If I owned Oblivion, the game would have had werewolves in it and the Purification would have never happened. Enough said. Oh, random weird fact - I went to Fort Hastrel for the first time in-game, having selected it from UESPwiki for its story function earlier. Very, very strange, because as I got in there, the first thing I saw was a Dunmer corpse wielding a mace, slumped up against the wall. It was a treasure hunter, not a vampire hunter, but still - strange coincidence. Then, a trail of fresh bloodstains just so happened to lead down into the main cavern area. It's ironic, as I wrote those details in the story before ever actually seeing the fort's matching traits.
HoodedMage: Well, it's got to end sometime... I admit, that was where I planned on ending it at the moment (well, a bit afterwards), but that fight isn't going to happen for a while yet.
DualKatanas - First off, unless I'm interpreting this terribly wrong, any comparisons you make between Gorgoth and Vicente are taken as enormous compliments. :D And secondly, your review made me very, very happy. I was like ':o biiiig' and then I read it multiple times just to feel good about myself. Your approval of that one scene means a lot to me, and the interactions... I feel like you're setting me up to really high standards... now I don't feel so great about this chapter. It's more of a transition than anything really good. Also, I sort of don't know how to do strikethroughs? :/
Arty - Yikes! I'm really glad to hear that you're okay, though. I hope that cadet learned to be more careful. Aeons/eons can be spelled either way.
Dandy - Eep, thank you! I really do try with dialogue, it can be a little hard... also, with character development, I've already written a large portion of Vicente's backstory. I'm just wondering where to put it. Maybe even next chapter? ;o
Pandora - Laughed out loud, that's great XD
It was about an hour before daybreak when the pair found themselves in front of the Gottshaw Inn. The travel had been uneventful in means of confrontation, and Vicente had found himself strangely amused in trading jabs with the Breton mage. However, it didn't take long for Avielle to become progressively drowsy, tired, and finally dead on her feet, and the chat turned to a peaceful silence. Which brought him to now; he didn't miss the longing look that the girl was giving the tutor-style building through her half-lidded eyes. It did look charming, with ivy growing on the siding and a plume of smoke indicating the presence of a warm hearth.
The assassin would have rather attempted to give a hug to an angry troll than stay there.
He sighed. Oh, the things he sacrificed. "Would you happen to have any money on you?"
Avielle blinked, looking very much like a somnambulist. "What? Oh... not much? Enough for an room, but I didn't think..."
"I'm not going to make you spend the day in a cave," he said dryly. "I have better manners than that."
Conversation seemed to be waking the girl up. "Are you going to?" Avielle cocked an eyebrow.
"Yes. Trust me, the patrons will not take kindly to sharing a roof with a vampire."
"Why don't you just stay in the inn? You can have your cloak back. Hell, you could just make yourself invisible like you did that one time. You don't seem like the kind of person who'd feel guilty about not paying for a room."
The vampire looked away. "I dislike staying near people whom I do not trust extensively. It's an old habit... and it's kept me alive for quite some time."
Avielle's left eyebrow joined her right in their raised position. "And you trust me?" she asked, incredulous. "We barely know each other, and you know perfectly well that I want to see every Dark Brotherhood member rot in hell."
I trust you because I have nobody else left to. And because I could kill you thirty different ways with my hands tied behind my back if you ever tried to make a move on me.
Aloud, he said, "Ah, don't flatter yourself. Are you going to rent a bed, or would you rather use stalactites for a pillow?"
The choice was pretty much obvious. "I like my pillows real and fluffy, thank you very much, but... Aren't you afraid I'm going to run off? I mean, let's face it, it wouldn't be hard."
"Not really, no." His expression held a distinct tone of smugness to it. "My offer is what holds you, not my presence, and as I already mentioned, having you run off would not be an enormous setback on my behalf. But very well. I will meet you after sunset outside of the inn. Please wait for me there."
"I could get moving after a few hours of sleep," Avielle pointed out, brain not quite working properly with so little energy to run on.
"And frankly, I have no need for any at the moment, but the sun has a rather irritating tendency to set me on fire."
"Oh. Um... did you want your cloak back?"
"Yes, thank you." He took it from her, glancing up at the sky as he did so. Dawn was easily his least favorite time of day. Sometimes, he felt downright caged by his vulnerabilities. He had no worries about not being able to find shelter in time - he could see the sharply raised slope of land that usually indicated a cavern not too far north, and the sun was not yet coloring the horizon.
