I haven't turned into Bethesda since I last wrote. Weird, isn't it? Oh yeah. Random AN - I'm thinking of writing a Ray ministory at some point. I mean, he was just too funny to kill off like that. Ideas? Thoughts? Want to use him in something else?
Merinda - Please do write. :P It took quite a bit of wheedling from Arty to finally get me to write, and hey, you people seem to like hearing me ramble, so let's hear yours! :D Honestly, it can't hurt. (Unless you kill off Vicente and/or Janus during the course of your story, in which I will have to murder you in your sleep, but hey, occupational hazard) As for magicka... wait and see ;)
Kitsune - I sorry! D: Um so like yeah, here you go. Peace offering chappie? I just had to end it there, else it would have taken me about another week to get that up.
DualKatanas - KOTOR omg :D Lovelovelove. Especially Atton in the second, but um. Yeah, I digress. And with mages, I meant the kind of noobs that are walking around the university. (I know you're thinking Gorgoth. Who could still kill you several thousand different ways without magic) Battlemages have other things to fall back on. And it was night - taverns were not so rowdy was referring to earlier, when he heard taverny sounds overhead. Lastly, brawl? I was thinking of Gorgoth. At first, the Orc started it, but when I wrote the headlock part, I swapped roles. :P
Arty - I'm sorry for not reviewing, I've just been very bound for time lately. Physics and APs and Calc - oh my! Anyway, I dislike when people just copy and paste one of the random vampire nightmares into a story (seriously, you have the same ten dreams over and over again?), so I tried to create what seemed like the most poignant possible one for him at the time. I can pull off fillers? Yaaay! I hope I can keep that up. Ew, my cat just licked my foot.
Hoodedmage - Why will nobody ever tell me where those spelling errors are, though? :( I know my British/American spellings tend to be a bit inconsistent, but typoes I hate with a passion. And thanks :D Hackdirt? That's a good idea, but I didn't plan on putting them anywhere near Chorrol. Hmm...
Aino: Thanks! Wow, I'd have trouble reading a story in a language I'm not familiar with. :o And you're right, that's what happened.
Avielle stared at his shaded, hidden features for a very heavy moment, remembering words spoken what seemed like aeons ago.
"Tell me who killed my father."
"I could, but if I did, you'd attempt to claim your revenge on him."
"Don't you think I deserve it?"
"Perhaps, but the man you intend to slay is my Brother..."
He'd spoken calmly, mockingly, denying her something she needed with blazing intensity as he watched with a twisted half-smirk on his thin lips. And here he was, months later, springing from her past to deliver the answer to a question spoken, unfulfilled, and given up for lost seasons ago.
"Lucien... Lachance," she tested, as if trying the name out for size. Then she looked up, blue eyes cold with suspicion. "Why are you telling me this?"
The flat garnet eyes flickered for a moment among the shadows of his face, like embers smoldering amongst coals. "You could say that things have changed since we last parted," he allowed evasively, after a moment's enigmatic pause.
"Such as?" Avielle pressed. While in truth it was uninterrupted, the bustle of the Flowing Bowl around them seemed to have fallen still. For all she knew, this was a trap - laid for what purpose, she had no idea, but it simply didn't make sense for the assassin to reappear suddenly several months later, incriminating a cohort he'd previously defended. Hadn't he said it was his brother, or was that just a mocking formality of a real family that the Dark Brotherhood used?
Vicente had no interest in talking about it. "Things no longer stand with us as they once did. Lucien Lachance has fallen out of my favor, rather irrevocably."
"You know, you could just give me a straight -"
"It's him!"
"The assassin!"
"Don't move!"
Both Bretons froze, heads snapping up; Avielle with confusion and Vicente silently cursing his carelessness. In his shock at finding his quarry right under his nose, he'd completely ignored the table of Anvil guardsmen seated nearby. A complete failure to scan his surroundings, one of the simplest rules of his trade forgotten. There really was no excuse for it... mistakes like that could get him killed.
Ignoring the demand, the vampire was on his feet before anyone could so much as bat an eye. The tavern was suddenly deathly silent, save for the rasp of three unsheathing blades - everyone's focus was drawn to the scene. It was painfully obvious that what was unfolding was no mere barside brawl - if for nothing else, because the cloaked stranger had no reaction to the soldiers' aggression, simply eyeing them with an expression of disdainful boredom. The slim figure in black seemed to radiate a chill, an intangible aura of peril and alarm. He made no move to draw his own weapon, seeming all the more quietly dangerous because of it.
