[IC] Fruits of Contention - Wayrest
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Black Wastes, Duchy of Evermore, High Rock
2000, Last Seed 17, 4E 205
@Gcold@Spoopy Scary@Hank@Stormflyx
“I hear you’re meeting Gustav for an interview.”
“And I hear you’re leaving. Why is that?”
Wylendriel stared down at her feet, shame impacting her like a punch to the chest. The company had only a few days to recover from the chaos at the banquet -- from physical injury as well as legal, the former which she was able to attend to. To her surprise, so could Mary, the templar now questioning her. The truth was that she felt like she had to leave for a while now. Mercenary life didn’t suit her, but more than that, she provided her chaplain services for the final time when Edith came to visit her for consultation. Sort of. The new commander decided the role didn’t suit her, and the company wasn’t the same without Ashav. It was actually her who convinced Wylendriel to finally leave. Perhaps it was her last advice as the company’s commander, but Edith seemed worried about her mental health and suggested that she ought to continue with the pilgrimage she originally embarked on.
Wy gave Mary a weary sigh as she answered, “I was never a permanent fixture within the company. I was on pilgrimage before I joined them, and I suppose I lost sight of that. It’s time I moved on and work on healing my spirit. Restoration can’t fix everything.”
The templar lay her hand on the priestess’ shoulder and nodded sympathetically, “Indeed it can’t. May Stendarr’s mercy bless you.”
“I must find it for myself I’m afraid. There are things I must atone for before then.”
“That is the way of things,” Mary replied, “one can’t know justice or mercy without strife or punishment. I hope you find peace in any case.”
“You’ll make a good replacement for me,” Wy chuckled. “As much as I’d like to say I hope to see the company again, I fear you all would be a bad omen. So… take care?”
“Godspeed, priestess.”
“And I hear you’re leaving. Why is that?”
Wylendriel stared down at her feet, shame impacting her like a punch to the chest. The company had only a few days to recover from the chaos at the banquet -- from physical injury as well as legal, the former which she was able to attend to. To her surprise, so could Mary, the templar now questioning her. The truth was that she felt like she had to leave for a while now. Mercenary life didn’t suit her, but more than that, she provided her chaplain services for the final time when Edith came to visit her for consultation. Sort of. The new commander decided the role didn’t suit her, and the company wasn’t the same without Ashav. It was actually her who convinced Wylendriel to finally leave. Perhaps it was her last advice as the company’s commander, but Edith seemed worried about her mental health and suggested that she ought to continue with the pilgrimage she originally embarked on.
Wy gave Mary a weary sigh as she answered, “I was never a permanent fixture within the company. I was on pilgrimage before I joined them, and I suppose I lost sight of that. It’s time I moved on and work on healing my spirit. Restoration can’t fix everything.”
The templar lay her hand on the priestess’ shoulder and nodded sympathetically, “Indeed it can’t. May Stendarr’s mercy bless you.”
“I must find it for myself I’m afraid. There are things I must atone for before then.”
“That is the way of things,” Mary replied, “one can’t know justice or mercy without strife or punishment. I hope you find peace in any case.”
“You’ll make a good replacement for me,” Wy chuckled. “As much as I’d like to say I hope to see the company again, I fear you all would be a bad omen. So… take care?”
“Godspeed, priestess.”
Black Wastes was exactly as its name described, a boring waste of space that’s poorly lit at night, to the point where streets fell pitch black. By the time Ariane returned to Red Mug, the inn mercenaries stayed in, Edith had already departed. Edith did notify Ariane of her resignation earlier that day, but that was pretty much it. Sevine was talking to Edith throughout the trip, and from what it seemed, both of them were leaving for their homes in Falkreath. In the end, what mattered to Ariane was that she now held the second highest position within the company. With greater power also came greater responsibilities; Gustav had delegated the new member’s interview to her.
On her way, Ariane encountered Wylendriel. She never really spoke to the Bosmer besides giving her orders. Ariane didn’t like her, but she would make an effort to be more approachable. Even someone as detached and aloof as Ariane felt sorry for what Wy had to endure. Walking past each other, Ariane said a simple “Farewell, Wylendriel.”
And then there’s the new recruit, the woman that rode on the same caravan as the rest of the company. Blond and well-armored, she very much resembled the knights of Jehanna. Gustav said she was a Breton templar, and was instrumental in defeating Sylette. Ariane could respect that, and despite the poor fashion taste with her mismatching colored cloths, the new member already felt more workable than Wylendriel.
“You must be the newcomer, Marley. Or is it Murry?” Ariane approached the templar and offered her hand. “Anyway, I am Ariane Fontaine, field commander of the company.” Ariane hesitated a bit; her new position still felt strange to her. “Gustav informed me that you have already signed the contract. I’m here to assess you, you know, just have a chat, as pedestrian as it seems.”
“Marlene,” Mary answered with a humored smile, “but you may call me Mary. Or Mars. Whichever is easier for you.”
“Come then, Mary, Gustav rented rooms at Red Mug for the company.” Ariane led the templar to an empty table inside the inn. “Rooms here are uncomfortable and the beverages are lacking, but the count of Glenpoint and his entourage already booked out the Dancing Griffin. So, here we are.”
“I’m from Jehanna, which is partly Nordic and with more than a few orcs to call it home.” Mary replied, “So I’m not picky. How far has the company come? You must have some impressive fame and connections for the Imperials to have sent you to investigate the banquet on their behalf.”
“Ah yes, Jehanna, that was where our company received the contract. The city was… tolerable.” Ariane explained. The innkeeper came to their table then; Ariane asked only for a cup of water. She did, however, notice another Breton woman drinking what looked to be decent wine. “You see, we’ve discovered evidence of the vampire plot en route from Skyrim. It was found on a foe too gruesome to describe, and possibly too gruesome for some to handle, such as our former chaplin.”
Then the water came in the inn’s namesake red mugs. Ariane took a sip; even it tasted sour. “Have you heard of Limax Auream, or as the sailors call it, the Golden Slug? It was a real Sload, and we defeated it.” Ariane was evidently proud of their victory. There were some less-than-good parts of the story, but Mary didn’t need to know that; she only needed to hear the good parts. By the look on her face, she didn’t know about the Slug anyway.
“Turns out, the Golden Slug is in league with the vampires.” Ariane’s voice quieted to a whisper, as if people eavesdropped on their conversation. “Our accomplishments were sufficient to draw the attention of the reserve legion. We provide premier security services regular soldiers cannot.”
“Someone capable of dispelling mass frenzy like yourself would be a welcoming addition.” Ariane added, while picking her nails. “How did you acquire such skills? I wasn’t aware that one could learn advanced magic in Jehanna.”
“I was taught by clerics and educators from the School of Julianos,” Mary explained, “in addition to restoration and solar magicks by Maran priests, as well as martial skills. I used to be a Templar, but I find myself being more of a witch hunter or freelance hero these days.”
Mary looked around her shoulder, seeing a few familiar faces from the caravan inside the inn. Members of the company? With a gentle smile, she turned back to Ariana and said, “What do you say to bringing our conversation to the others, commander? The Breton woman looks lonely and, besides, I think showing you that I can work well with others might be helpful to your interview, yes?”
"Yes, an excellent suggestion." Ariane concurred.
On her way, Ariane encountered Wylendriel. She never really spoke to the Bosmer besides giving her orders. Ariane didn’t like her, but she would make an effort to be more approachable. Even someone as detached and aloof as Ariane felt sorry for what Wy had to endure. Walking past each other, Ariane said a simple “Farewell, Wylendriel.”
And then there’s the new recruit, the woman that rode on the same caravan as the rest of the company. Blond and well-armored, she very much resembled the knights of Jehanna. Gustav said she was a Breton templar, and was instrumental in defeating Sylette. Ariane could respect that, and despite the poor fashion taste with her mismatching colored cloths, the new member already felt more workable than Wylendriel.
“You must be the newcomer, Marley. Or is it Murry?” Ariane approached the templar and offered her hand. “Anyway, I am Ariane Fontaine, field commander of the company.” Ariane hesitated a bit; her new position still felt strange to her. “Gustav informed me that you have already signed the contract. I’m here to assess you, you know, just have a chat, as pedestrian as it seems.”
“Marlene,” Mary answered with a humored smile, “but you may call me Mary. Or Mars. Whichever is easier for you.”
“Come then, Mary, Gustav rented rooms at Red Mug for the company.” Ariane led the templar to an empty table inside the inn. “Rooms here are uncomfortable and the beverages are lacking, but the count of Glenpoint and his entourage already booked out the Dancing Griffin. So, here we are.”
“I’m from Jehanna, which is partly Nordic and with more than a few orcs to call it home.” Mary replied, “So I’m not picky. How far has the company come? You must have some impressive fame and connections for the Imperials to have sent you to investigate the banquet on their behalf.”
“Ah yes, Jehanna, that was where our company received the contract. The city was… tolerable.” Ariane explained. The innkeeper came to their table then; Ariane asked only for a cup of water. She did, however, notice another Breton woman drinking what looked to be decent wine. “You see, we’ve discovered evidence of the vampire plot en route from Skyrim. It was found on a foe too gruesome to describe, and possibly too gruesome for some to handle, such as our former chaplin.”
Then the water came in the inn’s namesake red mugs. Ariane took a sip; even it tasted sour. “Have you heard of Limax Auream, or as the sailors call it, the Golden Slug? It was a real Sload, and we defeated it.” Ariane was evidently proud of their victory. There were some less-than-good parts of the story, but Mary didn’t need to know that; she only needed to hear the good parts. By the look on her face, she didn’t know about the Slug anyway.
“Turns out, the Golden Slug is in league with the vampires.” Ariane’s voice quieted to a whisper, as if people eavesdropped on their conversation. “Our accomplishments were sufficient to draw the attention of the reserve legion. We provide premier security services regular soldiers cannot.”
“Someone capable of dispelling mass frenzy like yourself would be a welcoming addition.” Ariane added, while picking her nails. “How did you acquire such skills? I wasn’t aware that one could learn advanced magic in Jehanna.”
“I was taught by clerics and educators from the School of Julianos,” Mary explained, “in addition to restoration and solar magicks by Maran priests, as well as martial skills. I used to be a Templar, but I find myself being more of a witch hunter or freelance hero these days.”
Mary looked around her shoulder, seeing a few familiar faces from the caravan inside the inn. Members of the company? With a gentle smile, she turned back to Ariana and said, “What do you say to bringing our conversation to the others, commander? The Breton woman looks lonely and, besides, I think showing you that I can work well with others might be helpful to your interview, yes?”
"Yes, an excellent suggestion." Ariane concurred.
Two Dunmer were seated nearby, a few tables over, opposite one another. Both were dressed in the traditional tunics of their people, but their clothes had evidently seen better days. The woman’s, especially, looked like they had been torn and burned a dozen times over and patched up by trembling hands again and again. The she-elf, with long messy hair and a strange copper-hued gaze, was staring into her drink, wide-eyed but seeing nothing, while the male mer, dark-skinned and muscular, black hair parted to one side, watched her with a frown. His eyes were splotches of scarlet in a stern face the color of wet ash, as was typical of his race.
“Niernen,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
He leaned forward in his seat and tapped her on her arm. “Niernen?”
That finally got her attention. She blinked and looked up at him sharply, as if he had woken her from a nightmare. “Narzul,” she said softly. “What is it?”
“Are you… alright?” he asked, concern in his gaze. It was evident he was not used to vocalizing such feelings to anyone.
She smiled at him, but it was weak and unconvincing. “No,” she admitted and buried her face in her hands. Niernen said something else but her words were too muffled for her brother to hear.
Narzul furrowed his brow -- a scowl looked significantly more natural on him. “Don’t do that, I can’t hear what you’re saying,” he hissed.
Exasperated, Niernen dropped her hands to the table with a thud. She sighed. “I said that my head still feels… frazzled. The frenzy spell… it was… bad,” the mage finished lamely. She didn’t know how else to put it. Words failed her, and she didn’t even want to mention the guilt she felt. Innocents had been burnt to a crisp by her magicks. That she hadn’t been the one controlling them, controlling her, was of little consolation to her. She didn’t think Narzul would understand.
“Talk to a healer,” he commanded. “Or a priest. They must know something, even if they’re--”
“Outlanders, yes, I know,” Niernen snapped. Then she relented a little. She knew Narzul meant well. Offering solutions was his way of trying to help. He only ever thought in challenges and how they could be overcome. That it often wasn’t as simple as that, that there were emotions in play, was of little consequence to the Redoran warrior. There had been no room for such things in his upbringing.
But what did their upbringing matter now? Their family was dead, their heritage destroyed, and their country usurped by a mad god.
“I’ll think about it,” she said and sipped on her water.
Narzul nodded. “Good,” he said after a few seconds, looking away, at nothing in particular. His eyes fell on Mary and Ariane. “Maybe they know something,” he said and jabbed a finger in their direction. “The templar and the witch.”
That made Niernen laugh. “She’s not a witch, brothermine. She’s… a mystic, a sorceress.”
He shrugged. “Is there a difference?”
There may have been no wine available for purchase at the Red Mug, but that hadn't stopped Relyssa from procuring her own elsewhere, and proudly displaying it on her lonely table in the corner of the room. The colour was shades darker than the red velvet dress she wore on her petite frame. Elbow length leather gloves prevented her from having to make direct contact with the surface of her table, that was both dusty and mysteriously sticky at the same time. The haughty Breton sneered at it.
Quietly, she drank to herself by the amber light of the fire - burning her silver hair a richer gold in its light.
Around her, patrons sat and talked amongst themselves - but she simply sat in her own meditative silence. On her lap, a journal, and in her hand a quill. She was in the middle of writing a letter. For all of the talking she was able to do in everyday situations, penning a letter to her father left her without much inspiration at all. A crease formed across her brow as she struggled even to open the thing.
After a moment or two more, she simply closed the journal - the loose page of parchment being folded with it. Instead, she set her listening ear to the conversations around her. She had been following Gustav. They'd both been set for Wayrest and so she had opted to travel with him and his company. Even after a day or two, she knew very little about any of them.
To her left, two Dunmer were deep in conversation, and she placed an elbow on the table, leaning slightly in their direction - rubbing her ear between thumb and forefinger as she took a sip from her wine and focussed in on them - for no other reason than she simply had nothing better to do.
“Yes, there is, but I’m not going to bother trying to explain it to you,” Niernen said to her brother and rested her head on her hands, elbows planted on the table to support her. She sighed and didn’t speak for a while. “I wish there was something to be done about all of… this,” she groaned. “Can’t lift a thing, constantly tired, constantly in pain, can’t sleep… it’s exhausting to be scared and hurt all the time,” she added softly and closed her eyes.
Narzul rubbed his brow. “Stop complaining,” he said sternly. “It doesn’t become you. I’ve already told you what you can try.”
Niernen threw up her hands. “Right, because a priest in this arse end of the world will know how to accomplish what seven Temple priests couldn’t. Do you really expect me to just stumble over an expert Restorationist as soon as I step out the door?”
“Do you expect to stumble over one while sitting here and moping?” Narzul retorted, nostrils flaring. He didn’t like to be reminded of his failures in Black Marsh and lashed out with his infamous temper. “If you’re not doing anything to get better then how is anything supposed to change?”
She opened and closed her mouth to protest a few times, but Niernen had to admit that he actually had a fair point. She retreated into sullen silence and sipped listlessly at her water while she mulled it over.
That would be the opportune moment to introduce herself, were Relyssa a woman who cared enough to answer such desperate plea for help. She remained stoic in her chair, having listened to and mentally recorded the woman's symptoms. The Breton merely rolled her wrist to turn the wine over in her glass.
Fatigue, anxiety, the curse of a compassionless companion… Not that she could judge, Relyssa had the tools and knowledge to try and yet… She didn't. She just took a long sip from her wine. Later, perhaps. Much later.
Or maybe there was another way…
"I know an expert restorationist," Relyssa said in the direction of the Dunmer pair nonchalantly, inviting herself to their conversation as if she had been part of it all along. She let the words linger, and flicked her hair over one shoulder. "In Wayrest," she added - almost as a disclaimer.
After processing her surprise at the Breton woman’s sudden interjection, Niernen shot a pointed glance at Narzul. Her brother rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. She chuckled and got up from her seat in order to join Relyssa at her table. She hadn’t spoken to the merchant who was traveling with them before, but she knew that the woman was an associate of Gustav. That meant that she was at least moderately trustworthy, right?
Wide-eyed and eager, Niernen sat down and placed her hands flat on the table. “Really? Who? Do you think they could help me?” Then she smiled sheepishly and held out a hand for Relyssa to shake. “Sorry. My name is Niernen. You’re… Relyssa, right?”
"Correct," the Breton replied with a smile, taking the young woman's hand in her own for a polite greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Niernen." After they had made their introduction, she found herself slightly tickled by the questions. It was either that she was toying with a stranger, or the wine. Perhaps both. It was not shown on her face, she maintained as warm and pleasant of a countenance as she could.
"They say this mage put men back together in Windhelm, but now lives a quiet life. I can't surely say whether or not anyone can help anyone… I'm just a wanderer," she added, her piercing eyes sparkling with mystery. "It depends, truly, on what it is you are ailed with, Niernen." Relyssa finished, taking yet another sip from the glass.
Deciding that moving chairs was too much of a hassle, and the chair themselves were uncomfortable anyway, Ariane walked to and stood over the Venims' table. She was short enough that she didn't loom too far over the seated Dark Elves. Plus, she's their commander. A certain sense of authority was very much relevant.
"I know someone who may be able to help." Ariane introduced the newcomer. "This is Marlene, templar and the latest member of our company."
Mary bowed her head before the others and gave Niernen a gentle smile as she said, “I’m not necessarily an expert, but I have an adequate working knowledge of restoration. If I can’t fix whatever is ailing you, I can at least ease some of your discomfort.”
Then Ariane moved to the more interesting questions. “If only they have such fine wine in this shoddy establishment, Lady Relyssa.” Ariane said. “May I ask where you obtained it?”
Well, the arrival of the two others would see the end of her fun for now, Relyssa thought to herself. “Mmmm,” she hummed in acknowledgement, moving her gaze from Niernen to Ariane. “I traded a broken earring to a jewel smith, and several trades later I had this wine. Alto, I believe. Help yourself,” she responded, her tone dry as she pushed the bottle towards her fellow Breton.
Ariane poured some into the only container she had; the red mug. She sipped the wine like it was something worth savoring. It wasn't. "Not exactly great, but not terrible either." She concluded. "Not that we should expect anything better from this insignificant village."
As more and more people crowded around Relyssa’s table, Narzul stared at them for a while until he turned his attention back to his drink. The Dunmer cleared his throat and followed the lines in the wooden tabletop with his gaze, one of his feet tapping along to a silent beat on the floor.
Niernen’s eyes jumped from Relyssa to Ariane and Mary and back again a few times before finally settling on the templar. “You were at the banquet, right?” she asked and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Marlene. I’m not completely unschooled in Restoration either, but… well, two heads are better than one, right?” She chuckled and ran a hand through her hair. Truth be told, the battlemage wasn’t very confident that anyone except a real expert in Restoration could help her, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “It’s… a number of things, really,” she said and looked at the rest of the party members around her. “It’ll take a while to explain. Meet me later and I’ll tell you all about it?”
The incessant chatter was just that. Incessant, and it was circling Relyssa. Without making a fuss, she drank down the last of her glass, placing it back on the table quietly - a perfect imprint of her deep plum lipstick sat on the rim and she raised a brow. "Well, ladies, it's getting late and we've a long day of travel ahead of us. I shall be making the most of my bed while I have one for the night," she said - cutting through the conversation to excuse herself as elegantly, and properly as possible. Then she was out of her chair and just a slender figure snaking through the crowd to her room.
"Good night, and mind the bedbugs." Ariane nodded to Relyssa. She took the latter's seat.
“Sure.” Mary said to Niernen, though her eyes were beginning to trail Relyssa as she stood, with a smile as to be polite, but truthfully she had no idea what a lady such as her would be doing in the company of mercenaries. Their current employer, perhaps? Doubtful. Breton lords and ladies who hired mercenaries had dirty work to be done that they didn’t want to be associated with -- to that end, it was doubtful she’d be traveling with them. Her eyes darted back to Niernen as a stray thought crossed her mind.
“As I understand it, your previous chaplain was a gifted restorationist. Could she not help you?”
"Gifted in restoration, sure." Ariane shrugged. "But she has not been...stable, as of late. The battle against the Sload we discussed earlier has unnerved Wylendriel, and I'm afraid the situation in Evermore was more than she could handle."
“May our prayers be with her then,” Mary replied. “Foul luck that a priestess finds herself in this line of work, though blessed are we that she was. Matters would be worse for wear were she not at the banquet. The vampire would’ve been much more dangerous. Were there others who left?”
“A few,” Niernen confirmed. “Dar’Jzo, for example. The older Khajiit.” Her thoughts were still with Do’Karth, who had quietly slipped out of her life, probably forever. Thinking about the instability of the company’s membership made her uncomfortable and she looked at Mary instead, seeking comfort in the steadfastness she perceived in her eyes. “But most of us are still here.”
“Yes, the old cat.” Ariane nodded. “Speaking of, I need to see Dar’Jzo; he said he wishes to discuss his contract.”
Ariane stood up and pushed the remainder of the wine toward Niernen. “Good night, everyone.” Then she turned to Mary before leaving. “I will inform Gustav of your skills and needs; welcome to the company.”
“Thank you miss,” Mary said with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Oh, and Mr. Venim?” Ariane added as she stuck her head back through the door with a sharp look toward Narzul, unsure and quite frankly unconcerned with the proper address for dunmer. “The aforementioned old cat? Said to pass along a message: something along the lines of it being a pleasure to work with you and to stay out of trouble, that he’d hate to kill you. Something like that. You know how cryptic he can be.”
“Niernen,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
He leaned forward in his seat and tapped her on her arm. “Niernen?”
That finally got her attention. She blinked and looked up at him sharply, as if he had woken her from a nightmare. “Narzul,” she said softly. “What is it?”
“Are you… alright?” he asked, concern in his gaze. It was evident he was not used to vocalizing such feelings to anyone.
She smiled at him, but it was weak and unconvincing. “No,” she admitted and buried her face in her hands. Niernen said something else but her words were too muffled for her brother to hear.
Narzul furrowed his brow -- a scowl looked significantly more natural on him. “Don’t do that, I can’t hear what you’re saying,” he hissed.
Exasperated, Niernen dropped her hands to the table with a thud. She sighed. “I said that my head still feels… frazzled. The frenzy spell… it was… bad,” the mage finished lamely. She didn’t know how else to put it. Words failed her, and she didn’t even want to mention the guilt she felt. Innocents had been burnt to a crisp by her magicks. That she hadn’t been the one controlling them, controlling her, was of little consolation to her. She didn’t think Narzul would understand.
“Talk to a healer,” he commanded. “Or a priest. They must know something, even if they’re--”
“Outlanders, yes, I know,” Niernen snapped. Then she relented a little. She knew Narzul meant well. Offering solutions was his way of trying to help. He only ever thought in challenges and how they could be overcome. That it often wasn’t as simple as that, that there were emotions in play, was of little consequence to the Redoran warrior. There had been no room for such things in his upbringing.
But what did their upbringing matter now? Their family was dead, their heritage destroyed, and their country usurped by a mad god.
“I’ll think about it,” she said and sipped on her water.
Narzul nodded. “Good,” he said after a few seconds, looking away, at nothing in particular. His eyes fell on Mary and Ariane. “Maybe they know something,” he said and jabbed a finger in their direction. “The templar and the witch.”
That made Niernen laugh. “She’s not a witch, brothermine. She’s… a mystic, a sorceress.”
He shrugged. “Is there a difference?”
There may have been no wine available for purchase at the Red Mug, but that hadn't stopped Relyssa from procuring her own elsewhere, and proudly displaying it on her lonely table in the corner of the room. The colour was shades darker than the red velvet dress she wore on her petite frame. Elbow length leather gloves prevented her from having to make direct contact with the surface of her table, that was both dusty and mysteriously sticky at the same time. The haughty Breton sneered at it.
