Elf,
I ain't all that grate with ritin, so I'm gunna keep this short-liek.
I'm gunna b out four a while. I don't think leavin the cave's a gud idea four you, leas not yet. Bare with me four a liddle while longer, ok?
Sorry if you had truble readin this. I'm luky enuff to no how to rite a liddle bit.
Your frien here at Utterin Hills
Tink. Tink. Tink.
The rise and fall of a dagger hitting the stone floor echoed throughout Whiterun's Hall of the Dead. The man holding the dagger had been secretly slipping inside for almost a week now and striking a grotesque effigy in the 'chest' with the steel dagger in his hand.
This entire ritual is abhorrent, he thought bitterly, letting the dagger's tip rest upon the stone floor for a while. He cast a glance at the book with the golden-brown cover - atop which rested a single bloom of nightshade. He carefully moved the bloom, then picked up the book and opened it to the first page; the writing on the page, 'A Kiss, Sweet Mother', greeted his eyes.
"You're not very talkative," a new voice seemed to sing suddenly, causing the man to jump in surprise. He looked over his shoulder at the speaker: a woman clad in red and black armor was leaning against the now-open door, arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't see her face, only her eyes - but her eyes seemed to show some degree of merriment, or at the very least, amusement. "Most people who perform the Black Sacrament keep muttering 'Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.'"
"This... ritual is abhorrent enough," he spat, rising slowly. "I'd rather not sound like a madman."
The woman laughed softly. "It's not abhorrent enough for you to perform."
"I see no other alternative." He glanced back at the effigy he'd assembled, as per the instructions in 'A Kiss, Sweet Mother'. "I'm going to keep this short, so listen and listen well."
"You have my attention."
"Good." He looked back at her. "The one I want you... people... to kill is none other than the Regent of Whiterun. That bitch... she..." Fury bubbled in the man, and words failed him, none sounding better in his mind than the next.
"Ooh, you've got quite a grudge. Not just anyone would request the demise of a ruler so easily." The woman uncrossed her arms. "Do you have any specific method in which you'd like her to die?"
"No. Well..." He thought for a moment. "...Perhaps it's not so much 'how to kill her', but... when she's dead, I want her body to hang outside the entrance of Dragonsreach. I want everyone to know she's dead, and I want the damned Thalmor who remain here to know that none of them are safe, or even welcome."
"How morbid," she mused. "I like it." She nodded after a moment's pause. "I'm assuming you have the means to pay us for our time?"
"I do." He gestured to a nearby burial urn. "In there."
She moved toward the urn in question, then opened it. "...You're... serious."
"I want her dead that badly," was all he said.
The woman reached into the urn and moved coin after gold coin around, trying to work her hand to touch the bottom of the urn. She chuckled softly once her fingertips grazed the ceramic bottom of the urn, with coins coming almost to her elbow. "I can see that." She withdrew her arm, then began to fish the coins out of the urn. "As soon as I return to my family, we'll get right on this."
He bristled as she spoke of having 'family'. "Don't lie to yourself," he snarled. "Yours is no family, only a gang of cutthroats. Do you want to know why your predecessors named it 'the Dark Brotherhood'? Because it sounded darker than 'A Group of Murderers-For-Hire'."
To his surprise, she laughed at his words. "I don't doubt it, but... well, you'd need to see how we interact with one another, I suppose. And since you'll never have the opportunity for that, you'll just have to take me at my word." She finished fishing out the gold coins in silence, then looked at him once more. "And so begins a contract, bound in blood. Expect results soon."
He nodded curtly, then stormed past her. "Just get it done," Jon Battle-Born snapped.
To think, I've been reduced to... to... this dreary... Elenwen's thoughts tapered off as a particularly frigid wind howled around her, seemingly piercing her flesh and freezing her from within, as though she weren't wearing heavy robes.