"I must warn you, I'm far better armed than last time," Vicente said casually to the guards, his tone more suitable for discussing politics or the time of day. "I'm really willing to be peaceable if you'd be so kind as to back down."
Shockingly, this truce was not taken seriously. One of the guards, a sandy-haired man with a very puckered face, seemed to finally notice that there was a young woman in close proximity to the criminal. "Get away, miss! That man is a known vampire and wanted for murder!"
Vicente was struck with sudden inspiration.
More for show than effectiveness, he grabbed Avielle and called on as much of his vampiric alacrity as he safely could. It tied up one arm, and her staff dug into his upper ribs, but otherwise she was barely a hindrance to him. Behind the guards, panic was starting to break out among the taverngoers.
He was their fear, and that was extremely malleable.
A startled mage held under one arm like a ragdoll, he sprang up and did a backwards somersault over the table, coming against the wall. He plunged his free hand into his belt and grasped the Elven dagger secured there, pulling it out of its sheath to Avielle's startled throat with one fluid swipe.
"Let me through," he growled, in his best feral-and-threatening voice, "or the girl dies."
The girl, having no idea what was going on, ad-libbed an extremely convincing act of a terrified hostage, perhaps with a little more furious indignance than any damsel in distress should have displayed. Still, the performance was genuine, which really only served to help his case.
The men hesitated, and he made a show of flicking the blade closer to her neck. He was careful not to spill her blood; he hadn't fed since his last confrontation in Anvil, and he needed his mind in full alertness. Still, none of the onlookers recognized his act for the farce it was. After a few drawn-out moments, the first guard slowly angled his sword to the floor, allowing the others to quickly follow suit without fear of blame in case anything went wrong.
Vicente was not ready to relinquish his bargaining chip. He dashed forward the instant their swords were out of poise, using he free elbow to shove open a path to the door. With no hands unoccupied to open it, he plunged his dagger in the door's side, the elven-tempered metal easily breaking the clutch. He kicked the door open and burst into the night.
Avielle was screaming distinctly blasphemous sentiments at him - expected, but morbidly inconvenient, perhaps even moreso for that he couldn't decapitate the source of such ungodly noise as he was used to doing. A terse 'Please, be quiet!' went unheeded. He skimmed across the docks like a cliff racer among clouds, ignoring the shocked sailors and shouting civilians. With the girl shrieking like a wounded clannfear, there wasn't a snowball's chance in Oblivion for him to hide - he had to get away from the city. His cloak flapped in the wind in an ironic parody of a bat's wings as he ran; he jerked the dagger back into his belt, deciding a free hand for spells was more useful than a dagger whose grip he was unaccustomed to.
The lighthouse was rapidly getting closer, the last thing before the open fields were his.
And there was always a guard posted at the lighthouse...
It was just the sea, the winding fence, and the city ramparts, with one narrow opening of passage. Vicente could smell the subtle tinge of trepidation as the man observed a vampire running towards him at full tilt, but he valiantly held his ground in the center of the gap. The assassin could skirt around the guard easily enough, but then he'd be at the mercy of his sword's range. He wasn't able to pull out his claymore to fight with, not while he was carrying an unwilling passenger and time was dearly of the essence. He could keep ahead of human pursuit while in motion, but any stopping could cost him his escape.
At about ten strides away, Vicente feinted to the left, then dodged to his right, switching back to the left at the last possible moment. The soldier was flustered but determined, and his strike was well-aimed, if not a second delayed past its full potential. It was a smart move - he could not risk hitting the hostage, so he slashed low, intending to cripple his foe's mobility.
One might have thought Vicente Valtieri as having a bit of a God complex, even for an assassin. He treated every situation with the same outward unaffected demeanor, and despite his immense stamina, he never wore armor - as easily as he could have carried a suit of metal, the only covering he sported was a travelling cloak and some simple garments beneath. His boots were barely more protective than a pair of shoes, crafted from simple leather.
One might have thought.
But Vicente was, while well aware of his capabilities, not overconfident in the least. He shunned armor not out of a notion of immortality - or at least invincibility - but because his fighting style of choice relied heavily on his own agility and unimpaired movement, letting speed be his ward. And when a blade came too close to evade, well...
He hiked up his left leg as the guard swiped at him, putting the ankle in jeopardy rather than the intended calf.