Quietly, she drank to herself by the amber light of the fire - burning her silver hair a richer gold in its light.
Around her, patrons sat and talked amongst themselves - but she simply sat in her own meditative silence. On her lap, a journal, and in her hand a quill. She was in the middle of writing a letter. For all of the talking she was able to do in everyday situations, penning a letter to her father left her without much inspiration at all. A crease formed across her brow as she struggled even to open the thing.
After a moment or two more, she simply closed the journal - the loose page of parchment being folded with it. Instead, she set her listening ear to the conversations around her. She had been following Gustav. They'd both been set for Wayrest and so she had opted to travel with him and his company. Even after a day or two, she knew very little about any of them.
To her left, two Dunmer were deep in conversation, and she placed an elbow on the table, leaning slightly in their direction - rubbing her ear between thumb and forefinger as she took a sip from her wine and focussed in on them - for no other reason than she simply had nothing better to do.
“Yes, there is, but I’m not going to bother trying to explain it to you,” Niernen said to her brother and rested her head on her hands, elbows planted on the table to support her. She sighed and didn’t speak for a while. “I wish there was something to be done about all of… this,” she groaned. “Can’t lift a thing, constantly tired, constantly in pain, can’t sleep… it’s exhausting to be scared and hurt all the time,” she added softly and closed her eyes.
Narzul rubbed his brow. “Stop complaining,” he said sternly. “It doesn’t become you. I’ve already told you what you can try.”
Niernen threw up her hands. “Right, because a priest in this arse end of the world will know how to accomplish what seven Temple priests couldn’t. Do you really expect me to just stumble over an expert Restorationist as soon as I step out the door?”
“Do you expect to stumble over one while sitting here and moping?” Narzul retorted, nostrils flaring. He didn’t like to be reminded of his failures in Black Marsh and lashed out with his infamous temper. “If you’re not doing anything to get better then how is anything supposed to change?”
She opened and closed her mouth to protest a few times, but Niernen had to admit that he actually had a fair point. She retreated into sullen silence and sipped listlessly at her water while she mulled it over.
That would be the opportune moment to introduce herself, were Relyssa a woman who cared enough to answer such desperate plea for help. She remained stoic in her chair, having listened to and mentally recorded the woman's symptoms. The Breton merely rolled her wrist to turn the wine over in her glass.
Fatigue, anxiety, the curse of a compassionless companion… Not that she could judge, Relyssa had the tools and knowledge to try and yet… She didn't. She just took a long sip from her wine. Later, perhaps. Much later.
Or maybe there was another way…
"I know an expert restorationist," Relyssa said in the direction of the Dunmer pair nonchalantly, inviting herself to their conversation as if she had been part of it all along. She let the words linger, and flicked her hair over one shoulder. "In Wayrest," she added - almost as a disclaimer.
After processing her surprise at the Breton woman’s sudden interjection, Niernen shot a pointed glance at Narzul. Her brother rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. She chuckled and got up from her seat in order to join Relyssa at her table. She hadn’t spoken to the merchant who was traveling with them before, but she knew that the woman was an associate of Gustav. That meant that she was at least moderately trustworthy, right?
Wide-eyed and eager, Niernen sat down and placed her hands flat on the table. “Really? Who? Do you think they could help me?” Then she smiled sheepishly and held out a hand for Relyssa to shake. “Sorry. My name is Niernen. You’re… Relyssa, right?”
"Correct," the Breton replied with a smile, taking the young woman's hand in her own for a polite greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Niernen." After they had made their introduction, she found herself slightly tickled by the questions. It was either that she was toying with a stranger, or the wine. Perhaps both. It was not shown on her face, she maintained as warm and pleasant of a countenance as she could.
"They say this mage put men back together in Windhelm, but now lives a quiet life. I can't surely say whether or not anyone can help anyone… I'm just a wanderer," she added, her piercing eyes sparkling with mystery. "It depends, truly, on what it is you are ailed with, Niernen." Relyssa finished, taking yet another sip from the glass.
Deciding that moving chairs was too much of a hassle, and the chair themselves were uncomfortable anyway, Ariane walked to and stood over the Venims' table. She was short enough that she didn't loom too far over the seated Dark Elves. Plus, she's their commander. A certain sense of authority was very much relevant.
"I know someone who may be able to help." Ariane introduced the newcomer. "This is Marlene, templar and the latest member of our company."
Mary bowed her head before the others and gave Niernen a gentle smile as she said, “I’m not necessarily an expert, but I have an adequate working knowledge of restoration. If I can’t fix whatever is ailing you, I can at least ease some of your discomfort.”
Then Ariane moved to the more interesting questions. “If only they have such fine wine in this shoddy establishment, Lady Relyssa.” Ariane said. “May I ask where you obtained it?”
Well, the arrival of the two others would see the end of her fun for now, Relyssa thought to herself. “Mmmm,” she hummed in acknowledgement, moving her gaze from Niernen to Ariane. “I traded a broken earring to a jewel smith, and several trades later I had this wine. Alto, I believe. Help yourself,” she responded, her tone dry as she pushed the bottle towards her fellow Breton.
Ariane poured some into the only container she had; the red mug. She sipped the wine like it was something worth savoring. It wasn't. "Not exactly great, but not terrible either." She concluded. "Not that we should expect anything better from this insignificant village."
As more and more people crowded around Relyssa’s table, Narzul stared at them for a while until he turned his attention back to his drink. The Dunmer cleared his throat and followed the lines in the wooden tabletop with his gaze, one of his feet tapping along to a silent beat on the floor.
Niernen’s eyes jumped from Relyssa to Ariane and Mary and back again a few times before finally settling on the templar. “You were at the banquet, right?” she asked and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Marlene. I’m not completely unschooled in Restoration either, but… well, two heads are better than one, right?” She chuckled and ran a hand through her hair. Truth be told, the battlemage wasn’t very confident that anyone except a real expert in Restoration could help her, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “It’s… a number of things, really,” she said and looked at the rest of the party members around her. “It’ll take a while to explain. Meet me later and I’ll tell you all about it?”
The incessant chatter was just that. Incessant, and it was circling Relyssa. Without making a fuss, she drank down the last of her glass, placing it back on the table quietly - a perfect imprint of her deep plum lipstick sat on the rim and she raised a brow. "Well, ladies, it's getting late and we've a long day of travel ahead of us. I shall be making the most of my bed while I have one for the night," she said - cutting through the conversation to excuse herself as elegantly, and properly as possible. Then she was out of her chair and just a slender figure snaking through the crowd to her room.
"Good night, and mind the bedbugs." Ariane nodded to Relyssa. She took the latter's seat.
“Sure.” Mary said to Niernen, though her eyes were beginning to trail Relyssa as she stood, with a smile as to be polite, but truthfully she had no idea what a lady such as her would be doing in the company of mercenaries. Their current employer, perhaps? Doubtful. Breton lords and ladies who hired mercenaries had dirty work to be done that they didn’t want to be associated with -- to that end, it was doubtful she’d be traveling with them. Her eyes darted back to Niernen as a stray thought crossed her mind.
“As I understand it, your previous chaplain was a gifted restorationist. Could she not help you?”
"Gifted in restoration, sure." Ariane shrugged. "But she has not been...stable, as of late. The battle against the Sload we discussed earlier has unnerved Wylendriel, and I'm afraid the situation in Evermore was more than she could handle."
“May our prayers be with her then,” Mary replied. “Foul luck that a priestess finds herself in this line of work, though blessed are we that she was. Matters would be worse for wear were she not at the banquet. The vampire would’ve been much more dangerous. Were there others who left?”
“A few,” Niernen confirmed. “Dar’Jzo, for example. The older Khajiit.” Her thoughts were still with Do’Karth, who had quietly slipped out of her life, probably forever. Thinking about the instability of the company’s membership made her uncomfortable and she looked at Mary instead, seeking comfort in the steadfastness she perceived in her eyes. “But most of us are still here.”
“Yes, the old cat.” Ariane nodded. “Speaking of, I need to see Dar’Jzo; he said he wishes to discuss his contract.”
Ariane stood up and pushed the remainder of the wine toward Niernen. “Good night, everyone.” Then she turned to Mary before leaving. “I will inform Gustav of your skills and needs; welcome to the company.”
“Thank you miss,” Mary said with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Oh, and Mr. Venim?” Ariane added as she stuck her head back through the door with a sharp look toward Narzul, unsure and quite frankly unconcerned with the proper address for dunmer. “The aforementioned old cat? Said to pass along a message: something along the lines of it being a pleasure to work with you and to stay out of trouble, that he’d hate to kill you. Something like that. You know how cryptic he can be.”
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GM
POOPHEAD189 Worrier
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5 days ago
Wayrest, High Rock
1900, Last Seed 21, 4E 205
"You shall not pass!"
Those were the final words and Gustav was not getting through the gates of Wayrest.
The company had spent most of the day traveling from Wind Keep, only to be denied by the throng of soldiers. The mercenaries weren't the only ones barred from entry. Those guarding the gates, currently troops from Northpoint, were on alert after a supposed corsair retaliation this time yesterday. Visitors were not allowed to enter.
"No passage?" Ariane inquired.
Gustav shook his head. The company had already been denied entry at the northeastern gate and the western gate, and they were stuck outside of the southern gate. Bribes didn't work, not for a reasonable amount, at least. They would have to camp outside, or head back to Wind Keep. Then they need to apply for a permit, and judging by the talks of impatient merchants, it would take at least a week to process. Wayrest was occupied by many armies, and all them remained dug in.
Ariane sighed. But just as she was doing so, a man introduced himself, seemingly out of nowhere. "I see we have crossed paths again, and my assistance would be valuable for the second time."
"Who are you?" Gustav narrowed his eyebrows. "And where did you come from?"
"We may not have met, but Lady Ariane and I had the pleasure of working together in the past." This man, short with dirty black hair, but defintely Nordic looking, wore Breton style steel armor. Though said armor fit him poorly and several patches hinted its origin as loot from a deceased ex-owner. "After all, I got this company out of Windhelm."
"Ander." Ariane shook her head. "Survived the Kamals and cleaned yourself up, but still conniving as always."
"Come on now, Ariane, my work may not be as sophisticated as your magic, it is nevertheless critical." Ander boasted, looking extra smug about it. "Just ask our pal, Farid. Where is he anyway?"
"Dead." Ariane stated. "For a month now."
"Unfortunate." Ander looked less smug. "Well, Slick-Teeth, or whatever that Argonian spellsword's called, can vouch for me too."
"Tsleeixth is also dead."
"Oh." Ander scratched his dirty hair. "There's always Rozalia; she's an insider. Surely she-"
"She's dead too, not that it's your business" Gustav interrupted, impatiently. "Look, whatever you're trying to sell, sell it."
"Damn, didn't know so many are gone." Ander was solemn. "Well, you need to get inside the city and I have the metaphorical key. But first, what should I call you?"
"Gustav."
"Of Solitude?" Ander's eyes lit up again. "I robbed your sto-I mean, I read about your shrewd dealings."
"Uh-huh." Gustav crossed his arms.
"Anyway." Ander cleared his throat. "For a small fee, I can get you inside the city and find you a safe place to stay in."
"Keep talking." Gustav was intrigued.
"All your need to do is watch you head."
Those were the final words and Gustav was not getting through the gates of Wayrest.
The company had spent most of the day traveling from Wind Keep, only to be denied by the throng of soldiers. The mercenaries weren't the only ones barred from entry. Those guarding the gates, currently troops from Northpoint, were on alert after a supposed corsair retaliation this time yesterday. Visitors were not allowed to enter.
"No passage?" Ariane inquired.
Gustav shook his head. The company had already been denied entry at the northeastern gate and the western gate, and they were stuck outside of the southern gate. Bribes didn't work, not for a reasonable amount, at least. They would have to camp outside, or head back to Wind Keep. Then they need to apply for a permit, and judging by the talks of impatient merchants, it would take at least a week to process. Wayrest was occupied by many armies, and all them remained dug in.
Ariane sighed. But just as she was doing so, a man introduced himself, seemingly out of nowhere. "I see we have crossed paths again, and my assistance would be valuable for the second time."
"Who are you?" Gustav narrowed his eyebrows. "And where did you come from?"
"We may not have met, but Lady Ariane and I had the pleasure of working together in the past." This man, short with dirty black hair, but defintely Nordic looking, wore Breton style steel armor. Though said armor fit him poorly and several patches hinted its origin as loot from a deceased ex-owner. "After all, I got this company out of Windhelm."
"Ander." Ariane shook her head. "Survived the Kamals and cleaned yourself up, but still conniving as always."
"Come on now, Ariane, my work may not be as sophisticated as your magic, it is nevertheless critical." Ander boasted, looking extra smug about it. "Just ask our pal, Farid. Where is he anyway?"
"Dead." Ariane stated. "For a month now."
"Unfortunate." Ander looked less smug. "Well, Slick-Teeth, or whatever that Argonian spellsword's called, can vouch for me too."
"Tsleeixth is also dead."
"Oh." Ander scratched his dirty hair. "There's always Rozalia; she's an insider. Surely she-"
"She's dead too, not that it's your business" Gustav interrupted, impatiently. "Look, whatever you're trying to sell, sell it."
"Damn, didn't know so many are gone." Ander was solemn. "Well, you need to get inside the city and I have the metaphorical key. But first, what should I call you?"
"Gustav."
"Of Solitude?" Ander's eyes lit up again. "I robbed your sto-I mean, I read about your shrewd dealings."
"Uh-huh." Gustav crossed his arms.
"Anyway." Ander cleared his throat. "For a small fee, I can get you inside the city and find you a safe place to stay in."
"Keep talking." Gustav was intrigued.
"All your need to do is watch you head."
Bonk!
"Ow! What the?" Gustav rubbed his forehead. He just bumped into something, hard.
"Told you to watch your head." Ander smirked.
"Could have told me we're going in the sewers!" Gustav grumbled. "What are you doing here anyway? My boots are all drenched in gods-know-what."
"First of all, we're going through a secret passage." Ander set down his lantern, one of few sources of light (alongside some mercenaries' torches). There was the occasional hole leading up, but the sun was too far set to cast light into it. "It wouldn't be so secret if I go yammering about it."
"And second, this is a rainwater duct." Ander examined the sewer walls. Gustav couldn't see what; this section was not wide enough for two people. "The sewage tunnels are deeper and swarming with slaughterfishes."
Ander picked up his lantern and continued forward, but Gustav dragged him back. "Still haven't answered everything."
"I'm no longer with the Thieves Guild, if that's what you're wondering. I'm good as dead to them when I got caught in Windhelm." Ander shrugged. "Just know that both you and my new employers covet the opportunities of a wartime city."
"Such as looting the deceased?" Ariane perked up from behind Gustav.
"They didn't seem to object." Ander shot back. "I bet you got that shiny wand from a corpse too."
"A pile of ash, actually."
The tunnels were shorter going forward. Someone of Gustav's height had to walk hunched, while shorter individuals like Ander could stand upright. To Gustav's (and Oren's) relief, they soon came across a junction tall enough for most to stand, and wide enough for two people. One side of the junction inclined up, while the other went down. There was a burning torch on the wall with the sharp scent of sterilizing agents. While Ander checked his map, Gustav took a cautious step toward the downward path. He was rewarded with an odor so pungent, that he nearly vomited his lunch.
"That's the waste sewage." Ander pointed out. He led the mercenaries to the upward path. "Here's a shortcut."
A few twists and turns later, the mercenaries found a round cistern ahead. Its ceiling was three stories tall, and had grates showing the darkening sky above. The water was deeper inside, which looked about knee height for Gustav. Several pillars supported the room. Strange purple vines grew on the walls.
"They say the vines weren't here before the Corsairs." Ander noted. "Invasive species brought in by Bosmer pirates."
Ander scanned room. His gaze fell on the barely visible center, where a platform held an unknown figure. Said figure was...eating?
"Quiet down." Ander's voice was suddenly a whisper. "There's people hiding down here from time to time, very bad people; avoid them."
"So, do we go back to the sewage tunnels?" Gustav asked.
"I'll try to skirt around this one." Ander whispered back. "Follow me once I reach the other side, one at a time."
And so Ander set out with the tip-toe precision befitting of a thief. He hugged the wall, shuffled carefully to avoid splashing water and kept his lantern partly behind his back. The figure in the middle didn't notice him, until he was halfway through.
There was a large vine growing from the wall into the floor, and a portion of it was above water. Ander carefully stepped over it, but at the last second, the vine seemingly twitched. It tripped Ander. He fell straight into the water, and his lantern went out. When he emerged again, soaked and only visible by moonlight from above, the unknown figure was staring straight at him. The figure growled; Ander bolted for the exit.
The figure writhed and contorted. Its muscle rippened, nails grew into claws, skins hardened into scales, a tail lashed out, and it became always twice as big. It was a werecrocodile.
Ander almost reached the exit, but the werecrocodile leaped there before him, blocking his exit. It swiped its claws at him. Ander jumped back, narrowly saving himself. Then the werewcrocodile charged. Ander dived to his side, avoiding the attack. The werecroc stomped, but Ander seemed untouchable as he rolled away. However, Ander's poor-fitting armor was laden with water at this point. He got up dazed and heavy, and stared down a rapidly approaching tail swipe.
The swipe was so powerful, that it sent Ander flying across the cistern. He smashed straight through a pillar and stopped by the wall behind it. Amid the crumbling of bricks came the sickening crunch of bones. Ander wasn't getting back up.
The werecrocodile hissed and paced around the cistern. Luckily, it didn't seem to notice mercenaries watching from the entrance.
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Guest appearance by @Gcold
Morning, Black Seed 18
Black Wastes, High Rock
Oren woke to a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Uh, you wanted me to wake you up at this time, sir.”
“Eight already?”
“Yes sir.”
“Mhm.”
The wooden frame of the king-sized bed groaned and creaked underneath as Oren rolled to the side of the bed, only stopping its anguished screaming once Oren put his feet on the ground. Oren had perhaps been its harshest trial as of yet – while he’d heard of cousins having to deal with Orcs making love atop them near the Wrothgarian mountains, the town of Black Wastes wasn’t, despite its name, a place where folks of such savage repute would visit, let alone try copulating in. A freak accident, the bed hoped. Oren was a freak accident the likes of which it would not have to bear again.
Oren himself was not exactly satisfied with the bed’s performance, its constant creaking and less than ideal size proving challenges before him as he attempted to fall asleep. Then again, the town was just not up to his standards in general – the innkeeper’s cooking wasn’t really what it was hyped to be by the townsfolk, his tea too bitter, his duck too dry, his stew too watery, and while the weather was a welcome change from the aridness of the Alik’r desert, it still did not have the refreshing quality of coastal cities. Ah, how he longed for Sentinel…
He got up from bed, got dressed, grabbed his belongings and left the room.
The moment he closed the door, he came face to face (well, face to chest) with the innkeeper, a small man by the name of Regnier. Rubbing his palms against his apron to wipe the sweat off, the man took a breath before speaking.
“Um, I normally don’t bother customers as they are leaving the room, but since you seem to be in a hurry and because of the, um, expenses yesterday, I was thinking perhaps we would have a chat…”
“Naturally. What do I owe you?”
Regnier breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, with the nightly fee of 20 Septims, and the food expenses amounting to about 120, you would have to pay about 140 Septims, sir.”
Oren pouted for a moment, which seemed to scare Regnier.
“I don’t have that kind of money. Did you charge me for the single room, or the couples’ room? You said it would be okay if I took the couples’ room because I don’t fit the other beds.”
“I, well, I’ve already done that…”
“Oh.”
Oren rubbed his chin in contemplation, his face coming to a scowl. Regnier’s hands clenched into trembling fists, but before his fears of the Redguard having breakfast with his limbs came to be, Oren raised a finger in enthusiasm.
“I have an idea.”
The gathering in the backyard was composed mostly of children, and mothers nagged into submission by their children – despite the limited clientele, the number of viewers who had been persuaded into paying the 5 Septim entry fee numbered well over thirty. Regnier had done no more than buying the kids’ attention with promise of free sweets being distributed after the event, not an empty promise, considering the amount of dried lemon peels he had gathering dust in his basement. Of course, Oren’s marketing campaign was a bit more in-your-face, with him carrying a fully matured ox on his back. Had this advertisement been for a more sophisticated endeavor, it could’ve been called tasteless, but since when were strongmen shows about nuance?
Oren walked towards center stage with a practiced swagger, with a boulder on his back instead of an ox, and after placing the boulder on the ground, began the show by bringing his hands together with a loud clap. Perhaps it was an insult towards the Iron Palm, making a show of its sacred salute, but he preferred not to think about that too much. The children cheered; the adults seemed curious, and Oren knew this was the time to start. He grasped onto the rock as if clasping his fingers into sackcloth, and then, slowly began rotating around his own axis, dragging the boulder in circles around him. What began as an odd performance proceeded to pick up the pace quick, however.
At a certain point, Oren actually pulled the boulder off the ground, and began whirling around himself like an intoxicated dervish, steadily getting faster and faster, and at the moment his whirling reached its top speed, Oren pulled his arm up and let the boulder fly into the air, far enough that the onlookers had to raise their heads to see where it had gone. Taking a few steps back as a precaution, Oren silently began counting, and at the count of three, the boulder came crashing down into the ground with a loud bang right where Oren had been, shattering to pieces underneath its own weight. While the shockwave sent the already dizzied Redguard down on his rear end, and the amount of dust raised by the slam kept him from seeing anything, he could faintly hear thunderous applause – shaking his head a bit, his vision cleared enough to let him see the onlookers clapping with amazement, and a resourceful Regnier walking by them to collect tips.
“Nice,” he thought to himself, a touch of pride beating within his heart, and promptly fell to his side for a quick nap.
Gustav had watched the whole performance, because he still had an hour to kill before the caravan departed, and he was impressed.
Sadri had watched it too, because Gustav had dragged him along.
“Can't say I was expecting such a gargantuan man.” Gustav noted to Sadri. “Our next opposition wouldn't either, for this Redguard could have stood toe to toe against the Kamal. Failing that, he would be an excellent laborer. And failing labor, he would make a fine arrow sponge.”
“Well, Quartermaster Beleth,” Gustav decided, “your first duty as a company officer will be recruiting this strongman. Make him an offer he can't refuse.”
“You mean an actual offer, or like, an offer you can’t refuse-” Sadri tried to ask, but before he could finish his sentence, he found that his employer had disappeared. He admired the man’s proficiency at being able to disappear whenever he wanted to, but that didn’t make said proficiency any less annoying. “Oh well,” he thought. “I suppose it’s part of the job now. Make of the orders what you will, make the right choice.” Was it a good idea, still being part of this inauspicious crew, with nearly every single one of his fellow veterans dead or gone? “Best not think of it, Beleth. Best not think of it.”
The old Dunmer walked past the dispersing crowd to the midst of the so-called ‘show ring’. For all intents and purposes, he was now in the lion’s den – mess it up and you’ll make a fool of yourself in front of your employer, and that’s at best. Given the size of the absolute unit napping on the ground right in front of him, and given the show he just witnessed, it was not unreasonable to believe that a potential mishap could lead to yet another near-death experience. Or perhaps beyond that? Despite all the dejection inside him, left over from the years, he didn’t want to find out anytime soon. At the very least, not like this. Not so… trivial.
“Hey,” Sadri spoke out, his shadow cast over the Redguard’s face. “Nice show you’ve put on there.”
“Hm?” A groggy Oren grunted, his eyes blinking repeatedly.
“Do you lie down right after the show on purpose, or is it just a heat of the moment thing?”
Oren was not particularly amused with this attempt at camaraderie.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just want to know how much of it is planned, is all,” Sadri replied, having decided to play it unapologetic. “A man dedicated to his craft is one thing; a freak of nature is another.”
Sadri was hitting all the wrong buttons. Oren pushed himself up from the ground with the side of his hand as if he weighed a tenth of what he did, standing to tower over Sadri. “You have a problem with me, ash skin?” He asked, his voice deeper than usual.