Avielle watched him leave. For a second, she wondered if she really should run while she still could. Upon realizing that she didn't actually have any burning desire to do so, she was flabbergasted. What had changed? Why in Oblivion was she consenting to travel with a Dark Brotherhood assassin - hell, not just that, but a vampire too. A vampire! That word alone should have been enough to make her turn tail and run away screaming. Why hadn't she?
She couldn't fathom how she'd be of any use to him in her current state. Assassins were unforgiving people - he'd probably just dump her at the side of the road if he learned about her broken magic.
Avielle shivered - the air was bitingly cold without the warm cloak to stave it off. He'd been kind, hadn't he? He'd given her free reign for accomodations, he'd allowed her a choice about taking the journey to begin with. He had handed her his robe when he'd seen that she was cold, and later on in the night, as her energy waned futher, she might have used his shoulder for support once or twice...
And it was a sign of serious sleep deprivation that she was letting herself think that way. She snorted. Of course the fetcher knew how to put on an act, to worm his way into her trust. She wasn't going to fall into that trap so quickly.
Teeth chattering, she trudged over to the Gottshaw Inn and gladly stumbled into the warmth.
There was nobody there, save for a Bosmer at the counter. "Don't often see travellers here," he remarked as she came in.
"You do have rooms, right?" Avielle went straight to business.
"Yep, they're all free," the Wood Elf affirmed cheerily. "Ten septims for the room, and fifteen if you want breakfast included. I guess it would be lunch, in your case."
Avielle gave him fifteen coins; after all, she didn't have anywhere to go for the day.
She made her way up the stairs, feeling utterly dead on her feet. The bed that was ready for her was nothing fancy, but the thought of just being able to curl up and rest seemed like a dream come true to her aching feet and tired eyes. She nearly forgot to kick her shoes off before sliding under the rough covers, one thought crossing her mind before her drowsiness claimed her; a thought that she dimly recalled having before - although never in reference to beginning a crusade with a vampire affiliated with her worst enemies.
What have I gotten myself into?
0o0o0
The cave was not exactly prime real estate. After cresting the hill Vicente had spotted and discovering that it indeed did mask a shelter, he found himself in a single cavern, decorated charmingly with the skulls of smugglers. And then there was the matter of the current tenant; a mother grizzly with three cubs. Animals would normally not attack Vicente out of hunger, but nesting mothers will try to exterminate anything that threatens their children.
The fight wasn't difficult - he slew all four ursines with only amassing a single scratch on his face, which was immediately healed by the lifestealing properties of his sword. But, as he'd regarded grimly, there was something admittedly inhospitable about spending a day next to freshly-maimed corpses. He contemplated hauling them outside, but the thinnest streaks of light were already beginning to creep through around the corner, at the shelter's entrance.
However, he had discovered something of use within the heart of the now-unoccupied nest; beneath the old bones and gravel was a long-forgotten chest. He undid the lock with a quick cantrip and unearthed a small pile of septims, upon which sat a single soul gem. It was filled; he could feel the eddies of life essence swirling within. It wasn't a particularly powerful one, but Vicente had no need of soul gems anyways. His two-handed sword had been enchanted ages ago in Vvardenfell, and the gems there had been of a different nature. The Dark Elves had held some secret in their crafting that made them infinitely more useful than those of his current province. Somehow, they actually recharged themselves, regenerating their life energy over time. Vicente prized his claymore for this invaluable property, among other more sentimental reasons.
Even so, he pocketed it, along with the fifty or so coins. If Avielle was going to fool around with her staff, she'd probably need it sooner or later.
A thorough search revealed nothing else of any functionality. There were a handful of mushrooms thriving in patches of dark, damp earth, and he knew that the particular type of fungi was useful for weapon poisons - but what good was that now, with no apparatus?
A pair of beady red eyes stared at him from a corner; a rat had crept out to see what the disturbance was. His heart gave a phantom throb of pain as he was reminded of Schemer, the friendly rodent who had curled up on his desk and rubbed up against him for affection. Out of habit, Vicente extended a hand to the rat, but it only squeaked and vanished back into the dark. Sighing, he let his arm drop.
And so he settled back to wait.
0o0o0
It was about half past one when Avielle woke up. Her legs were sore - she groaned as she rolled out of the bed and her feet touched the ground. She slid on her shoes and gathered up her patheticall light bag of belongings. All it currently held was a handful of septims and her sheathed dagger. She'd have to buy some food - her stomach growled in agreement.