The sword collided with his boot with a distinctly un-leatherlike clang and glanced off. Vicente followed this up with an almost casual kick to the groin, and then he was gone, dashing through a snowy plain with a still-complaining Avielle in his grasp.
To the guard, now doubled over and gasping, it appeared as though the vampire had truly been unkillable. A clean shot at an opportune and unguarded area had merely cut the leather.
While it was correct that vampires - especially underfed ones like Vicente was at present - had a natural resistance to weapons not imbued with magicka, it wouldn't have protected him from nearly losing his foot.
The truth was, Vicente's rather dapper-looking boots were not exactly standard issue. Three hundred years of existence had lent him his fair share of experiences, and this particular trick had been gleaned from the Nordic tribe he'd encountered on his brief stint in Solstheim, before continuing his trek west from Vvardenfell to Cyrodiil. From the inside and outside alike, they appeared completely unassuming, the sort of thing he would have difficulty trying to sell for over ten septims. But the reality, and ingenuity, was revealed if one tried to pick them up.
Inside the sheets of leather, the footgear was inlaid with thick bands of angled and heavily refined steel, custom-placed to protect tendons and vital points. The leather served several purposes - comfort at rest, surprise in a fight, and flexibility while hiding, as it muffled the metal when sneaking, still allowing for quiet footsteps in spite of the pair's heaviness. When slashed with any sort of weapon, the facetted and extra-durable steel was there to deflect it, protecting the wearer and throwing the opponent off-kilter. Only the strongest and most confident Nordic warriors had worn such gear on their raids; the thickness of the metal alloy was much greater than a pair of all-steel boots, and the placement made them unwieldy and off-balance for somebody not strong enough to constantly correct their posture. To him, walking around in them was as simple as with any other footgear. Avielle probably wouldn't have been able to lift her feet in them.
Avielle, however, was not attempting to steal a vampire's boots. She was instead under an arm, screaming so loudly that the vampire in question was forced to flick a Silence spell at her.
"Stop trying to get me captured," he hissed. "It's not to your benefit."
The mage continued to open and close her mouth uselessly for a few seconds more, then resorted to wild struggling. Vicente didn't bother to tighten his grip.
Instead, he glanced back over his shoulder, and swore softly. He couldn't see guards, not yet, but the snow was fresh. His footprints were laid bare to whomever wished to track him.
Of course, he was carrying a mage... but at the moment, lack of cooperation and Silencing rendered her rather useless.
He did not know much of telekinesis, and the only spell of it he'd ever bothered to learn was pitifully novice levelled, but it was worth a go. He lifted a hand, a thin purple mist starting to swirl around his fingers. He felt Avielle cease her flailing for a moment, probably wondering what he was about to do. After focusing it as well as he could, he both released and held onto the spell, keeping the flow of power steady.
It was a useful trick. Within a good ten-meter radius, the snow around him shifted as if in a wind, filling in his tracks as he ran and erasing all signs of his disturbance. It would look as though he'd simply disappeared, in the eyes of his pursuit.
It was exactly the sort of sleight of hand he'd have shared with his Family when he returned home.
He gritted his teeth - a bad move for any vampire - painfully stabbing into his lower lip, and bore forward with all the speed he could muster. Avielle would have screamed at the renewed run, being carried offhandedly while moving faster than a well-bred black horse, but made do with thrashing until all but incapacitated herself with dizziness.
Vicente tried to focus on the telekinetic spell, on the eddies of snow darting around his feet, but simply couldn't. Every path of thought, every sight and sound and sensation, seemed to have been directly tied back to some memory of the Sanctuary, the horrible truth that he would never outrun. The moonlit whiteness underfoot... he'd once taken Antoinetta out to show her Cheydinhal, during the winter she'd joined the Sanctuary as a starving and gaunt-faced child. The warmth that spread from Avielle's living body to his cold one could have been from any of them, how they'd sat in the common room and swapped stories and laughed together. All gone now, just another memory to file in the back of his mind, another closed era of his endless timeline... It filled him with an overwhelming, painful emotion that he was unable to identify, something that needed escape but had no satisfying way of doing so.
He channeled that ferocity into raw speed, and the whitecapped coastal fields passed by as a blur. Fort Strand's crumbling towers shone ahead like jagged spires against the faded indigo sky - a monument he'd seen only days ago, when his world had still clung to hope amidst panic and he'd believed he'd had a home to go back to...