She strongly suspected it was intentional on Saarie's part to send Elenwen out for guard duty at the gate whenever weather conditions were particularly nasty; overhead, dark clouds hung, threatening a storm. She knew she'd be outside for quite a while yet, and could only pray it didn't start storming on her.
She glanced over her shoulder at the Embassy, then moved toward the gate and gazed east as best she could. Not for the first time since she'd been assigned guard duty by Saarie, Elenwen found her thoughts wandering to Runael, and to the College of Winterhold. She had been lucky thus far that Saarie hadn't bothered searching Elenwen for anything, as she'd kept Runael's incriminating letter on her person since she'd decided not to send the letter to Alinor; the message for home, she'd burned in the fireplace well over a month ago.
Another chill wind left Elenwen shivering, hugging herself in an attempt to stay warm. Skyrim had always been brutally cold, especially in the northern regions, but now... it seemed as if the land itself were saying to her, 'You Thalmor are not welcome here, and I shall purge you myself.' In just a matter of weeks, I've lost everyone I thought I could trust, she thought bitterly.
Once Thellias and Saarie had arrived, the latter had set about turning the rest of the Embassy against Elenwen, treating them better than Elenwen herself had; she was essentially ostracized by those she once had the approval of. She hadn't heard a word from En'zhar since she'd visited him in the Winking Skeever to accept his two offers for help, and knew he was likely withholding information. But the worst... the worst was Runael, whom Elenwen had loved so dearly. She hadn't seen the beautiful Altmer in what felt like years, when in reality it had only been a little over half a year. For the first time since arriving in Skyrim, Elenwen felt truly alone.
As if the thoughts of loneliness were a cue, someone approached the Embassy. She peered at their slowly-approaching figure, trying to discern who it was. "State your business," she said, her voice cracking lightly from disuse.
"I'm looking for Elenwen," the approaching figure said. The voice was a male's - a Nord, she suspected. "Got something I'm supposed to deliver."
A courier, with a message for me? She continued to watch him approach for a few moments longer. "I'm Elenwen," she finally said.
"Really? I..." The courier shook his head. "Never mind. I've just got this letter here." He reached into the small, leater satchel at his right side and pulled out a letter that was folded neatly in half. "That's all I got."
She reached a trembling hand out to take the letter, her body shivering from the unrelenting cold. "Thank you," she replied, trying to sound as genuinely grateful as she could.
"Oh, uh... not a, uh... not a problem." Apparently, he hadn't been expecting the Elenwen to be quite so... civil to a Nord. "I've... got to get going."
She nodded, stowing the letter away; she'd read it once she was inside again. She watched him depart, then closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. And just like that, I'm alone again.
"A courier?" The voice made her jump suddenly, and also caused feelings of hatred to bubble within; the voice was none other than Saarie's.
"Yes."
"Who did he have a message for?"
"Me."
"Ah." Elenwen was more than satisfied to leave it at that. "From En'zhar?"
Elenwen's eyes opened wide at these words, and she stared at Saarie. "Wh-"
"I found his letters to you," Saarie said, looking quite smug. "You do realize he's a criminal back in Alinor, and is wanted dead or alive, yes?"
Elenwen didn't dare respond; if she told the truth, she'd be confessing to working with a known criminal... if she denied it, she'd be lying. Of course she knew he was a criminal in Alinor.
"Well, it matters little either way. All that matters is that you're guilty of conspiring with a known criminal. Once Thellias drags him back here - possibly alive - you'll both be heading back to Alinor." Saarie's tone was triumphant, and made Elenwen's stomach twist in knots. "Him for imprisonment, if not execution, and you for... well, if you're lucky, imprisonment. If not..." Saarie ran a finger across her own throat, smirking at Elenwen.
Elenwen had to struggle to stay silent. She didn't want to give Saarie the satisfaction of making her so fearful of what was to come.