Soon afterwards, she was sitting at one of the inn's tables, enjoying some very good ham and potatoes. She chatted with the innkeeper as she ate. Bosmers annoyed her as a general rule, but if the wall clock was anything to go by, she had a while before she was at license to to go anywhere. And there was really nothing else to do.
"Did you hear?" he chirped, in typical Wood Elf fashion. "They say a vampire kidnapped some girl from Anvil!"
So news had spread. "What happened?" Avielle asked, trying to sound authentically curious.
"Apparently, it broke into a tavern, grabbed the girl, cut her throat, and started drinking her blood. Three guards were killed when they tried to fight the thing off. They were just... slaughtered. And for all their bravery, it just took the poor girl and went on a rampage in the streets."
Avielle was shocked. At first, she simply wrote off the inkeeper as an exxagerating storyteller - she'd been there, and while Vicente had held her hostage, none of the bloodshed described had actually taken place. But people didn't have any reason to believe otherwise. They'd called him 'it', a thing. She thought back to the stigmas she'd generally accepted about vampires before meeting Vicente Valtieri and Janus Hassildor, and felt a sudden surge of indignation on their behalf. People could say whatever they liked about them, and nobody would ever question the claims, however heinous. No wonder they lied and hid from the world.
And damn it, why was she feeling sorry for him?
Her silence was misinterpreted. "Terrible, isn't it?"
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite banish the injustice from her mind. It lingered there unwanted, crying sympathy for the one she was in no mood to pardon.
"Yes," she replied, answering a different question. "It is."
The afternoon dragged on. Avielle bought some fruits and a few loaves of bread for later on; she had her doubts that her travelling companion had brought along food. It was hard to picture the figure that had danced soundlessly through her nightmares as somebody suddenly real and accessible.
Eventually, she found herself at the junction before the inn, watching the sun dip below the crimson horizon. Muted stars flickered into view, one by one; the scene held a strange significance for the mage, but she couldn't tell for what meaning.
Wonder soon turned to boredom. The sun was down, the night beginning, and her resident kidnapper was nowhere in sight. He had told her to wait, but waiting and Avielle were fated to never belong in the same sentence together. It only took five minutes before the girl began to poke around for him. She first headed around the Gottshaw Inn, peering behind it. There was little to see in that direction. The mountainous region of the Colovian highlands raked up sharply from here, limiting her viewing distance. South just seemed to consist of a gentle valley with sloping hills. She returned to the road, taking a westward path this time to further her scouting.
She glanced around a large boulder, trying to make out shapes in the descending gloom. Where was that damned vampire?
There was a rustle. Avielle jerked around, looking for the source, and then a hand roughly grabbed her by the throat.
"Well, looky here, boys," a deep voice rumbled, making her feel like something slimy was slithering down her spine.
She twisted around instinctively. The hand around her neck was sweaty, and she easily wriggled out of the man's hold. With a gasp, she backed away, only to run straight into a Nord and a Redguard who had most definitely not been behind her a minute ago.
Her initial assaulter, an Imperial with a blotchy complexion, was slowly stepping towards her. The mage's eyes flickered from side to side, heart thudding in her chest, but the two thugs had moved to block her from both sides.
"A little girly walking all alone at night," he mocked. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"Get back," Avielle warned, pulling out her silver dagger. Oh, what she wouldn't have given for unimpaired magicka right now... "I'm not giving you any money, so go the hell away."
This brave statement earned her a very ugly laugh from all three. "Who said we wanted your money, girly? We're just awful lonely..."
"Look at the girl," leered the Nord, "with her pretty little knife. Maybe she wants to see what a real blade looks like?"
Oh, gods. Highwaymen were bad enough, but...
Okay. Screw the fact that he's an assassin and probably wants to drink my blood. At least he's not trying to...
"Vicente!" she screamed, with all the volume that she could muster.
A moment later, her head exploded with pain; first in the front, then in the back of her skull. The Nord had pulled out a club and slammed her to the ground with a harsh blow - she gurgled, spitting red as stars whirled before her eyes.
"Shut up, girly," the Imperial snarled. "We can do this nice, or we can get a little rough."
"We might want to leave her alone," warned a new voice, belonging to the Redguard. "Sounds like she's with somebody. Let's just get the hell out of here."
