A well-dressed Imperial walks among the back streets of Windhelm, deep in the Grey Quarter. Soon, the sun will rise. By then, a man will be dead. The Imperial stumbles about, pretending to be a drunkard. He shudders every time he scatters dirt onto his finery, or scuffs his shoes, but it is necessary for the task. Even at this hour there are enough Dunmer about to warrant such an act. A few of them jeer at him as he passes, but he ignores them. He’s a professional, their petty insults do not faze him.
After a while more of this, he slips behind a building and rises to his full height. He reaches into a concealed pocket and feels the dagger hidden there. The familiar leather grip is comforting to him. This knife has tasted the blood of many. He shifts his grasp and pulls out a small map of Windhelm. He affirms his target’s location, and stows it back into his cloak. He continues walking, this time normally. No Dunmer will see him back here.
As he nears his target’s shack, he hears a strange slithering noise, down an alley to his left. He slowly reaches for his dagger and turns. His eyes are keen, but nonetheless he spots nothing. Keeping his hand around the hilt, he cautiously steps towards the source of the noise, assuming his drunk stance once again.
“Hail there…” he slurs. No response. “Oi! I said hail!”
A quiet groan echoes down the alley, and the Imperial tightens his grip around his dagger. The slithering starts again, and it sounds like its getting closer.
“Damnit,” He mutters to himself. “I need some light…”
He reaches for a lantern around his waist, fumbles with a flint and lights the oil inside. He holds it high and sees ahead of him a figure out of a nightmare.
“By the Divines!” He cries, all thoughts of assassination forgotten.
He tries to run, but the creature is too close. It swipes the lantern from his hand and it shatters on the floor. A swipe from those slimy arms… The man draws his dagger and jabs at the creature, but strikes only the protective shell. The monstrosity slithers forward and grabs the poor Imperial with both arms.
“No, please!” He whimpers.
The horror takes no notice of his pleas and rears up to crush the Imperial, once and for all.
The weresnail has struck again.
A well-dressed Imperial walks among the back streets of Windhelm, deep in the Grey Quarter. Soon, the sun will rise. By then, a man will be dead. The Imperial stumbles about, pretending to be a drunkard. He shudders every time he scatters dirt onto his finery, or scuffs his shoes, but it is necessary for the task. Even at this hour there are enough Dunmer about to warrant such an act. A few of them jeer at him as he passes, but he ignores them. He’s a professional, their petty insults do not faze him.
After a while more of this, he slips behind a building and rises to his full height. He reaches into a concealed pocket and feels the dagger hidden there. The familiar leather grip is comforting to him. This knife has tasted the blood of many. He shifts his grasp and pulls out a small map of Windhelm. He affirms his target’s location, and stows it back into his cloak. He continues walking, this time normally. No Dunmer will see him back here.
As he nears his target’s shack, he hears a strange slithering noise, down an alley to his left. He slowly reaches for his dagger and turns. His eyes are keen, but nonetheless he spots nothing. Keeping his hand around the hilt, he cautiously steps towards the source of the noise, assuming his drunk stance once again.
“Hail there…” he slurs. No response. “Oi! I said hail!”
A quiet groan echoes down the alley, and the Imperial tightens his grip around his dagger. The slithering starts again, and it sounds like its getting closer.
“Damnit,” He mutters to himself. “I need some light…”
He reaches for a lantern around his waist, fumbles with a flint and lights the oil inside. He holds it high and sees ahead of him a figure out of a nightmare.
“By the Divines!” He cries, all thoughts of assassination forgotten.
He tries to run, but the creature is too close. It swipes the lantern from his hand and it shatters on the floor. A swipe from those slimy arms… The man draws his dagger and jabs at the creature, but strikes only the protective shell. The monstrosity slithers forward and grabs the poor Imperial with both arms.
“No, please!” He whimpers.
The horror takes no notice of his pleas and rears up to crush the Imperial, once and for all.
The weresnail has struck again.
