competition.

It's not as if they haven't know that they have their own... hobbies. Jobs. Habits. Alain had been talking to Nigel in the way of giving him advice, and there was a woman mentioned (Alan asked about her once, and Nigel laughed for a good ten minutes). On the opposite hand, Alain had been dropping pointed remarks at Alan, but never coming near enough to saying anything. He knew, though. Of course, he knew. And where the Dragonborn somewhat approved of Nigel's occupation, he steadily disapproved of Alan's.

But, he supposes, who wouldn't, really? Not many would be able to relate to someone who kills for fun and gold.

But it's something Alan's good at, and the people, surprisingly, weird as they are, are becoming people in which Alan can relate to and talk to. The child vampire is infinitely interesting, and even the crabby mage has something to teach. Alan likes the Dark Brotherhood, and he isn't in the mood to let "daddy" run his life.

Therefore, he has a job to do. Getting to Goldenglow is the easy part, and more interesting than most runs. Getting inside is much of the same. The difference, then, comes in the trail of bodies within the estate. It's not something that Alan has planned on, and it's with wariness that he slips out his twin scimitars, creeping silently on enchanted feet to the center of the house.

However, a body crosses his path, a man in brown and leather reaching for a shelf. The target? Or the unknown other assassin? If it's a brother, it wouldn't be good to try to kill them--still--

Alan steps forward and swings the flat side of Soulrender into the man's shoulder to knock him off balance. If the edge of the blade happened to catch, well--less magicka in a fight would be better for Alan in the end.

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Nigel likes to think he is merely occupying himself, slipping into a world of lockpicking, pickpocketing, and outright thievery. It seems to be the better option, at least, much better than killing himself over love, hate, abandonment, despair, Alan, Alain, that dragon, his brothers--anything, really. He tells himself he did well going to Svenna, the up-and-coming star of the Thieves Guild in Riften.

He did well joining that guild. It is a good outlet for his malignant tendencies. Also, very profitable. The young man could make a decent pile out of the gold earned in the past weeks.

Of course, at this very moment, after slitting throats left and right trying to navigate through the stupid estate, Nigel is severely reconsidering his choice. There were more guards than was hypothesized by Mercer Frey, and Nigel's skills proved insufficient when it came to getting past them undetected. And everyone who knows him well enough also knows he has a tendency to become ill at the act of murder.

Thus, when a sword appears in his peripheral vision, the man moves a beat too late, and the blade barely nicks against the shoulder of his armor. The drain in magicka is instantly felt, but fortunately, Nigel maintains his balance. Cursing below his breath, he shoots out his left hand at the newcomer, casting the largest Firebolt he can possible make with his now limited magicka.

Apparently Soulrender was the right choice. Apparently Alan should have sliced the guy with it instead of trying to be civil. A jerk backwards isn't enough to save him from the attack, and the flames catch on his hood easily. A muffled "shit" is heard, and he drops both blades to the ground, pulls out his red greatsword and cuts the air in front of him.

The concussive blast the Bloodskal Blade is known for hopefully knocks the guy back, enough for Alan to wrench off his hood and mask, stomping them on the ground. His hair is singed but little else. On guard, blade ready, he watches the other--

Wait.

Thank god that worked. If he had reacted a millisecond later, Nigel might have been scrambling for purchase. Or dead. As of now, he is very much alive and has a chance.

Except that chance is cut short (no pun intended) by a muffled voice and the presence of a greatsword. Nigel stares dumbly as the weapon slices through the air, as its color and general properties ring as familiar. There is a person in his life who owns such a greatsword, and that person just swore in a manner much like--

"Hey, wai--"

Before he could finish the words, a forces slams into his front, knocking the shocked Nigel Kane off his feet and straight onto his back. There he stays with his now revealed face looking up at the ceiling, his green eyes blinking rapidly.

Ah. Shit.

"Shit, Nigel, fuck, sorry."

What do you say to your lover after attacking him? My bad? No harm, no foul? Fuck my life to Jewish hell? Goddamn, the reveal of him dressed in his work clothes aside, this has the possibility to be pretty damn bad. Moving the greatsword (with more care then the scimitars) back to its straps on his back, Alan moves to Nigel's side and crouches there, hands out in concern--hovering but not touching.

"...You okay?"

It takes a few moments for his mind to turn again, for his vision to solidify the image of his favorite person staring down at him in absolute horror. Nigel registers the apology. He even registers the question.

His answer, however, has nothing to do with either. "You tried to kill me," he says.