"She probably just made up a name to scare us. Grow a spine, windbag."
The girl tried to yell out again, but the Nord's meaty hand clamped down over her mouth. Even worse, the other was fumbling with her shirt. She kicked and thrashed, waving her dagger about wildly, but it was quickly knocked from her grip, and the movement only worsened the pounding in her head.
"Somebody beat the bitch back down," the leader spat, pinning her arms to the stone. "Before she wastes all of that feistiness."
With a sob of desperation, Avielle reached in the back of her mind, knowing that it was the only way. The power was there, swirling very much within her grasp, and she detested it with every fiber of her being. Her own personal hell lingered openly behind salvation...
"And what, may I ask, is this?"
The words were perfectly calm. They were also spoken in the most dangerous tone that Avielle had ever heard, the sort of icy pleasantry that forms a thin veneer over a current of boiling rage. She immediately let the magic go, heart fluttering with relief; she did not think that she had ever been happier to hear anything in her life.
She risked a glance up. Vicente was striding towards the group, face obscured by his hood. Very little of his body was visible, but she could see the tension in his fingers; one hand drummed against his side, where the hilt of his old weapon had been.
Two of the men muttered amongst themselves, sizing up the weapon strapped on the stranger's back, but the Imperial only leered at the newcomer. "Looks like somebody wants to play hero."
The vampire's voice was still pleasant. "I hold no such illusions of heroism."
The bandit chuckled hideously. "Oh, so you want a turn? But we don't like to share, do we, boys? You can have what's left of -"
"I advise," Vicente snarled, giving up the act, "that you put her down. Right now." And Avielle had been wrong - he was scarier when he openly displayed aggression, possibly because the now-drawn massive claymore of his was held in one hand. Her eyes widened. She was no warrior, and had no eye for these things, but it didn't take a genius to see that his blade was crafted from pure ebony. It had to weigh at least sixty pounds, and its grip was molded for ten fingers, not five, but he wielded it as if it were any other sword. He'd moved so quickly that she hadn't seen him draw it. It had simply been in its sheath one second, and then poised to strike the next, the black blade shimmering with a reddish light in the dusk. An enchantment?
The flanking bandits backed off, but the leader wasn't willing to step down, even though his eyes betrayed a growing apprehension. He stepped away from the mage, who was now on the ground, staring up at the unfolding events. "I don't think anyone taught you how to wield a sword, buddy."
"I am not fond of giving extra chances, especially not to scum such as you. I say this for the final time; leave."
The Imperial drew his own weapon, a very spiky-looking mace. "You think I'm afraid of you, dumbass?"
Vicente couldn't resist the theatrics, so he brought up his hood with his free left hand. Avielle could see his face clearly, and the rage etched there surprised her. Yes, he seemed to need her for something, and he was rather bound to protect her because of that, but the blaze in his eyes indicated genuine outrage towards her tormentors. Something like warmth filled her chest; the bandits, of course, had the opposite reaction. The pair of more cowardly - and intelligent - men dropped their weapons and fled immediately, one of them screaming. The leader tried to take a step back, raising a shaking finger to point at the man before him.
"It hardly matters what you feel towards me, considering that you'll be dead by the time I finish this sentence," the vampire said as he plunged the claymore through the stunned man's chest. "Ah, I really have lost my touch with the one-liners, haven't I?"
"Gnnhhgh," Avielle replied helpfully, pitching forward with relief. "Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't shown up."
But you easily could have saved yourself with magic, he pondered quietly. So why did you simply give up? Perhaps he wasn't the only one of the pair that was keeping secrets. If that was the case, he'd make sure that it was only him again soon enough. He was not content with ignorance.
"Did you really have to kill him? I mean, you saved me and all, but..."
"They were trying to rape you." He pulled back his sword, intent on cleaning it. The shirts of the deceased usually made for fine rags. "I have absolutely no tolerance for such hideous dregs of society."
He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded... he frowned.
"That's a bit hypocritical, seeing as you kill people for a living," the girl replied pointedly.
The words floated from what seemed like nowhere, then drifted away. His mind was not in the mood to focus on those thoughts. Instead, it was pondering the truly enticing way that the blood on his sword shone in the moonlight, and the familiar haziness swathed his perception. As this notion grew, he became very conscious of the heartbeat next to him, still racing from leftover panic. There was something positively mouthwatering about fear...