The Dunmer knew he had to stay his ground to not fuck things up. “Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it, Sadri? Play it bold.” He looked up at Oren’s face, seemingly nonplussed. He convinced himself that his courage was not without reason – he’d recently outlived a Sload of legend on the battlefield, and survived a cabal of vampires days ago. If Sadri had reason to fear this Redguard, then the Redguard had reason to fear him, gods be damned.
“The former’s more useful than the latter in my craft, you see. A mer like me has to stay on the lookout for candidates. For strong folks. Dependable folks.”
“Huh.” Oren’s brows rose. “What sort of craft are we speaking of here?”
The Dunmer smiled. “Oh, I’m sure you know. Being a force multiplier for folks who pay. And folks are paying big these days… After all, it’s either their coin or their lives. There’s plenty of trouble coming from the East that don’t take money for an answer.”
“I’ve heard. More trouble than I can handle.”
Sadri chuckled. “You ever see yourself in the mirror, mate?”
Oren’s burrows furrowed, his eyes glinting with malice. “You’ve something to say about it?”
“Yeah, I do. We could use a guy like you. I’ve only one arm and more holes in me than a slice of Eidar, yet I can take them in single combat. It’s not like we’re sitting your ass on a catapult and throwing you at them. You’ll get yourself some fine payment, too. After all, our headman wants you as a bodyguard.”
Oren raised his head, and began rubbing his chin. His eyes went down to meet Sadri’s.
“A bodyguard, eh?”
Morning, Black Seed 18
Black Wastes, High Rock
Oren woke to a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Uh, you wanted me to wake you up at this time, sir.”
“Eight already?”
“Yes sir.”
“Mhm.”
The wooden frame of the king-sized bed groaned and creaked underneath as Oren rolled to the side of the bed, only stopping its anguished screaming once Oren put his feet on the ground. Oren had perhaps been its harshest trial as of yet – while he’d heard of cousins having to deal with Orcs making love atop them near the Wrothgarian mountains, the town of Black Wastes wasn’t, despite its name, a place where folks of such savage repute would visit, let alone try copulating in. A freak accident, the bed hoped. Oren was a freak accident the likes of which it would not have to bear again.
Oren himself was not exactly satisfied with the bed’s performance, its constant creaking and less than ideal size proving challenges before him as he attempted to fall asleep. Then again, the town was just not up to his standards in general – the innkeeper’s cooking wasn’t really what it was hyped to be by the townsfolk, his tea too bitter, his duck too dry, his stew too watery, and while the weather was a welcome change from the aridness of the Alik’r desert, it still did not have the refreshing quality of coastal cities. Ah, how he longed for Sentinel…
He got up from bed, got dressed, grabbed his belongings and left the room.
The moment he closed the door, he came face to face (well, face to chest) with the innkeeper, a small man by the name of Regnier. Rubbing his palms against his apron to wipe the sweat off, the man took a breath before speaking.
“Um, I normally don’t bother customers as they are leaving the room, but since you seem to be in a hurry and because of the, um, expenses yesterday, I was thinking perhaps we would have a chat…”
“Naturally. What do I owe you?”
Regnier breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, with the nightly fee of 20 Septims, and the food expenses amounting to about 120, you would have to pay about 140 Septims, sir.”
Oren pouted for a moment, which seemed to scare Regnier.
“I don’t have that kind of money. Did you charge me for the single room, or the couples’ room? You said it would be okay if I took the couples’ room because I don’t fit the other beds.”
“I, well, I’ve already done that…”
“Oh.”
Oren rubbed his chin in contemplation, his face coming to a scowl. Regnier’s hands clenched into trembling fists, but before his fears of the Redguard having breakfast with his limbs came to be, Oren raised a finger in enthusiasm.
“I have an idea.”
The gathering in the backyard was composed mostly of children, and mothers nagged into submission by their children – despite the limited clientele, the number of viewers who had been persuaded into paying the 5 Septim entry fee numbered well over thirty. Regnier had done no more than buying the kids’ attention with promise of free sweets being distributed after the event, not an empty promise, considering the amount of dried lemon peels he had gathering dust in his basement. Of course, Oren’s marketing campaign was a bit more in-your-face, with him carrying a fully matured ox on his back. Had this advertisement been for a more sophisticated endeavor, it could’ve been called tasteless, but since when were strongmen shows about nuance?
Oren walked towards center stage with a practiced swagger, with a boulder on his back instead of an ox, and after placing the boulder on the ground, began the show by bringing his hands together with a loud clap. Perhaps it was an insult towards the Iron Palm, making a show of its sacred salute, but he preferred not to think about that too much. The children cheered; the adults seemed curious, and Oren knew this was the time to start. He grasped onto the rock as if clasping his fingers into sackcloth, and then, slowly began rotating around his own axis, dragging the boulder in circles around him. What began as an odd performance proceeded to pick up the pace quick, however.
At a certain point, Oren actually pulled the boulder off the ground, and began whirling around himself like an intoxicated dervish, steadily getting faster and faster, and at the moment his whirling reached its top speed, Oren pulled his arm up and let the boulder fly into the air, far enough that the onlookers had to raise their heads to see where it had gone. Taking a few steps back as a precaution, Oren silently began counting, and at the count of three, the boulder came crashing down into the ground with a loud bang right where Oren had been, shattering to pieces underneath its own weight. While the shockwave sent the already dizzied Redguard down on his rear end, and the amount of dust raised by the slam kept him from seeing anything, he could faintly hear thunderous applause – shaking his head a bit, his vision cleared enough to let him see the onlookers clapping with amazement, and a resourceful Regnier walking by them to collect tips.
“Nice,” he thought to himself, a touch of pride beating within his heart, and promptly fell to his side for a quick nap.
Gustav had watched the whole performance, because he still had an hour to kill before the caravan departed, and he was impressed.
Sadri had watched it too, because Gustav had dragged him along.
“Can't say I was expecting such a gargantuan man.” Gustav noted to Sadri. “Our next opposition wouldn't either, for this Redguard could have stood toe to toe against the Kamal. Failing that, he would be an excellent laborer. And failing labor, he would make a fine arrow sponge.”
“Well, Quartermaster Beleth,” Gustav decided, “your first duty as a company officer will be recruiting this strongman. Make him an offer he can't refuse.”
“You mean an actual offer, or like, an offer you can’t refuse-” Sadri tried to ask, but before he could finish his sentence, he found that his employer had disappeared. He admired the man’s proficiency at being able to disappear whenever he wanted to, but that didn’t make said proficiency any less annoying. “Oh well,” he thought. “I suppose it’s part of the job now. Make of the orders what you will, make the right choice.” Was it a good idea, still being part of this inauspicious crew, with nearly every single one of his fellow veterans dead or gone? “Best not think of it, Beleth. Best not think of it.”
The old Dunmer walked past the dispersing crowd to the midst of the so-called ‘show ring’. For all intents and purposes, he was now in the lion’s den – mess it up and you’ll make a fool of yourself in front of your employer, and that’s at best. Given the size of the absolute unit napping on the ground right in front of him, and given the show he just witnessed, it was not unreasonable to believe that a potential mishap could lead to yet another near-death experience. Or perhaps beyond that? Despite all the dejection inside him, left over from the years, he didn’t want to find out anytime soon. At the very least, not like this. Not so… trivial.
“Hey,” Sadri spoke out, his shadow cast over the Redguard’s face. “Nice show you’ve put on there.”
“Hm?” A groggy Oren grunted, his eyes blinking repeatedly.
“Do you lie down right after the show on purpose, or is it just a heat of the moment thing?”
Oren was not particularly amused with this attempt at camaraderie.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just want to know how much of it is planned, is all,” Sadri replied, having decided to play it unapologetic. “A man dedicated to his craft is one thing; a freak of nature is another.”
Sadri was hitting all the wrong buttons. Oren pushed himself up from the ground with the side of his hand as if he weighed a tenth of what he did, standing to tower over Sadri. “You have a problem with me, ash skin?” He asked, his voice deeper than usual.
The Dunmer knew he had to stay his ground to not fuck things up. “Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it, Sadri? Play it bold.” He looked up at Oren’s face, seemingly nonplussed. He convinced himself that his courage was not without reason – he’d recently outlived a Sload of legend on the battlefield, and survived a cabal of vampires days ago. If Sadri had reason to fear this Redguard, then the Redguard had reason to fear him, gods be damned.
“The former’s more useful than the latter in my craft, you see. A mer like me has to stay on the lookout for candidates. For strong folks. Dependable folks.”
“Huh.” Oren’s brows rose. “What sort of craft are we speaking of here?”
The Dunmer smiled. “Oh, I’m sure you know. Being a force multiplier for folks who pay. And folks are paying big these days… After all, it’s either their coin or their lives. There’s plenty of trouble coming from the East that don’t take money for an answer.”
“I’ve heard. More trouble than I can handle.”
Sadri chuckled. “You ever see yourself in the mirror, mate?”
Oren’s burrows furrowed, his eyes glinting with malice. “You’ve something to say about it?”
“Yeah, I do. We could use a guy like you. I’ve only one arm and more holes in me than a slice of Eidar, yet I can take them in single combat. It’s not like we’re sitting your ass on a catapult and throwing you at them. You’ll get yourself some fine payment, too. After all, our headman wants you as a bodyguard.”
Oren raised his head, and began rubbing his chin. His eyes went down to meet Sadri’s.
“A bodyguard, eh?”
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spicykvnt Sponsored by Yorkshire Gold
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4 hrs ago
Dear Father,
I find myself in Wayrest now, and what a pitiful slum it has become. I am ashamed to confess to have found safest lodgings in the upstairs room of a brothel.
My journey here was immemorable, I have found myself the observer of a curious company of mercenaries, managed by a Nord gentleman whom I know only as Gustav. How it is that he has come to manage such a group of individuals remains to be seen. There is no order to be found, and from the little I have observed so far, a worryingly high turnover of underlings. It seems that this Gustav can be trusted only so far as he can be thrown. Judging by his stature, likely not far.
The exploits of his company are about the only entertainment I will allow myself to enjoy. I remain ever vigilant, as always, of that which would threaten us.
I hope to return to our home soon, but who knows where the winds of change will carry me.
Yours,
A backwashed current of people was huddling over the bent and broken spine of Wayrest, feet dragging over the cobblestoned vertebrae. A stark and cold relentlessness in dismal gray light.
Relyssa watched the seemingly endless string of poverty trailing though the maze of the city — from checkpoint to checkpoint as they hurried before curfew. Parasitical.
Her impenetrable gaze pointed down from behind the smudged and grime-slicked glass of her window. She was witness to the hunched and somehow sharp shape of a man in torn hempen clothing as he broke free from the sorrowed march to hock his phlegm to the ground, into a puddle of excrement and water and dirt that sloshed around in a dip in the path. Relyssa pictured the spittle falling in its viscous entirety to land with a dense splash into the putrid wastewater of Gustav’s sewer.
The mournful disease of defeat had filtered into the ground. Entrenched itself there and formed with what had been, then it drained into the soil that the plants took their life from. No wonder the colours of the flowers were so muted here, so pale, so diluted. Vibrancy had been stolen from them and in its place was simple uniformity.
The Breton could barely hear the sound of the streets at all. Either side of her was the music of lovemaking, only it was off-key. The womanly chirps of pleasure were sensationally fake, and the men were too involved in having their egos (amongst other things) stroked that they didn’t seem to realise. Power was power, and in the rooms they held the power. Cradling women in the iron grip of their lust and impetuous desire. A septim or two from their purse to feel like Gods for a mere few minutes. The crescendo was so dissatisfying and shallow that it nauseated her. There was no intimacy to be found in transaction. For why did women choose to make these men feel so special?
They did not deserve it.
Would Alim be trading a coin of his own this evening for the fleeting shadow of power to fill him? No, she thought, a finger stroking the brass of her goblet. He’d be where he was supposed to be. The exit point of the sewer.
When it came time for the silence between clients, Relyssa closed the curtain of her room, sipping from the glass of wine she’d found herself. A surprisingly deep red that, at room temperature, perfumed the air around her and pushed back the scent of sex as long as she held it in close proximity to her nose. As long as she held the taste in her mouth, the rising tide of impecuniousness could be held back by the smokescreen of her own opulence.
Behind closed doors, she let her anger and her true simmering rage seep out. It was the sight of her bare finger that made her so indignant. A persuasive word had not been enough — the emerald fastened in the centre of a custom-made gold band had been the next best thing.
Where gold bought men their feeling of power, it simply kept perversion from her door. Had she not have had the emerald, would she have been the woman on her back? Crying to the Divines in praise of a man for his less than mediocre performance?
She remembered his face— the guard, she remembered the foul words that he had so boldly whispered in her ear, his breath thick with ale that was fighting against his extreme halitosis. His teeth were black and rotted in the back of his mouth, his slack-jawed laugh had said as much. Relyssa assumed that sickness had taken him. How could it not in this city of depraved indulgence?
Not today, and most likely not tomorrow either... But she would get her ring back. She’d seize her power back from him, one way or another. It would be her grip, and her desire that would win over. Relyssa was judicious in her pursuit for revenge — even revenge as petty as this.
And so the tired song began its encore.
I find myself in Wayrest now, and what a pitiful slum it has become. I am ashamed to confess to have found safest lodgings in the upstairs room of a brothel.
My journey here was immemorable, I have found myself the observer of a curious company of mercenaries, managed by a Nord gentleman whom I know only as Gustav. How it is that he has come to manage such a group of individuals remains to be seen. There is no order to be found, and from the little I have observed so far, a worryingly high turnover of underlings. It seems that this Gustav can be trusted only so far as he can be thrown. Judging by his stature, likely not far.
The exploits of his company are about the only entertainment I will allow myself to enjoy. I remain ever vigilant, as always, of that which would threaten us.
I hope to return to our home soon, but who knows where the winds of change will carry me.
Yours,
A backwashed current of people was huddling over the bent and broken spine of Wayrest, feet dragging over the cobblestoned vertebrae. A stark and cold relentlessness in dismal gray light.
Relyssa watched the seemingly endless string of poverty trailing though the maze of the city — from checkpoint to checkpoint as they hurried before curfew. Parasitical.
Her impenetrable gaze pointed down from behind the smudged and grime-slicked glass of her window. She was witness to the hunched and somehow sharp shape of a man in torn hempen clothing as he broke free from the sorrowed march to hock his phlegm to the ground, into a puddle of excrement and water and dirt that sloshed around in a dip in the path. Relyssa pictured the spittle falling in its viscous entirety to land with a dense splash into the putrid wastewater of Gustav’s sewer.
The mournful disease of defeat had filtered into the ground. Entrenched itself there and formed with what had been, then it drained into the soil that the plants took their life from. No wonder the colours of the flowers were so muted here, so pale, so diluted. Vibrancy had been stolen from them and in its place was simple uniformity.
The Breton could barely hear the sound of the streets at all. Either side of her was the music of lovemaking, only it was off-key. The womanly chirps of pleasure were sensationally fake, and the men were too involved in having their egos (amongst other things) stroked that they didn’t seem to realise. Power was power, and in the rooms they held the power. Cradling women in the iron grip of their lust and impetuous desire. A septim or two from their purse to feel like Gods for a mere few minutes. The crescendo was so dissatisfying and shallow that it nauseated her. There was no intimacy to be found in transaction. For why did women choose to make these men feel so special?
They did not deserve it.
Would Alim be trading a coin of his own this evening for the fleeting shadow of power to fill him? No, she thought, a finger stroking the brass of her goblet. He’d be where he was supposed to be. The exit point of the sewer.
When it came time for the silence between clients, Relyssa closed the curtain of her room, sipping from the glass of wine she’d found herself. A surprisingly deep red that, at room temperature, perfumed the air around her and pushed back the scent of sex as long as she held it in close proximity to her nose. As long as she held the taste in her mouth, the rising tide of impecuniousness could be held back by the smokescreen of her own opulence.
Behind closed doors, she let her anger and her true simmering rage seep out. It was the sight of her bare finger that made her so indignant. A persuasive word had not been enough — the emerald fastened in the centre of a custom-made gold band had been the next best thing.
Where gold bought men their feeling of power, it simply kept perversion from her door. Had she not have had the emerald, would she have been the woman on her back? Crying to the Divines in praise of a man for his less than mediocre performance?
She remembered his face— the guard, she remembered the foul words that he had so boldly whispered in her ear, his breath thick with ale that was fighting against his extreme halitosis. His teeth were black and rotted in the back of his mouth, his slack-jawed laugh had said as much. Relyssa assumed that sickness had taken him. How could it not in this city of depraved indulgence?
Not today, and most likely not tomorrow either... But she would get her ring back. She’d seize her power back from him, one way or another. It would be her grip, and her desire that would win over. Relyssa was judicious in her pursuit for revenge — even revenge as petty as this.
And so the tired song began its encore.
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Frizan Free From This Backwater Hellsite
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1 yr ago
10:00 pm, Last Seed 16
Evermore Castle
At last, Piper was able to find a lonesome bench, undoubtedly flung into a far corner of the dining hall during the vampiress' macabre stage play. She kicked it upright unceremoniously and sat down roughly, the joints of her armor clanking as her limbs bent. She had just laid her head against the wall behind her and began to rest her eyes when the Imperial felt the bench sink lower.
Her brother had seen far better days. Sagax's eyes were ringed with dark circles that seemed to dampen his normally bright green gaze, and his usual confident countenance had faded into a melting expression of exhaustion.
"That certainly took long enough." He said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "Have they finally finished decorating you?"
Piper snorted. "Decorate? I'm lucky the Duchess gave me what she did: a proclamation of what a good girl I am. Aside from that, I didn't even get a pat on the head, and there wasn't a sweetroll in sight!" she whined sarcastically. Her brother smiled for just a moment. That made her happy.
"Where were you, then? I know you can't sit still for more than five minutes, so I imagine you've been doing something to pass the time." Piper winced as she stretched her neck and felt a pop. This one damn near shook her whole body.
"Oh, well..." Sagax began. "I was almost arrested." He rubbed his eyes again.
"Niernen, Wylendriel and I..." He paused momentarily at Piper's vacant expression. "The Dunmer and Bosmer women, I mean, we ended up causing some damage. Not only to the castle, but its guests."
"You're shitting me!" Piper interjected. "They know the spooky bitch used magic on everyone, right? That wasn't your fault!"
Sagax held up his hand. "Hold on, Piper, I was getting to that. It took some convincing on part of the others in our company, but they did eventually yield on all charges...for Wylendriel and I, at least. Gustav had to bribe them to clear Nie-"
"You're clear, and that's all that matters." His sister interrupted brusquely, "I wasn't concerned about the other two."
"Of course." He replied calmly. "Let's go. I'm tired of looking at this place."
Piper nodded approvingly. "I was thinking the same thing. The company is moving out soon, anyway. We don't want to be here when they start building the pyres."
10:15 pm, Last Seed 16
Evermore Castle
"Pardon me!" A voice rang out. Sagax kept walking.
"Sir, pardon me!" The voice grew insistent, and was now closer than before.
Sagax and Piper turned around to see a well-dressed woman waving at them. Her brown hair was tied in a tight bun on the back of her head. A pair of wire-thin lips accompanied a sharp-jawed face and serious brown eyes. The smile did not do much to soften the woman's features.
"Yes?" Sagax responded cautiously.
"Good afternoon. You wouldn't happen to be Sagax Speculatus, would you? Son of Caius and Equa Speculatus?"
Sagax shot out his hand and gripped his sister's wrist as she began reaching for her blade.
"We are. And who might you be, friend?" The emphasis on 'friend' carried with it a note of distrust.
The woman bowed. "I would be called Priscilla. Some of my friends call me Ciri, however." Priscilla played with an amulet as she spoke. From what Sagax could see, it was in the shape of the Imperial insignia, but instead of a dragon there was a golden eye in the center. He struggled to remember which branch of the Empire it belonged to.
"Nasty business tonight, no? Vampires, gargoyles, and nobles, oh my!"
"What do you want?" Sagax snapped. In truth it was a sharper interjection than he intended, but his nerves were frayed and his mental state was precarious at best.
"Oh dear..." Priscilla mused, "You're quite prickly tonight, mmh? Not at all what your file suggested..."
File? What was she talking about?
"Though, I suppose one does not acquire such a foreboding title as 'The Fury of Windhelm' by being made of taffy and creme treats, mmh?"
'The Fury of Windhelm'...Frald had come up with that one. Where did she learn it?
"I find that my patience grows thin these days." Sagax answered slowly.
"Of course...who could blame you? You have been through a great deal of trials. My sympathies." Priscilla stopped fidgeting with her amulet. "I shall state my business succinctly, then. Do you know of a Nord woman that goes by the name of Sevine Varg-tuk?"
Sagax bristled at the mention of Sevine. The woman had already been through so much. What did this stranger want with her? "Yes." he answered curtly. Piper looked between him and Priscilla, wondering when one or the other would begin the brawl.
Priscilla smiled again. "A rhetorical question, I already knew you did. But your honesty pleases me, even if I gleaned your truthfulness from your file as well."
Again with the file...who was this woman really?
"You see, she injured a centurion quite grievously during the Skyrim Civil War...nay, it would be more accurate to say she mutilated him. That centurion was my brother." She leaned closer, to Sagax specifically. "I want you to kill her for me, my dear..."
He watched her, choking on her own blood as his dagger seared through her neck, convulsing manically, trying desperately to draw breath. He could feel the blood soaking through his boots. It would be so easy. She didn't stand a Fire Atronach's chance in a Winterhold blizzard of reacting in time to stop him.
Sagax blinked. In front of him was the stranger Priscilla, alive and well. And awaiting his answer.
"And what exactly," he growled in a low voice through grated teeth. "makes you think I would ever so much as entertain that thought?"
Priscilla nodded. "A fair question. Allow me to give a broader context...I am a Professor of the Penitus Oculatus. Our organization, in case you are not already aware, deals with any and all threats to the Emperor and his empire. Threats...such as vampiric insurgents. The Seventh Estate comes to mind."
"Your family, as you know, is under investigation for their involvement with the Seventh Estate. Your father is still at large, but we do have your mother...and we have been, ah, questioning her about his whereabouts..." Priscilla handed Sagax a small paper folder.
Inside the folder was a bundle of papers, all full of notes written neatly on both sides. Some simply detailed honest questions asked of Equa and her subsequent answers. Others detailed more intrusive means of information gathering. A variety of "truth serums" that made her violently ill, a broken leg, a pulled tooth. From the most recent notes, they had taken a finger from her.
Sagax shoved the folder back towards Priscilla, eyes full of revulsion and hate. She simply smiled.
"Assist me, Sagax, and I promise I will do what I can to rein in the suffering being inflicted on your mother."
"And if what you 'can do' amounts to 'not a godsdamned thing'?" Piper asked heatedly.
"It won't." Priscilla said with confidence. "I am very well respected within the Penitus Oculatus. Interrogation sessions can be placed on hold. Perhaps the Administrator could be convinced she truly knows nothing, which to be honest is the most likely possibility at this point."
The agent pulled her face back into a disgusting mockery of a seductive grin. "What do you say, dear? The life of one hotheaded tramp in exchange for your mother's comfort?" She began to twirl her amulet between her fingers. "She is getting quite old. I'm not sure how much more her poor, frail body can take..." Priscilla added with an unconvincing tone of concern.
The Agent and the Rogue locked eyes. Eventually, however, the Agent received her answer.
11:30 pm, Last Seed 16
Used Sundries
Piper decided to stay behind; Sevine was his friend, not hers. He would be able to get close to her easily.
He could hear crying, her choked sobs faintly penetrating the oak door of the room she had buried herself in. Finally, after an eternity of standing with his hand half-raised, Sagax knocked. He gave three soft raps before announcing himself.
"Sevine, are you in there? It's Sagax...we're back from the mission, and I thought you might want some company."
The crying stopped, replaced by a slow shuffling that crept towards the door. When the lock unlatched and the door opened, Sagax was greeted with a sorrowful sight.
The once-proud huntress's hair was in wild tangles, and liquid stained her clothes. Undoubtedly some of it came from the tears that leaked from her puffy, bloodshot eyes, but he could smell the rest. It was not the sweet scent of mead on her breath, but hard ale and wine. Bottles of the stuff were scattered across a ramshackle wooden table in the corner of the windowless room.
