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Diego's Discursion
Chapter The First
I shall begin my--quite over-verbose, yet hopefully particularizing--classification of contemplations with a question and a story. First, the question: When faced under extraneous circumstances, should you look at the circumstances or rather contemplate the extraneity of the circumstances themselves?
I had called upon a common friend not two hours past dawn. It was early, sure, but he had always been the kind of Argonian who would rise far earlier than necessary, solely to be awake at such a time.
I rapped Skin-Of-Dragon's door. Standing just in front of the threshold, I heard a god-forbidden scream. Though...In retrospect, I cannot say the scream was that of fright. At least not the startled fright most would tack onto such a description. It was a scream of death. Is someone frightened while dying? I cannot say; I've never died before. Is a small, Breton girl's blood chilled like Atmora when she is about to be torn limb-from-body by a disgustingly grotesque monster, who--in any honesty--has the most sickening likeness ever witnessed? I cannot say; I've never been a small, Breton girl who is--by Azura, you get my point by now, yes?
Sure enough, as I thrust my blade through Dragon's door (thank the Nine that I had sharpened it two days prior), stood before me both a large minotaur, and a frightened Breton--err...rather, simply a dying Breton. Well, surely, reader, you must be in the utmost state of confusion at this time. I cannot say I was in the same state at the time. Skin-of-Dragon did have some...well...we'll say "odd" frequencies. I stood there as the Breton was mistaken for a morning loaf of bread, and eaten whole (the poor minotaur must've never learned his manners around company, tsk). The minotaur simply looked at me...and ran away, frightened from its skin, with Skin-of-Dragon sitting in a pool of his cold blood behind where the minotaur had previously stood (prior to my frightening of the little whimp, of course).
Now that I'm sure I've caught your attention, and you're fully attentive to my story, I can now safely start at the beginning of this story...
I am Diego. Diego Draw, more accurately. Of course, many have heard the name, yet no one knows the man...Or beast, would perhaps be more accurate. I am an Argonian. And yet I am not an Argonian. I am a name. Or perhaps, an idea, if you would like to think of it as such. Diego Draw is not a person, of that you can be positive. Yet he is an assassin; and a poet; and an alchemist; and a hermit; and a publican; and a Black Marsh resident. You may tack all of these things onto me, but I am not a person.
You see...Thirty years ago, on this day, I was not Diego Draw. I was a simple Argonian, blue-cheeked, and silver-tongued. My arrogance should show in this statement, but I was sly with all of Black Marsh's women. On this day, I disappeared. On this day, Diego continued.
With caution for continuity aside, reader, ask yourself. What is a name? An indicator. No more. Now ask yourself--with further caution displaced--what happens when an identifier becomes a fortification. Take the Hyphia Facia. It is a completely harmless mould--granted the undoubtability that its taste resembles that of Guar-droppings. It can actually have some stimulative properties, when applied properly throughout one's body. This, of course, is quite common knowledge, and, even if the plant tastes precisely like Guar-droppings, it is commonly known. Now, take the Bungler's Bane. Its toxins infect the odd weary wanderer who (quite frankly put) too idiotic to think of the subsequent consequences of his own actions, with whatever form of fatality it wishes to spread. Obviously, far from the stories that people like to hear about Hyphia Facia. And yet...These two objects of foliage are likened similarly. One lethal, one healing. One malevolent cruelty, the other a benevolent benefactor. How can these be shaped so similarly? Must be a trick of the et'Ada. But I'm writing this to explain myself, not plants. Now think...Take the Hyphia Facia out of the wanderer's eyes completely. IF a wanderer has heard no stories of healing, no stories of benevolence coming from a plant shaped similarly to Bungler's Bane, he'll stay clear of the shape entirely, due to the fact that nothing good could ever come from such an encounter. Does that mean that benevolence in that form is impossible? Did the Hyphia Facia even exist? Of course it did...But its name is now known as Bungler's Bane, and is subsequently avoided, for fear of life.
And alas, this is why I issue this to you, reader. This is why I scribe these thoughts onto my silly, little parchment...In hopes that you even exist, and that I am not just a silly, old dinosaur, writing tales for old wives and stupid Khajiiti bartenders.
I am Diego Draw...I am this name. I am Bungler's Bane. I take peoples' lives. But does the benevolence of Hyphia Facia not exist among my outward Bungler's Bane? Certainly not. I am, after all, just a silly, old dinosaur, writing tales for old wives and stupid Khajiiti bartenders from the chambers, deep in a cave's basement.
Here you must remember, reader. I am the deadly assassin. I am Bungler's Bane...But hold no prejudice against my scrawlings. My scriptures are only to prove this is only my appearance, and that at dawn, I still have a shadow.
