Hunting the Hunter Ch. 05

A few looked as though they'd not even had the chance to be buried, suggesting that these necromancers weren't even polite enough to wait until their subjects quit the ghost on their own time and no doubt had a personal hand in speeding their deaths along.

Ina sighed one last time and scrapped something unwholesome looking off her leather curias with the edge of her knife blade. Probably some unnameable bit of zombie. There were enough of them littering the floor, so there was bound to be a bit of splatter. She nudged the body of the head 'mancer with the toe of her boot, half expecting it to jump up and try to eat her face, or something equally grotesque. But, there was nothing but the looming, heavy silence, and the fetid smell of death and rot which clung to the alters and hangings which decorated the cavernous chamber.

Ina's eyes were drawn to the main alter. It was a strange statue which resembled a giant, white, boney hand. Something like the desiccated remains of a giant trying to claw its way out of the earth. An appropriate enough image for its purpose. Beneath the skeletal structure was the main alter, upon which another young woman lay, looking still fairly fresh, though as dead as anything else in the room. Her lifeless eyes stared up toward the white claw with a ghastly look of expectation.

Ina closed the girl's eyes with a quick movement, and got out of the room. She'd thought it might be appropriate to use the main mancer in her own quasi-necromantic ritual...but somehow, in that room, the thought gave her more chills than she could handle. Another body in another room would serve just as well...and there were certainly enough to choose from in this place.

She finally settled on a man she'd come across in one of the far rooms. It still seemed 'right' for her to use a necromancer in the ritual...especially since the ritual was so abhorrent to her. At least there would be some karmic balance at play, and when she went to her ancestors for absolution from the crime, they might see the poetry in it themselves, and the dark justice in the choice she'd made, even if they disapproved of the ritual in the first place. How could they not. She still hadn't done more than choose a body and a place and she was already feeling the acid creep up her throat at the thought of what she was about to do.

She grunted and dropped her bag o' supplies onto the cavern floor. She had doubled back to the imperial city to do a little shopping after her and Feric had parted ways, and purchased a few common ingredients for arrow poisons and a few random odds and ends from a variety of suppliers to cover her purchases on the off chance a merchant was familiar with the night mother ritual. She'd then returned here, to this hole, to get the damned thing over with. It was poetic justice to use a necromancer, yes, but it was also a perfect cover. Her being here would not be unexpected seeing as she was not only known for her hate-on for necromancy, but Roxy had recommended it in the form of hard cash, and publicly. And if someone did come across the ritual, it would only be distinguishable from the other horrific sights in the place if the eyes which found it knew precisely what they were looking for. For that they'd either have to be a necromancer or someone who'd performed the ritual themselves...in which case they weren't telling anyone.

She swallowed another gurgle of acid in her throat and knelt to pull out her supplies. She also pulled out a piece of carefully folded parchment. The words scribbled across the top read: "The Black Sacrament."

"Lovely." She muttered and spread the paper out on the floor next to her, then with another heavy sigh and a twisting in her gut, she got to work. It was a messy job, but relatively quick. It wasn't the first time she dome something like this...though usually it was with her own blood and not someone else. She'd made a few alterations to the ritual, added a circle of blood around the body and inscribed it with Deadric symbols she knew would amplify the spell. Deadric was confusing. It all used the same alphabet, but there were multiple dialects. A precious few words and signs were fairly universal. So she kept to those. There was no need to accidentally piss one Deadric prince off by using the wrong language in their rituals. The last thing she needed was to go to all this trouble only to have the damn thing not work. Hence, also, her taking the risk and amplifying it. Besides, the Dark Brotherhood worshiped Sithis, and it wasn't clear if he...or it, rather, was even Deadra at all.