"I didn't even!" He contradicts before even thinking, whipping a hand to point at the downed scimitars. "I used the flat of my blade in case you were one of my br--"

Brothers? Are you going to say that to Nigel? Alan swallows, uncomfortable. He doesn't know what to say.

"...I didn't try to kill you."

Oh. Brothers. Nigel is 100% certain that is what Alan intended to say. That makes it ten times worse.

Nigel frowns heavily, as if finding displeasure in Alan's justification. "Help me up," he commands in a low voice.

Alan straightens in a fluid motion, owing more to the time spent here in this place than anything in their prior life. He slips a hand under Nigel's bicep, the other on his forearm, and hefts him up easily.

He glances over Nigel for any visible injuries, and allows a sigh of relief when he doesn't see any obvious ones.

Then lets go. Waits. This is not a scenario he wanted to be in.

He is up and on his feet near instantly, the frown still set on his face. Aside from a wounded heart (figuratively speaking), Nigel senses no injuries. A fortunate end to this encounter, but the problem still remains.

A hand reaches back and pulls the hood back over his head. "So." His blue-green eyes seem to almost glisten in the shadow of the hood. "Am I not recognizable to you?"

He reaches out and tugs the hood back down.

"No, you're not. Not in clothes I've never seen in a place I didn't expect you to be." Nigel's the only living person that Alan has encountered. Normally worry would be pounding in his chest, but he remembers his initial suspicions. That the person he encountered would have been the one to down all of those people.

"Nigel," Alan wonders. He thinks to be careful, and decides instead to be clear. "Was it you that killed all of those people?"

Edited 2016-05-05 08:08 (UTC)

How annoying. The truth can go to hell because Nigel can't go against it, especially the one presented at the end.

With his head again revealed, Nigel crosses his arms, attempting to express his irritation. His voice, however, carries the tone of one ill. "...Yeah," he answers. "Maybe."

There's a job to be done. There's a man to be killed, if he isn't already, and that means that Alan needs to take the nice weapons off of the floor and use them with the nice armor he was given to murder a man. This is a job, and he needs to complete it and go. Especially with the trail of corpses.

But there are warning signs present. Signs that Alan alone would know. "Aringoth," he starts. "The elf who owned this place. Did you kill him, too?"

The conversation shifts to business, and Nigel cannot help the lack of surprise at the elf's name. If Alan is at Goldenglow Estate, his business would have something to do with Aringoth. The nature of that business, of course, is under question, but that isn't so important at the moment.

"No," replies Nigel quietly. "He doesn't even know I'm here." Despite nabbing the guy's keys and taking away his shiny display, a feat accomplished thanks to an invisibility potion.

There's a chance, though. A chance that Nigel would have left some evidence, some manner of pointing the survivor at him. Alan would kill the elf, fulfill his job, but he would do it--

Later? When the guards were worse out of paranoia? He looks to the closed door at the end of the hall. Alan wants to take Nigel out of here now, while his hands are still unbloodied and able to comfort. But the risks are too great to put it off.

"He knows you're here," Alan says. "You killed all of his men. If he doesn't know yet, he will. Do you have other business here?"

Nigel scoffs. Alan would be correct if not for one very distinct detail.

"He's as dumb as a doorknob," he mutters. Aringoth had been eating his lunch in his room, Nigel recalls, blissfully unaware of the damage done. "The only thing he seems to have going for him is that he hired competent guards."

A hand causally goes to the left side of his torso, to the bruise caused by a brief scuffle. "I have to head out," is the continuance, "and set fire to his beehives." And likely kill whoever happens to be there.

The thought is unpleasant, and Nigel turns a little green in the face. "You're here to stick that sword in his face?"

...The straightforward communication is different, and altogether wanted. They aren't fully approving of each other, but it's... nice to be able to speak in such a simple way. "Yeah," Alan agrees. "It'll just be a minute if you want to wait."

Because....

"There's a lot of guards outside. I had to sidestep a lot of them to get in here. If you wait, I'll set up a distraction for you so you're not overrun."

Alan is not lecturing, or commanding, or being domineering. Both Nigel and he need to finish their jobs--then they can see what damage has been done here.

His annoyance must be at an all-time high. Cut-and-dry is hardly the method Nigel uses when speaking to Alan, of all existences. Dancing around the bush is so much more his style.

Nevertheless, the show must go on. God, first the guards, then Alan. Then another undetermined number of guards. This job beginning to be a nightmare, and no helpful suggestion is going to make it better.

"How?" Nigel raises an eyebrow. "By slamming me to the floor again?"

