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Shadowed Destinies - Chapter Two: Walk the Line

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Shadowed Destinies
Chapter Two: Walk the Line
/

The city of Bravil. Scented with wood rot. Overcrowded to the point of living atop your neighbors. Home of thieves and ruffians. In all of Cyrodiil, no city sat so far down the slope of decline as Bravil.

Away from the despairing aura outside, the glow of the cozy fire rolled over the gray leather mask covering nearly his entire face. Ilshalys couldn't help but shiver as the light playing along the ridges and points made him look even more animal-like than his namesake.

"You're sure of it? All of it?" The Gray Fox, legend in the flesh, sat casually in a chair by the fire, just like he owned the place. Considering that this house belonged to Varmon Vamori, a silver-tongued Dunmer bard and guild member in his employ, it may as well be true.

"Why would I waste your time or mine?" Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, Ilshalys cast an impatient eye outside. She just filled up nearly half an hour explaining to the Fox what had happened in recent nights, about Tomas and the hideout. Just thinking about the horrible three days she experienced made her head ache. Ever since leaving the long-sought hideout, she felt that she would be closing in on the man soon. Instead, she spent her days on a useless search for the ringleader of the urchins. Even the beggars, the couriers of hidden secrets, the very eyes of the Thieves Guild, had nothing for her. Some of them even seemed frightened when she mentioned the shack. Now dusty, tired, and thoroughly annoyed, she certainly was in no mood for the guildmaster's endless badgering. He frowned when he learned of the exorbitant amount she had spent on the urchin--coin out of the guild's coffers--but when she explained about his condition, she swore she saw a flicker of deep pain in his hooded eyes.

His eyes. They were the only thing she could truly swear by despite the mystical nature of his mask. Though distinct, she could not place them on anyone she knew. And even if she could it would not matter. The mask belonged to the Daedric prince of shadow, Nocturnal, and as such was imbued with an incredible power. According to legend, the wearer of the mask could walk up to a stranger, rob him blind in plain sight, then simply remove the mask and all blame immediately. While it seemed a useful tool for the Thieves Guild, it came at a steep price. Nocturnal, in vengeance against the thief who stole from her, placed a curse on the marvelous artifact. Any wearer of the mask found that it stripped him of his very identity. No one, even his family, would ever know who he was again. All memories and evidence of his existence vanished, lost to the realm of shadow.

The Fox chuckled, bringing her back to their present conversation. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. Well, this gives us something at least. Still no sight of the man himself? Any leads on him?"

The bard grumbled and fell into a chair across from him, burying her fingers in her disheveled hair. "Nothing. None of the beggars can give me anything. No one in the city will even admit that the place exists!" Frustration boiling in her veins so hot she might scream, she shot up and began pacing. "He's paid off the guards, I'm sure of it. No shock there, I'll bet those incompetent fools pocket a septim from every lousy s'wit in the realm with something to hide!"

The Fox's eyes followed her as she traversed the length of the room and doubled back, the mildest amusement in them. A rather ironic statement when she too had erased some hefty bounties with S'Krivva's help in her brief career with the guild. It wasn't the same thing per se, and to her credit, she had never openly bribed a guard herself. Still, he still found the minor hypocrisy in her expostulation entertaining.

"Well, just keep on it," he offered a little lamely. He knew she would never stop until the fetcher was out of commission. There was just one thing he had to worry about.

"I'll find him, Fox, I swear. And when I do-"

Ah, there it was. Christophe had warned him about the pretty bard's voice. Mostly, the Redguard mooned over it, but the wily Fox got the basic idea. And the Doyen had been correct. Her voice was lovely and soft, like Akaviri silk. The danger came when that softness no longer touched the ear. He heard it now. Like moonlight on fire-tempered silver.