Chapter The Second
I was born, humbly, under serpentine lights; with the simple name of Slit. I was born in a small settlement, right in the Black Marsh. My parents couldn't afford to live in Stormhold, or even Murkwood. They owned a swamp-lot on the Eastern Coast. I was not taken to the naming tree--this decision, perhaps, was the beginning of dissention, and the end of innocence. I was also not borne a proper education. I studied myself, however. Often, I would leave to the library after doing my extrinsic chores for my parents. I ended up reading a lot about Shadowscales, a group of Argonian assassins who are chosen at birth to be assassins for the Dark Brotherhood, the most infamously devious assassin-cult in history. I often wished that I could have been one of the Shadowscales. How it would fulfill the continuity of my life. Of course, I knew this was impossible. I was cursed by the Serpent, always, not blessed as the Shadow.
Nevertheless, I trained. Hard. After my first few books about Shadowscales, I began checking out more and more books about assassins. Often, I would take the books to a nearby clearing in the trees, and practice fighting against a rock with a twig as my fair dagger. I knew it was stupid. I knew I was but a thirteen-young child who couldn't do a damned thing with his life. Still, I continued. I learned to perfect my form, my grace. It was all perfect.
Then the day came. I received my first real weapon. I remember; I was but fourteen years of age. I was walking home from one of my now-regulatory training sesssions and all of a sudden, I saw a swamp-rat. At first, I was startled, and fell backwards, flinging my books into the swamp-waters behind me. But then I saw. The rat was not moving. It was dead. And carefully graced inside of it, a small, steel dagger gleamed a purple-orange hue from the sunset's rays.
I hurredly moved towards the blade. I was stricken with euphoria. The blade was sharp, and elegantly strewn right through the rat's heart. It was an assassin's blade; a Shadowscale's blade. I knew it in my heart. Nobody else could have stricken an enemy so dauntingly and killed it with but one strike, and still leave the blade emerging the deceased as a flag declaring territory.
I retrieved the blade from the dead animal's body, and touched the side and the edge. It was very sharp, cutting me upon just a fractional touch of the side. I now knew...This was what I was supposed to do. It was my destiny. I loved the blade. I loved the ecstasy of swinging the blade. I knew...I was meant to be Diego Draw (albeit, I had no previous knowledge of that particular name before, you must realize).
I realize, reader, that you find this all unbelievably cheesy (possibly to a literal extent), so feel free to take a minor break at this time to vomit whateve remains left in your stomach.
Continuing...I swung the blade around for practice. I went to the area for longer and longer times; my parents could care less if I completed my chores anymore. On the odd occaision, I would even tell my parents I was off to a friend's (of which, I must add, for the sake of truthfullness, I had none) house to sleep there, and went to the clearing for days on end, sleeping there night and day. I carved my name over and over.
"Slit. Slit. Slit. Slit," the trees read, "Slit, serpentine Argonian."
I kept the blade sharp, too. Very sharp. Once my blade wore out, I would often dive under one of the nearby swamps, and fortify my eye-sight with a special potion, simply so that I could find a rock that could do such a blade such honorable justice.
My destiny followed this sword. It is my soul. It is with me now. It shall be with me as I die--nay...It shall not be with me. It shall be lying in the heart of a recently-passed swamp rat...Waiting for more destiny; waiting for a soul to change as it has changed my own.
Chapter The Third
After discovering my sword and my path, I had no other options. I had to get away from the town and away from the disgusting inhabitants that I had the misfortune to actually meet in my rare travels. Unfortunately for me, I was still living in my mother-guardian's groggy cave. Obviously, I didn't stay there much, but it was where I slept. And where I ate, had I not caught anything of my own in the clearing.
One day, my mother-guardian spoke to me harshly after being aloof for past three days. I never had a good relation with her, due to the obvious factors, including my being an afficionado of ancient artifacts, as well as my being an assassin in the later years of her life.
She spoke to me such terms that I could not bear, stating I was to be home every night, and other ludicrous claims. I removed my knife from his harness and struck with elegant force...
I had known my practice. I had known where I was in this world. I had known nearly everything--at least I thought so--and yet...I wasn't prepared...I knew she was dead the moment I reached for my dagger. I was prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for was how great it felt.
It was a split-second, but I remember every frame--every milisecond--like it's a single day. I removed my blade; it slid like a well-greased shaft, straight out, and I brought the sword towards her neck.
As my sword dug deeper in and deeper more, I felt the blood reach my finger-tips. I heard a scream...and an abrupt halt as I struck through her vocal chamber. I saw blood trickle and erupt. I saw my dagger fly.
And that was it...Within seconds, my dagger was returned to its holding place...at least for a couple of hours...And my mother-guardian was in her holding place for eternity. I stared at my recent victim. My eyes widened as I realized what had happened, but my heart swelled more than ever. I was officially a sovereign being. I was officially an assassin. Not a better feeling has crossed my mind since that day; since that second; since that minute that my blade crossed its first neck. It would cross many more in time with my arm's destructive power behind it. Time molds. My mind was subjected to time, and this was--this IS--the outcome.
