Behold, one long action sequence!
Unfortunately Enthralled – chapter six
The Welkynd stones bathe him in cold blue light as he passes, casting an unnaturally long shadow that follows him like a predator. There is something about the place that makes him feel insignificant and inferior, trespassing through ruins once inhabited by a race so powerful they rivalled the gods themselves.
But however small he feels, he cannot leave yet. He has a contract to fulfil.
He has been told very little about the target, beyond the name and location. That bothers him somewhat, because not knowing is an invitation for danger; his prior contract to kill the Skooma dealer, for example, made no mention of said dealer having a bodyguard. A piece of information – or lack thereof – that very nearly cost him his life, had Uvani not stepped in. Stalker-like tendencies are considered by most a bad thing, but Banus is thankful and truthfully rather flattered that Alval frequently chooses to follow him unseen. It's much like having a guardian angel, though he is undoubtedly the grouchiest angel that ever existed.
But speaking of Uvani...he wonders what is on the Dark Elf's mind, to make him look so forlorn and tense. Granted, Uvani is rarely seen to smile, and to any other he probably looked his usual, serious self – but there is a difference, however slight, between 'serious' and 'worried', which Banus has learned to spot.
He thinks a present might help, and glances thoughtfully at the numerous Welkynd stones; he recalls them having some magical value, so perhaps Uvani would appreciate two or three brought back for him. But they are quite high up...he tries climbing a pillar to reach one, but his hands scrabble uselessly against the smooth, featureless stone, and he lands painfully on the floor.
A sound catches his ears then, a soft and near-silent...laugh? But when he turns to see who else is there, the room is empty. He might be more suspicious, but the noise was so faint that it may have never been there at all. He puts it down to imagination, and continues on his way.
Venturing deeper into the ruins, he notices a few of the stones are missing – not fallen, as nothing lies on the floor, but physically taken from their holders. It could be down to pillaging bandits, but he notices that the further he gets, the more are absent, until only one or two remain out of pure necessity for the light they provide. But the only way to obtain them would be with a telekinesis spell...
And it becomes obvious: he is dealing with a mage.
That isn't good. You can't smother a mage; they had no need to try and push you away when they could send a shock spell directly into your veins. His dagger is, as always, at his hip, but it remains a last resort if his repertoire of drain spells fails. He still detests the sticky, scarlet sight of blood even if it is an absolute necessity.
When he finally comes to a door, left slightly ajar and with the sickly-sweet smell of various Alchemy ingredients drifting through, he drops down to a stealthy crouch. The waning candlelight is a warm, flickering orange that, unlike the wash of blue from the Welkynd stones, creates nooks and crannies of darkness to hide in. Up ahead, the mage stoops over his Alchemy table, pouring liquid into liquid while a nearby calcinator cooks what's left of a flower, its blackened petals curling inwards in the very mimicry of death. His target, it seems, is currently ignorant of the world around him – potion-making does that to a person – and so Banus is able to approach without detection; he straightens up, summons the best drain health spell he has available to him, and hopes it will be enough for an instant kill.
Unfortunately, it is not.
The mage snaps upright and alert, whips around to see his attacker – and Banus, just a fraction faster, manages to hide himself against the wall. He suppresses a sigh when he sees the faint glow of a Restoration spell, because anything that can heal itself is twice as troublesome. For now, his advantage lies in remaining unseen.
"Who's there?" the mage asks sharply, eyes narrowed. Banus doesn't say anything, and after a few minutes of silence his target relaxes in resignation. Seizing the opportunity, he moves.
He shouldn't have moved.
The mage, as it turns out, has not only decidedly good hearing, but also happens to know a thing or two about Illusion magic; he finds himself temporarily blinded with the intensity of the light spell thrown his way, and is so preoccupied with stumbling back that he barely hears the man's triumphant exclamation. He can't fight like this – he can't see like this – so he drops and dodges out of the way, back into the safety of the darkness.
"An assassin, hm?" he hears from somewhere, but he's still trying to blink his vision back into existence, so he hasn't a clue where the mage is stood, "I figured one would come along eventually. Expected someone older, though. You planning to kill me, boy?"
He doesn't answer, knowing the mage will use his voice to seek him out again. Instead he slowly descends to the floor, soundlessly picks up a stray pebble between his fingers – and with the swift flick of his wrist, sends it skittering across the floor.
The distraction works, and while the mage is turned away, Alor lunges with a new tactic in mind. He tackles the other to the cold stone floor, hand hissing with orange-red as he splays it flat against the robed chest and drains all of the Magicka he can. His efforts, however, only earn him a quiet snort of 'barely touched me...' before the man grabs both his wrists and sends a screaming ice-fire through his nerves that very nearly kills him on the spot.
