finally agree to. Telling Raminus off?
Count her in.