Poisonous Gardens

Chapter 2

By Burntsierra

Large, heavy flakes of snow fluttered lazily down to the ground, each flake's shape unique, as though crafted by an artist high up in the sky, and thrown down to earth for critique. The conditions had brought visibility down to a bare minimum, bringing the flakes to the forefront. A low whistle carried through the air, the sound of the wind coming from the north, carrying in its currents the smells of fish oils from the coast, and the remnants of acrid smoke from fires lit in isolated settlements. The frozen wastelands of Solstheim were deserted, no people from the nearby colony of Thirsk foolish enough to set out in these conditions, sensibly staying inside the mead hall, close to the warm fires, singing songs of bravery and adventure, whilst drinking the warming drink so popular with the Nordic race. Even if anyone had been out, it's doubtful they would have seen the glimpse of movement, as fleeting as it was. The snow itself moved, just a little shift to the side, which an observer would have dismissed as their mind playing tricks on them, mirages not being uncommon when faced with an huge expanse of white, stretching as far as the eye could see.

His attire matched his surroundings, a full set of hand crafted Snow Bear armour, expertly made for him by a local armourer, who specialised in it's creation. A full set, minus the gauntlets. The acquisition of those gauntlets were the purpose of this little hunting expedition. Inching along on his stomach, Tusamiel watched his prey up ahead. Unlike other beasts, snow bears would not run when threatened, instead they would charge towards him, relying on their natural size, strength and aggression to force their foes to retreat. A stealthy approach was not required to gain the pellets he wanted, he could have simply stood toe to toe with with the animal and slugged it out, but it was good practice. Still on leave following the injuries he'd sustained in his last mission, his biggest fear was that he'd lost the sharpness which was so essential to a person in his line of work. This was his test, set by himself, to see how ready he was. The last report he'd sent to his controllers had expressed his willingness and desire to return to work, he would never had admitted his fears to them, but this was necessary to set his own mind at rest.

His rehabilitation had been lengthy, and extremely frustrating. The first few weeks he'd simply laid on his back in the mead hall, staring at the trophies of previous hunting expeditions on the walls. The heads of Snow wolfs, Snow bears, as well as their more common relatives, were the decorations of choice used in this place. Slowly his wounds had begun to heal, and ironically it was these very decorations that had inspired him to begin again, his body responding, his muscles starting to regain their former lithe hardness. The mind was always the most fragile though, and it was this that had proved to be the most troublesome, getting back the confidence and regaining the belief in his abilities. Once the seed of doubt had been planted, it was difficult to remove.

His eyes surveyed the terrain, his body still. Snow Bears had an extremely advanced sense of danger. If he could get close enough to strike, without alerting the creature, then that would be proof enough that he was back to being near his best once again. A quick inventory check showed he had several arrows he could use, perhaps the most obvious attack, but it was a dagger he pulled out. A true test is where it's as difficult as possible, he reminded himself. The true nature of ability only rears it's head whilst in the presence of adversity. Forceful gusts of wind were blowing directly into his face, reminding him that the wind was blowing to the south, which, with the Snow Bear to the north, would stop his scent from reaching it. The conditions were as good as he could have hoped for, ideal for his purpose. No more delays, no more excuses, today was going to be the day. He could feel the confidence souring through his veins, a sensation he had greatly missed over the past couple of months. He felt more alert, more alive.

The snow bear was moving to the left, heading slightly towards a clump of trees. If Tusamiel could reach those trees, his approach would be hidden. Resisting the urge to move quickly, any sudden movement would surely attract it's attention, he inched towards them, a good three hundred yards, which at this rate would take some time to reach, he calculated. Apparently this was going to test his patience as well as his body. Not rushing, denying the desire to charge in, to get it over with as quickly as possible, was mentally very demanding, requiring as it did, a high level of concentration. Tusamiel smiled, this would indeed prove a worthy test.

The conditions, if it were possible, seemed to be getting worse. Snow falling had progressed into a heavy blizzard, the sound of the wind whistling before had now become like a horn, carried on the strong wind, the elements raged around him, the swirling flakes of snow blurring his sight. Grimacing from the shock of the cold, he realised that, despite his discomfort, it would work in his favour, as the wind was still keeping his scent from reaching his prey. Whether it was the biting cold, or the thrill of the chase, Tusamiel wasn't sure, but he felt sharp, his mind was filled with clarity. He knew just what had to be done, and exactly how to do it. Catching an icy flake of snow on his tongue, the coldness numbing his taste buds, he pushed himself up to a crouch, body hidden from the prey by a large, old tree, which somehow, despite the conditions it lived in, had still managed to grow a few green leaves, and readied himself.