Sevine smiled as her friend came into full view. He could not tell if it was genuine, or a mask.
"Sagax...it's so good to see you. How are you this morning?" Her words came out slow and at a near whisper. Sagax's heart sunk; the Nord had never seemed so small. She opened the door wider and stepped aside, inviting him into her den.
He stepped through the small doorframe and smiled back. "I am fine. Though it's only about midnight, still."
Sevine stared at him for a moment in confusion before stirring again. "Oh...yes, of course. I'm sorry. I-I haven't been outside much lately..." She shut the door behind her before taking a seat next to Sagax at the table. He had rearranged the mess to make some room.
"Don't think too much of it, you've had a lot on your mind. Speaking of..." he said, placing his hand on Sevine's. "How are you feeling? Truly, I mean. I know you're strong, Sevine, but everyone has limits. I'm here for you."
She waved her free hand lackadaisically. "I'm coping, Sagax. I'm fine, really. I...I'm fine..." The Imperial's eyes pierced Sevine's and bore into her heart.
Long, long ago during his childhood, a wandering priestess of Mara had visited the Imperial City. Sagax was tending to one of his chores when she beckoned him over to her. She was old, but she wasn't like the grouchy crones he knew. She seemed more like a kindly grandmother, and her soft voice put him at ease.
She gazed into his eyes, like he was now doing with Sevine, for some minutes before finally speaking.
"Our Mother has given you a wonderful gift, little cub. Oh yes, I can tell...those little eyes of yours can pierce the most fortified of hearts, and oh my, how strong they will be when you are grown!
She had hugged Sagax and then gripped his hands firmly. "People are tricky things, cub. They will hurt and they will suffer, but instead of letting it be known, most of them will hide it. Lock it away like something cursed. You...hmmm...you will be a breaker of many locks indeed. But you will be most skilled at breaking the locks constraining people's hearts. You have the ability to unseal the floodgates...and you must be there to snatch them from their wild currents.
He never saw the priestess again, but he had made it a point afterwards to take her words to heart. His sister had always commented on his uncanny ability to make her reveal her carefully-guarded feelings, and now, if the quivering lips and watering eyes were any indication, he had opened Sevine's emotional floodgate.
A sharp wail pierced the air before being muffled as Sevine buried her face into the table. Sagax gripped her hand tighter, reassuring her that he was still there, but allowing the huntress time to compose herself.
When she finally lifted her head up, Sevine's face was red and wet. She was quick to clear the tears from her face with the sleeve of her tunic.
"I...I just...I miss them, Sagax..." She swallowed hard as a lump started to form in her throat. "Jorwen, Solveig...Roze...a-and..." Sevine tried to continue, but choked on her words.
"Do'karth." Sagax finished gently. Sevine nodded, her face screwed in anguish.
"I can't do this any more Sagax...by the gods, I feel so weak saying this, but...I'm going home. I'm going back to Falkreath."
You're not weak, Sevine. You're human.
"I understand, Sevine. No one will think any less of you when they get the news. A person can only take so much, and this company isn't, and shouldn't be your main priority. You have other places where you're needed."
Now was a good a time as any to get to what he really came to Sevine for. Priscilla wanted results before morning, so he had to get to work.
He took a deep breath. "Sevine, I wanted to talk to you for another reason..."
"Hm?" She asked, lifting her head curiously. "What's wrong?"
So much, Sevine. So much is wrong.
"After the banquet, I was approached by a woman...said she was affiliated with the Penitus Oculatus. Imperial secret service, basically." He paused for a moment to give Sevine time to ask questions. He took her silence as his cue to continue. "She said you injured her brother during the civil war...and she wants something done about you."
"Ah..." Sevine sunk into her chair. "I knew that would come back to bite me one day..." She stared off into the distance at nothing, remembering how she had become Sevine, 'The Huntress'.
The Huntress met Sagax's gaze again. There was a great sadness in her dark green eyes. "So...you're here do me in?"
"No." He answered coolly.
Sevine's brows arched questionably. "Then...who?"
"Me."
"Sagax, you're...you're confusing me. What are you going to do?"
He kept his hand on hers. "No one is going to kill you...but you will still die." At that, Sevine tilted her head, awaiting an explanation.
"This woman wants proof of your death...however, she didn't specify what kind of proof she wanted." He glanced at the axe, bow and chitin shield set up against the far wall of the room. "I was thinking of bringing her some personal affects, rather than your head."
Sevine followed his eyes. "Ah...my gear..." She paused to reflect, but quickly came to an answer. "I hate to give them up, but...if you think she'd buy it..."
"She'll want the bow, to be certain. It was the one that did in her brother, after all. The shield...well, not too many people are walking around with Falmer-made equipment, are they?"
Sevine nodded in agreement.
"You can and should keep the axe, however. It's fairly generic, and hundreds of people in Skyrim alone use ones just like it. That brings me to the next thing..."
"The part where you need to die." he said, folding his hands together on the table. "See, we still need Sevine the Huntress to be dead...but you do not need to be Sevine the Huntress."
Sevine came to full attention, a sign of her understanding. "I need to become someone else..."
"Exactly." He nodded. "My suggestions? Cut your hair. Make it short. Change your name, obviously, but I'll leave that to you, it will be safer for everyone that way. If you are confronted by anyone, and I mean anyone, you are to scream for the guards or whoever is around to help...no one must know how dangerous of a combatant you are. The weaker you can make yourself, the better. And under no circumstance are you to respond to your old name, not so much as a turn of the head."
"And finally...I know how much you hate it, but I would suggest you pick up some jewellery at some point, maybe a ring or a nice bracelet. It would help to learn how to use makeup, as well."
He wasn't sure if she would agree. It was a lot to ask of someone, especially with how much Sevine had been through in the past few weeks. Sagax was certain, though, that this was Sevine's only chance at survival.
Sevine stared at the table, thinking long and hard. She would need to leave her life behind entirely and become someone else. It was either that, or this mysterious agent would kill them both. After a few minutes or thought, she looked back up. "Aye...I can follow that plan."
Sagax smiled sadly. Though she would be safe, this was most likely the last time he would ever see his friend. Just one more to the ever-growing list. "Good. I'll be taking the bow and shield...whenever you decide to leave, do it quietly and quickly."
They both stood and embraced. "Take care, Sevine. May Mara bless you with health and long life...don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Sevine smiled coyly at that comment. "And where exactly, Imperial, is that line drawn?"
2:00 am, Last Seed 17
Back alley behind the Anchor's Point Inn, Evermore
With the chitin shield and Sevine's bow slung over his shoulder, Sagax approached the meeting point designated by Priscilla. His footsteps were as silent as a still night in the forests of Cyrodill. As directed, he knocked on a nearby rain pipe. Ding...ding...ding...
"There you are, my dear. I was beginning to think you wouldn't pull through..." Priscilla's sickly sweet voice rang out from an adjacent alley. On either side of her were two men in a variation of legionnaire armor. The golden eye insignia was sewn onto their leather body armor.
The two men approached and held out one hand each, the other on their swords. Sagax handed one the shield, and the other Sevine's bow, which they walked back for the woman to investigate.
"Aaah!" Priscilla exclaimed. "The bitch's bow...the very same, I wouldn't doubt, used against my poor brother..." She caressed the curve of the weapon tenderly. "Oh, what a prize you have brought me..."
She turned and examined the shield next. "And of course, the strange chitin shield that animal had taken to flashing about recently..." She waved it away, clearly not as interested in it.
"You've done very well my dear...not to dampen your achievement, however, but what of the body?"
Sagax shrugged. "Do you know how to talk to slaughterfish?"
Priscilla grinned. "Point taken."
"Good. Are we finished, then?"
"I believe so. As I promised, I will do what I can to free your mother from whatever torments the Inspectors have planned." She paused briefly, but continued as if she had forgotten something. "Oh, and please do know, dear, that I have nothing against your family...this was all simply a window of opportunity, you see."
"Glad to be of service." He replied gruffly. "Now get out of my face, witch."
"Oh, my, such a temper you have! Very well, I'll leave you to brood and sulk, then...but really, dear, it is so unbecoming of you."
"So long..." She ended in a singsong before turning away and leaving with her lackeys.
With business concluded, and in a satisfactory manner in addition, Sagax returned to the company. It was time to move on. Next stop, Wayrest, and whatever hell the world planned to throw at them next.
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GM
POOPHEAD189 Worrier
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5 days ago
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
2100, Last Seed 21, 4E 205
The sun had set, the curfew had taken effect. Yet in the premiere brothel of Wayrest, the night has just begun. Citizens and occupying soldiers flocked to the "entertainment" district alike, and the latter were more than happy to let their orders slide. Not all who came to one particular brothel, commonly called the House of Commons, came for the bodily pleasures. It was a large three story building of many rooms; many of them housed former pirates trapped between rock and a hard place, while other were occupied by opportunists hoping to pilfer the legendary treasures of the Corsairs.
One such individual was Ander. He had rented a small room three days ago, never requiring any services and never returning until dark. Tonight, he was carried in by a band of mercenaries. Ander was unconscious, but in stable condition. He was soaked liked the mercenaries, though thankfully, only in water. They had emerged from a manhole, guided by receipts in Ander's pocket and Alim's directions.
Overlooking the bustling lobby, where red lights glazed across dark leather, were the premium guest rooms. These weren't the rooms for pirates and scavengers; only the richest (and often the anonymous) could afford them. Sounds of pleasure and pain seeped through the cracks of mostly sound-proof doors. One such room was taken by Relyssa an hour ago. Another was where a Breton man in an ash gray cloak had emerged. This man wore leather armor under his cloak, and partly concealed under his hood was a silver circlet and messy black hair. His relaxed shoulders showed his ease, yet a faint frown made it clear he was not happy. His right hand hovered around his waist, as if protecting an invisible object attached to his belt. The Breton man took out a pipe, lit it with a spark spell and watched the scene below.
"S'toth trusts you were satisfied with his services?" Came a sultry purr from the same room. The Khajiit was a busy one tonight, for his barbed appendages were coveted by curious lords and ladies alike.
"Most enjoyable." The Breton man nodded absentmindedly. Without turning to acknowledge the prostitute, he offered a handful of coins. "Here's your tips."
As S'toth left, the Breton man focused on the newcomers below. He watched Gustav rent a premium room for himself, and cheaper options for his employees. He watched Xenia Richton, madam of the house, chide them for leaving a wet mess (on this already wet mess of an establishment), and redirecting Ander to the nearest clinic. He watched some soldiers cast suspicious glances at the mercenaries (but none of them did anything, since they weren't supposed to be there in the first place). He watched mercenaries from other companies, who were hired by the armies, size up their newest competitors. Finally, he watched the lonesome Nibenese sailor trailing after them.
The Breton man smiled to himself. He made his way downstairs, brushing past the mercenaries and not acknowledging them. He weaved through the sweaty, drunk and aroused mass of people, almost unnoticed, until he was in front of the Nibenese lad.
"You there, come." He gestured. "I have a job for you."
One such individual was Ander. He had rented a small room three days ago, never requiring any services and never returning until dark. Tonight, he was carried in by a band of mercenaries. Ander was unconscious, but in stable condition. He was soaked liked the mercenaries, though thankfully, only in water. They had emerged from a manhole, guided by receipts in Ander's pocket and Alim's directions.
Overlooking the bustling lobby, where red lights glazed across dark leather, were the premium guest rooms. These weren't the rooms for pirates and scavengers; only the richest (and often the anonymous) could afford them. Sounds of pleasure and pain seeped through the cracks of mostly sound-proof doors. One such room was taken by Relyssa an hour ago. Another was where a Breton man in an ash gray cloak had emerged. This man wore leather armor under his cloak, and partly concealed under his hood was a silver circlet and messy black hair. His relaxed shoulders showed his ease, yet a faint frown made it clear he was not happy. His right hand hovered around his waist, as if protecting an invisible object attached to his belt. The Breton man took out a pipe, lit it with a spark spell and watched the scene below.
"S'toth trusts you were satisfied with his services?" Came a sultry purr from the same room. The Khajiit was a busy one tonight, for his barbed appendages were coveted by curious lords and ladies alike.
"Most enjoyable." The Breton man nodded absentmindedly. Without turning to acknowledge the prostitute, he offered a handful of coins. "Here's your tips."
As S'toth left, the Breton man focused on the newcomers below. He watched Gustav rent a premium room for himself, and cheaper options for his employees. He watched Xenia Richton, madam of the house, chide them for leaving a wet mess (on this already wet mess of an establishment), and redirecting Ander to the nearest clinic. He watched some soldiers cast suspicious glances at the mercenaries (but none of them did anything, since they weren't supposed to be there in the first place). He watched mercenaries from other companies, who were hired by the armies, size up their newest competitors. Finally, he watched the lonesome Nibenese sailor trailing after them.
The Breton man smiled to himself. He made his way downstairs, brushing past the mercenaries and not acknowledging them. He weaved through the sweaty, drunk and aroused mass of people, almost unnoticed, until he was in front of the Nibenese lad.
"You there, come." He gestured. "I have a job for you."
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21st Last Seed,
A house, somewhere in Wayrest.
A house, somewhere in Wayrest.
A set of pliers sat askew amidst a pile of silver wire, coiled like a snake but bent and twisted unnaturally. A small vortex that was the circular frame for a diagram on parchment; tea stained, and tickled with cigar ash - smudged just so as to hide the design. The thick tracing that had been made with pencil was etched so confidently on the surface that it had also created an indentation, a river of charcoal creating the image of mastercrafted jewellery.
Holding down the corners of the parchment were crystal tumblers, slabs of solid paint, and a cigar box. Trembling fingers reached out to feel the current, stroking each precise line as a jaw quivered, droplets of a rich liquer clung to the dry lower lip of a mouth held ajar. The red that stained the bloodshot corner of otherwise beautiful eyes were the warning lines of danger at the situation.
A rasping breath heaved from the scrawny gentleman’s chest and he swallowed back another gulp of the whisky. He was long past feeling the burn rush down his oesophagus and into his stomach. All that sat there was a bleak emptiness that rumbled and that’s where the sting fell. “Did I…?” he wheezed, blinking down at the page as he tried to make sense of the words written before him, and the line-art of the Lover’s Knot, half buried under his clutter and stained with his mess.
“Did I do it? Did I steal it?” he whimpered, memories of holding the piece lingering only half there in the darkest corners of his mind, like a ghost. A spectre that elicited a sense of panic and a throbbing anxiety in his chest. His ribcage was too frail to hold such a thunderous heartbeat and he brought down the amber liquid again to drown it, to turn it slick and heavy and bring everything down to the floor. His legs obeyed the command, stop-starting in their movement so it appeared janky and broken. Like a newborn deer finding itself for the first time. His eyes too, were that of a deer as it stared headfirst into danger.
Njall pinched the corner of his sketch, dragging it and the crystal tumbler, the paint, and the cigar box down with it. A smash, and thud, and a clatter. All intrusive sounds that were not so intrusive to a lost and drunken mind, just the perfect kind of ambiance.
“I remember something… I remember something,” he muttered, staring at it closely, his pupils dilating into tiny dots the closer he brought the parchment to his face -- stopping it only when it grazed the tip of his aquiline nose. “Diamonds, glass… Something, something.” he struggled, desperately gulping down the last drops of his whisky. “I wasn’t in Evermore, was I?” he breathed.
Pale and unwashed, Njall could suddenly smell his own breath as it pushed back at him from the paper. A warm and intoxicating fume that it would be dangerous to bring close to a flame.
After a moment or two more of scrutinous inspection, the drunken Nord felt that the best course of action was to carefully fold, and fold again the drawing - before shoving it roughly under the leg of his table, and when he staggered back to his feet to place the items in a heap in the centre, the wobbled the entire structure. “Gone now, gone to someplace…” he mused, scratching his oily hairline with a finger. He turned his face this way and that, careful and suspicious of the shadows that flickered against the walls of his humble lodgings. “Like watchful demons tonight you are,” he spoke out to them, narrowing his eyes some. “Don’t eat my applause,” he cursed, wagging a finger at the moving darkness of a lamp that flickered.
Njall sighed, his shoulders drooping. His lids were heavy as his stupor continued to worsen. The paper under the table leg was all but gone to him now, and instead his focus turned to a canvas propped against the wall. The abstract shape of a feminine figure in black, topped with red like a plumed crown stared back at the palid Nord, at least from where her eyes should have been painted. “I know, I know-misbehaving again,” he slurred out, shrugging his shoulders. “Just that, well…”
With yet another sigh, it was clear the man had given up on whatever needed to be said. Instead, retreating once more to the floor, only this time taking to spreading out on the floor beside his mysterious woman. He seemed more relaxed there, the stillness briefly bringing colour back to his complexion. On the ceiling, more strokes of red adorned the beams and careful tiling. An invasion of an artist’s colour on an architect's best work. The tendrils and tentacles of red gave his mind something to focus on, and as his head began to spin around, and around, and around, he visualised them peeling away from the ceiling, spiraling down carefully to caress and blanket him.
They cocooned him from whatever it was that had been bothering him only minutes ago.
Njall fell asleep like that, as he so often did.
Holding down the corners of the parchment were crystal tumblers, slabs of solid paint, and a cigar box. Trembling fingers reached out to feel the current, stroking each precise line as a jaw quivered, droplets of a rich liquer clung to the dry lower lip of a mouth held ajar. The red that stained the bloodshot corner of otherwise beautiful eyes were the warning lines of danger at the situation.
A rasping breath heaved from the scrawny gentleman’s chest and he swallowed back another gulp of the whisky. He was long past feeling the burn rush down his oesophagus and into his stomach. All that sat there was a bleak emptiness that rumbled and that’s where the sting fell. “Did I…?” he wheezed, blinking down at the page as he tried to make sense of the words written before him, and the line-art of the Lover’s Knot, half buried under his clutter and stained with his mess.
“Did I do it? Did I steal it?” he whimpered, memories of holding the piece lingering only half there in the darkest corners of his mind, like a ghost. A spectre that elicited a sense of panic and a throbbing anxiety in his chest. His ribcage was too frail to hold such a thunderous heartbeat and he brought down the amber liquid again to drown it, to turn it slick and heavy and bring everything down to the floor. His legs obeyed the command, stop-starting in their movement so it appeared janky and broken. Like a newborn deer finding itself for the first time. His eyes too, were that of a deer as it stared headfirst into danger.
Njall pinched the corner of his sketch, dragging it and the crystal tumbler, the paint, and the cigar box down with it. A smash, and thud, and a clatter. All intrusive sounds that were not so intrusive to a lost and drunken mind, just the perfect kind of ambiance.
“I remember something… I remember something,” he muttered, staring at it closely, his pupils dilating into tiny dots the closer he brought the parchment to his face -- stopping it only when it grazed the tip of his aquiline nose. “Diamonds, glass… Something, something.” he struggled, desperately gulping down the last drops of his whisky. “I wasn’t in Evermore, was I?” he breathed.
Pale and unwashed, Njall could suddenly smell his own breath as it pushed back at him from the paper. A warm and intoxicating fume that it would be dangerous to bring close to a flame.
After a moment or two more of scrutinous inspection, the drunken Nord felt that the best course of action was to carefully fold, and fold again the drawing - before shoving it roughly under the leg of his table, and when he staggered back to his feet to place the items in a heap in the centre, the wobbled the entire structure. “Gone now, gone to someplace…” he mused, scratching his oily hairline with a finger. He turned his face this way and that, careful and suspicious of the shadows that flickered against the walls of his humble lodgings. “Like watchful demons tonight you are,” he spoke out to them, narrowing his eyes some. “Don’t eat my applause,” he cursed, wagging a finger at the moving darkness of a lamp that flickered.
Njall sighed, his shoulders drooping. His lids were heavy as his stupor continued to worsen. The paper under the table leg was all but gone to him now, and instead his focus turned to a canvas propped against the wall. The abstract shape of a feminine figure in black, topped with red like a plumed crown stared back at the palid Nord, at least from where her eyes should have been painted. “I know, I know-misbehaving again,” he slurred out, shrugging his shoulders. “Just that, well…”
With yet another sigh, it was clear the man had given up on whatever needed to be said. Instead, retreating once more to the floor, only this time taking to spreading out on the floor beside his mysterious woman. He seemed more relaxed there, the stillness briefly bringing colour back to his complexion. On the ceiling, more strokes of red adorned the beams and careful tiling. An invasion of an artist’s colour on an architect's best work. The tendrils and tentacles of red gave his mind something to focus on, and as his head began to spin around, and around, and around, he visualised them peeling away from the ceiling, spiraling down carefully to caress and blanket him.
They cocooned him from whatever it was that had been bothering him only minutes ago.
Njall fell asleep like that, as he so often did.
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8:15pm, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
"It's not the type of job you expect here." Everard clarified to Finch. He gestured to the stage, where exotic dancers performed lewd routines. "Let's speak somewhere private, and trust me, it's not what you think it is."
The two men entered the Everard's premium suite, and as expected, it had been cleaned up after his session with S'toth.
"Close the door." Everard instructed. He sat on a leather sofa, and reaching to the table in front, he uncorked a bottle of wine and set down two glasses. "Take a seat when you're done."
"Summerset Reserve, 176 vintage, Shimmerene export." Everard read off the wine label. He poured himself a glass first, and only when he's satisfied after two drags did he fill Finch's glass. "You don't even know what this is, don't you? Normal people like us can't even afford to look at it."
"I'll jump straight to business." Everard stated plainly. "I heard people call you 'Finch', and you tend to get into places you shouldn't be in."
"I'm Everard, leader of the Blackhounds, and depending on who you ask, the future king of Wayrest or an opportunistic bastard." The Breton man finished his glass. He took the wine bottle and began drinking directly from it. "People say a lot of stuff about me and most of them don't even believe their own words. So don't bother telling anyone about our meeting here; people will laugh you off at best, or worse, may kill you for spreading treasonous rumors."
"Here's where you come in." Everard kicked his feet up on the table. "I had a very valuable sword, one made of gold. Some say it's daedric, but I all I care is that it's mine. However, my spymaster, Mathieu the Whisper, decided to steal it from me! That conniving scum! Fuck!"
Everard threw his wine glass into the wall behind Finch. It shattered.
"Excuse me; I get too attached to things." Everard straightened his jacket collar. He took from big gulp from the wine bottle, and settled back to his previous position as if nothing had happened. "But my loss is your gain, right? We're bloody opportunists, you and I. I have a lot of gold for you, if you can return my sword to me."
"Now, here's what you need to do." Everard went to a book shelf and took out a map of Wayrest. "Mathieu prays every evening at the temple, here, just before they close down. It's in the southern occupation zone. They know me and won't let me through, but Mathieu, he's the religious type and on good terms with the priests, so they let him go."
"You'll catch him in the temple around sunset. Take my sword back, and preferably killing Mathieu in the process." Everard stared at Finch for a second, then he laughed. "Don't even think about doing it alone. Mathieu is one of the best nightblades in High Rock, and the sword will further strengthen him. Remember that group of people ahead of you? They're mercenaries. Sub-contract them."
"On more thing, wait here, and drink the rest if you want." Mathieu pushed the half-drank wine bottle to Finch, and went to a locked chest. He returned with a fabric covered shield. Pulling the cover off, the shield underneath was made of cold gray scales.
"Real dragon hide, only wielded by the elites of Jehanna." Everard explained. "A frost dragon flew there from Skyrim, so they killed it and made equipment from its remains. The previous owner, invincible in combat, died from food poisoning. Now you, a nobody, gets to inherit it."
"This is your down payment. Of course, you can sell it for a pretty sum on the black market. Alternately, you or one of your allies can use it against Mathieu. I recommend giving it to someome with actual upper body strength."
"I want my sword back the morning after tomorrow." Everard declared. He took out his journal and ripped off several pages. "Don't bother asking questions. Everything you need to know is here, including a sketch of that spineless traitor Mathieu. I am much better with written words than spoken ones. Do burn it when you're done."