"Hey! Old man? ...Vicente?" Avielle had noticed the unfocused look in his eyes. "Are you listening?"
Not good, the rational part of his mind pointed out urgently.
He quickly focused such sanguinary thoughts on the man he had just killed. "Do you mind?" Even as he asked, gesturing to the cadaver, he wondered why her approval or disapproval meant anything to him. He was doing her a favor, going for dead blood instead of her live and very pretty neck... besides, if she was travelling with a vampire, she would have to get used to it anyways.
The girl had no comprehension of what he was asking, and his sudden frustration with himself for being such a pushover left him in no mood to explain. Avielle only realized what he meant when he knelt down by the dead bandit's side and lifted his throat to his mouth. Horrified, the mage shut her eyes, cringing, but morbid curiosity overcame repulsion when her ears heard no sound, and they were soon open again in narrow slits.
Vicente was still as he fed; it would have looked like he was embracing the dead man, if not for the subtle working of his throat. It was both horrifying and sacrosanct. Knowledge told her that what he was doing was vile and inhuman, but there was something about the act that left her unable to look away.
As he lifted his head up, tongue swiping the last of the redness from his lips, it occurred to Avielle through her disgust that he looked slightly different. His eyes were softer, dimmer; a paler and less vicious-looking red. The planes of his face were similarly affected. It wasn't much of a difference, but they were less harsh and angled than before, a shade less gaunt. And his pallor was broken by a faint tinge of color in his cheeks.
The girl shivered, unable to stop herself from trembling as she gave him a very accusing look. "It's bad enough that you slaughtered him, but then you had to go... go... defile his body like that? That was horrible..."
And for some completely unfathomable reason, he felt embarassed. Embarassed! He was perfectly content with his vampirism, and he had no cause to have any hesitation about doing what was necessary. Vicente almost said 'it was either him or you', but his earlier lapse in pride loathed the thought of admitting his weakness. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said, sarcasm masking his unwanted mortification. "Would you like me to go and prey upon somebody who still has need of their blood, just to give the dead some peace?"
Avielle opened her mouth to retort, but his indignant logic was getting to her; she couldn't think of anything to say to that. If she looked at it objectively, completely ignoring the heinous nature of what he was doing, she supposed that he was preventing somebody alive from suffering by... she didn't even want to think about it... from the dead. But he'd been staring at her with a very blank expression for a second there...
Oh, hell. Somehow, in the midst of all of this, she'd managed to forget that he was a vampire. Not in the blood-drinking sense, but more in the not-completely-human sense. There had to be a reason why most of them went completely feral, and she had a vague suspiscion that Vicente was not entirely as genteel as he appeared.
"Or maybe you were trying to sink your fangs into anyone besides me?" she spat.
Hmm, he thought. She was interesting. A complete idiot in some ways, but very perceptive in others. He both approved and cringed at the different implications this had. The girl had not been seeing him on his best behavior.
"If only your tact was as developed as your ability to make accurate inflections. Would you like to hear my defense, or would you feel better to just wallow in your fear of the scary vampire?"
Hmm, she thought. He was good. No, she absolutely did not want to hear him try to justify himself, but the way he'd phrased it implied that if she didn't hear him out, then she was terrified of him. Which she was not. At least, she didn't want to think that she was.
"Whatever, whatever."
"As I'm sure you have noticed, I am extremely well-versed in physical combat. But, as you have not yet had a chance to notice, I detest extended fights, and prefer to finish things off as soon as possible. The reason? Bloodshed. I find it challenging to maintain my focus when blood is spilled, to varying degrees. Unfortunately, it's nigh impossible to explain the sort of... warring states of mind that I have to the living. You need to experience the compulsion before you can truly understand what it means to be able to fight it. Have you ever passed out, felt yourself slipping out of consciousness?"
"Yes..." And somehow, this was reminding Avielle horribly of her own mental issues.
"It's similar to that, but more slowly - and letting go in my case has nasty repercussions. Instead of unconsciousness, it means slipping out of my rational mind."
"So what you're saying is, you have multiple personality disorder?" The mage shuffled a little. "That's not really making me feel safe, you know."
