A Study in Velvet Options

[Marcel Rhodes]

Hi there all,

I've been reading the material here on and off for a good couple of months. It's great stuff to read, and I thought I'd have a go myself. I apologise in advance for any poor quality, as fanfic isn't my normal line of writing. It's just a spinoff from one of the quests in Oblivion, but I might evolve the main character in further updates if people are interested.

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It is nigh on impossible to get a good high in the Imperial City.

I never understood why you staunch Imperial types banned moon sugar. It means that to obtain my treats, I must go through… unsavoury channels, and today I was entirely unable to find one. Your blasted thjizzrini - your ‘laws’, although our closest translation is ‘foolish concepts’ - and your over-enthusiastic guardsmen saw to that. So instead, I defaulted to legal vices.

I was in the Bloated Float, to be precise. Run by an Altmer, which always struck me as rather odd: shouldn’t he be in a mage’s tower somewhere reading empty books, instead of helping the layabouts of this city drink themselves into Oblivion? I did not, and do not, like this place, but when you’re a Khajiit people tend to look at you funny in what you would doubtless call ‘high-class establishments, not for the likes of you beasts’, and expect you to steal the bar stool.

Oh, for Alkosh’s sake. You’re all confused because I’m a Khajiit, yet I don’t talk like I just took a paralysis spell to the throat. So close-minded. If you ever really listened with those tiny ears of yours, you might learn things.

Anyway. The place was, as always, too crowded. I’d actually had to wrap my tail around my waist to prevent the less agile - or more malicious - punters from standing on it as they go by. It was almost like a skooma den, which is both good and bad. Good, in that no-one is watching you too closely, but bad, in that there’s no skooma.

It would be fair to say that on the moon sugar/skooma front, I am like all Khajiit there ever were.

So there I am, huddled between a Redguard with his nose in the glass, and a boorish, black-haired Nord who wants me to show him a backflip. Neither of these two is any fun. The Redguard is far too quiet. I suppose he’s thinking about stabbing things. Even that, though, would be more enjoyable than this infernal Nord, who now apparently wants to show me something.

“Listen, kitty, I’ve got an offer for you.”

Great. I bet he’s not going to ask me to steal something. Not a chance. He probably wants me to help him compile a history of Summurset Isle. He’s not assuming I’m a born thief. None of that sort of thing. No.

“Ever… ever heard of the, whajemacallit, the, the Golden Galleon?”

Who hadn’t? The Altmer made his living on it. You could just tell by the ten or so self-styled ‘adventurers’ - none of whom looked like a threat to a mudcrab - lounging around the room in leather and cheap swords, hoping to discover the mythical treasure hidden on this boat (and, presumably, buy armour that wasn‘t stitched by a blind man with the proceeds). This place, most days, was filled to the brim with fools who either wanted to be the Nerevarine or the tenth Divine, and it was one of the reasons I tried avoiding it.

“Of course, friend. You don’t believe that silly rubbish, do you? The Golden Galleon is a story I wouldn‘t tell to kittens.”

“Trust me, mate,” the Nord blinked, slowly, “I believe it very much.” Well, that was wonderful and all, but did he have a point here? Oh yes, he probably assumed I could steal it. “What if… if I wanted to get it?”

“In that case, big man,” I said, grinning, “you could always put on some cheap armour and join the twenty other fools chasing that false scent.”

There’s something about a Khajiiti grin that unsettles even the toughest man or mer, I’ve noticed. It’s one of those natural weaknesses: the very idea of a person who has weapons growing out of his paws and face probably does worry those of you who have to lift their own kit with two hands.

Suddenly, he made proper eye contact. “It’s not false. Meet me outside.” The Nord rose - I only then noticed he was the size of at least two and a half Bosmer on top of each other -and walked out the tavern, with only the faintest hint of a stagger. Well, would you look at that. That insobriety was (almost) all an act! To give him his due, this snowwalker was sharper than he let on.

Still, I had a couple of things to ponder before I got on with figuring this out (would I ever leave such a tantalising little titbit hanging? I think not). Firstly: what did he want? Secondly, what on Nirn made him ask me? He couldn’t be choosing his business partners for such an obviously shady activity based on their fur, could he?