"Hold it." The authority in his voice broke her from the building ferocity in her. She stopped her stalking and swiveled around to meet him. His eyes were like stone, becoming just as unreadable as his mask. "Whatever he has done, we won't be sending him to whatever Divine he dares to call on. We do this in the Shadow, as always. We-"

"We aren't the Dark Brotherhood?" She sighed, sick to death of hearing that same banal phrase again. It seemed that everyone was so eager to explain the difference between the sneak thieves and the assassins. It had gotten old within her first few days in the guild. "I know, Fox. This isn't my first job, or my first time hearing that. But you didn't see him." She walked to the fireplace and leaned on the mantle, her eyes locked on the flames. "The boy almost turned down food and warmth because he was afraid of this monster." As the Fox watched, the fire mingled with her eyes, melting the hardness away until they brimmed with molten gold, and her voice became silken again. "You didn't see him."

Something kindled in the guildmaster's chest and he too let the tension in his demeanor fade away. "Ilshalys." The bard didn't look up from the fire, but she turned her head slightly. "I have seen suffering in this city for a long time. I have dedicated my career to try and make it easier for those who cannot readily help themselves. However, the traditions of the Thieves Guild have been around longer than I have, and we all must respect them. No contact."

After a moment of reflection, she at last turned from the spectacle of flames. "Fine, we'll do in your way," she mumbled, picking up her bow and quiver as her headed for the door. Placing a hand on the knob, she glanced back at him, her golden eyes firmly locking on his. "But believe me, if he crosses me, he'll pray for the Brotherhood."

The door opened and closed quickly, letting a whisper of chilly air into the house. Though his masked face still concealed his expression, his insides felt frozen. What made her perfect for this kind of job was the very thing that could ruin her: passion. He  only hoped she was as good as her word on the subject of the man's fate.

Still, the sharp-edged blade of her voice remained firmly buried in his mind even as the fire waned to embers hours later.

/

Back in the Imperial City, the cool night sent many citizens indoors. As the light faded from the sky, windows glowed as homeowners lit fires and the unlucky soldiers who had been lacking in their duties found themselves lighting sconces. In alleyways, similar glows signaled the mendicants hunkering down until morning when they would ply their trade. With a snort, remembering the previous days' fruitless search, Ilshalys watched from the shadows. If no one would answer her questions, she would do this on her own. She would find him tonight. The man was not a ghost. He was flesh and blood, and someone in this wretched city knew of him.

A knot of men, each a little warm from their previous stop, turned the corner and stumbled by her position. Tightening up against the wall, she strained her ears to catch any tidbit of their conversation, then impulsively hunched away from them as they bellowed a lusty tune about an Argonian maid in a variety of keys. Laughing like fools, they fumbled up the stairs of yet another tavern.

"Drunken sots," she muttered, drawing her cloak tighter about her. As she exited the alley, she heard disgruntled shouts emanating from the bourgeois tavern. A bar fight, no doubt, possibly caused by one or all of the lushes that just entered. "Hope someone breaks a nose." She wanted to run inside just to join the fray as her frustration mounted. Venom ran hot in her blood and she needed to let off steam somewhere. Too bad the Arena had closed for the night.

Just as she readied herself to go back to the Waterfront for a rest, a piercing scream erupted from across the district. A string of foul words followed it in quite a different voice. Forgetting her fatigue, she sprinted towards it, hoping that this was her break. At the same time, she prayed it wasn't as a vicious blow resounded down the stone streets.

Closer and closer. She could hear weeping now, soft and helpless. A guard, also alerted by the cries, ran next to her, but his armor kept him from overtaking her. Quickly downing a potion of pears and bitter wisp stalks, her limbs grew lighter immediately and she sped away from the clanking guard. She heard him impotently warn her of vigilantism, but she did not care.

"I tell you, it'll be worse for you if you hold out on me, you little fetcher!" The gravelly voice warned as another blow landed on the unseen victim.

"I ain't seen 'im Master Jillik! Honest! I swear! I heard he got out!"