I am a killer. I am a taker of lives. I am Diego Draw. I am an assassin.
Chapter The Fourth
"Destruction is means of filtering to see the beauty of things." With these words tolling like the bells of Akatosh's monestaries, I begin my next chapter. My next page. When I met Diego...When my life was officially changed...again.
I was on the street, eating a loaf of bread that I had, of course, stolen. I had been like this, sitting in the ditches and dirt for years now. I had since moved out of my mother-guardian's household; I couldn't be blamed for her death.
I had abandoned all of my research, in hopes that while my assassination streak was continuing, my articles could be cherished by those lucky enough to find them.
Sitting in the mud, I watched people pass me, some even throwing me coins in pity. Hah. Like I couldn't just kill any person I wanted if I was daft enough to want to buy something. Disgusting.
It was like this every day. For months. Perhaps a year or two, even. I don't even remember. I moved from city to city, province to province. Even traveled out to Stros M'Kai once for a little venture, smuggling myself in a barrel. I killed whoever I wanted. I took whatever I wanted. Like a true hero of assassins should have.
One day, I was on the streets of the Imperial Province's Leyawiin, not far from my home city near Blackwood. Those Imperials disgusted me. I had found my nerves moving more than ever under Cyrodiil's canopies. There I was. A little, cold Argonian, sitting in the middle of the rain with a moldy, ratty, black cloak covering my head. Covering my blue cheeks. But a man soon approached me.
"Rise your head and kneel in front of me," the man said sternly. I noticed from his voice that he was a fellow Argonian, but I wasn't in the mood to amenably take orders from strangers.
"I will not," I replied, attempting to imitate the harsh tone of the man in front of me.
"I'm quite positive you will," he responded.
My blood boiled, as I felt my nerves floating on harsh waters. I instinctively pulled my dagger from its hilt, ready to slice this intrusion of space into pieces. But alas, my plans were all faux. I had no idea who I was attacking. My wrist was quickly caught, and twisted around. Within seconds, I was on the ground...genuflecting amenably before a strange man I'd never met.
"Ha ha," the man chuckled in my ear, as all I could do was kneel in a state of awe before his incredibly intuitive counter, "Excellent."
"Who the hell are you?" I yelled, disturbingly disgruntled, "Tell me now!"
"That is for another time, friend," the man said, warmly, as he handed me a note. Little did I know how important the note would really become.
The man disappeared as quickly as I had noticed him. I immediately thought about tearing up the note and throwing it to the ground. What a mistake that would have truly been.
Instead, though, I held it to me. I let myself cool down in the cold rain, and seeked a small cove to cover myself as I read the enigmatic note.
It read:
"Slit,
You don't know me, but I know your works. Your artisticism. Your romanticism. I understand your past, as well as your future. Your destiny lies in me. Your destiny lies beyond. Talk to me in Concave Caverns, just outside of Anvil. Being you, the next Diego, I am sure your insight will be able to lead you there without worry.
~Diego Draw"
I knew not what to expect. "The next Diego" made no sense to me. I had heard the name Diego Draw before--Hell, everyone had--but nobody had spoken to him...or so they thought.
I didn't want to give this man the pleasure of my complaisency. That was only reserved for myself and the honorable. He was not honorable...or so I thought.
Still, my curiosity inevitably led me to the cave, and indeed I did find the caverns he spoke of quite simply. They were in plain sight. I snuck in quietly, creeping along the floor, waiting for arrows to fly from the wall or a hammer to fall from the ceiling. But instead, I only found him. I only found Diego.
"I knew it. You had to be the next," Diego instinctively started our conversation with a cocky smile on his face.
"I've just come to see who you are. Now, will you tell me or not?" I said, not happy that I had simply proved that smirk on his face was deserved.
"Who am I? Who am I...? Hmm...It is indeed a good question," Diego started, "Death and destruction is as Diego Draw, but death and destruction dissent him. Diego is the shape of death, and a doppleganger of deception. Deceipt does do well in Draw's dormitory...unfortunately, I have no more to say of Diego Draw...But if you'd cease to resist, and offer to assist, then I could cease to desist."
"Then who are you?" I said, hiding my impressiveness in his flow of words.
"I am Diego...more or less...But I am not Diego. I am--I was--a person. Diego is an idea. Or rather an ideology."
"Could you get to the point?" I said; I always was impatient.
"Slit--" I interrupted Diego yet again.
"Wait...how did you know my name?"
"Trade secret," Diego responded, with a confident wink, "Slit, have you ever watched a sculpter?"
"Of course," I responded, with a flick of my eyes.