Inanna eyed the scene carefully and dispassionately as she prepared the blade with the nightshade flowers, crushing the delicate petals against the steal and getting it good and covered. She held the hilt between her palms, point down and stared blindly at it. Before she could lose her nerve she set her jaw and stabbed the already mistreated remains arranged within the circle while reciting the suggested incantation through clenched teeth.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

She felt not only the fool for letting such trash leave her mouth, but markedly unclean as well. The creeping disgusted feeling grew as she continued...but that seemed to be it. There was no sign or signal that the spell was doing anything other than creating a knot of self loathing in the pit of her stomach, so after a dozen incantations she stopped and tossed the blade away from her and into the shadows of the cave. She wouldn't want to use it anymore anyway. The feel of it would forever be slimy to her because of this, so it was best to just find herself a new one.

She watched the candles, and opened up her other senses to the space around her. It felt black, and oozing, and awful...but it would considering the kind of magic performed here over the years and which had no doubt leeched into the very walls of the cave through close and prolonged contact.

There was no way to know if it worked. The instructions gave her no indication of what was to happen, but she figured if it had worked then they'd find her easily enough. She had advertise at Roxies that she'd be up there clearing out the riffraff, so if these assassins had half the professionalism of the Morag tong, they'd put two and two together and figure the rest out on their own. Frankly there was no way she was spending another minute there, and if they didn't like it...fuck 'em. S'wit.

She gathered the instructions and held them aloft with one hand while the other produced a small flame which she held underneath it. She wasn't going to need it again. She did it once, but that was fetching it. If they wanted to go ahead with the proposed arrangements, then they'd need to find some other way of getting in contact with her...cause this way was out. And if it didn't work they could go find some other sucker, 'cause she'd given it more than a fair effort.

"I need to consider a career change."

She huffed and stood, slinging her pack back over her shoulder. She reminded herself one more time why she was here, and why she was doing this crazy bull, and let the memory of green-gold willow leaves carry her back out into the early evening air.

"Roxies ho." she muttered, and began the trudging march back to the inn where piss warm beer, indifferent food, and less than comfortable beds awaited her. She sighed. She'd better skip the ale...she was already feeling queezy enough as it is.

@@@

Her evening at Roxies started out uneventfully. She ate, drank (hot water to settle the stomach...which no one held against her, considering), and turned in. It was quiet down stairs, even for the late hour, just a couple of regulars and two patrol men who'd stopped in for a pint and a hot meal. The regular barmaid was wiping down the counter, and Roxie was sitting in behind, counting her money. She usually gave both guards and legion a pretty hefty discount that cut into her profits, but that also meant she was never robbed and never had any rowdies, so in the end, she did well for herself. It was amazing how expensive it could get if you have to replace the furniture once a month because some drunk decided it would look better as a pile of splinters with a body on top. Now Roxie wasn't literally counting her money like some jaded gold hungry fiend, just going over the accounts...but really, ten of one, not quite a half-dozen of the other...

Roxie set her up, cleared her tab (it was reasonably small, thank Azura), and Ina pocketed the leftovers. It was enough to cover expenses and maybe a weeks worth of food and lodgings for a for a small person. Freelancing could be lucrative, but more often than not, it merely kept the head dry and the stomach more or less full. Life was fairly cheap, and there was always some desperate schmuck who'd volunteer if you decided something was beneath you. That's not to say that there weren't some jobs that were just too crazy...but not many, not when you're hard up...or when you reeeeally want that new big, soft, comfy bed. Gods but she missed that bed.

As it was, her rules were simple. No strongholds full of heavily armed guards, and no harming innocent bystanders. Other than that, she was pretty easy. Oh, and freedom of artistic expression, that was an important one. It was her way or the highway. Which worked since she usually took the low road as it was. Ha!

The patrolmen who were loitering around on break were new to her, one was up from Leyawin, and happy to be farther north and out of the swamps. The other was recently rotated back from a tour of duty in the Sommerset Iles. Apparently the beaches there are fantastic, even if the locals leave something to be desired. Somewhere around eleven she made her way upstairs and crashed in one of the two private rooms. She was lucky and they were both unoccupied, so she had her pick. Like she'd said, quiet night.