"Now, get to work, and get out of my room." Everard pointed to the door.
The two men entered the Everard's premium suite, and as expected, it had been cleaned up after his session with S'toth.
"Close the door." Everard instructed. He sat on a leather sofa, and reaching to the table in front, he uncorked a bottle of wine and set down two glasses. "Take a seat when you're done."
"Summerset Reserve, 176 vintage, Shimmerene export." Everard read off the wine label. He poured himself a glass first, and only when he's satisfied after two drags did he fill Finch's glass. "You don't even know what this is, don't you? Normal people like us can't even afford to look at it."
"I'll jump straight to business." Everard stated plainly. "I heard people call you 'Finch', and you tend to get into places you shouldn't be in."
"I'm Everard, leader of the Blackhounds, and depending on who you ask, the future king of Wayrest or an opportunistic bastard." The Breton man finished his glass. He took the wine bottle and began drinking directly from it. "People say a lot of stuff about me and most of them don't even believe their own words. So don't bother telling anyone about our meeting here; people will laugh you off at best, or worse, may kill you for spreading treasonous rumors."
"Here's where you come in." Everard kicked his feet up on the table. "I had a very valuable sword, one made of gold. Some say it's daedric, but I all I care is that it's mine. However, my spymaster, Mathieu the Whisper, decided to steal it from me! That conniving scum! Fuck!"
Everard threw his wine glass into the wall behind Finch. It shattered.
"Excuse me; I get too attached to things." Everard straightened his jacket collar. He took from big gulp from the wine bottle, and settled back to his previous position as if nothing had happened. "But my loss is your gain, right? We're bloody opportunists, you and I. I have a lot of gold for you, if you can return my sword to me."
"Now, here's what you need to do." Everard went to a book shelf and took out a map of Wayrest. "Mathieu prays every evening at the temple, here, just before they close down. It's in the southern occupation zone. They know me and won't let me through, but Mathieu, he's the religious type and on good terms with the priests, so they let him go."
"You'll catch him in the temple around sunset. Take my sword back, and preferably killing Mathieu in the process." Everard stared at Finch for a second, then he laughed. "Don't even think about doing it alone. Mathieu is one of the best nightblades in High Rock, and the sword will further strengthen him. Remember that group of people ahead of you? They're mercenaries. Sub-contract them."
"On more thing, wait here, and drink the rest if you want." Mathieu pushed the half-drank wine bottle to Finch, and went to a locked chest. He returned with a fabric covered shield. Pulling the cover off, the shield underneath was made of cold gray scales.
"Real dragon hide, only wielded by the elites of Jehanna." Everard explained. "A frost dragon flew there from Skyrim, so they killed it and made equipment from its remains. The previous owner, invincible in combat, died from food poisoning. Now you, a nobody, gets to inherit it."
"This is your down payment. Of course, you can sell it for a pretty sum on the black market. Alternately, you or one of your allies can use it against Mathieu. I recommend giving it to someome with actual upper body strength."
"I want my sword back the morning after tomorrow." Everard declared. He took out his journal and ripped off several pages. "Don't bother asking questions. Everything you need to know is here, including a sketch of that spineless traitor Mathieu. I am much better with written words than spoken ones. Do burn it when you're done."
"Now, get to work, and get out of my room." Everard pointed to the door.
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8:30pm, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
'Too attached to things, indeed; except for maybe the wine glass.' Finch thought to himself.
The young man made a concerted effort in hiding the down payment underneath a wrapping of fabric. Bed sheets were re-purposed into being tied around a dragon scale shield before he re-fixed the sash bound across his chest, so that it would be run through the artifact's grip. He thought of it as a rather lousy down payment; valuable, sure, but it wasn't conspicuous at all and he didn't exactly know how to use a shield efficiently. It's use essentially boiled down to being sold or given to some no-good mercenaries that he didn't even know yet and doubted he'd particularly care for. He cared neither for carrying copious amounts of septims on his person nor for working with others, unless it was on a ship. In this case, working with others meant sneaking and thieving, and his experience made it very clear to him that more didn't make merrier.
A rueful sigh escaped his lips. Since he somehow got dragged into doing a job for a lord likely as corrupt as the next, it likely wouldn't bode well for him to ignore his wishes, or to run off with his expensive down payment. He was certainly right about one thing: this job of his was unexpected. Find the man who stole his golden blade and preferably kill him in the process. Well, that meant Everard set himself up for disappointment at least once. The lord didn't know about Finch's feelings surrounding murder. Or even death for that matter, but that was on him for dismissing his “nobody” hireling so quickly. If Finch was any more spiteful than he already was, he might just walk far away with the dragonhide shield and golden sword, robbing him of both, and go where they'd never find him... but honestly, Everard just dragged him into a no-win scenario: if Finch doesn't go through with this, the lord would likely kill him. If he does, Mathieu might kill him. Explains why the bastard would go through the trouble of picking out a “nobody” like him.
What was even the point of a golden sword? It was far too soft a metal, the man probably just liked carrying it around as a status symbol. Maybe he was overcompensating for the small one in his trousers.
In any case, he appraised the sketch of Mathieu the Whisper. The man was a spymaster, which meant he had a network of people working for him. If he truly did steal the blade, then it's possible he's covering his trail, left a false one, or already knows that Everard hired him to steal it back. Hiring a group would honestly just create more opportunities for leaks, but if Finch was caught unawares, nobody would notice or bat an eye. All he really needed was protection, the rest was just deceiving the deceiver and covering his own trail. Reading about him probably wasn't likely if he was any good at his job, and asking around would be dangerous if any one of them were one of his agents.
He really didn't want to sub-contract mercenaries. This job was already bigger and hotter than he wanted. If someone wanted some dumb ring or key, that'd be fine, but he was being sent after a spymaster's stolen gold sword. Ugh.
The young man strided down the stairs and looked at the keeper of this business behind his counter, counting his coin. Then, next to the stairs, spotted a man taking a deep drink from his ale. On his way over, Finch deliberately bumped into him, causing the man to spill his drink all over himself. Before the man had a chance to be angry with him, Finch leaped into action.
“Oh Gods, I'm so sorry!” Finch gasped, immediately crouching down and trying to pat him dry using his own sleeves. “Sincerely, I didn't notice you. My heads must have been up in the clouds!”
“Ugh,” the man groaned, muttering something under his breath about just getting his shirt tailored, “y'know what, it's just a fucking drink. But would it kill ya to watch where yer goin' next time?”
“You're right. Again, I'm really sorry!” In the midst of patting him down, he broke the drawstring of his coin purse hanging from his belt and glided it towards his pocket. “Next time I get payed and see you here, your drink will be on me.”
The man bitterly waved him away with the thief's head hanging low. He poured the pouch's coins out from inside his pocket and set the empty pouch down on one of the tables too busy with conversation to notice.
“Sir,” Finch said to the manager, who was met with only a finger as he continued to count his coin.
“Sir.” He repeated.
“What? What is it, kid?” The man finally spat.
“I understand some mercenaries are renting a room here.”
“I can't tell you if anyone has rented a room here for confidentiality's sake.”
“If there are mercenaries, then they likely wouldn't mind. They're for hire. I'm looking to hire.”
“I still cannot confirm or deny--”
Finch took the fistful of coins in his pocket and set it on the counter. “This is all I have. Please.”
The keeper looked at the coins and raised an eyebrow at Finch. “Not that it's my business, but don't you need money to hire a mercenary?”
“I have other assets to provide as down payment.”
The man sighed and slid the coins toward his side of the counter before counting them out. “Upstairs. Premium room.”
“Thank you.”
Finch's pace quickened across the ground floor, making a beeline towards the staircase. He heard behind him some sudden shouting, “Hey, you thieving bastard!” Finch whipped around to see the man who Finch had bumped into earlier marching towards the table where he left the empty coin purse and grabbing that man by his shirt. With a relieved sigh, Finch jogged up the next few flights of stairs to where the premium rooms were. He passed the guards stationed outside Everard's moaning chambers and rapped his knuckles against the door beside it.
As soon as the door opened, Finch's dirty face fell grim and serious.
“Are you looking for work?”
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The Unfamiliar Territory of Tactics
...and How the Company Faked the Appearance of Competenceft. @gcold@Frizan@Hank
21 Last Seed, 7:30 PM
“I’ll take point!” Mary said to her comrades. She reached for her sword and hesitated, and instead drew her silver dagger. Though the darkness impaired her vision, her eyes flashed with bioluminescence with the casting of a spell and were fixed on Ander’s aura, who quite literally fell into the lion’s den (or werecrocodile’s den in this case) and was now wounded beneath a pile of rubble. There was nothing she could think of that could get her to his side without having to get past the beast first. She looked around her, briefly assessing her allies -- Narzul and Piper were both heavily armored and held shields in their hands. “Narzul and Piper on my flank, we’ll circle around it. Archers and mages can provide long range support. Once we’re in position, cover me so I can give aid to Ander!”
Mary was used to working on her own, having to rely only on her own wits and resources. It didn’t feel natural to her to be belting out orders, but she also made a career out of monster hunting, so dealing with were-creatures and the like was where she shined — and speaking of shining, this werecroc likely didn’t have the issue of the twilit sewers impairing its vision. That must mean it might be more sensitive to light.
She moved on ahead, leaping from the ledge and leading the way for the others to follow behind, holding her enchanted silver dagger in a reverse grip in one hand and her shield in the other. Briefly arming her shield arm with the dagger, she focused her magicka in her free hands, fist clenched. Beams of light squeezed their way past the cracks and crevices between her fingers.
“Hey, stinky!” She shouted at the beast from behind.
The moment the creature turned, it was met with a bright flash of light bursting from Mary’s palm. Immediately, the werecroc fell to its knees, hissing and roaring as it held its palms against its eyes, trying to shake away the blinding colors floating in darkness behind its eyelids.
“Now!” She yelled, moving around the creature’s flank and positioning herself between it and Ander. “Circle around!”
“Forward!” Piper shouted. With moderate difficulty, the Imperial was able to push through the near calf-high waters and bring herself to the beast’s side. Even though it impaired her movement, she was glad to be back in her full armor. Even with the pieces she was able to smuggle in, Piper had still felt a little naked during the Evermore banquet.
Teardrop shield held at the ready in front of her, Piper uncoiled her sword arm into a heavy stab at the werecrocodile’s ribs. She could see the tip of the blade disappear into the beast’s flesh, but an incredible resistance prevented her from digging deeper; their hide was tougher than she thought. The beast roared in fury as Piper pulled her blade back to her side. Dark, viscous blood mixed with a nauseating slime coated the tip. She had heard of adventurers and crypt-delvers that stuffed their helmets and masks with fragrant flowers or herbs to hold back the various stenches that wafted through their chosen hunting grounds. Perhaps she should try that at some point.
Up above, in the darkness where not even Piper could spy him, Sagax had hidden himself in the strange vines that covered the walls and ceiling of the cistern. He had shadowed Mary, following her step for step until just before she drew the monster’s anger. He had tested the vines and began climbing.
Sagax was surprised at how sturdy the vines were. They were as almost thick as coils of rope found aboard a merchant ship, and they held his weight easily. Moving among them was simple, having left his bag and dress coat behind in the main tunnel, Sagax had great freedom of movement in his leather armor. He gripped his Dwarven dagger tightly, balancing on two vines using the arches of his boots to secure himself.
He blanched slightly as Mary casted her spell; even from his height, the light still burned into his pupils, momentarily casting dark shapes in his vision. He blinked twice in an effort to readjust. The werecrocodile recoiled at the blinding light that erupted from Mary’s hand, and he could see his sister and Narzul approaching. All the rogue had to do now was wait for everyone to get into position.
Narzul moved in, his shield and sword up, and formed the final piece of the three pronged wall to contain the beast. Mary remained ever mindful of the man buried beneath the rubble behind her. Perhaps too mindful. Her eyes darted between the beast and an inch or so over her shoulder, and was nearly caught off guard by the sweeping of the werecroc’s tail as it turned angrily toward Piper. Mary batted it away with her shield, though the creature didn’t seem to notice the impact, nor the fact it nearly made collateral damage to the young Templar.
Two furious slashes with its claws grinded against Piper’s shield, its sheer force battering her arm behind her defense, and Narzul retaliated with two swipes of his own at the creature’s flank, distracting the monster from its onslaught on the Imperial. Behind the impenetrable visage of his steel helmet, his face was severe and his teeth were gritted. The werecrocodile was a formidable beast and Narzul decided to forego war cries and other frivolities in the face of such a beast. He just hoped his allies were up to the task. His ebony blade was heavier and sharper than ordinary steel and the two wounds he inflicted were significant -- but not anywhere close to fatal. The gleam of Mary’s enchanted dagger caught his eye. Magic would definitely help. He thought about calling out for Niernen’s aid, but the thought of being trapped in the cistern with a roaring firestorm made him change his mind.
For the most part, this strategy was working, but only for as long as their stamina could hold out or until the others finally commenced their ranged assault. The creature swung wildly at Narzul, but Mary caught its flailing tail with the tip of her silver dagger, causing it to recoil and bellow in pain -- a stark contrast to the nuisances it seemed to regard the other weaponry as. Its blood appeared to boil on the blade. From the corner of her eye, she barely caught Sagax, creeping around and looking for an opportunity. Silently, she waved him over.
From a safe distance, Niernen watched the fight with her fists balled and clasped to her mouth. She was afraid, just as Narzul was, that using her fire magic in the confined space would accidentally cause more harm than good -- but she was sad and frustrated that she could not help, and worried for their safety. “Careful, Narzul!” she shrieked when Mary’s dagger spared her brother from one of the werecroc’s vicious strikes and stamped her feet in the grimy water. “Oh, sod this,” she spat and closed her eyes. “Azura, lady of twilight, please protect my brother and our friends…” began her prayer. What else could she do?
While Niernen hoped for divine (or daedric, rather) intervention, Sagax tried something a bit more immediate. The beast was now directly under him, pinned into position by Narzul, Piper and Mary. The latter gave him his cue to strike.
Holding his dagger tightly in an underhand grip with both hands, Sagax let himself fall through the vines he had been watching the battle from. He hit his mark with acceptable precision, the blade all but disappearing into the werecrocodile’s neck. Sagax quietly thanked the Dwemer for their exceptional craftsmanship. And gravity, of course, for without which he would not have had the momentum necessary to actually plunge the dagger any deeper than the tip. His new ally would quickly betray him however.
The monster snapped its torso backwards and let loose a roar that shook dust from the ceiling and a few unlucky spiders from their carefully-weaved webs. In its panicked state, the werecrocodile twisted violently from side to side, desperately lunging its hands at its newfound foe. Eventually the beast succeeded, grabbing the rogue by the arm and tossing him away. Sagax flew several feet before colliding with one of the cistern’s pillars and falling into a pool of dirty water with a splash.
Seeing Sagax fall limply was more than enough to spark Piper’s eternal ire. She was something beyond furious, and the next thing she felt herself do was grip her longsword’s handle like a vice. The Imperial screamed with rage and thrust her blade at the beast once more, which was showing signs of faltering. She used every ounce of strength she had in her legs and arms to put as much force into her attack as humanly possible.
Grabbing ahold of the opportunity, Mary and Narzul began their own barrage of attacks, both letting forth their own war cries. Though theirs were much less girlishly high-pitched, it had to be said.
After the trio’s exhausting onslaught, the werecrocodile, now bleeding profusely all over its scaley hide, swayed and ultimately crashed to the ground. A small tremor emanated from the point of impact. The beast was able to get a few more swipes at its attackers with tail and claw, but it was not enough to halt its demise. The company was weary, but victory was theirs.
After giving themselves a moment to breath and make sure the beast was truly dead, a period of time in which Sagax carried himself out of the sewage with his sister’s help, Mary ran towards the rubble under which Ander was buried. After shoving some of the rocks aside, a gasp pierced through the aching moaning and groaning of her allies as she cried out, “He’s alive!”
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Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
With @Spoopy Scary
Despite having spent a reasonable amount of time at Dibella's House of Pleasures, Relyssa had found she had not yet become accustomed to the frequent noises that echoed down the hallways. Leaving her room for any reason had to be treated as an extreme sport for the most part - a desperate dash to the bar without any of the patrons making eyes at her. She'd felt secluded as of late, stuck between the plush four walls of her suite, with only wine for company.
At any time when she thought that stepping out was an option, she would take a glimpse from the window and the sight of the pitiful droves of people was enough to remind her to stay locked down for now. There was also the dangerous matter of the bounty on her head. Not that anyone knew that she had the tiara, it did play on her mind - satisfying her ego more than anything.
The knock at the door came as a welcome distraction. Wine in hand she moved to the door, her frame dressed unusually in a white silken outfit, billowy and comfortable - the picture of couture. She had found that in red, the walls simply swallowed her up.
She gave the stranger a curious look up and down, her gaze was just about inscrutable until the corners of her mouth pulled into a tiny smirk. On any other day, she might well have snapped at the stranger's abrupt greeting -- but, she had been terribly bored. "I don't know that you could afford my rates..." the Breton answered. "But is that truly how you address all of the women here, hmm?" she remarked, arching a brow at him as she comfortably leaned against the frame of the door.
“I, uh… what?” The Imperial man stammered, then suddenly blinked. He looked around at his spot in the hallway, back at the door, and back to the woman. “This isn’t right,” he muttered. “There were supposed to be mercenaries… sells-- shit! Lying fucking merchants…”
Finch huffed a deep, soothing sigh and combed sun-tanned fingers through his thick and messy black hair. His smell was a mix of sweat, ocean spray, and the ale he had spilled on an earlier stranger, a stark contrast from the floral scents perfuming the upper floors. He looked back up at Relyssa with tired blue eyes, resigning himself to the twist of poor fortune he thought had befallen him.
“I, um... I’m sorry milady, I must’ve confused you for someone else. Uh, I’ll excuse myself then.” He then quickly added, “By your leave.”
Clearing her throat with a soft and small chuckle, Relyssa eyed Finch once more, stepping back only slightly from the doorframe, feigning some surprise at his words, as if in an attempt to disarm his embarrassment. “The language!” she laughed out, blinking quickly. “My goodness,” she added, rounding off with a sigh. She gave a quick side glance at the large, bulky item that he carried. Obviously he was seeking Gustav; who was staying in the next room over. Relyssa’s curiosity had been perfectly piqued, and it wasn't often that profitable opportunity literally knocked, especially not an opportunity to put her in Gustav’s company once more.
“I hope you’re not implying that a woman like me couldn’t be a mercenary,” she added, the giggly facade being swept aside quickly for another raised brow. “Hmmm?”
“No, hence my earlier address.” Finch said impatiently. There was a fidgety twitch in his foot, like a spinner working the treadle of his wheel. “I mean no disrespect milady, but if you would speak plainly? I have very little time.”
It was by this point that it became clear the young sailor’s voice wasn’t as irritable so much as it was anxious, like he was in a rush to be somewhere and for a very important reason. One could construe such fleetness as a mild panic, were he in any less control of himself. The pleading look in his eyes spoke to at least that much, as did his fingers twisting around each other as if he were about to break them. He didn’t have time to play her games, he simply wanted to get straight to business so that the Everard bastard wouldn’t have his head. Part of him also wanted to resent her, just based on how he was dressed; fine clothes and jewelry adorning his fair, smooth skin, manicured nails and luscious hair, all signs of a spoiled woman too far removed from society to understand any real struggle -- but to do so took too much energy that he had no intention of wasting, and he was far too distracted to care about such things. So, he instead settled for ambivalence.
“So come in then,” Relyssa answered. Even if Finch was short of time, she had nothing but time on her hands. “Take a seat, and a deep breath while you’re at it.” she said as she turned on her back on him to walk across the room - her hand motioning to an armchair set up by a small table.
Her mind wandered curiously to what the stranger was looking for, he was in desperate need of assistance -- perhaps simply a bodyguard? It couldn’t be, as anxious and fidgeting as he was -- he had the appearance of a capable individual. It was clear that there was a shadow of threat at his heels, and that interested her enough to not send him straight along to Gustav. Maybe she really could be of assistance to him.
Clearing her throat, she placed down her glass of wine and instead reached for a container of water, and a clean glass from the sideboard at her bed. “So tell me, what is ailing you -- what brings you to my door?”
“Like I said, a job.” Finch sighed as he paced his way into Relyssa’s room. There was a bit of relief that took some weight off his shoulders, but there was still the matter of negotiating a contract. He took a deep breath like Relyssa said, and sat down, shifting uncomfortably to accommodate the shield strapped to his back. “Though I need to ask, how… flexible is your company? I have to admit to you, the work isn’t exactly, uh… scrupulous?”
The young man twiddled his thumbs anxiously as he awaited Relyssa’s answer.
While pouring out the water, Relyssa took note of Finch's manner, and at the ominous tone behind his words. This was interesting indeed. Glass in hand, she turned again to face him, with a smile. "Rest assured, I don't believe in sending out just anyone to work. I would send only those most suited to the task at hand, so as not to create any liabilities..." The Breton took care in placing the refreshments beside Finch, another soft movement of her hand was the indicator to drink it.
"They are as flexible as they need to be, and they take their work seriously and get results." Taking an uncharacteristically soft approach, she sat down opposite Finch, offering him another smile as she crossed one leg comfortably over the other. "I can see that this is of great importance to you," she remarked, tilting her head inquisitively. "But I have to ask," she added, before he could speak up, "are you in some kind of trouble?"
“I work for someone much more powerful than me who wishes to see his bidding done in a timely manner.” Finch said simply. “Within a day. Without signing an agreement, I can’t share too much with you. Simply put, contracting a third party allows us to take some of the heat off of him. Creates discord. Something valuable was stolen from him by someone very dangerous, and I want your help to retrieve it. So, technically nothing about this is illegal…”
Relyssa nodded slowly, closing her eyes as she thought it over. “I understand,” she said sympathetically. “I’ve been the victim of thievery too,” she paused to run her tongue over her teeth, narrowing her eyes that glanced off into the middle distance.
After the momentary pause, she resumed a warm expression having mulled it over. “I’m sure we can be of assistance. My only concern of course, being just how dangerous this thief is… I don’t know that I want to put the lives of my good men and women in jeopardy for a petty squabble between a thief and your powerful employer… Sometimes such efforts can prove... “ she paused again, meeting Finch’s eyes with her own - a cold gaze. “To simply not be worth the risk. You must understand, yes?”
“If they cannot handle a thief, then I’m not sure if I want to endanger your men and women either.” Finch said, trying his best to keep pace with Relyssa’s careful maneuvers.“I won’t lie to you. I don’t think I’m as well spoken as you, and I can’t pretend I know how all this works… but I don’t feel comfortable telling you the name of a score without reaching an agreement. If you decided to contact them, that would put a target on my back. Survival I do know well. But if it helps to sweeten the deal, I can provide a down payment.”
“I like you,” Relyssa commented, smiling in Finch’s direction. “But you’re asking me to put my blind faith in this job, and in you. I’ve no doubt in your own skill, and I want to trust you, just as I’d like you to trust that my mercenaries are more than up for such a task. I just…” the Breton paused again, a smile flickering over her lips as she brushed her hair from her shoulder. “I value their lives, and I value them personally,” she shrugged nonchalantly, breathing out a soft chuckle. “A down payment would do well to build the trust between us, of course.”
“Alright then.” He said. There was a definitive certainty in his voice. “I’m thankful, really,” he commented as he untied his sash from around his shoulder, “this thing has been a pain in the ass.”
As he began to untie the fabric around the large, bulky object previously on his back he added, “Also, if it sweetens the deal at all, I already have a plan to retrieve the item of interest… and I’m open to any input. All I ask of your people is to help me execute it. Here—“
The old bedsheet was finally thrown off the mysterious object for Relyssa to behold a shield. It was wide and tall, and scaled with thick dragonhide. The rarity of such material after the Dragonborn slew most of them was second only to the rarity of its craftsmanship. The glimmering sheen across the scales reflected the orange candlelight from behind, as if the harsh glow of dragon fire flashed across its surface. His sharp eyes watched Relyssa carefully, expecting that she’d know full well the value of such an item.