It occurred to him through the memories that despite exiting Anvil in different places, he was taking the exact same route out as he had a week prior. Getting caught twice in such a short span of time... excuses be damned, he was slipping, even if he'd been sold out the first time and a mess the second. He needed to get his act together, or he'd be ash on the wind before he even got to Lucien.
And the first order of getting back on track was to shake things up. Taking the same escape route was fine, so long as nobody actually saw you use that path. It was the first place guards would look, save recent sightings or tip-offs. And Vicente hadn't covered his tracks as thoroughly as he should have, given his haste. It was always safer to err on the side of caution, and the question of 'where to' lingered in the air. He briefly toyed heading south - the Anvil guard wouldn't follow him into Valenwood unless they'd literally seen him crossing the border - but the Wood Elf province was a dangerous place, brimming with old, wild magics, and he didn't want to traverse the labyrinthine forests for the first time without a map. Cutting straight north again was a trick he'd already played, and the seaside fields below the Gold Road were both lacking in shelter and riddled with bandit camps.
A smile almost formed on his lips; tugging once in vain, then abandoning the pursuit. The idea would either guarantee him an easy and unhindered trip, or be completely suicidal.
What kind of outlaw would travel on the road?
Not crossing it at points here and there, no, but almost invariably following it from Anvil to Cheydinhal, and Lucien's fort from there. He had charm and invisibility at the ready to beguile any patrolling Legionnaires, and Avielle was a mage - it was reasonable to assume she could do the same. The girl was probably unused to travelling on the rough, so following the road might help her agreeability as an added bonus.
It was viable simply because it was the last place guards would actively search for him. Effectively, it was hiding in plain sight.
The stars served as his compass as he angled northeast. Pursuit was still too close for comfort, and he wanted to gain more ground between Anvil and himself before reaching such a risky destination. His wandering mind touched down upon the strain of maintaining two spells at once was beginning to gnaw at him. Under his arm, Avielle had given up her struggle, likely having tired herself out.
Vicente glanced down at the mage, who was attempting to melt his brains through pure animosity. "If I were to release the Silencing spell, would you kindly not start up that yelling again?"
The girl replied by freeing her right arm and giving him an obscene hand gesture.
He sighed. "And here I thought you liked to talk. Ah, well. I can keep this up for a long time."
The hand gesture was dropped immediately, replaced by a more intent stare after a few seconds of thought.
"Hmm," the vampire pondered sarcastically. "I wonder if I should offer again, out of sheer generosity. I will release the spell, and you will remain quiet, unless you have actual conversation. Continue to irk me after this and I will simply knock you out. Do we have a deal?"
Avielle nodded vigorously.
"Very well, then. Do not give either of us cause for regret... " He let the illusion magic slip from his ethereal grasp and trickle to a halt - immediately, the telekinetic spell flared with undiluted power.
"Aaah," the girl immediately tested, before blushing slightly with embarassment. Vicente felt his canines tingle in response to the blood flaming in her cheeks, all the brighter for the snowy backdrop. Purely exquisite... he steadied himself and pulled his thirst back under control. After all, he'd already accidentally bitten her once - a repeat performance would make for absolutely calimitous first impressions.
"Will you please put me down?" she grunted. To her credit, being carried around like luggage by a rather bony vampire was far from comfortable.
"My apologies, but unless you can bolster your speed to match mine, no, I will not. Later, perhaps."
Avielle was somewhat proficient in fortification - not enough to keep up with a vampire, but enough to stubbornly try - but dropped the argument when she remembered she was in no position to use magicka, a fact that was only just resurfacing over the rather momentous events of the night.
Nonetheless, she was by no means running low on moot points to argue.
"What the hell was this about, anyways? What do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, I don't know. I just felt like kidnapping some young maiden for a midnight stroll and infuriating Anvil's watch on the side," he deadpanned. "Why, is something wrong?"
Vicente was not usually so acidic, but to describe his current mood as 'stressed out' would have been painfully euphemistic. Avielle was briefly impressed with the statement, but it was not long before that flickering sentiment was reburied beneath her persistent wariness and enmity. After all, he was avoiding her question.
"As charming as this little discussion is," he continued drolly, "I would prefer if we could continue it when I'm confident of having shaken my pursuit. Maintaining this spell requires some concentration, and I would much rather hold a conversation eye to eye either way."
"More like you want to think of what lies to give me," the mage muttered, but obediently fell silent. In truth, she was more than a little intimidated by the vampiric assassin; seeing how effortlessly he'd danced around a contingent of armed guards had only reinforced her old mixture of fear and awe.