Casting a look across, he saw that the large, lumbering creature had it's head down in the snow. Tusamiel swiftly moved from behind the cover of his tree, heading for one a few yards to the side. Use the trees as cover, and try to get over to the side. He didn't dare go behind it, as the wind would alert it to his presence. Carefully moving, tree by tree, he closed the distance. This was about as close as he could get. All he needed now was someway of distracting it for a few precious seconds, that was all he'd need. Pulling an arrow from the quiver on his back, he practised the motion of the throw, then satisfied, launched it. The arrow flew in a smooth arc, gliding silently through the air, over the head of the bear. The change in the balance of the atmosphere alerted it, the Snow Bear quickly moving it's head to where the arrow had passed it by, and rising to its full height as the arrow struck a group of stones on the other side. Letting out a roar, it started to move towards where the arrow had landed, returning from it's formidable standing height, and travelling with surprising speed on all four legs once again.

In motion the instant the bears head had moved, Tusamiel raced up behind it, dagger in his hand, and jumped forwards, his body landing on its back. Wrapping his left hand around it's throat to hang on, he regained his balance and steadied himself. Letting out a roar of surprise, the bear rose up onto two legs, shaking itself violently, as it tried to throw the intruder from its back. Hanging on for dear life, Tusamiel wrapped his legs around the mid section of the bear to give him better leverage, crossing his feet at the ankles. His dagger was pointing upwards, the palm of his hand facing the sky, twisting his forearm to the left, he changed the positioning of the weapon, and raised it high above him, angling downwards. Using his back muscles, he rocked back and forth, trying to throw the bear off balance. As the bears head twisted around in annoyance, he plunged the dagger into its exposed throat, pushing it as deeply into the flesh as he could, and then with a grunt of effort, he pulled the dagger to the right, freeing it from the bear. Unclasping his legs, he swung them back round, and using his left hand and both feet, pushed the bear forwards with all his strength, trying to get as much distance as he could between the bear and himself. Having a large, heavy snow bear land on top of you, is not the easiest position from which to extract yourself.

As the bear plunged forwards, still alive despite the condition of the wound it had sustained, Tusamiel landed heavily on his back, ignoring the wave of pain that shot through his body. Rolling onto his side, he pushed himself up, and walked carefully up to his prey. It had sunk to the ground, the life ebbing away from it, lacking the strength to get to its feet again. In a last desperate attempt to escape, it had tried to rise, but had fallen in the process, and was now lying on its back, completely defenceless. Its eyes clouded with pain, it watched Tusamiel approach, emitting a low gurgle of sound, causing bubbles of blood to escape from the open mouth. Lowering his head, Tusamiel gave a brief prayer to Auri-El, that the beasts soul might have a quick, smooth travel to its destination, and looking deep into the Snow Bear's eyes, ended its suffering, feeling sorrow as the last glimmer of life left it's body.

A magnificent creature, he thought. Such a heavy price to pay for a piece of armour. Before he'd first partaken in collecting the raw materials for his armour himself, he'd never given much thought as to how they were made. Most of the native armour styles in Tamriel were made from animals. Bear, wolf, netches, fur, even the popular Bonemald and Chitin were derived from the hides of insects. Since his first hunt to gather ingredients, which had a large impact upon him, he'd felt that people wearing armour should be forced to gather the material needed for themselves, to see with their own eyes the terrible cost that such armour required. It was too easy just to buy it in the shops, fully made, only a tenuous link to the original animal it was made from. There was no emotional connection, no sense of history, that a living breathing creature had been killed, just to make the items to be purchased. By wearing this creatures remains, he vowed to remember its magnificence every time he wore it. It's brave fight, the look in its eyes as he'd approached, knowing that death was here, and it's fearless acceptance of it. I can only hope that when my time comes, Tusamiel thought, I'll be able to look into the face of death without blinking. With melancholy thoughts swimming through his mind, he crouched down, and began the unpleasant task of stripping the snow pellets off the bear with his dagger.

Snow bear pellets safely tucked away in his pack, he turned back, casting one last glance at the fallen bear, already just an unidentifiable shape completely covered with snow. The cold was starting to bite now, his warm furs not offering as much protection from the elements as he would have liked. His body was craving sustenance, but he had no food left on him, and he couldn't bring himself to eat any of the bear behind him. Picking up the pace, he decided he could last about another twenty minutes before he'd be in trouble. It would be tight, but he had no option but to press on, and hope that he could reach shelter before the cold started to play tricks with his mind.

One small part of his mind felt enormous satisfaction though. He'd passed the first part of his self imposed test with flying colours, now it appeared the elements were going to add another aspect to make it even more challenging. The fresh snow was covering his footsteps on the ground almost before they were fully formed, anyone following him would find it difficult to keep him in sight from a safe distance without alerting him to their presence, and could no longer rely on just following his trail. Not that he imagined that anyone was in fact following him, he was about as isolated from civilisation here as it was possible to get, but painful lessons that had been learned the hard way didn't disappear overnight.