I’d just got the impression he wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t think it was as simple as ‘all Khajiit are thieves’. No, he had far more complex reasons, and if they were what I suspected, I would have a serious problem.

This merited a look on those grounds alone, but I also suspected that whatever was going on here would also be rather fun. At least, more fun than this hole. So, after paying my tab, leisurely finishing that brandy, and making sure no-one was watching, I left.

The Nord was dawdling outside on the street, partially obscured by the dark of the night: of course, this presents no problem to my kind, but I also noticed one other, minor problem. Either that figure crouched in the shadows behind the crates in an alleyway was a law-abiding commoner who’d come to check on his investments and taken a wrong turn at the Waterfront or he was connected to the Nord. I assumed the latter, which was something of a bad development. Still, what kind of fool tries to hide from someone with a cat’s eyes?

I was right; as the Nord turned to the shadow as I walked out, and said “It’s alright, he’s unarmed.” Out from the shadows stepped a female Dunmer, clad in leather and carrying an iron blade, which she sheathed as she walked.

Great. Another one.

“We’re sorry about that,” she said, as she reached us, “but you can’t be too careful around here. Those Imperial s’wits are always trying to trick people like us.”

So, criminal to boot. No surprises there.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “I seem to have got myself into a bad situation here…”

“Oh, goodness no!” The Nord laughed, which sounded somewhat akin to an earthquake, or possibly a collapsing building. “We just wanted to have a little businesslike chat, without being listened to by everyone in that cesspit. Sorry about the deceit, m’boy, but there’s no better way to get people to do what you want than when they think you’ve had ten too many.”

“Ah, I see. So you wish to talk… business? Can I still assume this Golden Galleon is involved?”

The Dunmer spoke. “That’s right. You see-”

I dismissed this with a flick of my paw. “You’re wasting your time, girl. That thing doesn’t exist, or if it does, it’s gold leaf on lead.”

“Oh really?” Her red eyes flashed. I probably shouldn’t have called her a ‘girl’. “Well, maybe you can confirm that for us.”

Uh oh. Time to stall. “Perhaps, before we begin such a sensitive discussion, some introductions would be in order.”

The Dunmer shrugged, and looked to the Nord. He nodded: it looked like he was the boss of this outfit.

“Fair enough. I’m Wrath and this is Minx. We’re… two members of a larger whole. And, frankly, your name isn’t important. We know enough about you already, even if not that.”

And now we came to it. “What, exactly, do you think you know about little old me?”

Minx cut in. “You’re a Khajiit-”

“Bonus points for the lady.”

“- and we know you’re likely to help us. We’ve heard you bandied about in, uh, select places, which implies to us that you’re not Thieves’ Guild. But at the same time…” she trailed off. “We suspect you would be interested in our offer.”

I sighed. I would have to follow this up later. “Lady, I am not going to join you on this foolish wild goose chase. The Golden Galleon is a story, it is a lie, it is a legend, it is an urban myth; it is, indeed, many words and phrases which imply falsehood, and, frankly, I don’t think I’d want to associate myself with you two anyway.”

“Listen, furball,” the Nord was clearly not pleased with my implication, “all we want you to do is to nip onto that ship after closing time, and have a look around. That’s all we’re asking. If you find it, you don’t even need to steal it: you can just tell our leader where it is, and we’ll come in and get it. We have our own plans for this heist, and all you have to do for an equal share of the profits is a quick look around in the boat. What’s so hard?”

I looked at them. The idiots! They genuinely believed that the Golden Galleon existed, and that the owner hadn’t thought of moving it. He was hardly going to leave it in some chest under his bed with this sort of rumour going around, now was he? Even if the blasted thing did exist, I wouldn’t be surprised if these two had just walked off of a prison ship, eyes agleam - and blinded - by the promise of riches.

I looked at them again. “I am not interested, and that is final.”

The Nord grimaced, and glanced around him. “In that case, we’re going to have to silence you, and that is final. Minx, we’ve got something to clean up.”

But before either of them could draw their swords, I had glided the six feet between them and I. Why do people insist on thinking they are faster than us? By the time the big Nord’s hand had reached his scabbard, both he and the female were writhing in the grip of my unsheathed claws on their throats, which, besides causing them to fear for their lives, confused them, as said claws are, of course, made of burnished steel. Far sharper than mere bone, and the shock value is also useful.

