Tag: One-Handed

Night Falls on Sentinel

No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft pad of the barmaid’s feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all. If anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman in a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise. Even suspicion. As it were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest it had no sign, blended into the shadows.

“Are you Jomic?”

The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and nodded. He returned to his drink. The young woman took the seat next to him.

“My name is Haballa,” she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it next to his mug.

“Sure it be,” snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. “Who d’you want dead?”

She did not turn away, but merely asked, “Is it safe to talk here?”

“No one cares about nobody else’s problems but their own here. You could take off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one’d even spit,” the man smiled. “So who d’you want dead?”

“No one, actually,” said Haballa. “The truth is, I only want someone … removed, for a while. Not harmed, you understand, and that’s why I need a professional. You come highly recommended.”

“Who you been talking to?” asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink.

“A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.”

“One of them friends don’t know what he’s talking about,” grumbled the man. “I don’t do that any more.”

Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them at the man’s elbow. He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold out and began counting. As he did, he asked, “Who d’you want removed?”

“Just a moment,” smiled Haballa, shaking her head. “Before we talk details, I want to know that you’re a professional, and you won’t harm this person very much. And that you’ll be discreet.”

“You want discreet?” the man paused in his counting. “Awright, I’ll tell you about an old job of mine. It’s been – by Arkay, I can hardly believe it – more ‘n twenty years, and no one but me’s alive who had anything to do with the job. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?”

“I was just a baby.”

“‘Course you was,” Jomic smiled. “Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an older brother Greklith what died, right? And then he’s got his older sister Aubki, what married that King fella in Daggerfall. But the truth’s that he had two elder brothers.”

“Really?” Haballa’s eyes glistened with interest.

“No lie,” he chuckled. “Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and Queen’s first born. Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his parents wasn’t too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two more princes who looked a lot more fit. That’s when me and my boys got hired on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or some such story.”

“I had no idea!” the young woman whispered.

“Of course you didn’t, that’s the point,” Jomic shook his head. “Discretion, like you said. We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and that was that. No fuss. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club.”

“That’s what I’m interested in,” said Haballa. “Technique. My… friend who needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. What is the club for?”

“It’s a tool. So many things what was better in the past ain’t around no more, just ’cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. Let me explain: there’re seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella’s body. Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four more respectively. Argonians and Sloads, almost as many at fifty-two and sixty-seven,” Jomic used his short stubby finger to point out each region on Haballa’s body. “Six in your forehead, two in your brow, two on your nose, seven in your throat, ten in your chest, nine in your abdomen, three on each arm, twelve in your groin, four in your favored leg, five in the other.”

“That’s sixty-three,” replied Haballa.

“No, it’s not,” growled Jomic.

“Yes, it is,” the young lady cried back, indignant that her mathematical skills were being question: “Six plus two plus two plus seven plus ten plus nine plus three for one arm and three for the other plus twelve plus four plus five. Sixty-three.”

“I must’ve left some out,” shrugged Jomic. “The important thing is that to become skilled with a staff or club, you gotta be a master of these pain centers. Done right, a light tap could kill, or knock out without so much as a bruise.”

“Fascinating,” smiled Haballa. “And no one ever found out?”

“Why would they? The boy’s parents, the King and Queen, they’re both dead now. The other children always thought their brother got carried off by the Underking. That’s what everyone thinks. And all my partners are dead.”

“Of natural causes?”

“Ain’t nothing natural that ever happens in the Bay, you know that. One fella got sucked up by one of them Selenu. Another died a that same plague that took the Queen and Prince Greklith. ‘Nother fella got hisself beat up to death by a burglar. You gotta keep low, outta sight, like me, if you wanna stay alive.” Jomic finished counting the coins. “You must want this fella out of the way bad. Who is it?”

“It’s better if I show you,” said Haballa, standing up. Without a look back, she strode out of the Nameless Tavern.

Jomic drained his beer and went out. The night was cool with an unrestrained wind surging off the water of the Iliac Bay, sending leaves flying like whirling shards. Haballa stepped out of the alleyway next to the tavern, and gestured to him. As he approached her, the breeze blew open her cape, revealing the armor beneath and the crest of the King of Sentinel.

The fat man stepped back to flee, but she was too fast. In a blur, he found himself in the alley on his back, the woman’s knee pressed firmly against his throat.

“The King has spent years since he took the throne looking for you and your collaborators, Jomic. His instructions to me what to do when I found you were not specific, but you’ve given me an idea.”

From her belt, Haballa removed a small sturdy cudgel.

A drunk stumbling out of the bar heard a whimpered moan accompanied by a soft whisper coming from the darkness of the alley: “Let’s keep better count this time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”

Mace Etiquette

Warriors sometimes make the mistake of thinking that there are no tactics with a mace. They assume that the sword is all about skill and the mace is only about strength and stamina. As a veteran instructor of mace tactics, I can tell you they are wrong.