Trying to keep his mind focused, he fought to search through half buried memories for a little detail, something inconsequential, that he could concentrate on as he walked. He didn't want his mind to start wandering, a sure sign that the cold was taking over his senses. This way, he could be sure he was still in charge of his responses. An assassin he'd met last year, a notorious member of the Morag Tong called Sarvayn, whilst playing a local version of poker in The Lucky Lockup, brought a smile to his face. All the other players had dropped out, leaving the two of them to play against each other. It had been a fascinating experiment, the two highly skilled professionals trying to read each other's tells. Neither had been able to gain the upper hand over the other, money changing from one side of the table to the other with each hand. After calling it a day, they'd retreated to the bar to share a drink of mazte, and had a most unusual conversation about the game they'd just played, and the use of tells in their profession. Tusamiel hadn't mentioned what he did for a living, but the assassin had seemed to intuitively know, either that had or he'd had prior knowledge. It wouldn't have come as a surprise, after all, the Morag Tong were renowned throughout the region for being remarkably well informed.

Sarvayn had talked about his pre-fight ritual, which he claimed helped him to focus his mind on the task ahead, which apparently consisted of dual wielded daggers, the flat surfaces tapping against the sides of his thighs, as he awaited his foe to make their move. Tusamiel had played with the idea of adopting something similar after the conversation, but had discovered that he never used the same weapon twice, so wasn't able to find one that suited his particular situation. He'd been envious of Sarvayn, the relationship he had with his weapons, they seemed to be an extension of his hands. Sadly Tusamiel did not have the luxury of being able to create that sort of connection, the targets he hit had to appear random, there could be no way of tracing the kills back to him or his organisation.

The memory faded, as he realised he was almost there. Up ahead was the mead hall, the smell of alcohol reaching him even here, regardless of the strength or direction of the wind. Amazing, he thought, the tolerance these Nords had. No matter how much they drunk, it never seemed to affect them. It wasn't unusual for Tusamiel to see them having a nice nutritious breakfast of Nordic Mead immediately upon waking, bathing or eating seemed to be secondary concerns to them. Walking towards the origin of the smell, towards the smoke coming from roaring open fires, towards warmth and comfort, he suddenly stopped still. A figure, visible through the snow, lit by torches on the building, was shivering under the outwardly protruding archway of the building. Impossible, thought Tusamiel. I've been in the cold for too long. From here it looks like...

"Garieus?" asked Tusamiel. "Is that you?" As he got closer, his face broke into a smile, and he shook his head in bemusement. The Imperial was holding a torch in one hand, shielding it from the snow with the other, and was dressed in armour completely unsuitable for the conditions. "You do realise that Chitin wasn't designed for snow, right?" he asked, grinning, as he clasped his hand on Garieus's forearm. "No wonder you're shivering."

The difference in height was almost comical, Garieus having to twist his neck backwards to look up at Tusamiel. Not particularly tall by the standards of the Altmer race, in Morrowind it was a different story. Other races all seemed so short in comparison, so much so, that Tusamiel had felt at the beginning like he stood out, their eyes, especially those of their Dark cousins, followed him he was sure. Only the Nords came close to matching them. His attraction to Solstheim, he'd considered before, might have some underlying connection to those feelings of vulnerability, here when he'd first arrived he'd felt less noticeable. Stupid, he realised, with his narrow shoulders and golden skin he stood out everywhere that wasn't Summerset Isle, yet when it came to subliminal responses such as these, so often logic had little to do with it.

"I'm shivering Altmer," replied the Imperial with forced dignity, "because it's extremely cold." "It's Solstheim. What on earth did you expect. A heatwave?" Fighting the urge to laugh, Tusamiel somehow managed to keep his face straight, and motioned towards the building. "Lets get inside then. No point in remaining cold." "As much as I'd like to, I'm afraid we don't have time." said Garieus. "We don't?" "No. Your presence has been requested back on the mainland immediately. Caius wants to speak to you." Tusamiel studied the Imperials face, looking for a clue as to where this was leading. "A mission?" he asked. "Rithleen didn't say, all she said was you're to come back immediately. Apparently, whatever this is about was urgent enough to send me as an errand boy, to this," he waved his arms around him, gesturing to their surroundings, "hell hole. Almost a full day of travelling, just to get here. Next time you go away on holiday, any chance you could pick somewhere closer, and preferably warmer?" "Any closer and it wouldn't have felt like a break. What, you're not afraid of a little snow are you?" Tusamiel asked playfully. Garieus grunted disdainfully, looking around him with displeasure. "You can get away, and still be in civilisation you know," he said, " you don't need to go to the back end of beyond. In case you hadn't noticed, there are no transport services on this island. I've had to walk I don't know how far from the dock. In this." he said pointedly, eyes looking at the overcast sky. "You look," said Tusamiel, "decidedly mournful." Garieus glared, saying nothing, and wiped a large amount of cold, white flakes of snow off his goatee in response. Laughing, Tusamiel clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Don't worry Imperial. I'll get my things, and we'll catch the next boat out of here." "That would be good." replied Garieus. Tusamiel turned to walk into the mead hall, and turned back questioningly, as Garieus hailed him. "Whilst you're in there, I don't suppose you could pass me a little sliver of that mead could you. It smells divine." One frozen eyebrow on Tusamiels face made an attempt to rise. "For the cold." Garieus hastily added. Shaking his head, Tusamiel grinned, and headed inside.

