11:45PM, 9th of Frostfall, Raven Rock
Shadows crept through the overwhelmingly mahogany colored mining town. Elves in bug-like suits of bone and resin patrolled the streets, watching particularly for the "Midnight Bite" as the guards had come to call it. It was actually a he, the Redoran guards, however, had no knowledge of that. The night had cool, brittle air. Many residents were sleeping, others were drinking. It was the perfect night for another snack.
In the darkness, he lurked. Ormax eyed the guards as they scrupulously policed the area. It was time to begin. The Breton walked through the streets with the confidence of a Jarl, who would ever suspect the noble of High Rock to be devouring citizens from the inside?
One particular guard brushed past Ormax, and turned to face him, "Nice night, we're having, eh sir?"
Ormax immediately recognized the voice that emanated from the bonemold helmet. "Casath, I've told you before, no need to call me 'sir'. You show too much respect for a man of my stature in power."
"Your stature in power? You are one of the wealthiest men on Solsthiem!" Chuckled the Dunmer.
Ormax cocked his eyebrow up, "That may be true, still I insist you call me Ormax. Please."
"Fine, then Ormax. Anyways, what are you doing out so late at night? It's dangerous to be out, with that damnable vampire around. "
"I agree. However, I have a business calling to attend to, with Lord Morvayn of House Redoran. So, of course, I must attend."
The Dunmer nodded in approval, "Very well, but watch out for that bloodsucker, he's been feeding off of Morvayn, among others, for weeks now!"
Ormax laughed, "I'll make sure, i'm safe. Take care, Casath."
"WAIT. Why is your business calling so late at night? Surely you could have it during the day?"
"Well, yes, we could, but.. we... are meeting with another East Trading Company man, and his boat to Solsthiem arrived one hour ago. He's living tomorrow, so.. we need it to happen as quickly as possible.."
"Hm. Okay then. Continue on, my good sir." Said the guard as he continued on his inspection path.
Conversations like those made him nervous. They reminded him much of home, where vampire hunters would pretend to be friendly, and then attempt to gut you, whenever they could. Civilization was cruel to the undead.
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It was time to finish his negotiations with this idiot of an elf. Business partners, they would be no longer. It had taken Ormax three lockpicks to enter the old mansion, but it would be well worth it.
Ormax crept his head just past the edge of the wall, looking down the corridor. Damn! The head of House Redoran had hired more guards, since Ormax had last intruded. He pulled his head back within seconds, counting three guards in this corridor of the home. In his left hand, a faint blue mist began accumulating. The mist flowed through his fingers and back into his palm and spiral-like, rhythmic motions. His very skin became cooler, prickling his fingers like thousands of tiny needles. Focusing on his this feeling, he straightened his fingers, and the mist evaporated into air, just as the temperature of his hand returned back to normal. Red glowing figures now walked about the mansion. He could see everyone, all of their actions, everything.
In his right hand, a similar purple mist curled and snaked around his fingers and in his palm, a sphere of tyrian purple color floated in the center. Casting the spell that lay in his hand, a translucent sapphire colored spear appeared. It was seemingly weightless, he could hold with only one finger if need be. Now, he directed his attention towards the guards in the corridor. He had their positions and routes engraved in his very mind. There was now no longer a need for silence.
A bondmold armored Dunmer, turned into the small room that Ormax now inhabited. With a spiteful grin, the Breton thrusted the spear into the guards chest, before pulling back, much harder. The elf screamed in pain, falling to the floor, a crimson pool emerging from his corpse. Bending over, Ormax wrapped his fingers around the guard's shield, and placed it parallel to his chest. Two other guards began rushing down the corridor, but not quickly enough.
With only a simple thought, the Breton vanished. They could not see him, yet he could see them. In rapid and fluid succession, Ormax stabbed the guard to his right with the spear, then kicked him downto the floor. Charging towards the second Dunmer, with a bonemold shield prepared in his hand, he smashed the guard against the wall before piercing him once with his spectral weapon.
It was almost over. Soon he'd have to kill no more, murder no more.
Or perhaps this was just hopeful thinking.
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11:45PM, 9th Of Frostfall, Lakeview Manor
The Saxhleel's friend was an incredibly curious Khajiit. He wore a dark and rich crimson colored silk robe, with amber decorations, striations, and designs that made the robes look like that of an important religious priest. His eyes were each piercing sapphires, glimmering uncontrollably in directed light. The Khajiit wore a face mask, connected to his robe, just up to his eyes. His ears, however, were unusually large, and differed from the ears most Khajiit had. However, Corvus wasn't particularly skilled in Khajiiti morphology or culture, so it is possible that it was simply a different kind of Khajiit than those he had seen in before.
"This is odd, isn't it master," began Corvus, "they're keeping us alive, giving us lavish places to rest, feeding us delicacies. But why? Why not just save us, and then throw us back outside? No one can truly be that caring about a possible threat."
"Well, my young apprentice, I wouldn't say it is completely free of charge. The Khajiit looked through my notes, copied them down into a small book he had. As you already know, he is a historian, THAT is why we are still here." lectured Vorian.
"I'm not sure I understand." The comment was one that Corvus hated saying. Just as much as Vorian hated hearing it.
"In my notebook, I had down descriptions of what the item that we are looking for is. No doubt they want it too. That being said, only I know who has it. "
"Who would that be?"
"A lonely old man. Genius by some accounts, insane by others."
"Yes, but who?"
"Well I can't say that, the guessing game is afoot, as you well know. So you'll have to guess. However, do not allow your judgment to be clouded due to these kind gifts they have granted us, lest you wish to be stabbed in the back by a cat and an amphizard." Warned the Altmer.
"You're saying, as soon as they get what we want, they'll leave us to die?" Inquired the mage.
"Possibly. They did, though, save us once, without knowing of our goals. So it isn't factual. Either way, we can not allow them to obtain our relic. If anything, we should run some tests, study it, harness it. Then of course, we could give it to the Mage's College, for them to commit more in-depth research."
What was the relic? The question pounded against the walls of his mind, ricocheting all across his thoughts.
Corvus noted his master's weary, bloodshot eyes, telling him to get sleep. The Altmer complied with no rebuke, something rare in an elf with his mentality.
Corvus sat on the olive colored linen bed sheets that were now sprawled over the mattress. He'd always been a restless sleeper, rolling around, often knocking the sheets off completely, then waking up cold, in the middle of the night.
His eyes darted to his master's pocket. The tip of a leather bound notebook had begun to slide out. Could he take it? Just for a moment, to know what the valuable relic was... No! That was wrong. He had no reason to not trust his master, granted he was rather... eccentric when he smuggled Corvus into the province, but... it was sure to have logic behind it. The Altmer always knew what they were doing, particularly Vorian. If anything he was simply... unconventional from most of society's ways.
Yet he had to know. It had been killing him to not know. To now know why his master had to take such desperate measures to cross the border. It obviously couldn't wait. In the past, when they had taken a trip to study Bosmeri culture and the overall area of Valenwood, he warned one month ahead of time, and legally found a way out. That trip, was incredibly important to him. So how important could this be? If it was so famed and critical, surely others must know of its existence. More importantly, if it was so valuable, why would someone tell him that they had it?
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