Avielle was incapable of remaining quiet for long, though. After a quarter of an hour's dreamlike rush through a snowy landscape, pressed against a body that was unnaturally cold and watching eddies of Mysticism magicka shiver on the air, she was unable to keep her tongue still. "Where are you going, anyways?"
He didn't respond immediately; perhaps another half of a minute elapsed before his breakneck pace began to subside. "There," he said simply, gesturing ahead - she followed his hand and then realized that the road was ahead, past the snow.
"You're just going to waltz onto the Gold R-oomph!"
The exclamation was more surprise than discomfort, for Avielle had not been expecting Vicente to suddenly deposit her on her feet. Without even thinking about it, she followed him towards the cobblestone path, struggling to keep up with his brisk stride. As soon as they were on the road, the assassin released his spell. Avielle looked at him questioningly.
"We should be safe now," he said, face fathomless as he glanced around for travellers or pursuit, then pulled his hood back down, masking his face once more. "Footsteps here could belong to anyone."
"Is this the part where you're going to answer my questions?"
He began to follow the path east; there was a certain terse quality to his footsteps. "I suppose so, yes."
Avielle chased after him. "All right. Talk. Now."
The vampire dipped his head. "To continue where we left off-"
"Left off?" The girl's tone was incredulous. "Is that what you call 'leaving off'? Do you have soldiers chasing after you on a daily basis?"
"Please. There were many less... ethical ways I could have dealt with that situation."
"Kidnapping and using me as a hostage isn't exactly what I call ethical! What would have happened if those guards hadn't let you through? What would you have done to me then?"
Vicente gave a single breath of a harsh laugh, the sort of laugh that lacks any real humor to it. "It works every time."
"And if it hadn't?"
He cocked an eyebrow at the enraged Breton. "You really have no eye for sublety, do you?"
"That was hardly subtle," she spat back.
"No, no, I assure you it was. Did you really think I would have slit your throat after coming all this way to find you? If I actually intended to kill you, you'd already be dead. For a mage, I must admit, you aren't striking me as terribly perceptive. That little display back there may have been a ticket out, but it's also an excuse for a respectable young woman like yourself to be caught with a known criminal and vampire. If anyone asks, you're travelling with me under threat of death."
The mage squinted. "Am I with you under a death threat?"
Vicente toyed with the idea of giving her a 'maybe' and a fanged grin, but decided he wasn't in a good enough mood to play.
"No," he said evenly. "Honestly, you could run off now screaming Lachance's name to every person you meet, and I wouldn't dredge up the effort to care. If your priorities have changed, then go on ahead with your life. But if that's what you plan on doing, do not expect to ever see me again, nor a glimpse of anyone who would help you with claiming your revenge, or even be able to find him. If you leave, consider that opportunity forever closed to you."
Avielle was silent, thinking.
"How do I know this is legit?" she finally said, looking up, away from him. "For all I know, you're just dragging me into some of your sick Brotherhood business."
Well, at least she had some caution under her coarse demeanor. "Don't get me wrong. I could kill Lachance myself." Almost true. "Easily." Less so. "It just happens to be that when... certain events were revealed to me, and I decided he could only ever pay for them with his life, it occurred to me that I was not the only one whom the Speaker of Cheydinhal had... wronged, unforgivably so. I will not lie to you; your father's death is not scandalous in my eyes, but I do understand that I have gradually become terribly desensitized to such matters. I sought you out because I remember what it feels to hate as strongly as you do. Who am I to deny you its appeasement? I would swear an oath to Sithis, but I feel as though you would not take well to that. So, Avielle, I swear on everything I have ever held dear that Lucien Lachance was the man that murdered Jules Fradaun, and that I searched for you solely to offer you my aid in ending his life."
It was enough of the truth, anyways.
"Can you at least explain to me who he is? I know you were the one who let him into your sick assassins' cult, but you haven't given me anything more than a name."
"I did not invite him into the Brotherhood, I simply passed him the opening contract," Vicente corrected. "He was once my student, but that means little - every Brother and Sister who resided in my Sanctuary for the last century can say the same. Lachance... I do not know his true surname, as he changed it to 'the luck' before he joined our ranks. And luck did seem to follow him... He is an Imperial, and possibly the most apathetic, cunning, and untrustworthy man you'll ever have the misfortune of meeting. He also is - was - my superior, being the Speaker of the Cheydinhal branch of the Brotherhood."