Garius stood stamping his feet, trying to bring some feeling back into his frozen limbs. Tusamiel had gone inside, the door shut behind him, and Garius's attention was focused purely on that door, awaiting his return. On the roof, the shape of a man became visible, the chameleon spell dissipating. Carefully, he walked across the roof, away from Garius, straining not to make any noise. When he had gone what he considered to be a safe distance, his hands clasped together, and a soft muttering ensued. The air fizzled with magicka, glowing where the shape had just a moment before stood. Now, nothing, the snow covering the imprints his boots had left. Soon there would be no sign anyone had ever stood there.

Tusamiel packed rapidly, taking only what he considered essential. His books, probably his most prized possessions, he left. Now was not the time for sentiment, and he needed to regain his professional demeanor rapidly. Garius had said that time was of the essence. More important, it was Caius requesting him. The man who had been closer to a father than anyone else Tusamiel had ever known. This was not just about him returning to work, and proving his abilities hadn't receded anymore. This was about honour, payment of a debt he knew could never be repaid. This was about pleasing his father.

The currents in the air don't lie. Garius stared around him suspiciously, fist tightly clenched around his sword, held upright in anticipation of attack. Someone was there, or had been. Breathing slower, he realised that no attack appeared to be forthcoming. The quicker they got on the boat the better. At least this way, he would have the length of the journey to decide what to do, whether to report his suspicions or not. Rithleen would have his hide, of that he had no doubt. Just how much had they heard and more important, how much had they understood? Willing Tusamiel to hurry up, Garius slowly blew out the air in his chest, watching as the moisture mixed with the snow, and plummeted to the ground. This had all the makings of a monumental disaster, he thought. They had to leave now. As the door opened, and Tusamiel appeared, clutching a satchel over his shoulder, he forced his mouth into a smile. Tusamiel couldn't be allowed to see his discomfort. With an effort, he clasped him on the shoulder, every sinew in his body straining to appear carefree, and they turned towards the direction of the docks.

Tusamiel pushed himself awkwardly out of the Silt Strider, hurriedly pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. Balmora at last. It was the most outlander friendly city in the province, the only downside being the tendency for the heavens to open into a torrential downpour at a moments notice. Only a few seconds had passed, the time taken for him to climb out of the creature and onto the platform, and already he could feel the rain soaking his skin, oblivious to the several layers of clothing he wore. A flash of lightening close by made him flinch, followed a few seconds later by an ominous rumble of thunder. Thanking the driver, as much as any person could be said to drive a giant insect, and handing him a few gold pieces in gratitude, Tusamiel looked across from the platform, which offered an excellent vantage point from which to view the city. In his line of work, the rapid cooperation of such people could be essential, and so Tusamiel always tried to give a tip at the end. Partly out of thanks, and partly so when he needed them, they would be more willing to help. The general masses all blurred together, leaving only the extremes to stand out. Those who didn't tip, and those who tipped well. The goodwill generated by just a few gold coins was well worth the investment.

Shaking his head in bemusement, he rapidly strode down the steps, stepping under the platform at the bottom. The streets were deserted in this weather. Usually there was a constant stream of the towns citizens walking around, but this time they'd had the good sense to stay indoors. Gingerly, he stamped his feet, droplets of water jumping through the air, startled by the force of his boots hitting the puddles which had settled on the ground, feeling the blood starting to flow through his limbs. Silt Strider's had not been built with High Elves in mind, he thought ruefully, his long legs having had to twist around each other for the entire trip. At least he been able to stretch them out slightly at Ald-Ruhn, when Garieus had made his excuses, and departed. He'd seemed very distracted, something had obviously spooked him, though no amount of probing on Tusamiel's part had been able to glean what was troubling him. An air of false cheerfulness, and a constant stream of inane chatter had lasted from the docks at Solstheim all the way through the journey. Unsure whether it was a professional or personal problem which was occupying Garieus's thoughts, Tusamiel hadn't wanted to press too hard, but it had made him uneasy. If it was about the mission, it would soon be made clear to him though, he thought.