The immediate effect that the vision of the scaled shield aglow with flame did it. She was not expecting it.
Relyssa flinched, only just, in her chair. It was as if she had been sat in complete darkness, only for someone to tear back the curtains to blinding light. The opening of a window that she had done well for years to keep closed, barred down, and covered.
Frozen in her seat, her hand gripped at the arm of the chair enough for her skin to burn a hot white. A memory resurfaced, clawing its way out of its grave with absolute vengeance. What was simply the chorus of pleasure in the walls of the house, turned to bitter and piercing screams in her ears. The rattling gurgles of death and unbridled screams of agony, encircling.
"Take that," she stammered out, averting her gaze and removing herself from her seat in her attempts to veil her fear. Once more she turned her back on Finch. In her chest she felt her ribcage as it tightened, her legs held her upright only by the sheer force of will to not fall in front of him. "Take it next door, my associate," she muttered. What had been a bored attempt at obtaining information, had left her feeling ill and like the rug had been yanked from under her feet. There was a cold and uncomfortable sweat on her brow. "He'll issue the paperwork..."
At first there was smiling, when Finch noticed the impact had stricken Relyssa; then a frown when her reaction seemed… far more severe than he could have anticipated. He was on the edge of his seat, ready to help, only to falter when Relyssa began to speak and finally signed her verbal consent to a deal. He smiled again. “Of course, milady,” he said. “I look forward to working with you.”
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
With @Spoopy Scary
Despite having spent a reasonable amount of time at Dibella's House of Pleasures, Relyssa had found she had not yet become accustomed to the frequent noises that echoed down the hallways. Leaving her room for any reason had to be treated as an extreme sport for the most part - a desperate dash to the bar without any of the patrons making eyes at her. She'd felt secluded as of late, stuck between the plush four walls of her suite, with only wine for company.
At any time when she thought that stepping out was an option, she would take a glimpse from the window and the sight of the pitiful droves of people was enough to remind her to stay locked down for now. There was also the dangerous matter of the bounty on her head. Not that anyone knew that she had the tiara, it did play on her mind - satisfying her ego more than anything.
The knock at the door came as a welcome distraction. Wine in hand she moved to the door, her frame dressed unusually in a white silken outfit, billowy and comfortable - the picture of couture. She had found that in red, the walls simply swallowed her up.
She gave the stranger a curious look up and down, her gaze was just about inscrutable until the corners of her mouth pulled into a tiny smirk. On any other day, she might well have snapped at the stranger's abrupt greeting -- but, she had been terribly bored. "I don't know that you could afford my rates..." the Breton answered. "But is that truly how you address all of the women here, hmm?" she remarked, arching a brow at him as she comfortably leaned against the frame of the door.
“I, uh… what?” The Imperial man stammered, then suddenly blinked. He looked around at his spot in the hallway, back at the door, and back to the woman. “This isn’t right,” he muttered. “There were supposed to be mercenaries… sells-- shit! Lying fucking merchants…”
Finch huffed a deep, soothing sigh and combed sun-tanned fingers through his thick and messy black hair. His smell was a mix of sweat, ocean spray, and the ale he had spilled on an earlier stranger, a stark contrast from the floral scents perfuming the upper floors. He looked back up at Relyssa with tired blue eyes, resigning himself to the twist of poor fortune he thought had befallen him.
“I, um... I’m sorry milady, I must’ve confused you for someone else. Uh, I’ll excuse myself then.” He then quickly added, “By your leave.”
Clearing her throat with a soft and small chuckle, Relyssa eyed Finch once more, stepping back only slightly from the doorframe, feigning some surprise at his words, as if in an attempt to disarm his embarrassment. “The language!” she laughed out, blinking quickly. “My goodness,” she added, rounding off with a sigh. She gave a quick side glance at the large, bulky item that he carried. Obviously he was seeking Gustav; who was staying in the next room over. Relyssa’s curiosity had been perfectly piqued, and it wasn't often that profitable opportunity literally knocked, especially not an opportunity to put her in Gustav’s company once more.
“I hope you’re not implying that a woman like me couldn’t be a mercenary,” she added, the giggly facade being swept aside quickly for another raised brow. “Hmmm?”
“No, hence my earlier address.” Finch said impatiently. There was a fidgety twitch in his foot, like a spinner working the treadle of his wheel. “I mean no disrespect milady, but if you would speak plainly? I have very little time.”
It was by this point that it became clear the young sailor’s voice wasn’t as irritable so much as it was anxious, like he was in a rush to be somewhere and for a very important reason. One could construe such fleetness as a mild panic, were he in any less control of himself. The pleading look in his eyes spoke to at least that much, as did his fingers twisting around each other as if he were about to break them. He didn’t have time to play her games, he simply wanted to get straight to business so that the Everard bastard wouldn’t have his head. Part of him also wanted to resent her, just based on how he was dressed; fine clothes and jewelry adorning his fair, smooth skin, manicured nails and luscious hair, all signs of a spoiled woman too far removed from society to understand any real struggle -- but to do so took too much energy that he had no intention of wasting, and he was far too distracted to care about such things. So, he instead settled for ambivalence.
“So come in then,” Relyssa answered. Even if Finch was short of time, she had nothing but time on her hands. “Take a seat, and a deep breath while you’re at it.” she said as she turned on her back on him to walk across the room - her hand motioning to an armchair set up by a small table.
Her mind wandered curiously to what the stranger was looking for, he was in desperate need of assistance -- perhaps simply a bodyguard? It couldn’t be, as anxious and fidgeting as he was -- he had the appearance of a capable individual. It was clear that there was a shadow of threat at his heels, and that interested her enough to not send him straight along to Gustav. Maybe she really could be of assistance to him.
Clearing her throat, she placed down her glass of wine and instead reached for a container of water, and a clean glass from the sideboard at her bed. “So tell me, what is ailing you -- what brings you to my door?”
“Like I said, a job.” Finch sighed as he paced his way into Relyssa’s room. There was a bit of relief that took some weight off his shoulders, but there was still the matter of negotiating a contract. He took a deep breath like Relyssa said, and sat down, shifting uncomfortably to accommodate the shield strapped to his back. “Though I need to ask, how… flexible is your company? I have to admit to you, the work isn’t exactly, uh… scrupulous?”
The young man twiddled his thumbs anxiously as he awaited Relyssa’s answer.
While pouring out the water, Relyssa took note of Finch's manner, and at the ominous tone behind his words. This was interesting indeed. Glass in hand, she turned again to face him, with a smile. "Rest assured, I don't believe in sending out just anyone to work. I would send only those most suited to the task at hand, so as not to create any liabilities..." The Breton took care in placing the refreshments beside Finch, another soft movement of her hand was the indicator to drink it.
"They are as flexible as they need to be, and they take their work seriously and get results." Taking an uncharacteristically soft approach, she sat down opposite Finch, offering him another smile as she crossed one leg comfortably over the other. "I can see that this is of great importance to you," she remarked, tilting her head inquisitively. "But I have to ask," she added, before he could speak up, "are you in some kind of trouble?"
“I work for someone much more powerful than me who wishes to see his bidding done in a timely manner.” Finch said simply. “Within a day. Without signing an agreement, I can’t share too much with you. Simply put, contracting a third party allows us to take some of the heat off of him. Creates discord. Something valuable was stolen from him by someone very dangerous, and I want your help to retrieve it. So, technically nothing about this is illegal…”
Relyssa nodded slowly, closing her eyes as she thought it over. “I understand,” she said sympathetically. “I’ve been the victim of thievery too,” she paused to run her tongue over her teeth, narrowing her eyes that glanced off into the middle distance.
After the momentary pause, she resumed a warm expression having mulled it over. “I’m sure we can be of assistance. My only concern of course, being just how dangerous this thief is… I don’t know that I want to put the lives of my good men and women in jeopardy for a petty squabble between a thief and your powerful employer… Sometimes such efforts can prove... “ she paused again, meeting Finch’s eyes with her own - a cold gaze. “To simply not be worth the risk. You must understand, yes?”
“If they cannot handle a thief, then I’m not sure if I want to endanger your men and women either.” Finch said, trying his best to keep pace with Relyssa’s careful maneuvers.“I won’t lie to you. I don’t think I’m as well spoken as you, and I can’t pretend I know how all this works… but I don’t feel comfortable telling you the name of a score without reaching an agreement. If you decided to contact them, that would put a target on my back. Survival I do know well. But if it helps to sweeten the deal, I can provide a down payment.”
“I like you,” Relyssa commented, smiling in Finch’s direction. “But you’re asking me to put my blind faith in this job, and in you. I’ve no doubt in your own skill, and I want to trust you, just as I’d like you to trust that my mercenaries are more than up for such a task. I just…” the Breton paused again, a smile flickering over her lips as she brushed her hair from her shoulder. “I value their lives, and I value them personally,” she shrugged nonchalantly, breathing out a soft chuckle. “A down payment would do well to build the trust between us, of course.”
“Alright then.” He said. There was a definitive certainty in his voice. “I’m thankful, really,” he commented as he untied his sash from around his shoulder, “this thing has been a pain in the ass.”
As he began to untie the fabric around the large, bulky object previously on his back he added, “Also, if it sweetens the deal at all, I already have a plan to retrieve the item of interest… and I’m open to any input. All I ask of your people is to help me execute it. Here—“
The old bedsheet was finally thrown off the mysterious object for Relyssa to behold a shield. It was wide and tall, and scaled with thick dragonhide. The rarity of such material after the Dragonborn slew most of them was second only to the rarity of its craftsmanship. The glimmering sheen across the scales reflected the orange candlelight from behind, as if the harsh glow of dragon fire flashed across its surface. His sharp eyes watched Relyssa carefully, expecting that she’d know full well the value of such an item.
The immediate effect that the vision of the scaled shield aglow with flame did it. She was not expecting it.
Relyssa flinched, only just, in her chair. It was as if she had been sat in complete darkness, only for someone to tear back the curtains to blinding light. The opening of a window that she had done well for years to keep closed, barred down, and covered.
Frozen in her seat, her hand gripped at the arm of the chair enough for her skin to burn a hot white. A memory resurfaced, clawing its way out of its grave with absolute vengeance. What was simply the chorus of pleasure in the walls of the house, turned to bitter and piercing screams in her ears. The rattling gurgles of death and unbridled screams of agony, encircling.
"Take that," she stammered out, averting her gaze and removing herself from her seat in her attempts to veil her fear. Once more she turned her back on Finch. In her chest she felt her ribcage as it tightened, her legs held her upright only by the sheer force of will to not fall in front of him. "Take it next door, my associate," she muttered. What had been a bored attempt at obtaining information, had left her feeling ill and like the rug had been yanked from under her feet. There was a cold and uncomfortable sweat on her brow. "He'll issue the paperwork..."
At first there was smiling, when Finch noticed the impact had stricken Relyssa; then a frown when her reaction seemed… far more severe than he could have anticipated. He was on the edge of his seat, ready to help, only to falter when Relyssa began to speak and finally signed her verbal consent to a deal. He smiled again. “Of course, milady,” he said. “I look forward to working with you.”
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Spoopy Scary ☠️🌸soft grunge🌸☠️
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Peace Talks
8:45 PM Last Seed, 21
Castle Wayrest
“These negotiations seem to be heavily weighted in the Black Bastard’s favor, Fontaine.” Said a woman whose long blond hair tumbled over her shining plate armor adorned with golden tassel, her blue cloak draped over one of her shoulders. Her voice is bold and fearless, and her ostensive dress pointed to the degree of importance of which she assumed in her knightly order. Lady Ervette spoke with a certain degree of spite in her voice, making sure to address the other party by their name -- and doing so with particular stress, as to denote their lack of an official station. She continued, “Are you sure your terms are not the bidding ordained by Broken-Shield? Everard has much more to gain from this peace deal than our lord, High King Ferrand.”
“Ma’am, please.” Fontaine Dupont replied gently and respectfully. “King Frithjolf has acknowledged the Trifection as a legitimate order since its transition.”
“So you are indebted to him?”
“Our legitimacy has been acknowledged by a kingdom of who’s borders the order exists within, simply that.” Fontaine maintained. “But back to the proposition, the interests of both sides of war are being considered, however true it might be that Everard might see a disproportionate amount of aid or leniency due to the section of the city which they occupy. Given Ferrand’s longer occupancy of the main docks, most of the pirate threat has been dislocated, but since the conflict, chaos by the private docks which Camlorn and Jehanna occupy allowed for these threats to remain within Wayrest. Our ultimate consideration is the welfare of Wayrest’s people, who have been unfairly caught in the middle of the conflict and suffer from the pirates and criminals taking advantage of them in these chaotic times.”
He gestured a hand to a man on his other side, also wearing armor which has been layered over a red gambeson. Continuing, he said, “And we will not be taking care of the problem ourselves for the rebellion, but our own Lady Carlisle will be commanding the provided auxiliary support for Sir Ithacus and his troops. The hope is that after this time passes, not only will Wayrest be safer for the people who live here, but the cease-fire will allow everyone time to calm down and we can continue with peace talks.”
“Wait, you mean my daughter Carlisle?” Ithacus asked.
“No, a different Carlisle. From my order.”
“Ah, I see. Well, Lady Ervette,” Ithacus tutted, rubbing shoulders with Duke Egan, “I would hope you are not so preoccupied with your own agenda that the Order of the Dragon would forget about the good people caught in the crossfire.”
“Crossfire which occurred only when the Bastard took you and his men past the wall and brought this conflict with him.” Crown-Prince Gregory Bellemont interjected. “Don’t be so eager to forget that it was your Knights of the Flame who rained destruction on the city’s defenses and challenged my father, not the Dragon’s.”
“Enough,” Sir Fontaine demanded, his voice cutting through the bickering. “Do not reduce your noble orders to bickering like petty nobles. The fact remains that both sides of this conflict are responsible for conscripting Wayrest’s own people to fight this bloody civil war. If this continues, there will no longer be a Wayrest to rule, only an empty castle.”
He released a tired sigh and continued, “As the grandmaster of the Trifection Templars, I am giving this discussion my final word: a cease fire will be in place for my order to assist the Free Realms in clearing out the concentration of pirates and criminals by the south docks. Greater High Rock, with your larger and more organized army, should be more than capable to clear the East docks. If this is not the case, then we will spare a few men, but no more. By the end of these operations, we can continue peace talks. Are we agreed?”
There was a discordance of tentative mutterings, but the lot of them were in agreement.
“Finally.”
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11:30pm, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
With @GCold
The evening was well underway now, and having let time enough time pass - Relyssa assumed that Gustav had been clued into the strangers' plans. She’d spent that time soothing herself, a specialist blend of herbs brewed and steeped in hot water to calm her frayed nerves. It wasn’t often that she was confronted with such loud reminders of the past out of the blue. Windhelm, specifically. It was the only chink in her otherwise pristine, and impregnable armour.
If Gustav was any bit the man she thought him to be, she knew he would be as restless as she was over this mysterious mission. A dragonhide shield as a down payment? The item in question had to be of extreme value… It was something that the Breton simply couldn’t ignore.
Set aside in her room was a selection of cakes; one in particular a simple sliced loaf pricked with lavender and tea leaf. Sophisticated, did Gustav have a sweet tooth? Something comforting and homely had to lift his spirits after having trekked his way into Wayrest via the sewer... A smirk played upon her lips as she plated it up, covering it with a silken handkerchief before making her way to his room, with a gentle knock, she waited in the hallway for the mysterious Nord.
The mysterious Nord, on the other hand, had finally dried out his boots. Discussing business with Finch, while barefooted, had been embarrassing to say the least. The smell of footwear drenched in sewer water was pervading through the premium suite. It's probably why Finch never went in further than the doorway. So Gustav opened the windows, put his boots near them, and sprayed the room with rose-flavored fragrances. Satisfied, he put on a pair of slippers from the closest; they were too small for his feet.
Then came the knocking on his door. Gustav was tempted to tell his visitor to go away, but like any good businessman, he couldn't turn away his own curiosity.
"Relyssa?" Gustav opened the door. His eyes traveled to the covered plate in her hands. "Come in."
He closed the door behind them and gestured to the tea table. There was only one sofa behind it, so Gustav sat on one end and waited for Relyssa to sit on the other. While she set herself down, Gustav realized the dragon hide shield was occupying the tea table. He set it aside, leaning it against the side of the table.
"I trust you brought a delicious midnight late snack? It's not healthy to sleep on an empty stomach, is it?" Gustav joked, not aware of what was under the handkerchief.
“I did indeed bring you something to eat,” she answered -- following his movements closely with curious eyes as she took her seat. On any other day, the smell would have been too much, but all of a sudden it simply felt par for the course of a Wayrest brothel. She chose to say nothing about it, just a simple sneer that soon faded as she peeled back the silk to reveal the cake. “Sugar will keep your energy up, I presume your way in was… Less than easy.”
"Oh wow, by Kyne, thank you!" Gustav laughed; it was genuine. He retrieved a fork from a nearby dining set and dug it right away. "Delicious; a nice change of pace from the travel rations."
"And, yes, we encountered an obstacle." Gustav wiped his mouth with a napkin. "A large, scaly obstacle. Nothing we can't handle."
The shield played at the back of her mind, but now that the shock of it had passed, it didn’t bother her half as much. It was just what it was, an item that was of no interest to her. “I take it you met the stranger too, then?”
"Ah yes, the Imperial calling himself 'Finch'." Gustav nodded. "He said he talked to you as well, and before that, a lord in the room next to yours."
A cold wind blew in from the open window; Gustav shivered. He got up to close it. On the way back, he brought a jug of water and two cups. It was a bit late for alcohol, he figured, and Relyssa would be unlikely to drink any alcohol he offered, since he gave her medical ethanol last time. "He gave this shield as a down payment, and pages from a journal. You may want to read them; very strange." Gustav put said journal pages on the table. "So, let me get this straight; we're working for this 'Finch', who's working for someone incredibly powerful and rich, and the goal is to retrieve an artifact and kill a spymaster."
“Mmm, is that all?” She asked quietly, allowing the Nord to continue to speak his mind.
"I don't know, Relyssa, seems like a lot can go wrong here, but the pay is too good to pass up." Gustav drank some water. "You probably have a plan already, and I take it you know more people here than I do. Also, how do you keep finding this kind of job anyway?"
“I didn’t find it. It found me,” Relyssa admitted — helping herself to the water. “I pretended to be you,” she said frankly, nonchalantly even. “It is concerning that you have been here less than a day and a so-called powerful stranger has found you, and is cornering you into this.” The Breton took a sip, crossing one leg over the other.
“Yes,” Gustav shrugged, “not like there’s much I can do about it.”
“A lot can go wrong, your men could die,” she muttered, thumbing over the journal pages with a raised brow, taking note of everything, but not allowing it to show on her face. “I almost am inclined to believe that our mysterious benefactor is counting on it, actually,” she remarked, suddenly serious as her gaze fell on Gustav once more.
“Or" she began, an excited glint fell into the sparkle of her eyes, "absolutely everything can go in your favour,” she smirked. “You can’t really want to simply pass up an artifact for pay?” Relyssa leaned back into the sofa and scoffed before smiling in an almost coy manner. “Why play by his rules when you could take everything.” The suggestion was very genuine, it all made sense in her mind of course — and she let the words hang in the air, watching closely for Gustav’s reaction. Would it scare him? Would he balk at it perhaps? Or find himself on board…
Truth be told, it did scare Gustav. He wasn’t a warrior or a thief; his expertise was finance, and this job was far beyond his expertise. Relyssa had made her schemes plain, and the previous sugar-induced smile faded from Gustav’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He said.
Gustav’s eyes fell to the shield, it darted to the journal pages, and finally to Relyssa. She was not kidding, and he started thinking aloud. “Well, alright. This artifact probably fetches a better price than the pay, and it’s not like the original employer can send an army against us, because why would he hire us in the first place. That leaves Finch, but he doesn’t seem too smart, or strong.”
“I suppose you are right.” Gustav admitted. He drank more water, as most nervous people tend to do. “You and I both value the lives of our employees, but we have to make sacrifices in the grand scheme of things, yes? Let’s say, hypothetically, Alim changed his mind at the last moment; would you continue the mission without him?”
“We are trying to outwit one of the most powerful people in Wayrest, from just a room away.” Gustav waited for Relyssa’s reply, trying to see if she was as committed as she sounded.
That made her smile, she turned her cheek to Gustav, suppressing a laugh. “Gustav, you have made your first grievous error in underestimating Mr Finch. He is street smart, and street strong. He will not let this mission fall to failure. He will not let us double cross him.” Her eyes flashed devilishly, as she ran her hand across her leg. “You have to view our situation as if he is the smartest man in the room, to make it entirely waterproof.” Relyssa sighed, taking a sip from the glass again.
“Huh,” Gustav snorted, “more trouble than he appears.”
“It is inconsequential to me, whether Alim changes his mind at any moment. He does not even need to be there…” She sighed again, her brow furrowing as she concentrated on her words, lowering her voice even. “Nobody else can know what you and I have discussed. It is up to us to pull the rug out from all of them, Alim, the Dunmer and Imperial siblings included. If any of them are in on this, they will jeopardise it, and someone could die.”
“Of course.” Gustav concurred. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Any one of us leaking this secret will spell doom for both.”
I know I’m asking you to put a certain level of… trust in me.” The Breton added. “It may almost feel like I’m handing you the rope with which to hang yourself…” she chuckled at the notion. “But let me tell you something about the gentleman next door; he is very indulgent, and he is hardly powerful in his nocturnal activities… If you know what I mean." The glass was brought to her lips, a mischief prickled across her cheeks in a blush as she recalled the sounds she had been forced to tolerate. "It would not take a distinguished mercenary to catch him off guard...”
“Good to know.” Gustav said nonchalantly. He looked away from Relyssa as she spoke. “We did trust each other at Evermore, didn’t we? It worked in the end, though I hope there won’t be a bounty this time.”
“Remember, Relyssa, I came to this city for the Ring of Potema, and you said you can help.” Gustav reminded her. He was a bit impatient and worried, but he was buying into Relyssa’s schemes. “If you think we can retrieve this sword without unnecessarily complications, then I’m in. You make the plan and tell me who you need, and where you need them.”
“And I will keep my promise to you on that, Gustav. Let’s just say I know a gentleman who could… Temporarily slip into your employ, who you may indeed find some use for in regards to… Obtaining an item,” Relyssa said, smoothing out the rising frustration in Gustav’s voice - hopefully, ignoring the comment about a bounty.
“We shall see.” Stated Gustav. “I cannot say no to extra help at this moment.”
“I can do this,” the Breton said, much of the manipulative look draining from her face. “Your mercenaries need a win… Their morale is low after Evermore. You need to be the boss now, but you also need to give them this victory.” She had leaned forwards in her seat, drawing closer to the Nord with severity in her eyes, a hand on each leg. “And as the boss of your company, it’s your decision to make. Sleep on it. Maybe you’ll come up with a plan all of your own, but heed my warning, Gustav,” she said, pausing to raise a finger into the air between them. “This gentleman desires this artifact more than anything, and desire is as dangerous an emotion as anything, especially when it was forged alongside revenge.” It was as if the woman was speaking directly from her experience, the depth of her tone was endless. “I don’t believe he should lay a hand on it, lest he smite every one of your mercenaries, Mr Finch included, as his reward -- as his guarantee of silence on the whole matter.”
Gustav looked back to Relyssa when she spoke, and the next thing he knew, he was staring at her, and unconsciously leaning to her direction. Gustav cursed himself silently. “You’re doing that again.” He grumbled.
With an overly feminine chuckle, Relyssa moved back, and out of his space, pleased with herself for the grating effect she’d had on the man. “My apologies…” She tossed her silver hair over her shoulder, instead leaning against the back of the sofa, her eyes staring right at Gustav.
“I am the boss of the company, and I-” Gustav stopped himself abruptly. He was getting worked up, and it’s probably what Relyssa wanted to see. She and her little game, Gustav tightened his jaw, and then forced himself to relax it; he would love to play it, if he weren’t always a step behind.
“Of course. Yes, you are the boss…” She repeated back at him with a slow nod.
