» Sat May 28, 2011 4:04 am "Needs practice."
"Nonsense. He's better than the marksman we took down a few months ago, and that one exhibited skill."
"You want him in?"
Rakus leaned his head toward the Wood Elf crouching beside him, watching over the low wall at his new prospect.
"Looks like it."
The silhouette turned, Secunda's glow shrouding its features from behind. The two stood, their hands just far enough from their weapons to disclaim hostility. By the Moons' light, however, they were obviously draqed in bladed instruments and projectiles.
"Forgive us," Rakus comforted in the shallow, grizzled voice of the Dunmer. "We are merely admiring another's display of marksmanship." Keldennir was grateful for his partner's reservoir of vocabulary and ability to tap it whenever necessary; he felt slight need for words during his nights.
The black figure remained still, so utterly unmoving that the low shops and homes across the Odai seemed more alive. They noticed, even as it shot into the perfect center of the target fifty feet away, the outline of some ancient Dwemer automaton shifted and halted silently in the dark.
But that was a person, of this they were both convinced. It wore wide-legged pantaloons apparently tied at the abdomen and a quiver half-full of arrows whose fletchings bristled unfamiliarly in the cool wind. Otherwise, its shoulder-length hair concealed ears, and if shadow had not filled its shape, the face would have likely kept hidden beneath.
"Please," continued Rakus, aware the archer would not answer, "I am called Rakus. This is Kel, an associate of mine. We are members of an organi--"
"You are Morag Tong." The figure whispered in forced breaths that sliced through Rakus' introduction at its throat.
"..Indeed," the Dunmer recovered. "We are of the Morag Tong. Clearly, we dress for utility." He spread his arms wider and glanced casually at his edge-riddled garb. "I suspect you overheard my interest in your potential induction?"
"I smelled you from Uvirith's Grave," coughed the figure. How it knew they traveled from that place, neither guessed.
"You did, did you?" Keldennir prodded at the figure's obstinance.
Rakus laid a hand on his partner's shoulder, after checking it for throwing stars, and leaned to his ear. "Nevermind him. We want his membership, not friendship." Keldennir barely nodded, relaxing, and Rakus looked to the figure again, smiling beneath his crude leather mask.
"You are a tracker, then?" Rakus suggested. "It is warm in Azura's Coast these months, is it not?" He stepped closer, but the figure made no move. It held as if its shape had been cut from the scene of the town behind him, leaving a sharply-traced void.
"I am no tracker," it responded. "I smelled you. Your stench overpowered the ash."
Keldennir flushed beneath his mask and began to reach for a shuriken. The silhouette showed no reaction. But before either initiated combat, a serrated knife from Rakus' belt shot to the ground between them.
"No violence this night," Rakus implored. "The Morag Tong is not some gang of tavern brawlers. We kill with purpose."
Keldennir folded his arms. If this stranger insulted them further, he thought, his poisoned daggers hung within convenient reach.
"Purpose," muttered the figure. "Was it with purpose then that you left an innocent Breton's corpse to rot in those black lands?"
Rakus choked. Immediately, Keldennir swung out his steeled hands and prepared for battle.
"How do you know about that?!" he growled.
Calming, his partner loosened back to a smile no one could see. "Sera, you are gifted indeed to have hidden so well as to keep from my sight. Though, I do suppose he provided enough of a distraction."
"Do you know who Gerel Uvirith was?" asked the figure in mock sarcasm.
Keldennir lowered his weapons marginally. "What does that have to do with anything?" he snarled.
"How do you know that name?" Rakus humored, startled interest in his gravelly voice.
"Gerel Uvirith," the figure continued, "was an old and powerful wizard of the Telvanni. He lived some thousands of years ago, there in his tower that once stood upon the charred land known as Uvirith's Grave. He is how that site earned its title." It still stood motionless upon the short hill, back-lit by Secunda's white glow.
"For decades, his House peers cautioned him on his chosen residence. They told him the ash upon which his tower rested was too fine to bear structural weight, and it would surely sink after long. Uvirith dismissed their claims until at last, they forfeit any further argument and left him to his predicted fate."
"An entertaining tale," Rakus snorted, "but I must echo my partner; what use offers this knowledge to us?"
"One night, as the wizard meditated in the highest chamber of his tower, the ground exhausted its support and gaped beneath its base. The mound of ash below leaked through the earth, softly at first, then rushed down. His tower was sinking."
"You talk too much," grunted Keldennir. He pulled one handful of daggers back, aiming. The shadow did not move.
"As his tower slowly fell, Uvirith awoke from his trance and noticed his predicament. He swiftly drew a circle of runes around him, stood in its center, and began a Ritual of Displacement; he kept many rare objects and components in his tower, and desired to teleport it and himself elsewhere. Even for him, to move both would have taken effort.
"Though, just as his spell neared completion, he was attacked. Before he could finish it, an assassin of the Morag Tong drove a spike through his heart. Leaping out the window, now but feet from the ground, they left the ritual interrupted. Uvirith's body became entombed beneath the surface, but his soul lingered."
Rakus had grown bored and felt almost willing to allow his friend to finish the stranger.. but suddenly, he recognized the fletching. He stepped back.
"Where did you get your arrows?" he questioned carefully.
"For many years, Uvirith's spirit wandered Vvardenfell, returning often to the plot where his once-proud tower loomed. No one visited that place for fear of rumors it was haunted by that powerful being. No one before the Breton whose name you read on your latest writ."
Keldennir turned to Rakus, who was now some distance away. "Can I kill him now?" Kel whined. The Dunmer kept his attention on the figure.
"Where did you get your arrows?!" he shouted.
At last, the shadow turned what they thought was its head to the quiver on what might have been its back.
"Admittedly," it hissed, "Gerel Uvirith was never much of an archer. But this body knows its way with a bow."
Rakus flung every projectile on his tunic instantly and with trained accuracy. Acknowledging, Keldennir launched his arsenal directly at the figure.
A shockwave resounded around the silhouette, knocking their stars and knives from the air as they clove toward it. The two staggered backwards, Rakus with a shivered groan. A surge of brilliance erupted from the figure's blackness, forcing both assassins to shield their eyes. Then, the sharp, stunning pain of arrows.
