Author's Note: Things are actually picking up. Hooray!

Is it just me, or are the lines kind of twitchy about actually staying in place?

Apparently Ariel (and variations on the theme) is a pretty common Breton name. There are two Arielle Jurard's in Oblivion, after all ... of course, one of them's dead.

Disclaimer: I don't own much of anything.

Nobody Important

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Headway

In which an arrival occurs.

By: N3k0

He had honestly been only half-listening to the pretty Altmer chatting about this and that since sundown, waiting for the assassin to reappear. When Caminalda wasn't talking his ear off, she seemed content to direct her chatter to a mousy, brown-haired woman who never seemed all that interested, or the publican himself, a world-weary looking man with old weapon callouses.

Martin tried to convince himself that his fascination with the assassin - "Alyssia" - was entirely due to his curiosity as a scholar first, and a healer besides. That was at least partly true - she was the first vampire he'd ever met. Or at least, the first that he'd known about. She didn't look any different from a normal elf, really, except for the fangs, and he wondered how many of her kind blended in with normal society. He wondered a great many things about vampires, and he'd never found many answers. Unlike the daedra he'd studied in his youth, those afflicted with porphyric hemophilia tended to keep to themselves, and information about them was scarce.

The girl's resilience was also fascinating, especially as a healer. He knew she should be dead - and yet she kept moving, kept pushing her body beyond any reasonable limits.

That was also a cause for concern. As a healer, he hated to see his patients die, and that was a real concern, especially since the girl wouldn't allow herself to rest. He'd never had a patient who was so badly injured that he feared she'd collapse at any moment ... that he literally could not restrain. Nine help him, but he'd never had one in such dire straits that needed restraining.

Despite his intent to keep his interest purely academic, however, he had to admit there was something mesmerizing about those eyes, and he was curious about the vulnerable way she held herself, the regret he could see in her expression. The eyes, though, especially fascinated him - he remembered them being green in his room, but now they were stained crimson. What did that mean? Was it a side effect of the injury, of her curse, or something else? He wondered if even she had all the answers he wanted.

Wait ... had they been green in his room? He remembered ... something about claws. There was something about that.

Every time he tried to remember that encounter clearly, he found the details eluded him. This time was no exception, but he let it go. Surely he'd get a chance to ask her himself soon.

He caught the glimmer of light twisting around an invisible form only because he was looking for it - the invisibility potion was quite good. The girl slipped out past a real merchant, unnoticed by anyone else. Martin caught Hrothmund's eyes, then glanced at the door. The nord nodded, walking quietly upstairs to rouse his partner. How the Blade managed that feat, given his size, Martin would never know. He expected it took years of training, though.

As Martin gathered his few possessions, the Altmer immediately struck up a conversation with the merchant. He shook his head, wondering if the woman even talked in her sleep.

The dark elf merchant glanced down, frowning as he patted down his sides. Then, he looked up at the Altmer, scowling. "Thief!" He pointed at her, one bony finger jabbing at Caminalda's chest. Martin paused, watching the conflict.

The woman's expression darkened for a moment before taking on an indignant cast. She held her hands up for the man to see, and they were empty. "I would never!" She sounded hurt, but ... there was something off about the situation. Martin glanced toward the stairs. Ariel stood there, Roth towering behind her. The Breton woman had her arms folded, a scowl on her face. The Nord had one hand on the heavy axe strapped to his back.

The Bosmer was already long gone.

"My wallet is missing! I had it just a minute ago when I walked in, and now it's gone! You took it, you fetcher!"

The woman's eyes narrowed. She took a step back, and Martin had just enough time to cover his own face before the Altmer loosed a punishing blast of cold, turning the interior of the small inn into a miniature blizzard, complete with harsh winds and blinding snow. Given the whirlwind surrounding the Altmer, it would be hard to catch her - obviously, that was her plan.

The merchant was frozen solid.

Ariel took a step forward, fingers flexing, a sickly red light dancing across them. Behind her, Roth drew the menacing battle-axe.

Before either of them could act, however, a loud crack sounded, and the Altmer fell to her knees, her eyes unfocused. "I believe you have your suspect, Miss Jurard." The publican pointed at the collapsed Altmer with the heavy-looking mace he'd smashed across the back of her head.

A mousy, brown-haired woman that Martin hadn't paid much attention to before flashed a smile to the publican, then turned her attention to Martin and his Blades. "Were any of you injured?"

Martin shook his head, and Roth followed suit. Ariel responded with a simple, "No."

"This is Mage's Guild business, do you understand?"

He glanced over to the Blades, then toward the door. "Honestly, ma'am, we were just leaving. Unless you need us as witnesses, we really must be going."

The woman sighed, and shook her head. "I suppose not. Just ... keep this to yourselves, for now, if you would?"

"Yes, of course."

Lyssi smiled to herself at the distant sounds of a commotion. A hundred coins richer, the murderous Altmer dealt with, and she'd slowed down her tail.

She liked the priest well enough ... and that alone was a good reason to keep him out of her business, him and his Blades. She wasn't sure how to handle what she'd learned about the angry Breton woman, and she didn't think she wanted to face the Nord knowing that he knew she'd been eavesdropping.

Hopefully when they realized they lost her, they'd head north to Chorrol and forget about her.

She made her way to Anvil under the cover of darkness, slipping inside the city gates past a sleepy-looking guardsman. Everything was so ... normal. Did they even know what had happened just up the road? She took a moment to listen to the sounds of the port city. She could hear hundreds of people going about their nightly routines. The smell of salt water and the reek of fish was so strong she could taste it, without even needing to sniff the air.

She was to find a pond with a statue in it. Behind the statue, there was a barrel, and inside she was supposed to find her next dead drop, and the reward for killing the Listener.

Hopefully she'd gotten here in time.

Hopefully, she'd catch the traitor here, and reward him. She was eager to meet the faceless menace who had caused her so much heartache. She had several knives she wanted to show him, wicked, cruel blades that she'd use to draw out his torment as long as she could manage.

It would all be over soon.

Just to make sure, she opened the barrel and checked inside.

A neat, tidy package rested at the bottom, her name scrawled on the front.

No.