“Look, this job is not what I’m expecting in Wayrest, and quite frankly, I’m not exactly the expert here.” Gustav decided he would be honest rather than going in circles. “But I see your point, it is better we get the upper hand on our employer, than playing pawns and leaving our fate to his whims. Very well, we will claim the sword as our own. You have certainly given me a lot to sleep on.”
“And this acquaintance of yours.” Gustav rested his arms on the tea table. He looked straight ahead, avoiding Relyssa’s alluring gestures and trying to not lose his wits. “How would he ‘temporarily slip into my employ’?”
The pride that she felt, over making him squirm so was incredibly delicious. It was as intoxicating a high as she could find in the place, and she’d felt a sense of her own power return to her after her earlier whimper of weakness. Whether she’d stick to the plan, she did not yet know, she only knew she enjoyed Gustav being on her hook -- she was one step closer to unravelling him. “Have your… What’s her name now… Ah,” she stopped, pointing her finger again, “have Miss Fontaine, or perhaps Miss Venim seek out the Peacock, tell him Relyssa requests a favour from him. He’ll do as he’s told.”
Deliberately cryptic, she wanted that to slither under his skin too.
“He’ll provide useful to you in a way that I don’t think anyone in your employ currently could be.” The Breton smiled again, relaxing into the sofa before she took a glance down at the tea table. “Mmmm,” she murmured out. “How time has gotten away with us,” she lamented. “You should get some sleep Gustav, it can’t have been easy working your way up here from below… And we have to make preparations in the morning.”
“Peacock? What a ridiculous moniker.” Gustav shook his head. He only looked over his shoulder to Relyssa now. “I shall have Miss Fontaine inquire about his services, for she has a task to test this Peacock’s worth.”
In the end, Gustav was determined to not let Relyssa get a rise out of him. Well, not too much of a rise out of him. He had to say something to even the odds. “Well, Relyssa, you do seem to enjoy our little chat as you enjoy the fineries of your suite.” Gustav leaned back and put on a cryptic smile to match hers. “It was quite refreshing to take in sights of the city, especially in less traveled areas. It would do you some good too, to get some fresh air outside, instead of cooped up in this brothel all evening.”
When it’s all said and done, Gustav was actually getting tired. He was stifling back yawns at this point. “I shall see you in the morning. While I would wish you good rest, we both know there’s too much on our minds for such.”
Relyssa gave him a polite smile, though his comment did rub her the wrong way — the implications of his words especially. They’d both been left with food for thought, and with desire to digest alone, Relyssa rose from her seat, glancing down at Gustav once more. “Well, goodnight then Gustav. I’ll be seeing you come morning…”
She left, walking as proud as she always did - her mind buzzing with the opportunities to come.
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
With @GCold
The evening was well underway now, and having let time enough time pass - Relyssa assumed that Gustav had been clued into the strangers' plans. She’d spent that time soothing herself, a specialist blend of herbs brewed and steeped in hot water to calm her frayed nerves. It wasn’t often that she was confronted with such loud reminders of the past out of the blue. Windhelm, specifically. It was the only chink in her otherwise pristine, and impregnable armour.
If Gustav was any bit the man she thought him to be, she knew he would be as restless as she was over this mysterious mission. A dragonhide shield as a down payment? The item in question had to be of extreme value… It was something that the Breton simply couldn’t ignore.
Set aside in her room was a selection of cakes; one in particular a simple sliced loaf pricked with lavender and tea leaf. Sophisticated, did Gustav have a sweet tooth? Something comforting and homely had to lift his spirits after having trekked his way into Wayrest via the sewer... A smirk played upon her lips as she plated it up, covering it with a silken handkerchief before making her way to his room, with a gentle knock, she waited in the hallway for the mysterious Nord.
The mysterious Nord, on the other hand, had finally dried out his boots. Discussing business with Finch, while barefooted, had been embarrassing to say the least. The smell of footwear drenched in sewer water was pervading through the premium suite. It's probably why Finch never went in further than the doorway. So Gustav opened the windows, put his boots near them, and sprayed the room with rose-flavored fragrances. Satisfied, he put on a pair of slippers from the closest; they were too small for his feet.
Then came the knocking on his door. Gustav was tempted to tell his visitor to go away, but like any good businessman, he couldn't turn away his own curiosity.
"Relyssa?" Gustav opened the door. His eyes traveled to the covered plate in her hands. "Come in."
He closed the door behind them and gestured to the tea table. There was only one sofa behind it, so Gustav sat on one end and waited for Relyssa to sit on the other. While she set herself down, Gustav realized the dragon hide shield was occupying the tea table. He set it aside, leaning it against the side of the table.
"I trust you brought a delicious midnight late snack? It's not healthy to sleep on an empty stomach, is it?" Gustav joked, not aware of what was under the handkerchief.
“I did indeed bring you something to eat,” she answered -- following his movements closely with curious eyes as she took her seat. On any other day, the smell would have been too much, but all of a sudden it simply felt par for the course of a Wayrest brothel. She chose to say nothing about it, just a simple sneer that soon faded as she peeled back the silk to reveal the cake. “Sugar will keep your energy up, I presume your way in was… Less than easy.”
"Oh wow, by Kyne, thank you!" Gustav laughed; it was genuine. He retrieved a fork from a nearby dining set and dug it right away. "Delicious; a nice change of pace from the travel rations."
"And, yes, we encountered an obstacle." Gustav wiped his mouth with a napkin. "A large, scaly obstacle. Nothing we can't handle."
The shield played at the back of her mind, but now that the shock of it had passed, it didn’t bother her half as much. It was just what it was, an item that was of no interest to her. “I take it you met the stranger too, then?”
"Ah yes, the Imperial calling himself 'Finch'." Gustav nodded. "He said he talked to you as well, and before that, a lord in the room next to yours."
A cold wind blew in from the open window; Gustav shivered. He got up to close it. On the way back, he brought a jug of water and two cups. It was a bit late for alcohol, he figured, and Relyssa would be unlikely to drink any alcohol he offered, since he gave her medical ethanol last time. "He gave this shield as a down payment, and pages from a journal. You may want to read them; very strange." Gustav put said journal pages on the table. "So, let me get this straight; we're working for this 'Finch', who's working for someone incredibly powerful and rich, and the goal is to retrieve an artifact and kill a spymaster."
“Mmm, is that all?” She asked quietly, allowing the Nord to continue to speak his mind.
"I don't know, Relyssa, seems like a lot can go wrong here, but the pay is too good to pass up." Gustav drank some water. "You probably have a plan already, and I take it you know more people here than I do. Also, how do you keep finding this kind of job anyway?"
“I didn’t find it. It found me,” Relyssa admitted — helping herself to the water. “I pretended to be you,” she said frankly, nonchalantly even. “It is concerning that you have been here less than a day and a so-called powerful stranger has found you, and is cornering you into this.” The Breton took a sip, crossing one leg over the other.
“Yes,” Gustav shrugged, “not like there’s much I can do about it.”
“A lot can go wrong, your men could die,” she muttered, thumbing over the journal pages with a raised brow, taking note of everything, but not allowing it to show on her face. “I almost am inclined to believe that our mysterious benefactor is counting on it, actually,” she remarked, suddenly serious as her gaze fell on Gustav once more.
“Or" she began, an excited glint fell into the sparkle of her eyes, "absolutely everything can go in your favour,” she smirked. “You can’t really want to simply pass up an artifact for pay?” Relyssa leaned back into the sofa and scoffed before smiling in an almost coy manner. “Why play by his rules when you could take everything.” The suggestion was very genuine, it all made sense in her mind of course — and she let the words hang in the air, watching closely for Gustav’s reaction. Would it scare him? Would he balk at it perhaps? Or find himself on board…
Truth be told, it did scare Gustav. He wasn’t a warrior or a thief; his expertise was finance, and this job was far beyond his expertise. Relyssa had made her schemes plain, and the previous sugar-induced smile faded from Gustav’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He said.
Gustav’s eyes fell to the shield, it darted to the journal pages, and finally to Relyssa. She was not kidding, and he started thinking aloud. “Well, alright. This artifact probably fetches a better price than the pay, and it’s not like the original employer can send an army against us, because why would he hire us in the first place. That leaves Finch, but he doesn’t seem too smart, or strong.”
“I suppose you are right.” Gustav admitted. He drank more water, as most nervous people tend to do. “You and I both value the lives of our employees, but we have to make sacrifices in the grand scheme of things, yes? Let’s say, hypothetically, Alim changed his mind at the last moment; would you continue the mission without him?”
“We are trying to outwit one of the most powerful people in Wayrest, from just a room away.” Gustav waited for Relyssa’s reply, trying to see if she was as committed as she sounded.
That made her smile, she turned her cheek to Gustav, suppressing a laugh. “Gustav, you have made your first grievous error in underestimating Mr Finch. He is street smart, and street strong. He will not let this mission fall to failure. He will not let us double cross him.” Her eyes flashed devilishly, as she ran her hand across her leg. “You have to view our situation as if he is the smartest man in the room, to make it entirely waterproof.” Relyssa sighed, taking a sip from the glass again.
“Huh,” Gustav snorted, “more trouble than he appears.”
“It is inconsequential to me, whether Alim changes his mind at any moment. He does not even need to be there…” She sighed again, her brow furrowing as she concentrated on her words, lowering her voice even. “Nobody else can know what you and I have discussed. It is up to us to pull the rug out from all of them, Alim, the Dunmer and Imperial siblings included. If any of them are in on this, they will jeopardise it, and someone could die.”
“Of course.” Gustav concurred. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Any one of us leaking this secret will spell doom for both.”
I know I’m asking you to put a certain level of… trust in me.” The Breton added. “It may almost feel like I’m handing you the rope with which to hang yourself…” she chuckled at the notion. “But let me tell you something about the gentleman next door; he is very indulgent, and he is hardly powerful in his nocturnal activities… If you know what I mean." The glass was brought to her lips, a mischief prickled across her cheeks in a blush as she recalled the sounds she had been forced to tolerate. "It would not take a distinguished mercenary to catch him off guard...”
“Good to know.” Gustav said nonchalantly. He looked away from Relyssa as she spoke. “We did trust each other at Evermore, didn’t we? It worked in the end, though I hope there won’t be a bounty this time.”
“Remember, Relyssa, I came to this city for the Ring of Potema, and you said you can help.” Gustav reminded her. He was a bit impatient and worried, but he was buying into Relyssa’s schemes. “If you think we can retrieve this sword without unnecessarily complications, then I’m in. You make the plan and tell me who you need, and where you need them.”
“And I will keep my promise to you on that, Gustav. Let’s just say I know a gentleman who could… Temporarily slip into your employ, who you may indeed find some use for in regards to… Obtaining an item,” Relyssa said, smoothing out the rising frustration in Gustav’s voice - hopefully, ignoring the comment about a bounty.
“We shall see.” Stated Gustav. “I cannot say no to extra help at this moment.”
“I can do this,” the Breton said, much of the manipulative look draining from her face. “Your mercenaries need a win… Their morale is low after Evermore. You need to be the boss now, but you also need to give them this victory.” She had leaned forwards in her seat, drawing closer to the Nord with severity in her eyes, a hand on each leg. “And as the boss of your company, it’s your decision to make. Sleep on it. Maybe you’ll come up with a plan all of your own, but heed my warning, Gustav,” she said, pausing to raise a finger into the air between them. “This gentleman desires this artifact more than anything, and desire is as dangerous an emotion as anything, especially when it was forged alongside revenge.” It was as if the woman was speaking directly from her experience, the depth of her tone was endless. “I don’t believe he should lay a hand on it, lest he smite every one of your mercenaries, Mr Finch included, as his reward -- as his guarantee of silence on the whole matter.”
Gustav looked back to Relyssa when she spoke, and the next thing he knew, he was staring at her, and unconsciously leaning to her direction. Gustav cursed himself silently. “You’re doing that again.” He grumbled.
With an overly feminine chuckle, Relyssa moved back, and out of his space, pleased with herself for the grating effect she’d had on the man. “My apologies…” She tossed her silver hair over her shoulder, instead leaning against the back of the sofa, her eyes staring right at Gustav.
“I am the boss of the company, and I-” Gustav stopped himself abruptly. He was getting worked up, and it’s probably what Relyssa wanted to see. She and her little game, Gustav tightened his jaw, and then forced himself to relax it; he would love to play it, if he weren’t always a step behind.
“Of course. Yes, you are the boss…” She repeated back at him with a slow nod.
“Look, this job is not what I’m expecting in Wayrest, and quite frankly, I’m not exactly the expert here.” Gustav decided he would be honest rather than going in circles. “But I see your point, it is better we get the upper hand on our employer, than playing pawns and leaving our fate to his whims. Very well, we will claim the sword as our own. You have certainly given me a lot to sleep on.”
“And this acquaintance of yours.” Gustav rested his arms on the tea table. He looked straight ahead, avoiding Relyssa’s alluring gestures and trying to not lose his wits. “How would he ‘temporarily slip into my employ’?”
The pride that she felt, over making him squirm so was incredibly delicious. It was as intoxicating a high as she could find in the place, and she’d felt a sense of her own power return to her after her earlier whimper of weakness. Whether she’d stick to the plan, she did not yet know, she only knew she enjoyed Gustav being on her hook -- she was one step closer to unravelling him. “Have your… What’s her name now… Ah,” she stopped, pointing her finger again, “have Miss Fontaine, or perhaps Miss Venim seek out the Peacock, tell him Relyssa requests a favour from him. He’ll do as he’s told.”
Deliberately cryptic, she wanted that to slither under his skin too.
“He’ll provide useful to you in a way that I don’t think anyone in your employ currently could be.” The Breton smiled again, relaxing into the sofa before she took a glance down at the tea table. “Mmmm,” she murmured out. “How time has gotten away with us,” she lamented. “You should get some sleep Gustav, it can’t have been easy working your way up here from below… And we have to make preparations in the morning.”
“Peacock? What a ridiculous moniker.” Gustav shook his head. He only looked over his shoulder to Relyssa now. “I shall have Miss Fontaine inquire about his services, for she has a task to test this Peacock’s worth.”
In the end, Gustav was determined to not let Relyssa get a rise out of him. Well, not too much of a rise out of him. He had to say something to even the odds. “Well, Relyssa, you do seem to enjoy our little chat as you enjoy the fineries of your suite.” Gustav leaned back and put on a cryptic smile to match hers. “It was quite refreshing to take in sights of the city, especially in less traveled areas. It would do you some good too, to get some fresh air outside, instead of cooped up in this brothel all evening.”
When it’s all said and done, Gustav was actually getting tired. He was stifling back yawns at this point. “I shall see you in the morning. While I would wish you good rest, we both know there’s too much on our minds for such.”
Relyssa gave him a polite smile, though his comment did rub her the wrong way — the implications of his words especially. They’d both been left with food for thought, and with desire to digest alone, Relyssa rose from her seat, glancing down at Gustav once more. “Well, goodnight then Gustav. I’ll be seeing you come morning…”
She left, walking as proud as she always did - her mind buzzing with the opportunities to come.
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Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
Wayrest Temple of Eight and One
Finch felt lighter on his feet now that his business with Gustav was squared away, and now he could finally set Everard’s plans into motion. He even scribbled a cryptic note and slid it beneath the door to the lord’s room to inform him that people have been hired and paid already. With the shield as a mere downpayment, Finch was anticipating having to pay Gustav at least half of what Everard was going to give him by the job’s end. Really, the only thing Finch was going to get out of this whole deal was some peace of mind, however much that was worth these days. He really couldn’t begin to guess what the mercenaries were going to plan, and as much as he hoped that they were men and women of their word, he couldn’t risk this whole job going wrong. If it did, there was no telling what Everard would do. The man seemed like a desperate lord. Should such a man be sitting on any throne? This insider look gave him a certain insight into this whole rebellion; if only he deigned to give a shit about such things. He didn’t plan on staying in High Rock for long anyways, much less Wayrest, the shit-hole of a city that it was at the moment.
But the job -- yes, the job -- Finch already had ideas in mind as he mentioned to Relyssa earlier. Finch paced down the establishment, deep in thought as he incomprehensibly muttered and strategized. Everard said Mathieu visited the temple quite often, so perhaps it might’ve been worth scouting the scene first to get a lay of the land. There was also a civil war within the city’s walls. There was quite a bit of chaos to take advantage of in this city, but the target also had a network of spies at his disposal. If one of them spotted a regiment of heavily armed mercenaries making a beeline to the temple, he’d probably be alerted. If Mathieu was as dangerous as Everard seemed to suggest, fighting him head-on was probably foolish. So…
Spymaster in a temple.
Don’t try to fight him.
Steal a sword.
What sense did it make to bring swords into places of worship anyway? Sure, there was a civil war at work and the man played an important role, but there had to have been rules. Were the grounds not sacred? As much as Finch didn’t want to bank on the good will of people, as precarious as it was, he had to rely on the religious narrative of sacred, neutral ground. Separate people from their weapons at the door, including the spymaster, and hope that as someone who knew to keep a low profile he would comply without making a scene.
That also meant the temple playing along with this policy. They might not be too hard to convince, since it’d appear to be in the interests of the temple and its patrons. That, or plant people who could pose as acolytes or volunteers. If one or two of the mercs were planted, then that might make the job easier… but if they suddenly disappeared, they might be easy to track down… unless they traded it off to someone else… yes. The plan was coming together!
He suddenly crashed his nose into somebody’s shoulder, releasing a startled and pained yelp. As he massaged the soreness away from his face, he disdainfully looked up to search the face of whoever it was he bumped into.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Mary chimed. Finch didn’t know who this dirty-blonde woman was, but she was much more solidly built than her appearance let on. A plain linen gown was draped over a pair of modest bloomers that barely peeked out from the bottom and she wore wool slippers. Mary knew this to be a stark difference from the apparel the rest of the company usually saw her wearing, but Finch didn’t have a clue who she really was and she didn’t look like the type who, uh… would work here. She looked too modest, but then again, he couldn’t be sure.
“No, it’s my fault.” Finch mumbled, averting eye contact. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I thought you looked distracted.” Mary said, holding back a chuckle. She wasn’t going to mention that she noticed Finch talking to himself so intensely. “Are you alright?”
“Huh? Uh, yeah.” Finch said, trying to brush this woman off. “Just going to head to the temple for a bit of... peace and quiet.”
“As was I. Would you mind the company, or are you a little…” A hint of blush showed on her cheeks as her eyes pointed upstairs. “...over-attended to?”
“What-- what?” Finch stammered, his face immediately going red. “N-no, no, I uh… no, that’s not my -- uh -- I was just working-- I mean, not like that, but uh, you know, just…”
Mary laughed. “Relax, it’s okay. I’m not a patron here either, I’m just boarding a room. Come on, I think we could both use a little bit of fresh air. What’s your name?”
“Uh… Finch.”
“Mary.”
For the life of him, Finch couldn’t understand how he got himself into these situations. The pair walked outside in the midst of a cool summer night, and for once, the call of cicadas were louder than the distant clashing of steel or yelling. In fact, the city was silent. Mary seemed to enjoy the outdoor jaunt, but something about it was rubbing Finch the wrong way.
“Do you know where to go?” Mary asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s pleasant out.”
“It’s too quiet.”
Maybe the Trifection finally arranged a brief cease-fire between the opposing sides. Finch didn’t know a great deal of the politics behind the conflict, but he did try to pick up information about the city from the locals when he could. The beggars were every city’s eyes and ears, and as long as you could speak their language, you were practically omnipresent. Still, if both sides could agree to stop killing each other, he could only help but wonder what their attentions were aimed at instead. He looked curiously toward Mary, who was humming away as if she was taking a stroll through a park and not a war zone.
“You know there’s a war happening, right?”
“There always is.” Mary answered. “Give me some credit, Finch. The fact that it’s so quiet tonight is all the more reason to enjoy it, don’t you think?”
That was one way of looking at it. The young man usually took any good sign with a grain, pinch, or even a cup of salt. There was an otherworldly confidence to the woman walking the worn Wayrest streets in her pajamas that naming her “Mary” did little to ground or humanize her in his eyes. Of what he could be sure of, at least, was that she wasn’t as mundane as she appeared. So she must’ve been hiding something from him -- go figure, most people did. He finally led them to the large double doors of the Temple of the Eight and One, but with a tug, found that the doors were locked tight. He shot the temple a scornful grimace.
“Strange,” Mary commented, “it should still be open unless the king placed most of the city on lock down.”
Finch didn’t spare Mary a look, instead rummaging through his pockets for a lock pick. He wasn’t as particularly adept at picking locks as much as was at picking pockets, but he still had a job to do. As soon as he stuck it into the keyhole though, he felt Mary’s hands on his his, brushing them back. He was just about to snap at her until she knocked against the heavy wooden door three solid times, and instead stared at her feeling dumbfounded. However, he didn’t even have time to think of their difference of approach before a man mailed in metal chain and leather scales approached the pair.
“Halt there.” Called a guardsman as he approached. Actually, he looked more like a soldier. He was armed with a pike in hand and a sword at his side, and his grip on his weapon spoke to the mistrust he faced them with. “You are in violation of the curfew set by High King Ferrend Bellemont. What is your reason for being here?”
Finch could hear footsteps from inside the temple stop suddenly as the soldier detained them, swearing silently to himself by the rotten luck afforded to him. No doubt this only happened because this Mary woman thought it was a good idea to knock on the door. She probably didn’t know anything going on within the city. As Finch silently stood and stewed in his own aggravation, contemplating whether or not he should run, Mary simply bowed her head.
“Apologies, sir.” She said. “My companion and I were just restless and hoping to pray tonight.”
“Is it not awfully late for that?”
Mary shook her head. “It’s never too late to seek guidance, I think. Especially in times like these.”
“And under what authority grants you the permission to ignore the laws established by our king?”
“I act independently.” Mary said, her voice growing more serious. “As a templar, is it not my right to seek prayer? And my duty to escort this young man safely through the night?”
A tense silence fell over the three of them, and both pairs of eyes landed on Mary. Finch, in disbelief, and the soldier in a slowly rising anger.
“You? You’re one of those fuckin Tri--”
The lock on the temple door suddenly clicked and cracked open. Inside, a priest eagerly peeked out and looked Mary up and down and said, “Trifection Templar, oh good! We’ve been expecting one of you.”
Finch wasn’t the only one who was surprised; even Mary seemed off guard by the mixed reception she was receiving, and the apparent renown that her old temple still seemed to hold. The priest ushered both of them in while the soldier stared daggers into their backs, and the heavy door closing behind them was a much appreciated reprieve. The priest released a heavy sigh and massaged his forehead.
“What was that?” Finch demanded.
“I’m… not sure.” Mary admitted, looking to the priest.
“Your order made quite a few waves.” He explained. “Not everyone appreciates what you’ve done here, but the temple appreciates the cease-fire and the… few tense moments of peace it’s provided, so our doors are open to you. If there’s anything I can help you with, ask me. I will be grounds keeping throughout the night.”
Mary tried to blink away the incredulity fogging her mind as the priest walked away. Order? They weren’t a knightly order, they were a temple. And what have they done here? And what does it have to do with a cease-fire? Her eyes fell back on Finch awkwardly to notice that his eyes were staring daggers at her too, just less aggressively than the soldier seemed to stare at her earlier.
“What?”
“Templar, huh?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing at all. It’s fine. Just, you know, seems like an important thing to mention or introduce yourself as.”
“You never asked.” Mary replied. A self-conscious bug began to creep into her mind. “Besides, my temple went defunct a long time ago, I’m not sure why those people were…”
“So, wait, did you lie? Are you lying?” Finch pressed. “Because I don’t know many defunct knightly orders brokering peace deals.”
“That’s not it at all!” Mary protested. “The House of Trifection wasn’t even a knightly order, we were a temple in Jehanna. What do you mean brokering peace deals? They shouldn’t even exist anymore…”
“Mary,” Finch said, sounding impatient, “the Order of Trifection is here. They’re the ones playing diplomat between the two warring factions.”