“Not so, Nord. I am afraid that I do not like that game.” I said, tightening my grip. Small drops of blood rolled down my claws. “For your information: you can call me J’Dar, I am no criminal, I am not going to help you, the Golden Galleon is not there, and you cannot beat me. I think this is all you need to know. Now, drop the weapons.”

Grudgingly, after a shared glance, the two bandits slowly and exaggeratedly dropped their swords, which I swiftly pushed into the Niben with my feet.

“And now, I believe, I shall make my leave.” I said, let go of them, and let them fall to the ground holding their throats as I walked off in the direction of the Elven Gardens. Those two - and their ‘leader’, would probably do something stupid, like try and ransack the place themselves. I shrugged. I supposed I’d go look for Shady Sam again. Let a hero deal with it.

[Marcel Rhodes]

I have a feeling it won't be as easy as M'Aiq claims it to be.

Heh. When was the last time M'Aiq said anything simple?

Anyway, here's the next instalment. J'Dar does seem to have a gift for attracting trouble, and that's not changing today.

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My trip to the Imperial City passed uneventfully. Well, I lie: the last part was uneventful, speeding past as I was on a horse recently liberated from a bandit suffering from grievous wounds to his face. He should’ve kept his guard up, really.

I had been sceptical of M’Aiq’s plan when he first unveiled it. It was not exactly as if Khajiit even existed in most of high-level Imperial society. None in the Fighters Guild in any real positions of power. There used to be a few in Blackwood, but it turned out they’d found something worse than skooma. Not one in the Imperial Watch - not even polishing the armour - and none in the visible parts of the Blades. I didn’t see how we could possibly leverage public opinion like this.

Then, of course, I read his list, and realised I’d forgotten the loudest three voices in Cyrodiil.

I’d entered their offices in the Market District early that crisp and cool morning, after having failed to find a bed at The Bloated Float (what did you know? It looked like the big Nord and his friend stole it after all). I am, to put it lightly, cheap, so I slept in a cellar instead. I would have paid for the pleasure, but this would mean I’d have to tell the owner I was there.

Still, it was worth it. Ra’Jiradh and his two brothers - Khajiit to a cat, all with the wrinkles and lazy eyes of old age and sugar use respectively - ran the Black Horse Courier. For those who are unaware of their work, consider them as town criers who use paper instead of voice. Copies of their newsletter ran everywhere across Cyrodiil: I’d even found a few in the saddlebag of my horse, which said something for how up-to-date my bandit friend liked to keep himself. If we could harness that reach they had, we would be onto something.

“So, remind us again why Leyawiin is so important to us as a people.” Ra’Jiradh asked, lounging on a chair.

I was there under the guise of a concerned citizen of Leyawiin, and an amateur scholar of Elsweyr history: I had brought a copy of A Brief History of the Empire, to give the impression I had just walked out of a bookstore: I left it sticking out of my robes with an air of practical casualness. All in all, I thought I’d done pretty well, although disguise was never really my thing.

“Because it is ours, Ra’Jiradh.” I said, with a serious attempt to hide the stress on ‘ours’. “That capricious Count and his cat-hating wife have no right to our shores, even if they could govern their way out of a wet paper bag - which they cannot, I must say.

“It has been twenty years since that false-faced Imperial declared his sovereignty over those last stretches of our ancestral homelands, and only ten since he built that castle over the city. But you know this. You are Khajiit. Our history is ingrained in our bones. The River Malapi - not the Niben, no matter what the maps say - is as natural to us as our mother’s milk.

“All I ask-”

“Stay your tongue.” One of the brothers interrupted. I hadn’t learned their names, which made things harder. You know when you forget someone’s name, and the longer you spend with them, the ruder it becomes to ask? Eventually you reach the point of no return, and this is how I was with the two brothers of Ra’Jiradh. “You speak very fancy words for a fighter. You must be a southerner. What possible business of yours is a northern territory dispute?”

I swear, one of these days I’m going to grow my mane like the northerners do and communicate by growling. It would save so much hassle. Besides, how did he know I was a fighter?