Another flash of lightening lit up the sky. Grasping the pillar, he looked up at the sky, leaning out as far as he could without getting any wetter. In this weather it wasn't possible to tell the time of day. Dismal looking clouds lingered low over the city, spitting out rain and lightening at irregular intervals. Preparing himself, he hastily sprinted from the cover he was under, down the steps, turning left into an alley. Procedure in these circumstances usually dictated that he should walk unhurriedly, so as not to attract undue attention, taking a wide route round in order to spot any potential tail. However, in this rain, such an approach would have the opposite effect, and make him stand out as being suspicious, or at the very least, strange.

Still, he remained cautious. Procedure had been designed for a reason, and breaking it, whilst valuable at times, was only to be used in a last resort. Once people started taking shortcuts, discipline suffered, and they started looking for them all the time. In this business, a moment of sloppiness would invariably be the very last moment. There was very little room for error. With such thoughts in mind he moved along the alley, turning sharply left, up a few steps, and walked quickly along, stopping under an awning, hidden under the shadows, where he waited for several moments, carefully scanning the street in both directions. Anybody wanting to follow him would find it difficult. They'd have to run through the puddles, and the noise which would be made by that would alert him to their presence, or if they took the opposite approach, and kept their distance, they'd run the risk of losing sight of him completely. After a few more minutes had passed by, he started to move, finally satisfied he was on his own. Hood pulled tightly over his head, face pointing downwards away from the direction of the wind and the rain, he crossed the bridge spanning over the river to meet his superior, Caius Cosades, the Imperial Spymaster of the Blades in Morrowind.

Caius stood, wearing only a pair of trousers. His cover, that of a moon sugar addict, was ideal. By making himself easily visible to everyone, he'd achieved a minor local celebrity as one of Balmora's colourful characters. Everyone was so used to him acting strangely that his frequent comings and goings, and visits in the midst of the night, went unnoticed, and if anyone mentioned it, the response was usually, "Oh, that old sugar tooth, don't pay any attention. He's probably just trying to find himself some poor sap to con, to feed his habit." The bedsit was nondescript, just a bed, a plant, some empty bottles and a skooma pipe prominently displayed on the nightstand for all to see. Still, despite the skooma and moon sugar, he was in very good shape, a broad chest with the marks of several long campaigns in the past etched in the skin, and careful eyes that missed nothing. Getting on in years, Tusamiel still didn't know exactly how old he was and quite honestly didn't dare ask, he had the experience and wiliness of years of deep cover operations, that money could never buy. He was also the man who had taken Tusamiel out of Cyrodiil ten years previously, and was the closest thing to family he had. Swallowing a lump in his throat, and smiling warmly, Tusamiel stepped forward and grasped the outstretched hand of Caius. " It's good to see you again", he said, "you're looking as well as ever." "As are you," replied Caius. "You're completely recovered?" Tusamiel nodded, "The break was what I needed." "And you're ready for another assignment?" "Yes." replied Tusamiel firmly. "You don't need to worry, I've got a few more years left in me yet." "Hah!" snorted Caius. " I should hope so too! When you get to my age is when I'll start thinking you're ready for retirement." Tusamiel, paused, surprised. Looking down at Caius, he asked with concern, "You're thinking of retiring?" Caius laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere yet. Even if I was thinking of it, I don't think the Emperor would allow me to at the minute," replied Caius. "There's trouble back in Cyrodiil, and the Emperor needs to spend time solving that. Which means he needs as many people as he can trust over here right now, so he doesn't have to worry about it." His face turned serious, laughter lines disappearing. "As do I. I've a situation here that needs solving quickly. Are you up for it?" Tusamiel paused, and considered his words carefully. "You know that you can trust me, have I ever let you down before?" Caius smiled gently, "That's not what I meant. I know I can trust you, you're like a son to me. And I know you can do the job, hell, I trained you. None of that has ever been in doubt." He looked Tusamiel squarely in the eye. "I don't however want to push you back before you're ready. Those were serious injuries you sustained, and I want to be sure you've recovered before I send you back out into the field." "I'm ready." stated Tusamiel. "I would tell you if I wasn't, I wouldn't jeopardise the mission by going in unfit." Caius nodded, satisfied, and went over to a locked container on the shelf. He extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to Tusamiel. "I'll leave this with you now then." said Caius. Tusamiel nodded, and clasped Caius's hand warmly. "I won't let you down." he said, his chest tight, and his voice thick with emotion.

Leaving Caius's house, Tusamiel headed over to the Lucky Lockup. The lure of a soft bed and warm food was too strong to resist. It was calling to him, singing through every tired bone in his body, every aching muscle from a long day of travelling in cramped surroundings. Once inside, and having ordered food, and asking for it to be brought up to his room, he stretched out on the bed. Had he been straight with Caius? He believed he was ready, his self imposed test in Solstheim had been passed with flying colours, but he couldn't be sure. All the practise in the world didn't prepare for the real thing. When nerves, tension and adrenaline came into play. His injuries, as Caius had mentioned, had been severe. How could he have so glibly said they were healed? A soft knocking at the door, heralded the arrival of his food. Tipping the serving girl, he sank back down again, distractedly putting freshly roasted Nix Hound meat into his mouth, not tasting, not inhaling the aroma, simply refuelling.