Apparently, Elenwen's silence had some effect on Saarie: the new First Amassador heaved a sigh and let her smirk melt away. "You're no fun anymore," she muttered, turning away from Elenwen. "If you'll excuse me, I'm getting cold out here. I need to sit by the fireplace and enjoy a nice, hot bowl of stew."
"Enjoy," Elenwen responded. She recognized Saarie's words for what they were: a 'I get something you can't have' moment. Although she was successful in remaining passive outwardly, Elenwen was furious inwardly; Saarie's words did have the desired effect on her.
"And you enjoy the rest of your long, long shift." Saarie's voice was walking away now. "Oh, and one last thing... your replacement's feeling ill, so you'll have to cover his shift, as well. I do hope you weren't planning on sleeping tonight."
Not for the first time, Elenwen contemplated electrocuting Saarie with her Sparks spell and seeing if she could cause the bitch's body to disintegrate.
Runael hissed in pain as she dabbed the cloth over the burns covering her forearm, simultaneously glad that the healing liquid applied thusly was already healing her injury - yet irritated that it stung as badly as it did.
"Sorry," Irileth murmured, looking mortified.
"It's... I'll be fine," the Arch-Mage replied, pulling the cloth away to glance at the burn. It had already faded a little, but she knew it'd be a little while longer yet. "I endured worse in Labyrinthian, believe me. Swords, bows and arrows, magic, and the dangers of the Staff of Magnus ripping magicka from my body? One brush with your Lightning Cloak is nothing in comparison." She pressed the cloth to her forearm again. "I will say I'm surprised you know so much about magic already, though."
"Only the Spark-type magic," Irileth admitted. "It's useful for neutralizing enemy spellcasters from afar, and allowing me to close the distance and fight them as I prefer - at close quarters, with my blade."
"And the Cloak?" Runael inquired.
"Not used as often, but it's definitely useful for battlemages." Irileth finally looked relieved, as her Lightning Cloak finally dissipated. She tugged gently at the sleeves of her apprentice's robes, which she'd been given by Runael after accepting her offer to study at the College for a little while.
Runael gave a nod. "So you know a little more about magic than you initially let on."
"I suppose you could say that."
Again, the cloth was pulled away from her forearm, and she looked the burns over. They were noticeably healed by now, but not quite gone yet. "So why did you want help from the College? What's this favor you mentioned the College owing you and the Jarl of Whiterun?" She looked at Irileth, clearly expecting answers.
"Even the Jarl realizes magic has greater power than most Nords want to acknowledge. Skyrim needs all the help it can get keeping the Thalmor from overstepping their boundaries; they've already pushed too far by essentially taking Whiterun. I'm sure even they would shrink back from the might of the College... were you in any condition to actually help, that is," Irileth added.
Runael gave a shrug. "I suppose that's true. The Thalmor wanted the College for themselves, for the knowledge and strategic location in relation to Windhelm... I'm guessing there was a hidden motive to remove the danger of the College mages as a threat, as well."
"As to the favor... well, long story short, Jarl Balgruuf and I once helped the College deal with a group of necromancers that was abducting the College's apprentices for experiments. In return for that, we were promised a favor - at my urging; Balgruuf wanted the money," she added with a wry grin.
"You'll be here for a while yet, Irileth. You can regale me with the 'long story'," Runael mused. "Besides, I'm the Arch-Mage of the College, and I will not deliver on the promise of some 'favor' the Housecarl of Whiterun claims we owe her and her lord. I've not heard word of this matter until you came along."
The Dunmer sighed heavily, then spared a brief glance at the burns that remained upon Runael's forearm. "...Right. Well, many years ago..."
Eorlund hadn't been one for secrecy in the past, especially not with his smithing. Still, drastic times did call for drastic measures - and he considered the situation at hand to be worthy of both terms.