Quietly, Avielle wondered exactly what was going on if the assassin had no qualms about telling her where his cult's safe house was located. Wasn't he only upset with one man? He was baring their base of operations to her with that statement, however vaguely. She wanted to slaughter the entire lot of them, and here it was; location, location.
"I want to kill this Lachance freak, don't get me wrong..." Avielle's words came slowly, under the burden of all the information she was suddenly processing. "But I don't like you. You've saved me enough times for me to not hate you outright, but there's a lot about you I don't think I can forgive. I mean, you're a fetching vampire, for Mara's sake."
He gave her a sideways glance, his lips curving into a smirk. "Afraid that I'm going to bite you? Refrain from sneaking up on me - not an easy feat to accomplish anyway - and you will be fine, I assure you."
"That's not the point. I don't want to travel with you."
"I don't have to take you." He looked away, still keeping her in the corners of his eyes. "I simply feel as though you're entitled to your revenge. And if you go haring off after the Speaker, I guarantee you'll be dead before you can comprehend his blade in your spine. Take my advice, Avielle. When you're as old as I am, you become familiar - and increasingly unimpressed - with the types of people in this world. So if I say somebody is dangerous, you'd best believe it."
"Like hell I will," Avielle muttered. "I don't even know why you're going after the guy. Did he get blood on your favorite cape or something?"
She saw him flinch. It was momentary, infinitesimal, and yet she knew she'd struck a nerve for anything to claw through the vampire's ubiquitous calm. His reply was flavorless, betraying no emotion - perhaps even a shade too dead. "Something like that."
"Did he break that sword of yours?" She continued to toy with the apparent chink in his armor as they walked, a kitten prodding at a sleeping wolf. Vicente didn't reply.
"Misplace your collection of human skulls?" The vampire's shoulders tensed, but he didn't answer.
"Did he steal your girlfriend?" Avielle mocked, determined to get a response. "No, wait, you're an undead monster - you wouldn't have any dates to begin-"
The next thing she knew, her feet were no longer touching the ground. A cold hand held her by the throat, and she was suddenly level with two blazing crimson eyes, alive with a sort of inexpressable fury that almost bordered on the unhinged. She tried to gasp, but the bony fingers around her neck tightened, cutting off all sound. Vicente's lips were drawn back in a snarl, baring his elongated fangs. Avielle had never met a vampire that was not on their best behavior, and the bestial display all but paralyzed her with terror.
"By Sithis, girl," he hissed, "drop the subject, now, or I'll teach you what it means to truly be a hostage of mine."
In any other situation, the mage would have retorted, tossing some acidic remark about him really not being able to get a date or whatnot. But the eyes... they burned with such deadly fire that she found herself transfixed with fear, unable to turn away as she struggled painfully for air.
And then the hand was gone, fingers uncurling in a single abrupt, flicking motion. She fell to the ground on her knees, clutching at the sore skin on her neck and gasping for breath. Vicente gazed down at her dispassionately, his typical courtesy absent. After some time, he turned back to face the horizon.
"You're used to people bearing that attitude of yours. I am, for my own reasons, somewhat aggravated at the moment. I do not need your help. And, as I am quite sure you're aware of, I am a vampire and an unscrupulous killer. For the love of Sithis, learn how to hold your tongue!"
Avielle was silent.
A trace of a bleak, humorless smile twisted the assassin's lips. "Good, you're learning."
Another minute passed, the mage shuddering quietly on the ground and the vampire pointedly ignoring her, before the silence was broken. "Come on," Vicente said flatly. "I cannot afford to dawdle at the moment."
"I..." Leaving the chat on that note didn't seem right to Avielle, but she had no experience in apologies. It came out as more of a question than an apology as she gingerly got to her feet. "I'm sorry?"
He didn't show it, but the simple phrase of regret greatly surprised Vicente. Whether or not she really meant it or was just trying to get on better ground with him was ambiguous, but it had been a long time since any living person outside the Brotherhood had considered him human enough to apologize to. Perhaps fear wasn't the best foundation for this relationship - no, it definitely was not - but she'd dared belittle the deaths of those he'd cherished so dearly...
Which raised the question; did he forgive her for it?
She hadn't known what she was getting at, true, but he found that he couldn't. Not yet, in any case.
"Perhaps someday, I will tell you why I believe the Speaker deserves the most painful and drawn-out death known to man," he began. "Until then, I advise you leave the subject where it is; that is to say, in the dust. Now come on."