The target was unusual, to say the least, but Tusamiel had taken on high profile missions in the past, and he wasn't going to question Caius's logic. If he believed this needed to be done, well, it would be done, and done in the way he wanted. There was no way Tusamiel would let him down. He needed to rest, he knew it. Going into a mission like this on edge would not be appropriate. Tusamiel would have to do what he had been afraid of for the last few months. Close his eyes, and hope that the nightmares stayed away. Grimacing in anticipation, he tentatively closed them shut, and tried to sleep.

Fragments of images flashed through his mind, blurry round the edges as though being shown on old apparatus, as he lay there, moaning softly. Flesh burning to his left, the arid smell filling his nostrils, the sizzling of the red hot poker lasting for seconds, a faint buzzing audible under the screaming. Caius appeared smiling, gesturing to him to come forwards, arms open, Helende standing behind his shoulder. Lines of text languidly flowed across his sight, obscuring the figures.

A distortion of reality
Designed to induce paranoia
Trapped in the image
of a thousand lonely suicides.
Beware of reflections.

From the bed, over and over, the same phrase would have been heard. "Beware of reflections, beware of reflections."

Morning had arrived, and Tusamiel stood surveying the supplies he'd bought. That ought to be sufficient, he thought, anything else could be purchased when he arrived in Ebonheart. He'd had a word with the owner of the Lucky Lockup, and had paid for a months rent in advance. Not that he was planning on returning any time soon, but he had one last thing to do. Carefully, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his coat, and stuck it next to the mirror. It had been carried around with him since the incident, written in his bed, unable to move anything but his left arm, and had been poured over many times since then. It was time to let it go for now. Decisively, he turned, and locked the door behind him, hurrying down the stairs to the Silt Strider. The driver was waiting for him, and nodded as Tusamiel approached.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready." replied Tusamiel.

On the rooftops, the figure stood peering down, hands tapping against the side of the legs, the glint of metal barely visible. The silt strider was receding in the distance, carrying Tusamiel away. It looked like the next destination would be Ebonheart. When the insect was safely out of sight, the figure moved, along the rooftops towards the Lucky Lockup. Carefully making sure there was no-one in sight, the figure used a high quality pick, and opened up the door to Tusamiel's room. Quickly surveying the room, it saw the note on the mirror. Head tilted to the side, eyes studied what was written.

The icy stirrings of fear
spread throughout the circuits of my brain
Engulfing me
Overpowering me
The desire to fight subsides
Once I would have screamed
Once I would have railed against this
Injustice
But no more
For I have learned how to settle
The paralysis that once scared me so
I now accept
The numbness that deadened my senses
Is a comforting friend
Soon there will be light at the
End of this tunnel
Into the arms of unknowns
Will I look back one day
And think
That was a good day

"Oh dear God." Lifting the helm covering the face, revealed the face of a male dark elf, pain clearly visible in his eyes as he read the note again. It looked as if he was not a moment too soon. "Time to bring you back to the world of the living, Tusamiel." he said.

For three days he'd scouted the Imperial Chapels to discover his target's routine. Lalaia Varian had proven to be a creature of habit. She arrived at the chapel at six each morning, always the first one there, where she unlocked the doors. Her colleagues started to show up from around seven onwards, before the doors formally swung open to the public at half past. She remained in there until lunch time, when she would take a brief walk down to the docks, stopping to talk to people along the way. She would then return to the chapel until finally leaving with a Redguard colleague at nine at night. Since his order's were very specific as to the manner of her demise, she had to be hit inside the chapel, which meant his best opportunity was in that hour long window first thing in the morning. He'd brought a scroll of Divine Intervention with him, which would transport him to directly outside the chapel doors, allowing him to avoid going through the Grand Council Chambers and run the risk of being seen. Although the Chamber's were supposed to be empty at that time, he'd noticed that the cleaners sometimes worked through the night, and as such their movements inside the building were erratic, and could not be accurately monitored.