Another elf had come to Whiterun but two days ago. Eorlund wouldn't have guessed him to be with the Thalmor, not when he was dressed in the rags either a beggar or a prisoner would wear... but the fact that the Altmer had been going directly to Dragonsreach was unmistakable. Whatever business such a raggedy elf could have with the Thalmor, Eorlund didn't know - but he did know that the elf was apparently welcomed, because he had been seen since, clad in some of the finest clothing yet and walking about with a strut, as if he belonged in Whiterun.
There had been rumors and whispers upon the street since then, and the most popular was one that seemed more likely than the other: the Regent of Whiterun had a husband, and the newcomer was that very mer. If the Regent's husband was strutting through the streets...
A chill wind blew over Eorlund, causing the faintest of shivers to run over his figure. Nord though he may be, even he was not immune to the chill of midnight in Skyrim. He was at the forge, no less, working on his 'secret project', but even the heat of the forge didn't exactly keep him nice and warm like being indoors did.
He reached an arm up to wipe his brow, eyes narrowed at the ebony dagger he was in the midst of forging. He'd worked with ebony before, and while he thought it was a lengthy and careful process, he had to admit the end result looked amazing. It has nothing on Skyforge steel, though. Those weapons hit hard.
The blade of the dagger was starting to take shape under his hammer, but he was taking care not to make it too complete. He didn't want to rush the project. The hammer struck the dagger's blade once, twice, thrice... then he set it down. The blade was placed back in the fires of the forge.
This was the moment he was unsure of now. He'd heard the tales, but didn't know what would entail what he was about to attempt. Still, he knew for certain that whomever commissioned this dagger wanted it and wanted it badly... for what purpose, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, either. Further, he'd never used the Skyforge itself for... something like this; he had no idea if there would be adverse effects...
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was trying to watch him, then reached into a small pouch he'd been given along with the ebony ingot and the leather strips. His fingers closed around something soft and squishy, something that made even him shudder in disgust.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Eorlund wrenched the daedra heart from the pouch and threw it into the fire, and just prayed for the best on his first actual attempt at working a daedric weapon into existence.
"I, ah... I see." Runael's eyes were wide in unmasked surprise. "Well, that's... ominous for us."
Irileth nodded grimly, arms crossed over her chest. "The one thing we neglected to tell the College back then was that we weren't able to destroy the lich; his powers were... too great. We barely made it out with our lives as it is."
The Arch-Mage pulled the cloth away from her arm and gave a content nod to the healed arm. "So let me see if I have this right..." She tossed the cloth aside, not watching as it draped over the back of a nearby chair; Irileth was suddenly nervous, as Runael's gaze was... not what she was expecting. She'd been expecting understanding, not... "You expect the College to fulfill a favor promised you and your Jarl for something you didn't actually do."
"We did save those apprentices-"
Runael held up a hand and silenced Irileth's budding outburst. "You saved them, yes - but you didn't defeat the lich. Until you can provide proof positive that the lich in question is defeated-"
"The Thalmor - your people - are driving Whiterun into the ground, and you want to talk technicalities?" Irileth snapped. "The Thalmor may well be poised to conquer the rest of Skyrim, including your precious little College, and you want to focus your attention on a lich that has not been heard from in decades?"
"What 'my people' choose to do is none of my concern," Runael replied coolly. "They may eventually make a target of the College, I won't deny that - but the fact that they're 'content' to hold Whiterun for the time being-"
"They have held Whiterun for months!" Irileth interrupted, glaring at Runael. "They appear to have no intention of letting go, either! The Regent-"
"My sister," Runael murmured.
"Is-" It was Irileth's turn to stop. "Your... what?"
"Sister." Runael couldn't help but smile at the reaction on the Dunmer's face. "Not a lot of mer within the Thalmor know that, but the Regent of Whiterun is my sister. We kept it rather quiet; no sense creating 'family drama' within the Thalmor."
"...I..." Irileth looked as if she'd just been struck dumb.
"In any case, my sister is only doing as she was ordered. I'm reasonably sure she has no desire to hold a city of Nords who would rather see her dead for longer than necessary."