Wielding a mace properly is all about timing and momentum. Once the swing of the mace has begun, stopping it or slowing it down is difficult. The fighter is committed to not just the blow, but also the recoil. Begin your strike when the opponent is leaning forward, hopefully off balance. It is completely predictable that he will lean backward, so aim for a point behind his head. By the time the mace gets there, his head will be in its path.

The mace should be held at the ready, shoulder high. The windup should not extend past the shoulders by more than a hand’s width. When swinging, lead with the elbow. As the elbow passes the height of your collarbone, extend the forearm like a whip. The extra momentum will drive the mace faster and harder, causing far more damage.

At the moment of impact, let the wrist loosen. The mace will bounce and hurt a stiff wrist. Allow the recoil of the blow to drive the mace back into the ready position, thereby preparing the warrior for a quicker second strike.

Fire and Darkness

FIRE AND DARKNESS
The Brotherhoods of Death

By
Ynir Gorming

“Brother, I still call you brother for we share our bonds of blood, tested but unbroken by hatred. Even if I am murdered, which seems inevitable now, know that, brother. You and I are not innocents, so our benedictions of mutual enmity is not tragedy, but horror. This state of silent, shadowed war, of secret poisons and sleeping men strangled in their beds, of the sudden arrow and the artful dagger, has no end that I can see. No possibility for peace. I see the shadows in the room move though the flame of my candle is steady. I know the signs that I …”

This note was found where it had fallen beneath the floorboards of an abandoned house in the Nordic village of Jallenheim in the 358th year of the Second era. It was said that a quiet cobbler lived in the house, whispered by some to be a member of the dread Morag Tong, the assassin’s guild outlawed throughout Tamriel thirty-four years previously. The house itself was perfectly in order, as if the cobbler had simply vanished. There was a single drop of blood on the note.

The Dark Brotherhood had paid a call.

This note and others like it are rare. Both the Morag Tong and its hated child, the Dark Brotherhood, are scrupulous about leaving no evidence behind — their members know that to divulge secrets of their orders is a lethal infraction. This obviously makes the job of the historian seeking to trace their histories very difficult.

The Morag Tong, according to most scholars, had been a facet of the culture of Morrowind almost since its beginning. After all, the history of Resdayn, the ancient name of Morrowind, is rife with assassination, blood sacrifice, and religious zealotry, hallmarks of the order. It is commonly said that the Morag Tong then as now murdered for the glory of the Daedra Prince Mephala, but common assumptions are rarely completely accurate. It is my contention that the earliest form of the Tong additionally worshipped an even older and more malevolent deity than Mephala. As terrifying as that Prince of Oblivion is, they had and have reverence for a far greater evil.

Writs of assassination from the first era offer rare glimpses into the Morag Tong’s earliest philosophy. They are as matter of fact as current day writs, but many contain snatches of poetry which have perplexed our scholars for hundreds of years. “Lisping sibilant hisses,’ ‘Ether’s sweet sway,’ ‘Rancid kiss of passing sin,’ and other strange, almost insane insertions into the writs were codes for the name of the person to be assassinated, his or her location, and the time at which death was to come. They were also direct references to the divine spirit called Sithis.

Evidence of the Morag Tong’s expertise in assassination seems scarcely necessary. The few instances of someone escaping a murder attempt by them are always remarkable and rare, proving that they were and are patient, capable murderers who use their tools well. A fragment of a letter found among the effects of a well-known armorer has been sealed in our vaults for some time. It was likely penned by an unknown Tong assassin ordering weapons for his order, and offers some illumination into what they looked for in their blades, as well the mention of Vounoura, the island where the Tong sent its agents in retirement —

I congratulate you on your artistry, and the balance and heft of your daggers. The knife blade is whisper thin, elegantly wrought, but inpractical[sic]. It must have a bolder edge, for arteries, when cut, have a tendencies to self seal, preventing adequate blood loss. I will be leaving Vounoura in two weeks time to inspect your new tools, hoping they will be more satisfactory.

The Morag Tong spread quietly throughout Tamriel in the early years of the second era, worshipping Mephala and Sithis with blood, as they had always done.

When the Morag Tong assassinated the Emperor Reman in the year 2920 of the First Era, and his successor, Potentate Versidae-Shae (sic) in the 324th year of the Second Era, the assassins so long in the shadows were suddenly thrust into the light. They had become brazen, drunk with murder, literally painting the words ‘MORAG TONG’ on the wall in the Potentate’s blood.

The Morag Tong was instantly and unanimously outlawed in all corners of Tamriel, with the exception of its home province of Morrowind. There they continued to operate with the blessings of the Houses, apparently cutting off all contact with their satellite brothers to the west. There they continue their quasi-legal existence, accepting black writs and murdering with impunity.