The passive approach slips from his mien with a twist of his lips. Alan turns to pick the scimitars off the floor, slipping Soulrender into its sheathe and keeping Bloodscythe in hand. He points at Nigel with the other hand. "You. Stay here. No running off."

He doesn't see a point in adding threats to the end of that. Nigel likely knows them all by heart.

Alan moves to the end of the hall and into the room. There is a sound of surprise, and then it is cut short.

The tone is recognizable, serving to aggravate the younger man further. Nigel practically snarls at Alan as the other moves away, a perfect expression of hate and disapproval.

Once alone, however, everything shifts to the core of his emotions, to the sickness skirting close to the surface. Indeed, he had executed the entirety of the guards within the interiors of the estate, in a manner that he could not possibly entertain in another life. Self-preservation had allowed an easier time of it, but Alan spoke the words, and Nigel now knows what was done could not simply be stifled in the quiet corners of his mind.

No, slashed throats, cooked skin, and blood are now dancing in front of his eyes. The interrupted cry does not help diminish the image.

"Ugh." He slaps a hand across his face. Then again for good measure.

Perhaps if the elf had warning, there would have been a fight worth having, but in the end, Alan had many more things to do--as the other turns, Alan thrusts the scimitar into his breast.

Now, he is running on borrowed time.

He had thought previously to be that distraction for Nigel, but Nigel would not allow it and things would get messy. So Alan would create a cleaner scenario. Alan is not Alain, not infallible, but he has watched Alain, and he has trained under Arnbjorn--

And Babette.

The shutters are wrenched open as quietly as he can manage, and he easily drops the two stories to the ground. Three guards are in his vicinity, and the twin scimitars become more intimately acquainted with the men. This allowed Alan the time necessary, to pour a vial over the already enchanted blades. They shine in the light from the clouded sky, and he takes in a breath.

Time to work.

(Time to play.)

There he is, tending to his demons, waiting for his (supposed) lover to reemerge from assassinating (because it can only be that) the elf Nigel had robbed just moments prior. Except that does not come. Instead, his honed hearing catches traces of abnormalities outside.

Nigel pauses, the sting of realization spreading across his chest. "That little--" The words are concluded in French, something he would never repeat elsewhere.

The man darts across the hallway to the end of the hall, reaching behind for his Ebony Bow and appropriate arrow. It is strung and drawn by the time he reaches the open window, in time for his improving eyesight to catch the blood betrayer running his "fun" little show.

Disgusted, Nigel aims and lets the arrow fly at a visible guard, the one nearest to Alan.

The flick of a bowstring interrupts Alan's controlled chaos, and he wondered if the arrow is meant for him. It slams into the guard near to Alan with the force of a blow--then the man erupts in frost, fire, and shock in an unnatural scream, purple light capturing the soul of the man as he dies.

Alan stares for a moment, thinking if that had been a little bit off....

Of course, a guard takes the opening to slice at Alan's back, and he hisses, catches the blade in his cloak and mantle and turns, twisting it out of the man's hands. Soulrender slams into the man's chest, and Alan backs to drop the body at his feet.

Looking up at his lover, Nigel flips him off in disgust. Alan grins cheekily back.

Purple light erupts from the dying man and throws itself toward Nigel, ultimately settling into one of the empty soul gems in the pouch on his belt. If he gives the detail any more thought, he might have gotten sick, but as he is, he simply strings another arrow, pausing once to give Alan the bird.

The bastard dares to smile back at him. Alan dares to be utterly charming, and Nigel again lets the arrow fly, this time at the small group of guards charging the other.

Between the two, the main yard is soon full of corpses, and the only places left are the bridge nearby with a handful and the small island holding the hives. Alan rotates his neck and shoulder, passes a hand over a cut along his jaw, and feels at the wound on his back. He's fine. Mostly.

He turns back to the window. "Since you've decided to involve yourself, going to come with me and finish all of this?" Despite the topic, he says it in the way of invitation.

He can't help it--a part of him utterly adores this interaction despite it all.

Between the two, Nigel has gained a pouch full of souls trapped in gems. There are more to potentially steal in the distance, but for now, the immediate threat has passed. For now, there is only Alan.

The invitation is taken for what it is, and Nigel jumps down the two stories, landing lightly as a cat might. He straightens and approaches the other, blue-green eyes staring intently at Alan's pale. A hand reaches out slowly as if to brush against a cheek, instead settling a thumb and a forefinger on skin with the intent to pinch.

"I was here first, you dolt," he says angrily.

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