She slipped into her loose fitting pants and sleeveless pullover, the only clothes she still wore from back home, partially because they were so damned comfortable, but mostly because no one really saw them when she slept. As much as she'd love to trade her imperial duds in for some good old fashioned netch leather and bonemold, she couldn't since it give her that 'fresh-off-the-boat' look. That she didn't need. It was hard enough being a dark-elf here in the heart of imperial country. There's a general sense that a Dunmer would rather slit your throat than look at you. If she were to be honest, she'd admit the reputation had been properly earned. Most Dunmer probably would feel that way. One of their most popular curses, N'wah, meant foreigner or outsider. Not the most friendly peoples on Mundus. She'd worked hard for her reputation as being 'one of the friendly ones' so there was no use ruining that by flashing her colors unnecessarily if she didn't have to. You can't always get what you want...right?

Inanna had fallen asleep to images of the wastes, to fire hot dust storms, and swaying wind chimes, but she awoke to silence and frigid cold. It wasn't morning. She cracked her eyes and rolled them toward the cracked window over her head. Still dark. Hours before sunrise yet. But even so, the cold was all wrong. It wasn't early morning cold...it was a chill your soul kind of cold. The flesh on her arms felt raised and tight, and her skin tingled. She kept her eyes to the wall and her back to the room. Her fingers were already wrapped around a hilt beneath her pillow and they tightened on their own. She didn't move, but worked at keeping her heart and breathing steady as she wrought a silent spell. Not a cantrip, but something native to her, those other senses, as she called them. Slowly it spread through the room, like creeping fingers, touching and tasting, and feeling out the shape and nature of whatever was happening in the room around her.

Someone was spelling the room cold. Someone was also silencing the room, deadening the sounds and creating a barrier between the room and the rest of the Inn. Her eyebrows flinched as she frowned to herself. Silencing made sense, but what was the utility of the cold? Unless...

The fingers of magica finally wound themselves around the source of the spell. It was in the room, and the signature of it...well, the unnatural cold in the room had nothing on the cold that radiated from the person, or thing, standing just a few feet away behind her. Her own magica withdrew almost immediately. That brief contact had been enough. Dark, cold, empty...a void...but not a void. There was something in there, something watchful and dangerous. She'd caught sight of it in flashes of red. 'Azura take me.' She hadn't thought they'd come so quick.

With a deep breath, she rolled slowly onto her back, keeping her eyes closed and her arms over her head. A vulnerable position if one didn't know she had a knife hidden in one hand and the lick of flame slowly building in the other. She squirmed slowly and shifted a leg to slide the blankets down to her hips. At the same time a slow smile spread across her lips and her eyes crept back open as she turned her face toward the source of the magic. Invisible...no, chameleon. There was a shift, darkness moving in darkness. She arched a brow.

"You know," She began in a low sultry voice, "you should really think about knocking...you never know what a girl might be up to in the dead of the night." Her voice hardened on the word dead and her smile showed a hint of teeth.

The rippling shadow melted away to reveal a more solid shape, though equally black. The figure was shrouded in dark robes and a deep hood was pulled low, entirely obscuring the face, save a portion which revealed the vague shape of a jaw. That tiny hint told her it was likely a man before he opened his mouth to confirm it.

"You appeared to be sleeping quite soundly. It seemed a shame to interrupt your rest." He took a single step forward and made a sort of half-bow. "And my deepest apologies for the intrusion madam, but unless I am mistaken, You called to Us." The voice matched the look: dark, smooth, a hint of sharpness around the edges and whispered in a soft almost-amused-but-mostly-bored-almost-hiss...creepy. Well hello Mr. walking cliché, how do you do?

He continued, "The night mother has heard your prayer and I have come as a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood to hear your petition, and to see to it that your wishes are properly executed." She couldn't be sure but she thought she saw a hint of a smirk at his own wording. Executed indeed.

Inanna pursed her lips. "Yeah. That was me who called all y'all." She twisted her lips into a dry smirk of her own and hopped off the bed to her feet. She paused to tilt her hip then stretched her arms high over her head, the knife still in hand. He didn't budge and merely folded his hands, gloved with black leather, she noticed, in front of him. She smiled over her shoulder at him as she gave him her back and retrieved her satchel from the foot of the bed. She took her sweet time, letting him get a good look at her rear-end.