On the third night he watched the docks from outside of the castle walls. Tusamiel waited until he was sure that both Lalaia Varian and the Redguard were onboard the boat, and then waited for the boat to cast off. Bringing out the scroll, he carefully read the ancient arcane language, and magically appeared outside of the chapel. Although the Altmer, as a race, were renowned throughout the provinces as the race most receptive to magical influences, in terms of both having the largest amount of mana to cast spells and the greatest weakness to it's effects, many other races in Morrowind would have been surprised to discover that only a small percentage of High Elves used it. The accepted image of an Altmeri mage or Sorcerer had become so ingrained in the public conciousness, that people did not seem to notice how few there actually were. The Altmer civilisation was based on knowledge and nobility, and the nobility were the ones who got the knowledge. Places in schools that trained magic were highly coveted and extremely expensive, with those places reserved for those offspring of wealthy families and ex alumni, which more often than not turned out to be one and the same. Tusamiel had neither the money nor the lineage when growing up, and had been forced to seek out other means of defending himself. Like so many other High Elves born in that position, he still felt a tremendous amount of bitterness about the lack of opportunities that had been afforded him.

Outside the chapel, he pressed himself against the wall, to merge with the shadows in the darkness. Thankfully, the moon was dim tonight, as if sensing his intentions. He waited several minutes, on the off chance that some observant guard had noticed the flash of light or sensed a disturbance in the atmosphere. At last, satisfied that no-one was aware of his presence, he brought out a lockpick and carefully unlocked the door to the chapel, resetting the lock from the inside. And there he waited. Out of all the disciplines, this was the hardest. The waiting. Tactically it made sense, the last sign of entrance would be when Lalaia Varian used her key to open the door, and by habit, she always locked it again behind her. From the outside, there would be no signs of forced entry, and no signs of a struggle, and waiting inside the chapel eliminated any small chance of a guard or civilian noticing him and getting suspicious. Still, the waiting was always the hardest. He couldn't move about the chapel, as he wanted to leave as few signs of his presence as possible. Positioning himself behind the door, Tusamiel forced his mind to concentrate on the moment. He had to remain alert. However small, there was always the possibility of the unexpected. A curious guard, a cleaner coming through after switching shifts, or the chance that Lalaia Varian would be unable to sleep and come back early. As important as scouting and learning the routines had been, it was vital to remain flexible to counter an aspect he hadn't considered. Prepare properly, and then be prepared to improvise was a motto that had been drilled into him a long time ago.

At a couple of minutes to six, he heard the door of Council Chambers open. Footsteps outside, growing louder as they drew closer. Stopped. A rustling. Scraping on the door, followed by a clunk as the key entered the lock. Tusamiel breathed out in relief. His entrance hadn't been detected. The potion at his side had been pulled out in readiness of this moment, and now he pulled out the cork, swallowing the contents in one smooth gulp, restraining from gagging at the unpleasant taste, thankful that it was odourless, and noting with satisfaction as his hand became transparent. Exclusive potions of invisibility were very useful, although not as effective as chameleon, as when an object was moved, the potions effects wore off, leaving the wearer exposed in clear sight. That shouldn't be a problem in this case though, he thought, as he had no intention of being seen. The last drops swallowed, he brought his breathing under control, and waited silently.

The door opened, and Lalaia Varian stepped through. She'd closed the door behind her, and relocked it from the inside. This, presumably, was to discourage people wishing to use Imperial Cult services before they'd officially opened. After placing her bag on the floor, she'd begun walking over to the shrine, where she started to straighten the cloth. Tusamiel fell in step behind her, matching her strides and the rhythm of her breathing. As she leaned forward, Tusamiel wrapped his left hand around mouth, squeezing hard, and pulled her head backwards, slamming his right foot into the back of her corresponding right knee, so she started to fall backwards, off balance, the sweet smell of her perfume filling his nostrils. At the same time his right hand had come around, now holding a viciously serrated dagger, and started to saw through her exposed throat, easily containing her attempts to struggle. A common misconception about assassins is that cutting a throat is easy. Grab from behind and then slice the throat in one simple movement. It isn't. Imperials have far too much sinewy gristle in their throat. To do it properly, you have to repeatedly cut deep, putting a lot of force behind it, as if you were sawing through a log. Tusamiel was willing to take no chances. He kept on sawing until he was hitting bone, her head still pulled back, her blood spurting forwards covering the altar, until her struggling subsided completely.

Tusamiel stepped back, allowing Lalaia's lifeless body to crumple on the floor, to check his handy work. The suddenness of the attack had taken Lalaia by surprise, and with Tusamiel having stretched her throat backwards, her vocal chords had been cut, stopping her from screaming out. The remainder of the attack had been fairly silent, the sound of her feet desperately scraping on the ground as she'd struggled, unable to make a sound, the final desperate pleas for help going unspoken and unheard, had been unlikely to catch the attention of a passing guard. Still, now was not the time to take chances. Ignoring the lifeless heap on the floor, Tusamiel walked swiftly over to the door, and listened carefully. At the slightest sound of running feet, or an outraged guard raising the alarm, he would be out of there. Nothing. Preaching patience, he waited another thirty seconds, feeling his heartbeat slow down, as he realised that no help was coming, and that the moment of danger had passed. The comedown after an adrenaline high was always difficult, to go one from one extreme from the other almost instantly, and was especially difficult to control. Focusing on the breathing, a constant rhythm persuading the body that it could relax, he faced his task once again.