Most scholars believe that the birth of the Dark Brotherhood, the secular, murder-for- profit order of assassins, was as a result of a religious schism in the Morag Tong. Given the secrecy of both cults, it is difficult to difine the exact nature of it, but certain logical assumptions can be made.

In order to exist, the Morag Tong must have appealed to the highest power in Morrowind, which at that time, the Second Era, could only have been the Tribunal of Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Mephala, whom the Tong worshipped with Sithis, was said to have been the Anticipation of Vivec. Is it not logical to assume that in exchange for toleration of their continued existence, the Tong would have ceased their worship of Mephala in exchange for the worship of Vivec?

The Morag Tong continues, as we know, to worship Sithis. The Dark Brotherhood is not considered a religious order by most, merely a secular organization, offering murder for gold. I have seen, however, proof positive in the form of writs to the Brotherhood that Sithis is still revered above all.

So where, the reader, asks, is the cause for the schism? How could a silent war have begun, when both groups are so close? Both assassin’s guilds, after all, worship Sithis. And yet, a figure emerges from history who should give those with this assumption pause.

The Night Mother

Who the Night Mother is, where she came from, what her functions are, no one knows. Carlovac Townway in his generally well-researched historical book 2920, The Last Year of the First Era tries to make her the leader of the Morag Tong. But she is never historically associated with the Tong, only the Dark Brotherhood.

The Night Mother, my dear friend, is Mephala. The Dark Brotherhood of the west, unfettered by the orders of the Tribunal, continue to worship Mephala. They may not call her by her name, but the daedra of murder, sex, and secrets is their leader still. And they did not, and still do not, to this day, forgive their brethren for casting her aside.

The cobbler who met his end in the second era, who saw no end in the war between the Brotherhood and the Tong, was correct. In the shadows of the Empire, the Brothers of Death remain locked in combat, and they will likely remain that way forever.

2920, vol 01 – Morning Star

1 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind

Almalexia lay in her bed of fur, dreaming. Not until the sun burned through her window, infusing the light wood and flesh colors of her chamber in a milky glow did she open her eyes. It was quiet and serene, a stunning reverse of the flavor of her dreams, so full of blood and celebration. For a few moments, she simply stared at the ceiling, trying to sort through her visions.

In the courtyard of her palace was a boiling pool which steamed in the coolness of the winter morning. At the wave of her hand, it cleared and she saw the face and form of her lover Vivec in his study to the north. She did not want to speak right away: he looked so handsome in his dark red robes, writing his poetry as he did every morning.

“Vivec,” she said, and he raised his head in a smile, looking at her face across thousands of miles. “I have seen a vision of the end of the war.”

“After eighty years, I don’t think anyone can imagine an end,” said Vivec with a smile, but he grew serious, trusting Almalexia’s prophecies. “Who will win? Morrowind or the Cyrodilic Empire?”

“Without Sotha Sil in Morrowind, we will lose,” she replied.

“My intelligence tells me the Empire will strike us to the north in early springtide, by First Seed at the latest. Could you go to Artaeum and convince him to return?”

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” she said, simply.

 

4 Morning Star, 2920
Gideon, Black Marsh

The Empress paced around her cell. Wintertide gave her wasteful energy, while in the summer she would merely sit by her window and be grateful for each breath of stale swamp wind that came to cool her. Across the room, her unfinished tapestry of a dance at the Imperial Court seemed to mock her. She ripped it from its frame, tearing the pieces apart as they drifted to the floor.

Then she laughed at her own useless gesture of defiance. She would have plenty of time to repair it and craft a hundred more. The Emperor had locked her up in Castle Giovesse seven years ago, and would likely keep her here until he or she died.

With a sigh, she pulled the cord to call her knight, Zuuk. He appeared at the door within minutes, fully uniformed as befitted an Imperial Guard. Most of the native Kothringi tribesmen of Black Marsh preferred to go about naked, but Zuuk had taken a positive delight to fashion. His silver, reflective skin was scarcely visible, only on his face, neck, and hands.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he said with a bow.

“Zuuk,” said Empress Tavia. “I’m bored. Lets discuss methods of assassinating my husband today.”

 

14 Morning Star, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

The chimes proclaiming South Wind’s Prayer echoed through the wide boulevards and gardens of the Imperial City, calling all to their temples. The Emperor Reman III always attended a service at the Temple of the One, while his son and heir Prince Juilek found it more political to attend a service at a different temple for each religious holiday. This year, it was at the cathedral Benevolence of Mara.

