Broken glass, falling, snow drifts, a haze of sensations and emotions that cascaded from the clanking of tin cups. Maribelle fell back into her body, smelling shit and sweat and mead. She wasn't sure if this was coming from her or the cell. A painful, shrieking light came from a small notch far above. The fading lumiscence fell on top of Maribelle, making the potato sack she had been squeezed into as clothing glow faintly. This glowing made her eyes hurt.
Gathering the strength to move even the tiniest, most insignificant amount away from her lying position, Maribelle ended up pushing herself off the cot she now severely regretted leaving. The ground was worse than the fetid straw that made up her place of rest. Whichever benevolent soul had placed her there she owed at least a drink.
Or not, the drinks are what lead her to this cell. Or what lead a probably extremely unamused guard to throw her into the drunk tank. She'd probably offered him a drink too already and he certainly hadn't accepted the offer. After a few moments to try to ignore the brain gouging headache, she got onto her bare feet and slid her arms through the bars, shouting coarsely. "Guard! Guard!"
A absolutely huge fellow, Nord, tiger armed and towheaded approached the cell and gave a disinterested look that did nothing for Maribelles confidence. "What do you want?"
Maribelle gripped two bars, "My freedom and my armor. Also, recompense for the wrongs committed by the guard when I've clearly done nothing wrong."
"You attempted to duel an unarmed vagrant after jumping off the roof of the tavern, Talos knows how you got up there."
"That seems pretty concrete actually."
"It is."
She retreated back onto the cot, landing flat on her back. After a moments contemplation, she arose again and called out, "Wait, how did I end up in this sack dress?"
"That's just something we did for fun."
Currently simmering behind his stolen helm, Finnen descended the stairs, nodding to the huge Nord. The other guard left and after hearing the slamming of the jail doors Finnen removes his helm, his cautious eyes flitting about the room. Sensing no immediate danger, he quickly decides to start shuffling through the small stack of parchment on the table in the center of the room, ill-lit by the fading sunlight streaming in from outside and a few sparse sources of candlelight. It seemed nothing, except for a few reports on arresting mer for vagrancy, one of killing another for "resisting arrest using deadly magicks" and another for restraining a young Breton woman who'd "drank herself into oblivion(not literally)" and had to be thrown into the cells to sober up after trying to "duel everyone inside and outside of the tavern."
He spared a glance to the jail cells, his eyes locking onto a woman no younger or older than he, perhaps one summer ahead or behind. He looked back at the reports of the jailings and killings of mer and back to the woman. Trying his luck, he approached her cell, tapping them gently, "Oi, wench, you wouldn't be too drunk to give me information I sorely need?"
Lifting her head up to see who was bothering her, a guard presumably, she gave a groan and threw her legs over the side of the cot and stood up reluctantly. "Information? What could I possibly know that you need?" she asked, grabbing for the cell bars and trying to get a close look at the guards face.
"On the off-chance that you aren't a worthless drunk, I need to know if you know anything about the guards killing elves." He said, inching back as the woman came closer to him.
"What's that worth to you, exactly?" she said with a amused grin.
He magicked his lockpick from behind his back, dangling it in front of her, "People who help me tend to get helped in return. And I won't leave you here to rot on multiple assault and resistance of arrest charges. I think I could add a bit about you pissing on the barkeep too. The quill and ink's right over there."
Furrowing her brow, Maribelle said with something of withheld spite, "Fine, I witnessed the slaughter of several Elves to armed louts. How do you think I had so much gold? Elves are notoriously fickle."
Finnen raised a brow at that, "You stole from dead mer?"
She raised a finger, "No, I, as the only beneficiary residing around the place of the death of several unnamed bodies with no known next of kin or last will, acquired a small fortune of septims from dead Mer."
"While we're making things up for ourselves, love, I'm next in line to the throne in Daggerfall. Come with the handsome prince and he won't stab you for being mouthy," He smiled, " And, well, as the head of a monopoly on lockpicks in this room, deary, I can let you out of here. Might have to pay the fee of a few septims for my services."
She humphed for effect, brushing a lock of unkempt hair to the side. "Fine, but we're finding my armor and sword before we leave. I believe it's somewhere in the Captains quarters, if I had to guess."
"It's where I'd put it." He said, inserting the lockpick into the keyhole, hearing an orchestra of clicks before one loudest click signaled the finale.
He opened the door to the woman's cell and sketched a mocking bow for her. They made it upstairs unhindered, before the skeleton crew of guards were seen congregating in the common room. Finnen nodded to the captain's quarters upstairs before hooking his thumbs into his swordbelt, walking amongst the guards, he grabbed their attention by regaling them all a bawdy tale about an Argonian maid, a drunken Knight and a cave in Black Marsh while the woman made her way up the stairs. It was a few minutes before he left the rest of the guards, letting them sleep. He took the steps upstairs to rendezvous with the woman he'd freed and to possibly nab himself some coin.
Leather, check. Elaborate draperies, check, boots, metal parts, all good. Satisfied she hadn't forgotten a piece of the armor, she set about finding her septims. Which wasn't hard as her bag of loot was set next to the Captains own chest, which if she had a lockpick would be fairly easy to open. She grabbed her sword and sheathe which were set upright next to the chest and looped them to her belt, waiting next to the chest for what she expected was a thief to arrive.
Finnen closed the door behind him, his brows raised to see the woman still there, waiting for him, "I don't suppose that bed's going to get any use. What else do you need, hm?"
She gestured to the chest she was standing next to, kicking it to indicate that it made clinky, goldlike noises.
"Sounds like happiness, it does." He smiled, kneeling down in front of the chest and going to work.
It was seconds before the chest was opened. He dipped his hand in and like sand, golden, circular sand, fell from his hands and back into coins just like them. He looked back at the woman, "I'm open to suggestions of how we'll get this out of here."
"I was thinking I could burst down there, take down a few of the guards while you ran out carrying as much as you could carry." she stated matter of factly.
He looked at the woman, a slight look of incredulity mounted upon his face before he chuckled, "I'd rather not have to answer for murder. I'm here for a long stay, love."
He looked about the room, searching for something, anything to aid in their escape, preferably that allowed them to carry the immense amount of coin away from here. His eyes settled on a window and a shrug raised his shoulders, "Window?"
Maribelle shrugged, "Window." prying it open with her sword sheathe and clambering out as best as she could in her steel and leather getup. Upon landing, she rolled as to not hurt herself. She stumbled onto her legs, shouting "You coming down you ponce?"
Almost as if in retort, the chest made a heavy thump into the soft ground below and right next to Maribelle. Finnen popped his head out, "Watch your head, love."
He dropped out of the window, landing in a roll before getting to his feet. He looked around, sighing, "I'm going to the tavern. You're coming. I've got a few friends who'll love to hear your confession. You'd be helping a good cause."
"Am I going to be paid?" she asked. "Gold loosens the tongue, so they say."
"I assume we get to steal our pay. It's what we just did." He said, "You'll find a lot of chances to get your pay with our lot, love."
"Fine, but if they're a bunch of droll cheese-curdlers I'm not talking."
"Quite the opposite, deary," he slipped off the guard's chainmail hauberk and quilted leather armor to put on his own simple cloth shirt, "Quite the opposite."