It was obvious, this I'm-not-afraid-of you routine, but so was his I'm a spooky-assassin-boo! act. Like demanded like, no? Of course he was a spooky assassin, and he was, obviously, creepy and dangerous, but like hell she'd let him fluster her...even if her skin had begun crawling like it was trying to get out of the room, with or without her. She pulled the leather bound folder out of her bag and handed it to him, her knife still palmed, but pointing in a polite direction.

"I'm not sure if you're the one who can comment on it, but this is what I was charged to deliver. I'm not the client per-say...just the messenger. Oh, and, my name's Inanna, nice to meet you...pray tell, what be yours?" She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him the cheekiest grin she could muster, but given the circumstances it wasn't her best. Then she waited for a response. And waited.

There was a long pause, in which the cold and silence reigned. She got the feeling he was sizing her up, waiting for her to crack. She wasn't sure if she did or not, but eventually he spoke. "Lucien. Lucien Lachance." Oh, Azura please! He had to be a Breton to come up with a corn-ball name like that. If he noticed the expression that probably flitted across her face, he didn't let on. "You say you are not the client, and yet it Was you who performed the ritual, was it not?"

"I believe I've already admitted as much."

There was another pause, this time much shorter, before one gloved hand finally reached for the package. The other reached up to tug the hood back a bit more to reveal an angular, yet, she admitted (begrudgingly) handsome human face. Not entirely what she expected, as he had a little scruffy shadow around the jaw, and was surprisingly young. He looked about 30ish to her eyes, and not likely much older. He cocked a brow at her and she shrugged. What? Are assassins immune to being checked out all of a sudden? Freakiness and sex appeal were in no way mutually exclusive...quite the opposite for some people in fact.

While he opened the package and removed the parchment from within, she made herself comfortable at a nearby table, idly twirling her knife between her fingers before imbedding the tip into the wood with a muffled 'thunk'. She indicated he take the other chair. His lip twitched slightly.

"Thank you, no."

He continued to read and she watched him. So, this was an assassin of the dark brotherhood. She never met one before, Morag Tong sure, but not the DB. She could see it. Besides the getup, and the whole 'tall, dark, and creepy' thing he had going on, it was painfully clear that this was not the sort of guy who frazzled easily, or who one would enjoy meeting in a dark alley (how's that for a stereo-type). And yet here he was in her bedroom in the middle of the night. Lovely.

He had an aura of danger, and one got the impression that if you crossed him, he would slit your throat and move right along. No sleep lost, and he probably wouldn't even remember it the next day.

His face was impassive, but after he'd read the last paper and refolded the parchment back into its leather envelope, he surprised her by pulling out the other chair and seating himself across from her, laying one forearm almost casually upon the table. He pulled his hood off completely. He had long, straight black hair which was tied neatly at the back of his neck with a leather thong. Also black of course...naturally. The envelope vanished into his robes, and he turned his gaze on her. Definitely a killer. Hard mouth, cold eyes...and something else that one just couldn't put one's finger on, but you knew it when you saw it.

"The ritual was altered."

She raised a brow at the unexpected opening. "Ah...yeah. Hope that's not a problem. I wanted to make sure it got through."

"So it did." She watched him warily and nodded. Oooookay....

"The instructions also tell you to wait in a secure location. Did you truly believe the most popular legion watering hole in all of Tamriel would be conducive to our particular business?"

Ahhh...that. Hehe. She smiled coyly. "What's more secure than an inn full of soldiers?" Ina continued, wetting her bottom lip, "Though to be honest, I wasn't expecting such speedy service." He was staring silently at her again, like he was trying to peel her apart with his eyes. The room dropped in temperature. She shivered, and sighed. "Look, let's just drop the melodrama and get to the heart of the matter. I'm not part of the guild, I'm an intermediary...doing it as a favor, if you care, so let me know if you want me to take a message back, but don't expect me to know anything. Oh, and I'm absolutely not doing that ritual again, so you'll have to decide between you how you want me to get in contact with you ...if that's what you so desire."