That paused the conversation for quite some time. It was a lot of information for Mary to take in, and she had nothing to say to Finch after that. She had to process what she heard. The next hour or so was spent in contemplative silence, sitting in the front pew. Finch sat with her for a short while at first while she prayed, but the longer she prayed in silence, the more antsy he got. He tried praying too, but he wasn’t nearly as practiced in it as Mary was, and his prayers were often short. He would get up, walk around, and sit back down. He'd walk around the temple, investigate possible hiding spots, vantage points, and so on, and he used the excuse of appreciating the artwork and architecture when the earlier priest asked him what he was doing -- but Mary stayed seated and prayed for what seemed like an impossibly long time.
Naturally, her mind was occupied with a mess of thoughts and worries. Had she really been so out of touch for so long? Had she really avoided newspapers for so long? Was her temple truly still standing and did it survive the scandal that had rocked its very foundations? Furthermore, what must have happened to it? Apparently it had converted to a knightly order from a religious institution; what had spurred that change? What happened to the leadership? Were her old friends still with the order? What would have happened if she returned? Did they think she abandoned them? Did she abandon them? They called her the most devoted of the templars, but if they truly survived, did she really deserve that title? Mary hadn’t returned home in so long and was so far removed from the politics of High Rock that everything she thought she knew was beginning to unravel.
About an hour into her prayers, Finch came back and tried to talk to her again. She then was fortunately free from whatever anxious high she was on and was able to hear him clearly again.
“So… uh, how about you tell me about them?”
“The templars?”
“The templars.”
“Well… we were a temple. We followed a religion. That’s how it started.” Mary began. “The House of Trifection. We followed the Tenets of Trifection, which was basically a model of moral perfection. Unattainable and always out of reach, of course, but that meant you could always work closer and closer toward it. Mara, Julianos, and Stendarr were our patron divines -- love, wisdom, and justice. We templars were supposed to embody those ideals. Healer… teacher… warrior.”
“So… you guys can do everything?”
Mary chuckled a bit, though a solemn sound it was. “Master of none, mind you.” She pinned on. “But we provided a service. It lasted until… well, a scandal hit the temple that I was sure was going to destroy us. It didn't even know about it, but it made me feel ashamed so I never went back. Now I learned that we survived, and I don't know how to feel. I had no idea, and apparently we’re-- they’re knights now, and are here in this city. I should feel happy, but… I’m afraid of seeing them again.”
Finch didn’t quite know what to say to that. There was much more backstory behind this woman than he anticipated and more than he really cared to hear about, more than he would bother to hear were he less of a bleeding heart. He couldn’t really relate. Like, he threw a rock once at a guard in the middle of a protest. Which turned into a riot, but that was more his fault while Mary’s entire ordeal seemed entirely out of her control. There was a difference between making shitty decisions and having shitty luck, though he could probably argue that he was good enough to manage both at the same time. Eh, on second thought, his own life was pretty eventful even if it was par for the course with most of the peasantry.
“So do you have any other surprises up your sleeves?” He asked.
“Um… I’m working as a mercenary?”
“No shit? Gustav?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Stendarr’s mercy,” Finch groaned, “yeah, I know him. I, uh… well, he’ll clue you in. Don’t worry about it for now, I guess.”
Well, this just got a little bit awkward. He didn’t expect her to be a templar nor one of the people he ended up employing. Then again, the company was taking lodging within the brothel, so it was probably just as likely he’d run into one of them as it was he ran into a whore. He spent the remainder of his time flagging down the grounds keeping priest and proposing to him a few practices that’d help Finch later with his job. Covertly of course, and through casual conversation. A suggestion that, perhaps with all the soldiers and tensions in the city, that it might be best for any guests to the temple to leave their weapons by the door before entering this place of worship and communion. After all, this was supposed to be a safe place. No one should not feel unsafe under the loving gaze of the Divines, and this was an argument that the priest couldn’t necessarily refute. At the mention of not having enough members of the clergy to fulfill all the daily duties and tasks of the temple in addition to manning such a position, Finch mentioned that he, Mary, and some friends would be more than happy to volunteer. Finch also had a feeling that the priest wouldn’t have trusted him if he hadn’t walked in with a Trifecta Templar by his side, but he was lucky. After some consideration, they seemed to reach an agreement and shook on it.
It was about twenty minutes after the conversation did Mary seem ready to leave. It was very late into the night now, and both of them seemed quite tired after staying up so late. Both received some pretty heavy news (though one more than the other), but got what they came for nonetheless. There was little telling what the following day would bring them, but both knew there was a lot to expect (for varying reasons). Upon their return to the brothel, they bid their goodnights to one another as Mary resigned herself to bed and Finch to his own quarters, where he’d remain restless and awake. To spend some of this energy, he wrote down what he’s been up to all night on a piece of parchment so that he could forward his plan to Gustav through the crack under his door. Everard wouldn’t care, just as long as he got his damned sword back.
He even wrote a very brief apology letter to Relyssa to slide under her door, he was so restless. Very brief. A few words brief. Something about noticing how something had shaken her and that he will be more careful in the future. He couldn’t really begin to guess what it was, but he figured that someone as powerful as her -- at least he presumed she was powerful -- would be a bad person to have disliking you. He didn’t particularly care for the noble types, but right now he had to rely on these people to work with him in order to get this job done right.
Finally, with all of his energy spent, he blew out the candles and quickly fell asleep with only a few hours left to spare. He’d be fine. If he could function with four hours of rest on a cold cobblestone street, then five hours in a warm plush bed would be more than enough.
GM
POOPHEAD189 Worrier
Member
Seen
5 days ago
Early Morning, Last Seed 17
Evermore
Evermore
For Ariane, everything had been tedious.
Defeating Nyrehtaud wasn't that bad, as Tsleeixth had already done the heavy lifting. The aftermath honestly took longer, but Ariane explained her part and let Gustav handle the rest. It was much easier for her than some of her fellow mercenaries. The leaders of High Rock applauded her bravery, and Ariane just nodded. She was somewhat proud, but knew well enough they were no more than empty praises.
Less than an hour later, Ariane was pacing around the dining hall. This place was in shambles. Finely stitched curtains fallen amid broken windows, spilled food splattered between overturned tables, and bodies, dozens of them, piled on puddles of blood. The guards had taken people outside for questioning, and the castle staff was busy cleaning out everything that didn't belong on the floor. No one really paid attention to Ariane, so she strolled onto the stage, one of the few spots left untouched. There, she found a pile of ash, and a wand. The wand emitted potent ice magic.
Ariane had a lot to think about that night, and suffice it to say, she didn't really get any sleep. She once again thought about Tsleeixth, and though she didn't know him well enough to be devastated by his (unlike Sagax), she was nevertheless shocked and saddened by his death. The Argonian, one who survived one grevious injury after another, the man that always followed his orders to the letter and never caused trouble, was the mission's lone casualty. It was unfair, and there was nothing could do about it.
What she could have done was save Maj. She could have persuaded the bounty hunters, or called help, or at the very least, put up a fight against Lightsleep. Maj was the only person she had a proper conversation with in the last few months, and one of the few people that approached her with genuine warmth, when others saw her as cold and aloof, and avoided her like the Thrassian Plague. Ariane missed her. So when Gustav suggested traveling to Wayrest that night, Ariane leaped at the opportunity. If they could get there fast enough, she could have a chance to save Maj. Maybe she could prove Maj innocent? No, the Redguard openly boasted about her pirating exploits. Busting her out of danger then. Ariane never pictured herself formulating a jail break, nor would she imagine Maj as the "damsel in distress". But she couldn't just let this lively and joyous soul be executed for something in her distant past. No, not before she told Maj how much she...appreciated her wits?
The company had to set early in the morning, so early, in fact, the sun had not even risen. Their transportation was a convoy of three carriages. The first one was comfortable, with an engraved overhead canopy and two rows of padded, plush velvet seats. The other two were uncovered and had only rough wood benches, so Ariane naturally sat in the first one. When they first set out, Gustav also invited Sadri and a new Breton woman to the luxury carriage. It was cramped inside, and once the small talk between them fizzled out, Ariane found herself bored and wanting to nap. Of course she couldn't nap with so many people there, so the first time they stopped, she shooed Sadri and Relyssa off to the less desirable carriages and set her down on the back row. She didn't sleep very well, but in Ariane's brief dream, she saw Maj.
Ariane could not quite understand what she was feeling. The last time she felt like this over someone was in her college days, when a fellow student asked her to picnic. She accepted, and never showed because of a flurry of confusing emotions making her nauseous. She kept this feeling deeply buried since, and when it had resurfaced, over Maj, of all people, Ariane performed the only magic she knew: trying in vain to bury it again. She spent the trip distracting herself with reviewing dossiers and tactical manuals. It became boring, for the first time ever, and Ariane wished for sea shanties to keep herself company.
Defeating Nyrehtaud wasn't that bad, as Tsleeixth had already done the heavy lifting. The aftermath honestly took longer, but Ariane explained her part and let Gustav handle the rest. It was much easier for her than some of her fellow mercenaries. The leaders of High Rock applauded her bravery, and Ariane just nodded. She was somewhat proud, but knew well enough they were no more than empty praises.
Less than an hour later, Ariane was pacing around the dining hall. This place was in shambles. Finely stitched curtains fallen amid broken windows, spilled food splattered between overturned tables, and bodies, dozens of them, piled on puddles of blood. The guards had taken people outside for questioning, and the castle staff was busy cleaning out everything that didn't belong on the floor. No one really paid attention to Ariane, so she strolled onto the stage, one of the few spots left untouched. There, she found a pile of ash, and a wand. The wand emitted potent ice magic.
Ariane had a lot to think about that night, and suffice it to say, she didn't really get any sleep. She once again thought about Tsleeixth, and though she didn't know him well enough to be devastated by his (unlike Sagax), she was nevertheless shocked and saddened by his death. The Argonian, one who survived one grevious injury after another, the man that always followed his orders to the letter and never caused trouble, was the mission's lone casualty. It was unfair, and there was nothing could do about it.
What she could have done was save Maj. She could have persuaded the bounty hunters, or called help, or at the very least, put up a fight against Lightsleep. Maj was the only person she had a proper conversation with in the last few months, and one of the few people that approached her with genuine warmth, when others saw her as cold and aloof, and avoided her like the Thrassian Plague. Ariane missed her. So when Gustav suggested traveling to Wayrest that night, Ariane leaped at the opportunity. If they could get there fast enough, she could have a chance to save Maj. Maybe she could prove Maj innocent? No, the Redguard openly boasted about her pirating exploits. Busting her out of danger then. Ariane never pictured herself formulating a jail break, nor would she imagine Maj as the "damsel in distress". But she couldn't just let this lively and joyous soul be executed for something in her distant past. No, not before she told Maj how much she...appreciated her wits?
The company had to set early in the morning, so early, in fact, the sun had not even risen. Their transportation was a convoy of three carriages. The first one was comfortable, with an engraved overhead canopy and two rows of padded, plush velvet seats. The other two were uncovered and had only rough wood benches, so Ariane naturally sat in the first one. When they first set out, Gustav also invited Sadri and a new Breton woman to the luxury carriage. It was cramped inside, and once the small talk between them fizzled out, Ariane found herself bored and wanting to nap. Of course she couldn't nap with so many people there, so the first time they stopped, she shooed Sadri and Relyssa off to the less desirable carriages and set her down on the back row. She didn't sleep very well, but in Ariane's brief dream, she saw Maj.
Ariane could not quite understand what she was feeling. The last time she felt like this over someone was in her college days, when a fellow student asked her to picnic. She accepted, and never showed because of a flurry of confusing emotions making her nauseous. She kept this feeling deeply buried since, and when it had resurfaced, over Maj, of all people, Ariane performed the only magic she knew: trying in vain to bury it again. She spent the trip distracting herself with reviewing dossiers and tactical manuals. It became boring, for the first time ever, and Ariane wished for sea shanties to keep herself company.
Evening, Last Seed 21
Wayrest
When Wayrest came, it was through the sewers. Such a route would normally be too undignified for Ariane, but considering she would have to break into a jail, she went with it anyway. As the company's warriors slayed the werecrocodile, Ariane noticed a bunch of alligators breaking in through the sewer grates. The new and big man, Oren, threw them back out in a splash of water. Then Ariane used Sylette's wand to freeze the sewer grates, sealing the scaled threats out with impenetrable ice. She kept the alligators from overwhelming her comrades, and plus, the exhilaration of cryomancy made her feel confident again.
Lodging in a brothel was less than ideal, and sleeping in a cheap, musk-filled, fluid-drenched and bedbug-ridden room was certainly not going to happen. Ariane requested an upgrade from the madam, Xenia Richton. Richton told her none were available, so she conjured a bound sword and held it against Richton's neck.
Richton laughed. "You got moxie, girl. Some of my clients would love to-"
"Not interested!" Ariane retorted, while pressing the bound sword a little further. She wouldn't know until she looked at a mirror, five minutes later, that she was blushing furiously.
"My, my!" There was no fear in Richton's voice, only more amusement. "Got someone on your mind, do you? Well, they're sure lucky to have a passionate lass like you."
"No, she's-" Ariane huffed. "I just want a better room!"
"Ah, you don't have to tell me. I know a lovesick puppy when I see one." Richton wiggled a finger beside the bound sword, then she sighed. "To be young again...you can have the reserved premium suite, standard rates, for you and your sweetheart."
Ariane handed over the gold and took the keys without a word. Only then did she notice Richton was holding a knife against her lower abdomen the entire time. In her flushed state, Ariane would probably have gotten stabbed first. Richton noticed too, and winked.
The initial stay in the premium suite lasted less than ten minutes for Ariane. She saw Tamrielic Gazette on the tea table, and her eyes immediately darted to the High Rock section. Maj would be executed, in two days! Ariane had to act now!
The last person Ariane wanted to bump into was Xenia Richton, but there the madam was, the only "familiar" face in this bizzare establishment. Ariane was a little embarrassed to ask her, but she didn't know where Wayrest Prison was from her previous visits to the city (since she was an upstanding citizen), and when had such silliness called "embarrassment" ever stopped Ariane Fontaine from getting what she wanted?
"So your sweetheart is a criminal? Fallen for a dashing swashbuckler?" Richton smirked. "Here, I'll mark the prison on your map. And don't worry, it's our little secret."
45 minutes later, Ariane was standing outside of the city, and staring at a very large and foreboding wall. It was well into the night now, and the looming prison was illuminated by torches and braziers. A detachment of guards stood at the front gate. There were at least a dozen of them, and many more on top of the wall. The entire place was an impregnable fortress of steel, stone and fire. It would scare normal people, but not Ariane. Oh no, she marched up straight to the guards and demanded entry.
The reply was expected, though only so in Ariane's hindsight (for some odd reason). "You shall not pass!"
The prison was not taking visitors, that much was certain. Brute forcing through the guards and front gate also seemed unfeasible, as it would take an entire army and their siege engines to do so. In fact, Ariane remembered Richton saying the prison had only fallen to the allied forces because its former prisoners overthrew their Corsair wardens. Perhaps an unconventional entry then? Tunneling? Takes too long. Portal? Ariane would need a focus crystal and a set of transliminal braces, then she would have to tune them, which will take a day at the very least. No, that leaves-
"Hello? Can you hear me?" A man was waving in front of her. She was partway back to Wayrest, and somehow completely missed him while walking.
"Who goes there?" Ariane warned. It was near pitch dark on the roadside, but the glow of magicka in her hands began coalescing into a bound blade.
"Please, I mean no harm! Lady...Fontaine?" The man put his hands up, surrendering. He looked familiar. "Just listen to me for a moment. I am Quyon Cox, former...acquaintance of Maj Noor. I saw her being taken at-"
"Evermore." Ariane recognized him, the Breton that watched as Lightsleep took Maj away. Ariane kept her bound sword from taking shape, but kept the magicka in her hands. "What do you want?"
"Same as you, if I am not mistaken." Quyon was glancing nervously around. "Maj Noor's wellbeing, and her freedom."
"Why? Why approach me?"
"I saw Maj accompanying you as 'consort' during the banquet." Quyon admitted nervously. "I care about her the same way you do. You see, she was once my fiance-"
The bound sword materialized in Ariane's hands; Quyon jumped back.
"But that is no longer the case! I am married to another woman, for many happy years, if I may add." Quyon stammered. "I made a mistake! I thought informing the bounty hunter would reunite Maj with her family. But I messed up again, just like when my proposal drove her away in the first place. I only wish to see her happy!"
"Give me a reason to trust you." Ariane said, coldly pointing her blade at Quyon. But in her mind, thoughts of possibilities were already racing.
"I'll tell you a secret, alright?" Offered Quyon. "The guards change every two days at midnight. Daggerfall troops before, then Camlorn's, and so it goes again. I've been secretly observing them. The last time they did it, they nearly killed each other, until those Trifection templars showed up."
"So..."
"The next change happens tomorrow evening." Quyon elaborated, his hands gesturing wildly. "We slip in during the inevitable chaos, then we'll find Maj and get her out before the new guards take up station."
"If it is so simple, then why have you not already done it?" Ariane pressed. Surely it would be more, but this sounded promising.
"I am not a mage, Lady Fontaine; I cannot trick the guards, or bypass obstacles like you can." Quyon shook his head. Then he sighed and muttered the rest. "I may also get lost; not good with directions."
In the end, Ariane decided to take Quyon up on his offer. She didn't fully trust him, and admitting begrudgingly, felt jealous of him. But Quyon had been scouting the prison longer than Ariane had, which meant he knew more about it than Ariane did. Plus, he asked for no reward, no payment, only to speak a few words to Maj before letting Maj go her own way. If Ariane had a choice, though, she wouldn't even let Quyon speak to Maj. Wait, since when did Ariane Fontaine care about a few words?
Still, Ariane and Quyon agreed on utilizing other outside assistance. Quyon suggested they hire contractors, and luckily for Ariane, she commanded a mercenary company. She could already see several mercenaries providing the perfect skills. Sagax had all the sneak they would need, and Niernen had the magicka fuel to melt steel beams. Now they only needed someone to forge identifications to ensure entry. Gustav came through with good news right on time; a "peacock man" would be willing to do just that. Ariane would pay him a visit next morning.
When Ariane returned to the brothel, she returned with a spring in her step. Richton greeted her with a knowing smile, and Ariane smiled back.
Lodging in a brothel was less than ideal, and sleeping in a cheap, musk-filled, fluid-drenched and bedbug-ridden room was certainly not going to happen. Ariane requested an upgrade from the madam, Xenia Richton. Richton told her none were available, so she conjured a bound sword and held it against Richton's neck.
Richton laughed. "You got moxie, girl. Some of my clients would love to-"
"Not interested!" Ariane retorted, while pressing the bound sword a little further. She wouldn't know until she looked at a mirror, five minutes later, that she was blushing furiously.
"My, my!" There was no fear in Richton's voice, only more amusement. "Got someone on your mind, do you? Well, they're sure lucky to have a passionate lass like you."
"No, she's-" Ariane huffed. "I just want a better room!"
"Ah, you don't have to tell me. I know a lovesick puppy when I see one." Richton wiggled a finger beside the bound sword, then she sighed. "To be young again...you can have the reserved premium suite, standard rates, for you and your sweetheart."
Ariane handed over the gold and took the keys without a word. Only then did she notice Richton was holding a knife against her lower abdomen the entire time. In her flushed state, Ariane would probably have gotten stabbed first. Richton noticed too, and winked.
The initial stay in the premium suite lasted less than ten minutes for Ariane. She saw Tamrielic Gazette on the tea table, and her eyes immediately darted to the High Rock section. Maj would be executed, in two days! Ariane had to act now!
The last person Ariane wanted to bump into was Xenia Richton, but there the madam was, the only "familiar" face in this bizzare establishment. Ariane was a little embarrassed to ask her, but she didn't know where Wayrest Prison was from her previous visits to the city (since she was an upstanding citizen), and when had such silliness called "embarrassment" ever stopped Ariane Fontaine from getting what she wanted?
"So your sweetheart is a criminal? Fallen for a dashing swashbuckler?" Richton smirked. "Here, I'll mark the prison on your map. And don't worry, it's our little secret."
45 minutes later, Ariane was standing outside of the city, and staring at a very large and foreboding wall. It was well into the night now, and the looming prison was illuminated by torches and braziers. A detachment of guards stood at the front gate. There were at least a dozen of them, and many more on top of the wall. The entire place was an impregnable fortress of steel, stone and fire. It would scare normal people, but not Ariane. Oh no, she marched up straight to the guards and demanded entry.
The reply was expected, though only so in Ariane's hindsight (for some odd reason). "You shall not pass!"
The prison was not taking visitors, that much was certain. Brute forcing through the guards and front gate also seemed unfeasible, as it would take an entire army and their siege engines to do so. In fact, Ariane remembered Richton saying the prison had only fallen to the allied forces because its former prisoners overthrew their Corsair wardens. Perhaps an unconventional entry then? Tunneling? Takes too long. Portal? Ariane would need a focus crystal and a set of transliminal braces, then she would have to tune them, which will take a day at the very least. No, that leaves-
"Hello? Can you hear me?" A man was waving in front of her. She was partway back to Wayrest, and somehow completely missed him while walking.
"Who goes there?" Ariane warned. It was near pitch dark on the roadside, but the glow of magicka in her hands began coalescing into a bound blade.
"Please, I mean no harm! Lady...Fontaine?" The man put his hands up, surrendering. He looked familiar. "Just listen to me for a moment. I am Quyon Cox, former...acquaintance of Maj Noor. I saw her being taken at-"
"Evermore." Ariane recognized him, the Breton that watched as Lightsleep took Maj away. Ariane kept her bound sword from taking shape, but kept the magicka in her hands. "What do you want?"
"Same as you, if I am not mistaken." Quyon was glancing nervously around. "Maj Noor's wellbeing, and her freedom."
"Why? Why approach me?"
"I saw Maj accompanying you as 'consort' during the banquet." Quyon admitted nervously. "I care about her the same way you do. You see, she was once my fiance-"
The bound sword materialized in Ariane's hands; Quyon jumped back.
"But that is no longer the case! I am married to another woman, for many happy years, if I may add." Quyon stammered. "I made a mistake! I thought informing the bounty hunter would reunite Maj with her family. But I messed up again, just like when my proposal drove her away in the first place. I only wish to see her happy!"
"Give me a reason to trust you." Ariane said, coldly pointing her blade at Quyon. But in her mind, thoughts of possibilities were already racing.
"I'll tell you a secret, alright?" Offered Quyon. "The guards change every two days at midnight. Daggerfall troops before, then Camlorn's, and so it goes again. I've been secretly observing them. The last time they did it, they nearly killed each other, until those Trifection templars showed up."
"So..."
"The next change happens tomorrow evening." Quyon elaborated, his hands gesturing wildly. "We slip in during the inevitable chaos, then we'll find Maj and get her out before the new guards take up station."
"If it is so simple, then why have you not already done it?" Ariane pressed. Surely it would be more, but this sounded promising.
"I am not a mage, Lady Fontaine; I cannot trick the guards, or bypass obstacles like you can." Quyon shook his head. Then he sighed and muttered the rest. "I may also get lost; not good with directions."
In the end, Ariane decided to take Quyon up on his offer. She didn't fully trust him, and admitting begrudgingly, felt jealous of him. But Quyon had been scouting the prison longer than Ariane had, which meant he knew more about it than Ariane did. Plus, he asked for no reward, no payment, only to speak a few words to Maj before letting Maj go her own way. If Ariane had a choice, though, she wouldn't even let Quyon speak to Maj. Wait, since when did Ariane Fontaine care about a few words?
Still, Ariane and Quyon agreed on utilizing other outside assistance. Quyon suggested they hire contractors, and luckily for Ariane, she commanded a mercenary company. She could already see several mercenaries providing the perfect skills. Sagax had all the sneak they would need, and Niernen had the magicka fuel to melt steel beams. Now they only needed someone to forge identifications to ensure entry. Gustav came through with good news right on time; a "peacock man" would be willing to do just that. Ariane would pay him a visit next morning.
When Ariane returned to the brothel, she returned with a spring in her step. Richton greeted her with a knowing smile, and Ariane smiled back.
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