He breaks free, pulls back with less control over his balance than he would have liked. Something in him whispers stand up straighter, and he does so, throwing another drain health spell his target's way before he can evade it. It sends the mage reeling, but only for a few seconds.
"Low-level spells," he murmurs, observing Banus in the temporary respite between them, "But you stand like an expert. You're not self-taught, are you?"
He gives no reply – partially because he doesn't make a habit of talking to the people he's about to kill, but also because his mind is too swarmed with pain to form a coherent sentence right now. His only clear, concise thought at the moment is that this contract was intended for someone of considerably higher rank and skill.
"Not very talkative, are you? I suppose I shouldn't expect that of an assassin," the mage says, still watching him like a hawk, "Shouldn't expect common courtesy either. I'll have to start that potion again from scratch, you know."
Dimly, Banus wonders why the man is holding a conversation with him; the thought that it might be a form of distraction does not occur to him until an unquestionably lethal ice spell is hurtling towards his chest. Pure reflex allows him to dodge it, but the radius of the spell still sends a spike of cold into his side. There's an overwhelming wave of nausea, and the fact that his counter-spell actually hits the mage is down to luck, not accuracy, but it buys him enough time to go skidding back into being unseen. He has to stifle his breaths, ragged and hoarse as they are, but his Destruction magic seems to be actually winning him the fight, since he can feel the wet, warm residue of the mage's blood on his clothes.
Something then quietly reminds him that drain spells leave no marks.
He glances down, and though he can make out no stain on his dark clothing, he doesn't really need to see the damage to feel it. Evidently the claymore wound has re-opened, and with this knowledge the pain seems to catch up with him – the only thing that stops him from gasping aloud is the certainty that the spellcaster will find him, and finish him.
This task wasn't meant for an Eliminator. It's so obvious now. So blindingly, sickeningly obvious. And a part of him is convinced the mix-up is deliberate, because the Brotherhood could never be so negligent and careless; he was given no information about this man, especially not his aptitude at magic. But he doesn't understand why he would be subjected to such a task when he has shown nothing but loyalty and dedication to the people he calls – called – family.
"Assassin," the mage calls out, stalking the room with a vicious shock spell at the ready, "Where did you disappear to?"
But he's tired, Banus notices. There is a certain slowness to his movements that comes with weariness, meaning the assault of drain spells has done the trick, and he's saving his Magicka to kill Banus rather than heal himself – a few more attacks should be enough. But casting any spells from afar will give away his position, and that shock spell will undoubtedly mean his end.
Or he can run up and surprise him, but – he looks again at the injury in his side – it may just hurt him as much as it does the mage. But faced with certain death or possible death, the choice isn't that difficult.
As soon as the man looks away, he strikes, weaving through the shadows with the swiftness of a wildfire, and a roughly equivalent sensation coursing through one side of his body. The mage turns, sees the crimson-soaked assassin, and tries to utter his spell, but Banus plants one hand over his mouth and with the other mercilessly drives his magic into the sorcerer's chest, again and again and again...he doesn't stop, not until there are no more struggles, and he is holding a corpse.
And then...silence.
There's blood everywhere. It's not that he detests the colour, because he likes plenty of red things, like strawberries and sunsets and Uvani's eyes. But blood is supposed to be inside people, not out, so it definitely shouldn't be all over the floor. But then, the blood doesn't belong to the mage, it belongs to...someone, but he can't quite recall who, because everything's a bit fuzzy at the moment. His side feels oddly warm but he can't think why, and- wasn't he standing up a minute ago?
You're going to die in here.
The thought should be terrifying, but he can't bring himself to care. It doesn't matter anyway – if he dies, that is. There's no-one to mourn him. No-one to miss him.
Except...one...
And he realises, with a sudden surge of pain and passion and life, that he can't die, because he still needs to give Uvani those Welkynd stones he hasn't yet found. Needs to hand them over and see if he can touch his fingertips, because he still remembers grasping the elder's wrist earlier, their first skin-on-skin contact, and he doesn't want it to be their last. And maybe...maybe this time he won't...pull away...
"Poor boy," he hears sighed from somewhere distant, and it sounds like the same voice that laughed earlier, but wasn't that just his imagination? "And you tried so hard as well."
Opening his eyes is far more difficult than it should be, and for all that effort he can't see anything beyond blurs of colour and motion. He can just make out a vague shadowy figure in front of him, no distinguishable features, but who else would follow him in secret, watch over him and come to his aid? He tries reaching out for it, hands brushing some of the warm, cloak-like material – and beyond that, a face just a little too soft and rounded to belong to a certain Executioner.
"Who?" he whispers, if it can even be called that.
The answering laugh is female, but he's unconscious before he gets the chance to hear it.