"They chisle at a block until it becomes beautiful. But have you ever watched the remaining pieces of the block? Probably not...That's what we--you, and I--take care of...The rest...Nirn is the block. The sculpture is our finished product. The rest of the block is stupidity; greediness--"
"Filth; soot," I continued Diego's list.
"Yes...Yes, good. Slit...You must know...This involves assassination. You must kill people."
"Hah! I've already killed hundreds of them. Innocent ones even."
"Innocent? Nobody that Diego kills is innocent...they are always guilty of filth."
"Continue..." I said, getting more and more intrigued by the second.
"I kill for the betterment of Tamriel. For the betterment of Nirn. For the betterment of Mundus as a body. As a dragon. You will take my place."
"Why?"
"I've watched. My legacy...no...Diego's legacy must live in another person. Your blade. It was mine. Your training, your determination, your motives. All perfection. Your innovation, and fine tones. Beautiful."
"So...what am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing at all, friend. You will be my apprentice. Come here every day at midday. I will have more information for you tomorrow. Goodbye."
With a classic 'poompf,' and puff of smoke, Diego was gone (or, perhaps, invisible). I walked away, not quite satisfied, yet gripped to the case of Diego Draw. I knew that I was to be the most feared assassin in Tamriel soon enough.
Emotional constitution and a hard heart had brought me this far. I had no more to do, but to let this carry me further down the road. My path was again decided. Whether it was decided for me, or whether I decided by picking up the blade, I will not know...but it was decided. And I followed.
Chapter the Fifth
I don't know why, but I had every intention of seeing him--seeing Diego--the next day at midday, just as he had suggested. I did so. I visited him.
For days and weeks and months and years later, I was trained by the infamous assassin. Every day at midday, he would show me new techniques, and teach me to write like he could. He would sometimes lecture me on what was honorable murder and what wasn't. At first, "honorable murder" felt like a stupid phrase, but as Diego repeatedly used it, I started to understand.
On occasions, I felt as if I was sitting in an endless vortex of paradoxal redundancy. However, that was not so. Diego trained me well. I was an amazing assassin within time.
Sooner or later, Diego began taking me on his assassinations of self-righting. Sometimes he would do it out of curiosity, out of righteousness, out of deserving, out of scholarly aspects, and sometimes even out of cold blood. In any case, I watched his motions. I not only became his apprentice. I became his accomplice.
Then one day, two and a half years had gone by since Diego had picked me up from a loner's life, and Diego was gone.
A Book lie on his desk with his famed blade lying inside of it. The front of the book had no writing, but it was dusty. The spine of the book had gold-imposed letters, reading "Diego Draw." I opened the book and retrieved the shortblade lying loosely inside. I scanned the beautiful edge. It glimmered and shined, even in the dark cave that we were in. Ancient blood of thousands adorned the sides of the still-shiny silver shortblade.
I opened the book and began reading it.
"Diego Draw I -- 1E 249
Slow-Hide: I leave you this blade. You are now Diego Draw. Take this name. Savor it well. You are no longer an apprentice. You are Diego Draw, the infamous assassin.
~D-Draw
Diego Draw II -- 1E 365
Sierra: I leave you now, but do not fret. I have left you my blade and my legacy. You are Diego Draw. You are an assassin. Take the name as your own. You deserve it.
~Slow-Hide
Diego Draw III -- 1E 486
Dragon-Breathed: I am now gone. Do not worry. You are not alone. As long as Diego Draw, you are not alone.
~Sierra"
I flipped further through the pages. Apparently it was notations of all the past Diego Draws. I was thrown into a frenzied panic. Diego couldn't be gone. I loved him. I loved him as a son could love his father. He couldn't leave me now.
I frantically flipped through the pages...It seemed like hours, but I finally had thumbed to the back where I found my name.
"Diego Draw XXXVII -- 3E 216
Slit: I am gone, as I am assured you have noticed. I may have passed away, I may still be around, but you will not be able to find me again. You are no longer named Slit...You are named Diego Draw. You are no longer a common beggar. You are an amazing assassin. Remember this. I can say no more. Goodbye, my apprentice. My son.
~Jeecara"
I hadn't ever heard Diego's real name. It appeared foreign. It was like he was no longer him, but he was me now. I was him. I was Diego Draw. I am Diego Draw.
I took the blade and swung it. I had never been so ready in my life. Not when I was killing my mother guardian, or when I found the blade in the tree. No, I was never so ready...I had been preparing for this since my birth.
And again, my destiny--my path--is retraced, and I have followed it. I am disastrous, dangerous, the catastrophic assassin. I am Diego Draw.
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I'll say this after all of my work, but everyone's harshest criticism will be most appreciated (as long as it's criticism and not destructive insults).
EDIT: Finally got around to getting chapter five done. It's nearly done by now. Probably one more finale chapter. Maybe two. Tell me what you guys think.
~D-Draw
