It was a long time coming but Francis and Vendel finally made it into Helgathe. Smuggled in among the rugs and linen of a goods peddler nice enough to take Francis and Vendel’s coin. A lot of it. Almost too much, really, but Francis and Vendel were willing to pay it if it meant a step closer to home for Vendel and a step closer to the Heroes for Francis. The two had made a compromise days ago, before they met the goods peddler shortly after on the road. Now though, the pair was in Helgathe, among high towers, armored guards and bustling citizenry. Despite the Dwemer takeover being quick, brutal but anything but bloodless, the people here seemed to be going about their business without any kind of sign of a cruel yoke upon them. Francis glanced to Vendel as they walked the crowded marketplace walkways. Francis frowned a bit when he saw that Vendel had snatched four small chicken-legs and had been trying to stuff all of them in his mouth. The man was hungry but Francis remembered that he and Vendel had vowed to steal only in true need. It wouldn’t do to have honest adventurers and duelists stealing from the common man.

“Vendel, why?” Francis asked. He knew why, though. His friend had to be damned hungry after such a long time on the road with only dried meat and water.

“Mmmf hmm-mm” Bits of chicken everywhere.

“Vendel, please.” Francis held a hand up with a laugh.

Vendel swallowed, “Hungry!”

“I can see that. What did we agree to a very long time ago?” Francis asked like a father to his disobedient child.

“No stealing. Only in true need, Francis. My hunger was a true need. We barely have any septims to our name, my friend. Theft is but a smaller crime in the larger scheme of things, don’t you think?” Vendel asked, belching afterwards.

“My goodness, Vendel, what’s gotten into you?” Francis asked.

“Chicken.” Vendel smirked. He’d never heard his friend say these things, they’d always vowed to be proper gentlemen and dashing duelists, always speaking for the voiceless. Not thieves.

“I’ll let that slide only once, Vendel. Next time we need food, though, we’re buying it. We need to find some form of work, though. Your piece about the septims were true, I admit.” Francis opened his coinpurse and expected a puff of dust to accompany spiderwebs inside. All he saw were three septims, definitely not enough to buy a meal worth having, if one at all.

“Do you think the Dwemer have outlawed dueling?” Vendel asked, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Many places have outlawed dueling. Except for Skyrim. I hear that some disputes are settled in such a way, although, two farmers wouldn’t seem to be the most entertaining of fighters, if the ones in Camlorn are any indication.” Francis snickered. He had to remind himself that he was a farmer a time ago, and not a very good one. It was to be said he was better with the sword than with the plough.

“Wait,” Vendel spoke quickly, holding out a thick arm to block the somewhat thinner and taller Francis from going farther, “What was it you said? About farmers?”

“Yes, Francis, I know. I shouldn’t speak ill of them because-”

“No, no, no, about their fighting, Francis.” Vendel asked, grabbing onto Francis’s collar.
It took a brief moment until Francis smiled, “Not entertaining fighters…”

“Entertainment, Francis. We’ll perform. Put on a show of the fighting prowess of two duelists. I’m sure the people will eat it up. The Dwemer don’t have laws against entertainment, if I’m correct.” Vendel flashed a grin.

“I see.” Francis returned the grin and the two shared a laugh and nod. They stepped into an alley as they planned out the venue, how they would set it up. They’d need a few rugs, a herald, and furthermore, an audience.

“I say we get the peddler fellow who smuggled us in. He has rugs and if we promise him a portion of the profit, he’ll be our herald.”

“Good thinking, friend!” Vendel clapped Francis on the back.

Francis coughed more for effect and violently turned around. His face was half-shaved and he was yet to curl his mustache, “Please, Vendel, I’m trying to get presentable. You are the barbaric Nord, a fierce, formidable foe. I am the charming Breton, a fantastic fighter of finesse.”

“Ah, sorry, old friend.” Vendel said, stopping before he clapped Francis on his shoulder as he resumed shaving with his dagger. In a few minutes, they’d be ready to find the peddler gentleman and begin their plan.