He rolled his eyes. "I do not suffer from any psychoses; it's closer to... how would I put it? I have much stronger instincts than a human does, and my body falls back on those more and more frequently as I gradually fail to meet its needs. I've learned to fight it, to recognize it when it begins to rear up and stop it in its tracks, or to divert it to something else if the need is too powerful to ignore - and that brings us to now. Which reminds me..." He glanced at his claymore somewhat dispassionately. Tearing a scrap of fabric from the dead bandit's shirt, he began to wipe the blade clean as he talked.
"Normally, I have better resistance where my impulses are concerned, but I hadn't fed for nine days until now. I know that those numbers mean nothing to you, so I'll try to give you a frame of reference. For me, nine days is approaching 'very uncomfortable'. For a vampire that hasn't spent two centuries living around people and attempting to exist as a civilized person, it would be closer to rolling on the ground and shrieking in agony. If you were to factor out any triggers, such as fresh blood right in front of me, I can go for roughly three weeks without feeding before I become completely mad. If it makes you any more comfortable about travelling with me, I do not allow myself to reach that point. I must apologize for scaring you today, but it was not as close a call as you seem to think. I didn't actually need to turn to the bandit, but I assumed it would be most prudent, considering his already deceased state and the fact that ignoring my thirst would only lead to repeat incidents later on."
Avielle mulled it over. "I wish you weren't so damned logical," she muttered eventually. "It makes it really hard to stay pissed off at you. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're kind of freaking me out."
Vicente laughed at that. "To your credit, I have had plenty of time to work out my arguments. And, truth be told, you have not exactly been seeing the best of me."
"Is it really that hard, though?" Somewhere along the line, the mage's disgust had turned to an intent sort of curiosity. "Like, trying not to go psychotic when somebody cuts their finger?"
"It may have sounded that way, but no. For the vast majority of things, ignoring heartbeats and my thirst is as second nature as breathing is to you. It's only rarely and under certain circumstances that I truly have to struggle for my sanity, but those times can be... arduous."
Which Avielle had a very strong sense of empathy for.
"Do you have all of your things?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. He had slid his claymore back into his sheath - it looked so large and imposing on his back that Avielle once again had to marvel at his ability to one-handedly use it. "We may as well continue moving, while the night is still young."
"Yeah, I'm good. And ol... Vicente?"
"Yes?"
"...Thank you," she said quietly. "You saved me again."
"Whatever you may think of me, I look after my own, Avielle." Inside, he was both a little touched at the unexpected thanks, and still trying to understand why the sight of her being tormented by those scum had riled him up so powerfully. Usually, that kind of fury was reserved only for his Family - a Family that no longer existed. Who was this girl with her pretty face, to break into his lock-and-key emotions with such ease?
He started to walk away; Avielle was sort of irritated at this habit. Couldn't he just ask? Almost forgetting, she quickly found her dagger on the ground and picked it up. Best not to lose it.
Vicente noticed. "May I see that?"
"Huh?" The girl looked up. "Oh, sure."
He took the proffered weapon, twirling it idly between his fingers. It was rather unimpressive; silver was an easily chipped material, and the metal of this particular one was ridden with impurities. The edges were dull as well, as if the dagger hadn't seen repair in a long time. At least that was within his power to correct. He snapped his fingers, causing a red spark to flicker around the weapon's side. Avielle started.
"What did you do to it?" she demanded.
"I used magic to shear off the edges. More precise than a whetstone, and it makes for a sharper blade."
The girl squinted at the dagger as he returned it; he also handed over his cloak, which she gratefully shrugged on. "Is that even possible?"
"Of course." Vicente glanced over at her, looking rather amused. "Magicka is very malleable. You have no obligation to stick to its conventional uses. It certainly is versatile... but I prefer not to rely on it. Which reminds me - you don't appear to know how to use that weapon very well."
"So?" she said defensively.
"So I could teach you, if you are willing to learn."
Avielle was not somebody who liked to accept help, but after all the fighting she'd seen him in, she was certain that his utter proficiency with swords just about equaled her ineptitude with them. "Do you think you could? I'm pretty much a hopeless cause."
"Of course." The vampire chuckled. "I prefer to travel whenever I can, but daylight lends me plenty of free time to train you. And I've seen worse cases than you, Avielle. Believe me."
"You're just saying that."
"Really?" he challenged. "I've been mentoring students since before your great-grandmother was even born, and I know you detest the Brotherhood, but you at least seem to respect its power. I am sufficiently sure that you would be amazed at the complete idiocy that I molded some of our assassins out of... daggers are one of the first things I would cover. There was a Wood Elf once who thought that you were supposed to use them as projectiles. She utterly destroyed her heirloom bow while trying to nock a blade as you would an arrow. Another time, I had to correct an Altmer who had only ever used magicka in fighting; he didn't know which side he was supposed to hold, and ended up stabbing the practice dummies with the hilt while dicing his hands."