Irileth now looked irritated. "Have you been to Whiterun recently, Arch-Mage?" she growled. "Have you seen just how... entrenched she seems to be nowadays?"
"She's 'entrenched' because she needs to maintain Thalmor presence in the central city of Skyrim, at least until a new Jarl can be chosen. Trying to take Skyrim for themselves is foolhardy, even for the Thalmor - and they know it, believe me. It's tenuous enough for them to have Whiterun. Had I known it would lead to that, I probably wouldn't have filed the report I did."
These words left a sense of dread, an ominous foreboding, in Irileth. "What do you mean by that?"
"My report to the Embassy, several months ago. I reported on that Nord, Heimskr, preaching about Talos."
Irileth wasn't entirely sure what happened next. All she knew was that suddenly, Runael was on her back, hand clutching at her left eye, and her own arm was outstretched, hand balled into a fist. "You," she snarled furiously. "You started all of this. It's because of you that Whiterun is under Thalmor control."
Runael moved her hand away from her eye, groaning from the punch she'd just taken from the Dunmer. "I... am not without my regrets," she grumbled, trying to stand and finding it difficult; apparently, her sense of balance was on the verge of abandoning her.
Another punch flew at the Altmer, this one knocking Runael back to the floor. "'Regrets' aren't enough!" Irileth shouted. "You made this mess, Thalmor scum, you clean it up!"
Runael propped herself up on her elbows. "I am no longer Thalmor, so refrain from calling me-"
This time, Irileth's foot flew toward Runael - but this time, the Arch-Mage was ready for the assault. A spell was swiftly woven through her fingertips, and within moments, the Dunmer found herself incapable of moving. She teetered uncertainly in place, then fell to her side, frozen.
"Such." Runael managed to bring herself to her feet once more, and was now looking down on the Dunmer. "I won't deny it's my mess to clean up," she began calmly, as if she hadn't just been punched twice by one of the apprentices at the College - her own personal apprentice, no less. "In fact, I do have plans to 'clean it up', in time. Until I can fix some of the College's problems, however, such is not... advisable. I try to interfere now, and more than Whiterun could be at stake."
Irileth was slowly regaining movement.
"At the time, I was loyal to the Thalmor, yes. At the time, I was convinced reporting Heimskr to the Embassy was the best move. Now, though, my eyes are opened... and now I know I made a mistake. Rest assured, Irileth, I am not without my regrets, as I said."
Irileth was finally able to move again, and she pushed herself to her feet slowly - then took another swing at Runael. The Dunmer was surprised when the Arch-Mage caught her fist, squeezed it in her hand, then twisted it - twirling Irileth in the process - and pinning her fist as close to her upper back as she could.
"I am also not without my defenses," Runael growled, her calm facade finally starting to slip. "I have tried to be civil, but you seem to think that beating me senseless is going to solve all of Whiterun's problems. Perhaps if you left me be, I could get around to solving Whiterun's problems sooner - as opposed to spending time healing, and thus being set back." She pushed Irileth's fist upward, making the Dunmer cry out in discomfort and a small amount of pain.
The Dunmer only now realized she had a point, and relaxed at the Arch-Mage's words. She felt Runael let go of her fist, and glowered over her shoulder at the Altmer, lowering her hand from its spot as quickly as she could. "You have a lot to answer for," she grumbled, her voice sounding threatening.
"No doubt," Runael agreed, "but until that day comes, I have other things demanding my attention. What my sister does in the meantime is up to her. She and Elenwen have not always... seen eye-to-eye."
Irileth thought back to her exchange with the Regent, and gave a small nod. "No. They don't."
"I have a question for you." Adalla gazed at the brown-haired woman.
"I might have the answer for ya," the woman replied, grinning. "Ask me, 'en."
Adalla gestured to the cell. "Why am I still locked up, if I'm not dangerous?"
