The Last Drink [Ready for BoT]

[C-A-G-E]

The Last Drink
Anonymous

The hooded stranger knelt to pull the hidden envelope from beneath the Statue of Thassad the Second. He was little noticed among the bustling populace of Sentinel: hurried commoners on business of their own, strident merchants hawking their wares, and poor begging for coins of the rich all passed the shadowy figure without so much as a second glance. His actions were not worthy of notice, for many pilgrims came to the courts of Sentinel to kneel in homage to the slain King.

The clean and bustling streets of inner Sentinel, with few turns and narrow allies, descended into the worn and tattered districts on the city's outskirts. The stranger’s movements through the back passages of the city were little noticed by the populace of outer Sentinel, a mix of the homeless and skooma-mad. He slipped into a dilapidated building, from the eyes of a noble or guard clearly abandoned, but in reality it was the home to many of the city's lowest outcasts. The interior was dank and chilled; a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the Hammerfell sun. Little light entered the room; only oily candle light was cast over the cracked walls. In the dim light other figures could be seen, but not one spoke. None acknowledged the stranger's entry. They kept to themselves. This building was their refuge.

The stranger found a darkened corner and removed his hood, showing red eyes and dark hair that caught the flickering light. He cut the seal of the envelope with a small knife. He read his orders, studied them, committed them to memory, then dipped them into a nearby candle. He watched as they burned, erasing the orders from history. He drew a small vial from within the envelope and placed it within his robes. He was shadow, none knew his passing, none knew his mission. He never questioned his orders.

At times his orders were specific, at others they were not, but all had the reward of the Night Mother's favor. He had his orders to kill, to send another soul to the Void. A noble was his mark and poison was the method that the client demanded. Only the information needed for the task was supplied and he needed nothing more. The noble was one Astien Petit, a rich Breton landowner who lived in Sentinel's pompous upper class district. Publicly, he owned land in High Rock and Hammerfell and lived a typical noble life. In secret, his family was much less righteous. He and his family were one of the major investors of the Morrowind slave trade, which captured Argonian and Khajiit from their homes to sell to Morrowind merchants and Great House members.

Naturally, such a trade produced many enemies among the Khajiit and Argonian tribes. The name of the contractors was not given, but their exact method was. The noble would not be murdered by blade, nor slain by magic, but snuffed by the very ones who shared his lust for power. The stranger pulled his hood over his head to obscure his dark features, and stole into the night, feeling himself become one with the Void, and hearing the whispers of Sithis in his ear.

He watched the mansion from afar, seeing the pacing guards and warm light streaming from the shuttered windows. He changed into a nobleman’s clothes, taken from the corpse of one of his more recent murders. He stored his robes behind a wall and paced confidently towards the gate. From inside he could hear the noises of light conversation, a sign the message was accurate. On this night, Astien Petit had one of his frequent dinner parties. The stranger knew he had to be successful tonight, or his mission was failed. His lords would be most displeased, so he could not fail.

He had to enter without being noticed, though he had learned from many slain targets that this does not necessarily mean being unseen. The door guard leaning against the archway saw a figure approaching from the shadows. He tightened the grip on his sword and stood up straight. Seeing the noble clothes his grip lessened, but only slightly. The guard and the stranger conversed, but the stranger could see there was no use in speechcraft. He offered the guard a gold incentive instead, and was met with a much warmer response. The stranger never forgot how little honor and valor mattered when a monetary gain was involved. He was graciously shown inside and left alone.

A gleam of gold was seen as he slipped a ring from his pocket onto his finger. In an instant, he was shrouded in shadow, his form barely visible even in the bright light of the hall. Moving in the shadow, he made his way through his memorized plan of the mansion until he came to the cellar. Astien Petit was famed in Sentinel for his love of wine, importing many bottles and barrels from the vineyards of Cyrodiil and High Rock. The stranger silently moved into the dank and little lit cellar. He could see what the pride of the wine collection was clearly; a large, candle lit barrel occupied the center of the room. This was his target, a new wine imported from the vineyards of Skingrad.

It lay ready for the stranger's use. Removing the cap from the top of the barrel, he poured in the contents of the vial, which glowed red in the candlelight. The name of this liquid was not given, but its cunning effect was described in his message. It was created by the tortured natives of the provinces, ravished by the slave trade. The dark assassin was pouring the hate and anger of the tormented races; the stranger was a weapon of revenge. He heard the sound of footsteps descending the cellar stairs. The stranger stole into the shadows of the room and watched as a servant filled the empty bottles with the tainted drink and strode back up the stairs.

The stranger followed the servant mutely, but took a different turn in the halls and came to a balcony that overlooked the dining room from the second floor. From the vantage point he could see the entire room, the nobles in their pompous dress, talking politely, the servants standing in the background, ready to fill an empty glass or add to a diminished plate. Sitting at the head of the table was Astien Petit himself, discussing his exploits in the land buying market. A servant entered bearing the tray of the tainted bottles. As the stranger watched with detached amusement, the wine was distributed, all the while Astien Petit discussing the wine’s merits to the table.

Astien Petit gave a toast to his good fortunes, and to those of his noble friends. The table raised their glasses in praise to their host and drank of the tainted drink. Astien Petit drained his glass last, the red liquid spilling down his insatiable throat. This was to be his last drink. The taste of the toxin was undetectable among the powerful flavors of the wine, and even at such low concentration, he could feel it rapidly taking effect. As the guests conversed over the drink's value, a change stole over the room. The guests began to sweat as their hearts pumped faster within their chests. They began to speak more rapidly until speech stopped altogether. Chairs were knocked over, plates thrown down as the guests stood up from the table. The poison began its full effect: their breathing increased, they convulsed, and they foamed at the mouth. A maddening rage overtook the table and fighting began. The once proud nobles tore at each other, kicking, punching, biting, and screaming. Hearing the shouts, the guards entered the room only their employers tearing each other apart. It was too late to save any of them, as their hearts exploded in their chests from the violent, bloodthirsty fervor.

The entire city of Sentinel was abuzz with the news of the nobles' deaths. Although the guards tried to stop their spread, rumors were spoken throughout the population. Tales of an entire party of nobles being killed by their own hands, of half the citizens of the upper class district killed in a single night. Shock passed throughout the city. Guards searched the city for many days, assuming what must have been the work of a mage assassin. The stranger was far gone, traveling the dark roads covered in shadows to his next target, and hearing the pleased whispers of his Night Mother and Dread Father in his ears.

[Nanu]

4.B..
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