Master Jillik. At last, a name to put to the monster. After what seemed an eternity, she rounded the corner and ran full speed into the alley. A tall, leanly-muscled man with greasy hair and a face that rivaled a sewer rat's stood towering over a small, filthy girl. Dirt and blood streaked her once golden hair. She raised her arms over her face, multiple scars marring the tender skin. She could not be more than six.

Jillik grabbed a handful of the girl's hair and hauled her up to spew his foul breath into her frightened face. "No one gets out, 'less it's in a box!"

All memories of the Gray Fox's commands blew apart as she let free a scream of fury, drew her ebony daggers, and rushed forward. Alerted by her cry, the man spun away from the girl and gaped at the sight of the small-bodied elf with blazing gold eyes rapidly closing the distance between them. The girl, too afraid to run, sank to the ground and scooted behind a large rock. Before Jillik could raise a hand in defense, one of the black blades sank hilt deep into his shoulder, the other burying itself into his side, its enchanted edge chilling his blood and freezing his bones. His cry of pain fell short as his stiffened body toppled to the ground like a piece of timber.

Growling, the bard pulled her blades free and raised them to strike again, but a pair of armor-clad arms wrapped tightly around her torso. Screaming in protest, she slashed and cut at the prone Jillik for all she was worth, but the guard prevailed as he dragged her away. "Stop it! Stop fighting!" He shouted, giving her a teeth-rattling shake. Her daggers fell to the ground in the scuffle, Marrowstone almost slicing into her own foot.

"He's scum! He deserves to die! Let go!" She twisted and fought, but could not break free.

"Please, sir, let the lady go..."

The guard looked up as the little girl pulled herself up from the ground. In shock, he let the bard go and rushed over to her. "By Mara's mercy! Are you alright?"

"Yessir, I'm okay now." She beamed over his shoulder at Ilshalys, her glassy green eyes wet with tears. "She saved me."

Ilshalys smiled at the girl and slowly bent to retrieve her daggers, sheathing them with a flick of her wrists. The guard turned and looked long and hard at the bard. After a moment, he gave her a slight nod and glared down at Jillik, who stirred on the ground, muttering curses with every breath. Forgetting all about protocol, he pulled a club from his belt and brought it squarely down on his oily head, grimly satisfied as he crumbled back to the ground. Ilshalys raised her dark eyebrows, giving the guard--a young, clean-shaven Imperial--an incredulous look, to which he simply shrugged and bent to tie Jillik's wrists.

"What's going on? What's happened?"

The trio looked at the alley entrance, seeing a tall Breton man watching the scene. He didn't seem too interested in Ilshalys, but his dark blue eyes were fixed on Jillik. His thin lips formed a hard line on his face. A cold chill ran down the bard's back. Could this be an accomplice, a hired hand sent to watch over his master? She fingered her daggers, feeling comfort in their hard, cold metal.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, citizen. Just a routine arrest. Caught him attacking a child," said the guard as he hauled Jillik to his feet and dragged him off into the night. The newcomer's eyes never wavered, his square jaw twitching.

Finally, he seemed to notice the bard, who immediately dropped her hands from her belt, assuming a nonchalant pose against the wall. The child sidled up next to Ilshalys, tentatively resting her head on her thigh. With some effort, the Breton arranged his face into a smile, rolling his shoulders back.

"Well, little one, I suppose that this was your lucky night. Beware of who you associate yourself with in the future, my girl. You won't always have a hero to help you."

"Yessir," she whispered, burying her face into the warm leather on Ilshalys' leg, her skinny shoulders shivering with grateful tears. The bard stroked her hair, softly hushing her.

"Thank you for your concern, good sir. We'll be fine," she said, turning her attention fully on the child. With a curt nod, the man turned and left the alley. Ilshalys listened intently as his footsteps echoed and finally fell silent.

