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]

Muaha! Seeing as I've now managed to find a computer in the university library that is not mobbed by twenty or so bawling students, here's the next installment. I have returned indeed.

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After firing off the aforementioned note in M’Aiq’s direction (by an unusual coincidence, the riders for the Courier were quite happy to add him to their rounds), I did as I promised: I headed to Bravil.

Bravil, for those who are blissfully unaware, is the cesspit’s cesspit. Lorkhaj was quite clearly slipping when he shoved these hopeless piles of mud together. With the exception of the castle (your leaders always lie on warm sands, even in a marshland), it is a city – a town – made solely of rotting timbers and cheap locks. There are skooma dens, there are side alleys, shadows, scuffles and slip-ups, and naturally I loved it.

Once again, I was in a bar. It seems that I just can’t avoid the places. In particular, the ones where trouble ends up happening, for which I have something of a talent.

I was in what the owner, presumably in a fit of pretentious fancy, had called ‘the Lonely Suitor Lodge’. I did not attempt to understand the name: I had always thought that a suitor was not lonely by, well, by definition, and I was not interested in debating semantics with the big Orc who ran the place. I doubted he could even spell ‘semantics’, let alone debate them.

Well, that was cruel, and probably wrong. Knowing my ability for reading people, he probably went to the University and wrote crime fiction. Besides, I was still angry about the whole incident in the Imperial City: I had, effectively, been sent into a trap, and I was suspicious. Did M’Aiq not know already that I could fight? I had been sorely tempted to demonstrate my abilities first-hand, but I suspected that would end badly. M’Aiq was tougher than he looked. Besides, all the northern sandwalkers were like that. It was all about whom you could trust, out there in the deserts: and, out of those, whom you could rely on when metal met meat.

We’d have a word, was all.

Besides, it wasn’t important. I was here today on the lookout for my next target; M’Aiq, with that paranoia that made him such a wonderful playmate, had refused to pass on the name by paper lest, somehow, some sort of Imperial learnt Ta’agra (there is not one in the world who could). All I knew was the obvious - look in a bar - and the heart-warmingly predictable - Thieves’ Guild.

The statistics do not lie. There are more of us in the Thieves than there are in the rest of Cyrodiil’s noble and less noble institutes put together: ironic, cats led by a fox.

Besides, this wasn’t important either. What actually was important was that, lo and behold, not one Khajiit had strutted their way through these doors all cursed day. I had been here since midday, and the dawn chorus had just started up: any longer and I would start to look like more of an alcoholic than I actually was.

To Oblivion with it. I was not waiting any longer for this nameless thief. I would show up tomorrow, and, if I felt like humouring M’Aiq, the day after that. How he expected me to pull this off without any actual information was, like almost everything he has ever done, entirely beyond me.

With that, I rose, nearly threw a few coins at the barkeep, and wandered off. You see, I mentioned skooma dens, and skooma is what we would call my wool. It is, for lack of a better word, fun. Other races – those who can’t take their skooma – call this ‘addiction’, ‘madness’, ‘self-destruction’: but we are Khajiit, and we know nothing is bad in moderation. Why stop what you enjoy?

But enough of my justifications. It is me talking in ta’hujji again, in ‘meaningful nonsense’: we have so many ideas and concepts that defy translation into your pitiful shadow tongues, that we came up with a word for them.

Of course, I do not deny that the effects of skooma on the mind are much like being kicked in the head by a tiger-like Senche-raht: this I could confirm several hours later (I have left out the details, for the sake of the weaker stomachs in the crowd). I had been trying to find my way back to the Lodge, where I had the politeness to actually purchase a bed, but for some reason I had forgotten where it was. It must have been the bread I ate.

I was just performing a slow and exaggerated mental playback as I walked when I went down like a tonne of bricks. OW. My head was spinning… well, spinning more. I tried to roll away from my attacker, but had no idea where they were, and found myself rolling straight into a wall. Again, OW.

“You… robbing… me now?” I managed to get out, rubbing my temple and trying to focus.

“Well,” my assailant purred, “you looked rich and soft.”

As my vision unblurred, connections started make themselves all of their own accord. Khajiit, thief…

!

“You Guild?”

“Everyone worth knowing is Guild, friend.”

“Need… to speak with your leader.” I was starting to come around – the cold mud in the gutters around here has that effect. I needed to buy some time. “I’ve a- a message from M’Aiq…”

I think I saw her frown. “The Liar? What does he want?”

I moaned. All I got in sympathy was a kick, and a menacing prod from the cosh she carried. At the time, I was extremely proud of the dent my skull had left in that. “I asked you, you pampered kitten, what M’Aiq wants. Please do not be wasting my time.”

I rolled away, massaging the freezing sludge into my temples, as feeling surged back into my joints. Seriously, OW. “He, he, he-”

She raised the cosh. “Tell me now, little southern cat, what your anarchist friend wants!”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I want first,” I said, as I tripped her over and unsheathed my claws at her neck, “I want my knives back. Then we may talk secrets.” She shouldn’t have called me a southerner like that.