Not finished, Caius's orders had been most specific on this point. A death was not sufficient, the body had to be hacked up and defiled, to increase the shock value, and then placed over the altar. Who Caius had in mind to blame for the attack, Tusamiel wasn't sure, but orders were orders. Surveying the scene, he forced himself to continue the plan, resisting the urge to stop. This had to be completed, no matter how unpleasant. Hacked up, that was the phrase that Caius had written in his orders. Tusamiel had given a lot of thought, to what weapon would best create such an effect, and had finally settled on an elderly, rusty, slightly blunted, miner's pick. Whilst not a believer of the Imperial God's, he still felt uneasy. No matter what he believed, if these Gods did truly exist, they weren't likely to appreciate this. Tusamiel forced himself to focus, stifling the bile rising in the back of his throat, and started swinging. This was not going to be pretty, he thought, grimacing.

Leaving the Imperial Cult building was easy, leaving Ebonheart at this hour of the morning without attracting the unwelcome attention of the guards was another story. He wore a thick cloak around his lanky frame, stained through years of use, the poor quality making him look like a homeless beggar. Tusamiel knew that people rarely remembered the person, if the outfit fulfilled their stereotypes. All they would remember was a tall figure, clothes tattered and torn, walking hunched through the streets, hood pulled tightly down, covering his face. If they even remembered that, as the few passers by he encountered seemed to suddenly find the opposite side of the street fascinating. Fine, except that in a town like Ebonheart, especially at this early hour of the day, such an outfit could well attract an over zealous Imperial guard, whom were not renowned for their tolerance to those of low income.

Out of the Six Fishes tavern, he could hear loud voices, singing some chorus, the words of which seemed to be haphazardly strung together with no discernible theme, each voice seemingly singing to a different tune. These voices were joined by another, apparently the landlord at the end of his tether, which seemed to be forcefully telling them to clear off. The front door opened, and a large group staggered out, comprised of several different races. Strange how copious amounts of alcohol could make races which would normally detest each other into best friends. Tusamiel shook his head in amusement. He didn't think he'd ever seen a Khajiit with its arm around a Bosmer before, both cheerfully singing away. The guards, not wanting to get involved into a situation, were drifting rapidly elsewhere, and Tusamiel saw his chance. At the top of his lungs, he joined in the song, making sure there was no semblance of a tune to be heard. Arms stretched out, welcoming him, and he engulfed himself into the throng, singing all the way down to the docks.

The brightness of the sun reflected off the ripples gently moving in the sea. Early afternoon, and the days siesta was in full flow, Guards lazily moving in their heavy armour, weighed down by the large amounts of food and mazte they'd gorged themselves on. Seyda Neen, the first port of call for most visitors, and the most corrupt region in the province. Here, the Imperials served a different master, namely the smugglers who used the narrow waterways and underground caverns which populated the Bitter Coast. He'd taken the plunge over a year ago, taking some of the money he'd saved from mission expenses over the years, and bought a house. Each mission, a little put aside. Members of the Blades weren't paid directly, the funds given were expected to be used for all eventualities, from bribes and equipment to living expenses, and as such, were generous. The previous owner, an Imperial who was rumoured to have been the owner of a strange ring, believed to be cursed, had finally managed to make his way back to Cryodiil, and Tusamiel had moved swiftly, making an offer the next day. Not that there had been competing bids, most of the inhabitants were here because they were in business with the smugglers, or were making plans to move on. The realtor who'd shown the property had been delighted when an official bid was made, Tusamiel gaining the impression that she'd expected a long stay on the market for this property. For his purposes though, it was ideal. Silt Strider availability giving easy access to elsewhere on the island, but far enough away from the heavily populated areas for him to feel he was getting away from business on his retreats back here. One added bonus also existed, a fellow member of the Blades lived in the village, acting as their eyes and ears to the new arrivals. It was there he would head to next, he decided. Catch up with Elone, and gather the new orders Caius had informed him would be waiting with her. First things first though, and a change of clothes was at the top of his priorities.

Tusamiel had entered the building. From outside the village, hidden behind a tree next to a small swamp, the Dunmer stepped back. He couldn't enter there, that much was for certain. The Morag Tong helm would attract far too much attention, and he always wore that in front of others. Until the past had been revenged, the helm would remain. It didn't seem as though anything would be happening until nightfall now. He needed rest, he wouldn't be of much use to Tusamiel worn out. Looking around him, he spied the entrance to a cave, hidden behind some rocks opposite the Silt Strider. That would suffice for now, he decided. A little rest, and be ready to move when it got dark.

Here Ends Chapter 2

(c)2005 Burntsierra