"Because safety," the woman replied with a shrug. "Why?"
"Define 'safety'."
"Yers. Whoever wanted ya dead will have an easier time believin' yer dead if ya ain't seen for a little while. More time ya spend away from Skyrim like this, more time ya fade inta shadows... go invisible, like. Free to do as ya please like that."
Adalla didn't want to admit it, because it meant being confined, but she did admit it had its merits. "And how long would...?"
"Prolly not long. They left ya fer dead, af'er all; thing is, they may already think yer deader 'n' dead. Still, better safe 'en sorry."
"I... guess." She heaved a sigh and let her arms drape out of the cell door. "Doesn't make this any less dull, though... there must be something I can..." Her gaze rested on the brown-haired woman. "You can't read?"
"Barely. Can barely write, too," the woman responded, sounding put out at the thought.
"I can teach you," Adalla offered. "Gives me something to do, and... it works well for you. Lets you read and write more."
The woman was apparently giving the thought serious consideration. "Hmm... I'll think about it." She looked at the high elf and smiled. "Thanks fer the offer."
The Altmer smiled in turn. "My name's Adalla, by the way. And you would be...?"
The woman seemed hesitant to introduce herself. "...Mia," she finally muttered.
He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could only lay on the ground, bleeding out from the deep wound across his throat and the other in the middle of his spine.
Someone wanted him dead, and unfortunately he was well on the way to just that. Unsure of what else to do, the Nord closed his eyes and began to offer prayer to the Nine. His eyes were rapidly becoming unfocused, but he could see faint shapes.
The approaching shape of a four-legged animal was unmistakable. He heard the low growl, unmistakably that of a saber cat. Were he in the condition to fight back, he would have. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again, his eyes focusing very vaguely, making the feline a little easier to make out. His mouth opened once again, and he managed to squeak out a single sound... "Fus..."
The word of power coming from the Dragonborn's voice had no effect on the feline, other than to ruffle its fur like a breeze. He tried to finish the Unrelenting Force shout, but his voice failed him once again.
The feline pounced then, and the Nord's vision faded to black. He felt the saber cat's claws sink into his arms... and then felt nothing. His last thought was of the Divines before he slipped away.
A.N. - I was not thoroughly impressed with this chapter. I liked parts of it, and feel as though other parts of it could have been far better. It reads well enough, I suppose, but the content... eh. I definitely could have done better.
So... part of the reason this update is as late as it is would be Dark Souls II. I never played Dark Souls, or Demon's Souls before it. The only 'experience' I have with it is watching my brother and his roommate play Demon's Souls, and that's it. No other experience with it. Against my better judgment, I picked up Dark Souls II, and decided to give it a play one night.
I'm never playing it at night ever again, because there are just too many 'OH SHIT' moments that could make sleeping hard for me, but I've since played it during the day, and it's a fun game. I'm not very far, between work, catching up on sleep, and trying to write out updates for Flames, but what I've played so far is fun. I can't play it for hours on end, or my courage and nerves both become immensely frayed. I have a thing against the walking dead... so to know that the vast majority of my foes, thus far, have been exclusively walking dead... *twitch* Then there are the 'SURPRISE!' factors I've come across, too - none of which were particularly pleasant. Most, I've managed to push past through sheer determination; some, I've not returned to just yet. My warrior has died four times, while my sorcerer has died once; each and every time, I've been rather bold in my rush for those lost souls, forgoing all usual cautions on my run back to where I died. (Oddly enough, however, I instantly fall back on my 'usual cautions' once I reclaim my souls... one would think 'step bravely' is the name of the game for me, if I'm going to make progress through the game...)
I was on a roll last night, so I'll stop delaying... and put up the next chapter, as well. Yes, I typed out Chapter 9 last night, after I finished this one. I'm far more satisfied with Chapter 9, and have no qualms putting it up. That's just me, though.
-Spiritslayer