She had to move quickly. The night would only allow her so much time to finish her task. If this man was of any concern, then she had even less time. Scooping up the girl, she dashed away towards the outskirts of town. Towards that house of horrors.

/

"What part of 'no contact' was unclear to you, Shadowfoot?"

"That part where I'm supposed to watch him harm a child and pray to merciful Mara that a guard might come a-running in time!"

It had gone on for an hour in the house of Varon Vamori. The mage excused himself long ago, uncomfortable with the noise level. If a passing guard heard the argument, being in the same house with the thief king of Tamriel and his fastest rising star would be quite detrimental to his state of living.

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, the Fox plopped into his chair and sat rubbing his temples. Ilshalys growled and turned away from him. "You know I was right about this. Job's done and you've a slew of new recruits. You should be happy. I'm happy."

Of course, the bard was far from happy. She had indeed gotten to the hideout and found it to be worse than a rathole full of unwilling thieves. In the corner of the cellar, amid wall chains, whips, and blood-soaked floor stood a black altar, its offering bowl rancid with congealed blood. Behind it, a statue glared at her with baleful red gemstone eyes, unnatural light gleaming deeply within them. The creature's animalistic snout curled in a grimace of sinister glee, great curving horns pointing accusingly at her: Molag Bal, the Daedric Lord of Domination. No wonder the beggars didn't dare speak of this place, why the masses shied from its presence. The frightened children littering the halls crept down into the doorway to the room of pain, quietly pleading for her to get away from it. Imagine their awestruck gasps and subsequent cheers when the bard took out a mace and began smashing the hideous idol, striking it again and again until it was rubble, then shoved the altar off its base. This certainly convinced the urchins that they could leave, and she even managed to bring a few into the fold. The ones who wished to leave the business of thieving went to the chapel of Mara.

The children's gratitude and happy smiles stayed with her and lightened her spirit, but a blot of darkness still weighed on her heart. Who was that strange Breton? She did not see him on the way to or inside the hideout, but that still did not absolve him of some kind of involvement. His intense interest in Jillik was too plain to ignore. She thought to mention him to the Fox, but as soon as she had arrived at Varon's house, he barraged her with accusations and berated her on her methods.

"Happy? How can I be happy when my most trusted thief can't follow my instructions? You should have called the guard yourself and stayed out of it! You might have killed him!"

Ilshalys spun and reached him in two quick strides, gripping the armrests of the chair. Leaning in as close as possible, she stared into his eyes, watching them widen behind the cowl. "Better him than her," she breathed, trying to keep her hands on the chair and away from her belt. "What do you know of their suffering? You sit here and hide behind borrowed doors and stolen masks. You know nothing."

Before the Fox could retort or question her, she released the chair and tossed a large purse onto the table. "What the boy paid him. Take it back."

"Your payment-" he stuttered, shocked at her boldness.

"Leave it with S'Krivva." Without another word, the door slammed behind her, cutting off any other questions the Fox had.

How dare he speak to her like that? How dare he question her methods? He wasn't the one on the streets doing these godsforsaken jobs. Growling past a guard, she shoved the gates of Bravil open and stalked out into the night.

Damn the Fox and what he had a problem with. None in the guild could find fault with her execution of the job. She may have skirted the line, but she followed the tenets of the guild: no killing anyone on the job.

Well, she was not on the job now. Her eyes traveled across the land and landed on the soaring White Gold Tower, the crown jewel of the Imperial City. She had a new job now, and damn what the Fox would say about it.
Disclaimer: Second verse, same as the first. RECENT EDIT: Revamped a few things.
EVEN MORE RECENT EDIT: I am coming back to this story! But I'm realizing that even the chapters I've finished feel unfinished, so I'm adding a few flourishes. Stay tuned!

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Lesliewifeofbath's avatar
This is so much fun! But I think I'm going to have to replay Oblivion now, just to get a look at Bravil...I always thought Anvil was the cesspool--in a very cool New Orleans kind of way.