She followed him as he set off again; there was a certain hesitant quality to her footfalls, like some question lingered at the tip of her tongue. He sighed. "Spit it out. Unless you want to know what happened. In that case, say no more."
Being called out on a question she hadn't made any move to ask surprised Avielle, but she did her best to hide the reaction; she could already guess that this was something she'd have to get used to. She fidgeted for a moment, unsure how to phrase it and afraid of another outburst. But she did want to understand the scope of the event, at least.
"...Did it hurt?" she finally asked, timidly.
Again, the vampire was thrown by her question. It was clear that she'd meant hurt in the psychological sense, not physically. Either he'd just terrified her to the breaking point, or he really didn't know much about her, the Avielle beyond what he had observed. He felt his disposition soften a little towards her, but kept that hidden behind his still-smoldering anger.
"Ah, and here we breach another lovely stigma of the vampire stereotype. I may not be human, Avielle, but I am just as capable of emotions as you are. Did it hurt? Moreso, I daresay, than losing a pile of skulls I never owned, or breaking a piece of equipment that I could easily replace."
She flinched at the bite to his tone; the moment of almost-empathy was gone, and they were silent for another stretch of time.
Now that they were far enough from the seaside, the true nature of a winter night was beginning to set in; the sky overhead was clear, the moon sharp and defined, but the air was frigid. A gust of wind whistled across the road, lifting of silvery sheets of snowflakes along with it.
Against her will, Avielle shivered.
"Cold?" he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
"My coat is still at the tavern," she bristled, somewhat accusingly. "Somehow, I d-don't think you're going b-back for it."
Damn, she thought. Chattering teeth 1, bravado 0.
Without so much as looking her way, the vampire shrugged off his travelling cloak, rolling his shoulders to slide it off and grasp it in one hand. Avielle gasped; for one rather stupid moment, she realized that she hadn't even pondered the thought of Vicente wearing anything under the robe she'd always seen him in, but fears of encountering a nude vampire were quickly quelled. Beneath the cloak, he wore a simple set of dark clothing. It was rather old-fashioned, but very neat. He seemed to like the color black - a sable long-sleeved shirt overlaid with a charcoal-colored vest covered his torso, contrasting strongly with the ivory skin of his hands, and his pants were of the same color, flaring widely near his boots. A rather aged-looking gold pendant lent a lone splash of color to his figure, hanging closely beneath his chin. With the hood removed, his ponytail was entirely unobscured; the dark brown hair was very long, tied back with a simple strip of faded tan leather.
"Here. But I expect it returned immediately if anyone approaches."
She was so absorbed in trying to reconcile this new image that she didn't see Vicente toss the cloak at her. She fumbled upon seeing a dark bundle flying at her from the side, and barely managed to catch it.
"Er, thanks." She slid it over her shoulders, stuffing her arms into the sleeves and clutching the fabric around her. It was much too large, but she didn't care - it did an excellent job of keeping the wind at bay.
Her first impression was that it had a faint but distinct smell to it; not blood and metal, as she might have expected an assassin's cloak to reek of. Instead, the scent was oddly refreshing; a mixture of dust, like the air of an old and familiar library, and something citrusy. The fabric was silky and definitely more comfortable than most travelling gear she'd seen. It felt strange - it took Avielle a moment to realize that that was because it was cold, despite having just been worn by someone else.
There was a small slit on the right sleeve; a very neat cut near the shoulder, as if a blade had been drawn across it. It had to have been recent, for the rip was not yet frayed - a glance over at the vampire showed that there was a matching incision on the fabric of his shirt, almost covered by the vest. Oddly enough, the exposed skin didn't appear wounded at all.
Which reminded her...
"How did the guards recognize you in Anvil? I heard that there was some trouble in town recently. Anything to do with you?"
"You could say." There it was again; that ever-so-subtle clipped undertone to his words. She made a note to let the subject drop. "I was on a contract."
And that resolution went to Oblivion in a handbasket.
"Great." She whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Just great. Murdering innocent people with a dash of guard-o-cide to finish it up. I don't know what sickens me more, the fact that you did it or that you can talk about it so casually. Why am I travelling with you again?"
Vicente realized that she was going to need much more work before she became a tolerable travelling companion.