Ra’Jiradh chimed in whilst I searched for a suitably cutting reply. “Maybe he is another soft little kitten who heard silly stories about the noble life on the sands, hmm? Here is news for you, brave freedom fighter: it is not noble, it is scum. It is the laugh of the landless; it is the mercenary’s grin; it is ‘Renrijra Krin’, and that is what we are.”

It would seem I’d been sent to get people to help me out who are already members of the group I wanted them to help out. It was never easy to track M’Aiq’s little games. He was like a kitten with wool, that cat.

“And, in that case, M’Aiq has sent me up here just to talk shop with some grizzled oldtimers then? The Liar wears his name well.”

I really have a talent for angering people at inappropriate times. One of the brothers burst out with a “tcha!” and got to his feet. “For your information, kitten, he has sent you to us to test you. After all, we wouldn’t want you running into a fight and tripping on your tail, would we?” As he said this, he unsheathed his claws. Looked like this could be messy.

“That’s as may be, friend, but I hate having to kill the over fiftys. For some reason you all leave my clothes smelling like mildew.”

“Enough of this idle chit-chat.” Ra’Jiradh got to his feet. “This is serious business, Hassiri.” Now I knew his name, at least. “You both know the rules of the Traajijazeri?”

I nodded. Traajijazeri - or ‘honour fight’ - rather explained itself. It was a northern tradition, evolved to settle disputes without inter-tribe wars: cat versus cat, claws versus claws. It carried the virtue of rendering the winner’s argument logically sound, as often with these disputes either side was as good as the other. It was just an issue of choosing any one at all, rather than choosing the right one.

In many cases, it was most certainly messy.

I coughed. “One question before I embarrass your brother. If M’Aiq is so keen to influence popular opinion - if he still is - why haven’t you done that already?”

Hassiri grinned, and I could see he had filed his teeth to sharp points, like he had twenty chitin daggers in his mouth. “That, little one, is because there is a time and a place for-” And he lunged. Clever.

It was a large room. So, I leapt backward towards the door, unsheathed my own claws, and took up a fighting stance.

Fights like this are about long periods of watching, then short moments of perfect strikes. One cannot try and block, or grab the offending hand: the fact that both sides have sharp objects sticking out of their hands means both move with a degree of exaggerated caution. We circled each other, hissing: with the occasional feint or half-hearted probe at the other’s defences and reflexes, it was all about finding a time and place.

A swipe from him. A duck from me, with a swift uppercut as I rose. He jumped back. He had no chance of using those teeth: he just couldn’t get close enough.

“Oh, not a stalemate! I thought southerners like me were soft!”

A rustle, and then a smack to the side of my skull: one of the brothers had thrown something heavy at my head. I fell to my knees.

I grasped at the wall for support, to see Hassiri jumping at me, victory dancing in his eyes. But he wasn’t looking hard enough.

Seizing the moment, I threw out a leg. It caught him square in the knee. As he fell yowling, his face met my knee heading in the opposite direction. Crunch. He tried to roll away, but before he could move I was up, kneeling on his shoulders with a claw at his throat, slamming his face into the floor with my other hand.

I really am too nice for my own good, but he did say there’s a time and place for everything.

“Had enough, tough cat?”

A moan.

“That sounds like a yes to me.” I unsheathed my claws, but gave him a punch in the face for good form’s sake. This whole show had been totally unnecessary, and I was not particularly happy with any of these three clowns. Or, for that matter, M’Aiq.

I stood up, and turned to Ra’Jiradh. Speaking up a little to drown out the pathetic mewlings from the oldtimer on the floor, I spoke. “I am glad I don’t have to talk you into agreeing with us: I can just say that you now know what M‘Aiq wants from you. I mean, I would of course love to stay and talk, but I am actually lying when I say that, so… you get my idea. With any luck, you can do this properly so I don’t have to kill one of you next time you want to ‘test’ me.”

With that, I turned for the exit. I’d persuaded them to help out - if not in the way I’d expected - and I’d won their stupid honour fight. I mean, it’s not as if this’d stop them dismissing me as a lucky skooma-addled city-cat, anyw-

“May you walk on warm sands, friend.”

I smiled as I walked out the door. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all.

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Jan 25 2008, 08:58 PM