Amazingly, Avielle laughed. If she forgot exactly who he was talking about, then the recollections became just that; stories, stories told by a companion rather than a possibly feral vampire and Brotherhood member.
But the moment was short-lived; instead of chuckling along with her, Vicente straightened up, eyes distant in a way that reminded the mage horribly of a few minutes ago. His mouth curved into a grimace. The girl opened her mouth to question, somewhat trepid, but he was already speaking.
"There's a person on their way," he muttered. "Light, definitely not on horseback, but very, very fast."
Avielle listened, but she couldn't hear anything. "Is it a guard?"
Vicente ignored the inquiry. "Quick," he hissed. "Give me my cloak."
But before the girl could comply, a figure skidded to a halt in front of them, snow crunching underfoot with abrupt volume. She wasn't sure where they had come from - it seemed like they'd just appeared out of nowhere, they were moving so quickly. She tried to discern what the person looked like, but like Vicente should have been and she was currently, they wore a robe and a hood. But unlike the pair of Bretons, they also had a tail...
"M'aiq has been looking for you, kind sir!"
Oh, dear... Vicente swore he felt a headache coming on as wariness turned to exasperation. Not this one again...
For it was unmistakably M'aiq the Liar that had approached him once again.
"Khajiit wishes to thank the kind vampire for pointing out calipers to M'aiq. Found not one pair in the barrels, but three. Three calipers! Made Khajiit very happy.
"Er, you're very welcome, mister M'aiq." He glanced over at Avielle, wishing that he was wearing his cloak simply for the benefit of its hood. The Khajiit might be crazy, but he was perceptive in at least one way, and the vampire could not see how that could ever turn out to be a good thing. "And, ah, you have my gratitude for that little scene back in Anvil."
"Bah, was no problem. Guards were doing it wrong. M'aiq disapproves. As for welcome, is glad to know," the cat replied in earnest. "M'aiq has seen many vampires before. All bad, all too aggressive. Did not carry calipers, did not point me towards calipers. All blood, blood, blood. Are worse than people who wanted crossbows, who M'aiq thinks are also crazy."
Avielle spared Vicente the sheer confusion of having to create a suitable response. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her look a mirror of how exasperated the vampire was innately.
"Ah, M'aiq forgets to introduce himself to the lovely lady!" He gave the Breton a funny little bow. "Is bad manners, but was busy talking to the kind vampire. Greatest apologies, young damsel. My sugar is yours."
Which was just a Khajiit welcome, but the vampire wouldn't have been surprised if M'aiq the Liar really was on Skooma.
"He's not kind, you dolt." Avielle rolled her eyes. "He's a fetching assassin, you know that?"
Vicente resisted the urge to do what Ravolian had once called a 'facepalm', derived from introducing your forehead to the palm of your hand in a particularly forceful manner. Was the Breton going to spill this to everyone they met? Maybe he really ought to do this alone...
"M'aiq does not care," the Khajiit said blithely. "Is essential."
"Essential?"
"Ah, yes, is certain status in the game. Special, very special. M'aiq is glad that he is special."
By now, the assassin was starting to despair. The game? Oh, for Sithis's sake, not this again...
"Khajiit will explain. When you stab somebody enough, they die," the Khajiit continued enthusiastically. "Too much magic, too many arrows, and you fall over and don't get up. Very sad, M'aiq thinks. But M'aiq can be stabbed as many times as the violent people like. Will always get back up. Cannot actually die."
"Good luck with that," Vicente added hastily. "But I do apologize; we really are in a hurry. We have a, ah, an epic quest we're undertaking. To beat the... game. Perhaps we can chat again later?" I do hope that it's closer to perhaps not.
"Bah," the Khajiit snorted. "People who prefer multiplayer are saps, Khajiit thinks. M'aiq prefers to adventure alone. People get in the way, and they talk, talk, talk."
And then he was gone, racing past them towards Anvil with impossible speed. As soon as the Khajiit was out of sight, Vicente turned to Avielle, subconsciously shaking his head.
"Just... don't ask."
"Who in the name of Galerion's boxer shorts was-"
"Please."