He didn't stop to face her confrontation; instead, he continued walking, so Avielle was eventually forced to chase after him. "Because I happen to be your only chance for finding your father's killer. Have you ever heard the phrase 'it takes one to know one'? You don't understand the Speaker at all; truly, the words you say right now prove that you don't understand the Brotherhood as a whole. You may not need to know the mind of a mubcrab to kill it, but the Dark Brotherhood is a vastly complex and deadly organization. You cannot hope to destroy it, as you claim you will, without knowing its mindset, its tactics, the ways it functions. I may at the moment be a renegade, but I am easily the oldest member within the Brotherhood. To put it simply, I know how it works. You do not, and that is why you are with me."
He's on the run from the Brotherhood? Interesting... She stashed that accidentally-slipped piece of information in the back of her mind. It didn't explain much, but it was a start to figuring out what had happened to make Vicente turn on this Lachance person.
Aloud, she snorted. "In that case, you're stuck with me for a long time. Don't ever expect me to see things the way your sick Brotherhood does."
The edges of his lips tweaked. "I did not say you needed to agree. Simply to understand."
"That doesn't make any sense!"
His earlier assessment had been correct - for a mage, Avielle Fradaun was not terribly open-minded. I am definitely going to have to fix that... but I'm a teacher, am I not? Pretend she's a new Murderer. Just with... altered curriculum.
"Tell me, when you are walking on the road, have you ever encountered a wolf?"
"I have no idea what you're getting at, but who hasn't?"
"And it attacked you, correct?"
"If this is a 'stupid questions' contest, I think you just won. No, they usually invite me out for tea and sweetrolls when I find them."
"If this was a 'stupid answers' contest, you would have most certainly earned yourself a trophy," the vampire said dryly. "I shall ignore your cheek for the time being. Why do wolves attack you?"
Avielle raised an eyebrow. "Because they're fetching bastards."
"Since I am fairly sure that wolves have no custom of marriage, the bastard concept is rather irrelevant pertaining to them."
"Very funny."
"I am merely trying to get an intelligent answer out of you. Prove to me that you're capable of thinking. I did not go out of my way to bring along somebody useless."
The casual insult stung more than Vicente had meant it to; the hell was she going to let a Brotherhood member think her dumb and useless, and useless had deeper connotations for her at the moment. Just because she couldn't safely use her own magicka didn't mean she was powerless. She yanked the staff from her back, feeling the wood crackle with power under her hands, and fired off a blast of green magicka.
Unfortunately for her, this did not help her cause, as she'd forgotten that vampires were immune to paralysis. As it was, Vicente saw the attack coming and could have easily dodged it, but chose not to just for sheer amusement. The illusion spell did nothing more than momentarily give his skin an eerily green cast.
"Dear me," he said acidly, "was that supposed to do something?"
Avielle blinked rather stupidly for a moment, remembering Count Hassildor's words a bit too late. Damn it! How was she going to get anything over this Vicente person if her only decent weapon was defunct against him?
"You could just answer the question I've been posing for so long," he continued. "I'm too old for games."
"Fine!" she spat. "Wolves attack you because they're hungry! They eat people! What's the point?"
"Was that so hard?" Inwardly, he was a little relieved that she could answer it. He didn't need another Ravolian... nor did he need where that thought was returning to, not when the casual jabs had managed to take his mind off of the pain. "The point is, you know why they attack. Which brings another question; do you agree with it?"
"What?"
"I said," Vicente repeated, words very slow and defined, "do you agree with the fact that a wolf will attack you when it spots you? Are you perfectly fine with getting pounced on by a slavering predator, knowing that your demise would feed its hunger for the day?"
"Of course not!"
"Then there it is," he sighed. "You understand, but do not agree; hence, the earlier concept should make sense, and you are not completely hopeless."
"Whatever, old man." Avielle was nonplussed.
"Vicente Valtieri."
"Huh?" The random phrase caught the mage off guard.
He grinned, his pronounced teeth very white in the moonlight. "You once asked my last name, and I told you that you hadn't earned the right to know it then. There it is. Valtieri. Please do not butcher it with your Cyrodiilic accent."
"So I've 'earned the right', then?" Avielle made quotation marks in the air, her tone deeply sarcastic.
He looked away, still smiling. It occurred to the girl that his demeanor had been very wildcard for the whole evening; were vampires prone to mood swings?
"In all honesty? No. But it certainly is preferable to 'old man.'"
And as much as she hated to admit it, it was difficult to be afraid of him when he was being congenial.
"Dream on, old man."