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]

Cheers, folks. It's definitely the patter that makes J'dar. The plot coupon took a lot of thought - I changed my mind a couple of times (I edited the last post to switch a few 'thems' to 'its', after I decided not to go with the Boots of the Apostle), but I'm happy with what I've got here. Let's see how J'dar handles situations where insulting people isn't enough.

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A race such as mine, drowning as we are in sugar and tied as we are to the dance of the moons, knows all about lunacy.

One of the most important things about madness is that there are two types - not that one would notice, the way your kind treats anyone whose spirit softens. There is stark, raving insanity - the sort that involves painting oneself blue and pretending to be a Xivilai - and there is zi’kantha, which has an odd echo in your phrase ‘so crazy it just might work’.

I had not yet worked out which of these S’krivva had sunk into. Of course, I didn’t really care, because this was something I had to chase anyway. This was so crucial to the Guild that three operatives had died?

Regardless, S’krivva still knew me well: I simply cannot leave loose threads be. It is, in one sense, a curse - I always find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time - and, in other, a blessing - I always end up somewhere interesting.

Fort Naso could indeed be described as ‘interesting’. I had never understood why big blundering men came to the middles of forests to build their little stone huts; it was obvious that the trees were here first.

It wasn’t even as if they were at an advantage in places like this. As I walked through the door, it remained pitch-black, even with the torches lit-

Wait.

Someone had lit the torches.

I threw myself up against a dark patch of wall for cover, and raised my nose to the air. Great. Absolutely wonderful. This would not be the slightest bit difficult. I detected no major problems. No.

In case my readers are not aware, I am here struggling to convey sarcasm in print.

I could smell death. It permeated the stone, the air, the wood… consider how bad death smells to you, and then consider that we could not smell so ineffectually as you if we plugged our nostrils with cork.

My hands went to my belt, and each readied a throwing knife.

We Khajiit have, of course, an advantage in the dark. Without light, Merrunz himself would be at a disadvantage against one sharp jungle cat. It was because of this… confidence that what happened, happened.

I knew that he was not a friendly fellow the moment that I saw him. I may have dubious connections, but not even I am on good terms with old men in black robes with cowls.

Well, maybe I could be, if it wasn’t for the skeletons. Three of them, armed with very sharp-looking swords, blocking my way down the corridor.

“Thieves Guild, I suppose?”

The words, I am ashamed to admit, caught me off balance. I was not used to giving people the chance to say anything. I was most certainly not used to being asked questions.

“I belong to no Guilds, deathmaker,” I growled.

“Oh, nonsense!” The old man actually laughed. “You smell the same as the first three. I’d wager you even have the same master!”

…smell…

“What did you do with them?”

“Need you ask, cat-man?” He gestured in front of him, at the skeletons dividing us. “Don’t you recognise your colleagues?”

Me and S’krivva were going to have serious words about this.

“I’ve got Talos, Kynareth and Akatosh already: I’ve been naming them for the Nine Divines,” the old man giggled, his canines glinting uncomfortably in the dancing firelight. “You look like a Zenithar to me: lucky, but never lucky enough.”

…teeth…

“You do not know the half of it, you demented old fool,” I said coolly, adjusting my balance. “You see, the thing about luck is-”

I had no intention of finishing my sentence. A steel knife had already left my right hand, sailing straight through the skull of one of my bony foes. I didn’t know which god he was, and frankly I didn’t care. Truth be told, I was more worried about the two other skeletons.

“The perennial weakness of a man who relies on range is that his friends always get in the way.”

A shining piece of M’aiq’s wisdom. I relied on it very much as I drew two more knives, backing up slowly to keep the caster obscured. A pair of silver swords gleamed worryingly in the firelight.

“Finish him, you useless husks!” The man roared. “I am thirsty, and I wish for a drink!”

…thirst…

A sword swung. I dropped to the floor, under its swipe, and rolled backwards, rising again onto my feet. I threw a knife.

It severed one of the skeletons’ hands right at the wrist. It dropped the sword, smiling emptily, as I sent another through its head. My hands went to my belt-

And I had to duck again. As I tried to get up, a rough backswing slapped me in the jaw with the flat of the blade. I staggered, and hit the wall. I had nowhere to go. If the skeleton actually had facial muscles, I suspect it would have been smiling properly. It swung the sword again, bearing straight down on my skull.

Then the claws came out.

The thing about our claws is that they are controlled by instinct, not by choice. Normally, this is good enough for us: many of us can trick ourselves at will, bringing them under a vestige of control; those who cannot, carry swords.

I was no good at the former and too proud for the latter. Switching them with steel had not improved the matter.

I caught the blade under the claws on my right. This looks impressive, I assure you.

With all my strength, I pushed the blade sideways, away from me; it sent the last skeleton spinning in a circle, and, as it turned away from me, I grabbed its neck and pulled.

There was something of a crunching sound. The skeleton, instantly beheaded, collapsed, sending its sword skidding towards the old man. I looked up and grinned.

It did not have the effect I expected. Spellcasters usually enter paroxysms of terror when their friends are removed. Given that they are men in skirts, this is not wholly surprising.

But this one was different. This one looked at me, straight in the eye, and grinned right back.

“In that case, furball, I will eat raw.”

He tore off his cowl with the sort of force better seen on a Dremora. That face… it would be fair to say that the cowl did wonders for it. That face was scarred and sunken and soulless, and all of a sudden I realised where most of the deathsmell was coming from.

The vampire.

He leapt at me, the image of a hunting cat. I slipped to the side, and advanced with my claws, but even before he landed he had prepared a fire spell, which he sent flying in my direction with an unholy scream.

If we take as a given that my entire body is covered with fur, you will understand why I do not like fire spells. I ducked again, and lunged at the vampire. I caught him right in the face with four points of steel, and yet I didn’t cut him.

If I needed any more confirmation that this was a man with supernaturally enhanced abilities that came with the price of sharp teeth and bloodthirst, that was it.

He laughed. “Steel claws? Very cute, catman,” he said, with a sneer. “Could you perchance try something stronger - for example, a few rude words?”

Oh, jungle burning.

“I know what it is you seek!” He laughed again. “But it is beyond you. Only one of your kind ever truly mastered it, and even he was so foolish that he lost it!”

He lifted a necklace from out of his robes. A simple gold chain ran through the item S’krivva’s zi’kantha desired: a ring.

“I am not done studying this quaint little token,” he said, advancing on me. His look hardened. “It has many secrets left to yield, and I shall not be disturbed by petty thieves. It is not your fault you were sent here, but you did destroy a third of the Imperial Pantheon. That merits the death penalty, don’t you think?” As he asked, a maddened look entered his eyes, and he punched me in the face.

He really did have the strength of a Dremora. He sent me spinning across the room, skimming and rolling to a stop alongside the fallen silver of my dead predecessors.

…silver…

Talk about deus ex machina.

I grabbed a sword, silently thanked whichever god I hadn’t just metaphorically killed that had intervened, and took a stance. All of a sudden, I wasn’t woefully under equipped.

It only took one swing.

I aimed it straight at the jugular, as fast as I could. He stepped back, but I released the blade from my fingers as it swung, and that extra length brought it across his neck. As he fell to his knees, clutching his throat, the necklace, severed, fell to the floor and the ring ran free.

Finally, S’krivva’s childhood dreams would be realised.

I slipped it on my finger and turned invisible, as the mad vampire struggled for breath.

“The thing about luck,” said the air, “is to take your chances.”

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Aug 1 2008, 04:01 PM