The Benevolence ‘s services were mercifully short, but it was not until well after noon that the Emperor was able to return to the palace. By then, the arena combatants were impatiently waiting for the start of the ceremony. The crowd was far less restless, as the Potentate Versidue-Shaie had arranged for a demonstration from a troupe of Khajiiti acrobats.

“Your religion is so much more convenient than mine,” said the Emperor to his Potentate by way of an apology. “What is the first game?”

“A one-on-one battle between two able warriors,” said the Potentate, his scaly skin catching the sun as he rose. “Armed befitting their culture.”

“Sounds good,” said the Emperor and clapped his hands. “Let the sport commence!”

As soon as he saw the two warriors enter the arena to the roar of the crowd, Emperor Reman III remembered that he had agreed to this several months before and forgotten about it. One combatant was the Potentate’s son, Savirien-Chorak, a glistening ivory-yellow eel, gripping his katana and wakizashi with his thin, deceptively weak looking arms. The other was the Emperor’s son, Prince Juilek, in Ebony armor with a savage Orcish helm, shield and longsword at his side.

“This will be fascinating to watch,” hissed the Potentate, a wide grin across his narrow face. “I don’t know if I’ve even seen a Cyrodiil fight an Akavir like this. Usually it’s army against army. At last we can settle which philosophy is better — to create armor to combat swords as your people do, or to create swords to combat armor as mine do.”

No one in the crowd, aside from a few scattered Akaviri counselors and the Potentate himself wanted Savirien-Chorak to win, but there was a collective intake of breath at the sight of his graceful movements. His swords seemed to be a part of him, a tail coming from his arms to match the one behind him. It was a trick of counterbalance, allowing the young serpent man to roll up into a circle and spin into the center of the ring in offensive position. The Prince had to plod forward the less impressive traditional way.

As they sprang at each other, the crowd bellowed with delight. The Akaviri was like a moon in orbit around the Prince, effortlessly springing over his shoulder to attempt a blow from behind, but the Prince whirled around quickly to block with his shield. His counter-strike met only air as his foe fell flat to the ground and slithered between his legs, tripping him. The Prince fell to the ground with a resounding crash.

Metal and air melted together as Savirien-Chorak rained strike after strike upon the Prince, who blocked every one with his shield.

“We don’t have shields in our culture,” murmured Versidue-Shaie to the Emperor. “It seems strange to my boy, I imagine. In our country, if you don’t want to get hit, you move out of the way.”

When Savirien-Chorak was rearing back to begin another series of blinding attacks, the Prince kicked at his tail, sending him falling back momentarily. In an instant, he had rebounded, but the Prince was also back on his feet. The two circled one another, until the snake man spun forward, katana extended. The Prince saw his foe’s plan, and blocked the katana with his longsword and the wakizashi with his shield. Its short punching blade impaled itself in the metal, and Savirien-Chorak was thrown off balance.

The Prince’s longblade slashed across the Akaviri’s chest and the sudden, intense pain caused him to drop both his weapons. In a moment, it was over. Savirien-Chorak was prostate in the dust with the Prince’s longsword at his throat.

“The game’s over!” shouted the Emperor, barely heard over the applause from the stadium.

The Prince grinned and helped Savirien-Chorak up and over to a healer. The Emperor clapped his Potentate on the back, feeling relieved. He had not realized when the fight had begun how little chance he had given his son at victory.

“He will make a fine warrior,” said Versidue-Shaie. “And a great emperor.”

“Just remember,” laughed the Emperor. “You Akaviri have a lot of showy moves, but if just one of our strikes comes through, it’s all over for you.”

“Oh, I’ll remember that,” nodded the Potentate.

Reman thought about that comment for the rest of the games, and had trouble fully enjoying himself. Could the Potentate be another enemy, just as the Empress had turned out to be? The matter would bear watching.

 

21 Morning Star, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind

“Why don’t you wear that green gown I gave you?” asked the Duke of Mournhold, watching the young maiden put on her clothes.

“It doesn’t fit,” smiled Turala. “And you know I like red.”

“It doesn’t fit because you’re getting fat,” laughed the Duke, pulling her down on the bed, kissing her breasts and the pouch of her stomach. She laughed at the tickles, but pulled herself up, wrapping her red robe around her.

“I’m round like a woman should be,” said Turala. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“No,” said the Duke. “I must entertain Vivec tomorrow, and the next day the Duke of Ebonheart is coming. Do you know, I never really appreciated Almalexia and her political skills until she left?”

“It is the same with me,” smiled Turala. “You will only appreciate me when I’m gone.”

“That’s not true at all,” snorted the Duke. “I appreciate you now.”

Turala allowed the Duke one last kiss before she was out the door. She kept thinking about what he said. Would he appreciate her more or less when he knew that she was getting fat because she was carrying his child? Would he appreciate her enough to marry her?

The Year Continues in 2920, Sun’s Dawn (v2)