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 like that one too, Platypus, which is why I shoved it in my sig, but I'm starting to think I prefer "I would of course love to stay and talk, but I am actually lying when I say that, so… you get my idea."

I'm starting to worry I'm pushing this Khajiit 'tone' of voice a little too far in this piece, but I still like it: I invite critical comments.

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“The Ring of Khajiit,” S’krivva sighed, from somewhere in the room. “This is… interesting.”

“Do you know what has interested me of late, S’kriv?” I asked. “In order of importance: The Real Barenziah, the question of whether magic or a pick is most suitable for a rotting door-”

“Use a magic pick.”

“-and fighting the last three souls you sent after this toy, minus their flesh, plus a vampiric deathmaker.”

She took off the ring, and put it down on the table between us. “Their ends are not news, J’dar,” she said, “as you well know.” She began pacing up and down the room like a caged wolf. “It does not make for a story for kittens, it is true, but the value! This artefact will make kings into paupers and gods into men.”

“Both of those events, S’kriv, are nothing new.”

She grinned. “I suspected we would come to history soon enough.”

“History is a very interesting study, sandwalker,” I said, picking up the ring and watching her eyes follow, “most of all, that of debts owed.”

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It was a reasonably short ride to Leyawiin. I say ‘short’. In this day and age, one’s best method for timekeeping was to count the highwaymen. The sun might melt, and Masser and Secunda could return to the void, but bandits would still appear on the Emperor’s roads more reliably than clockwork.

Of course, at that point there was no Emperor.

In honesty, not a soul seemed to have noticed. A man in a skirt may have summoned a dragon god in the skies of the Imperial City, and a mer in a dress may have attempted to hold the Empire together, and it may have become the fashion for Daedric influences to show up wherever their inexplicable desires, well, desired, but I have always suspected that the only way to get a point across to a man of Leyawiin would be to ram a wooden one in his face.

It was for this reason that a Leyawiin separatist group could meet in a bar.

“I don’t trust that mad Thieves’ Guild girl,” Si’valit (do you remember? She had an axe!) noted, as politely as a Nordish cat could. “You know what she thinks of our struggle.”

“Si’,” M’aiq said, with the beginnings of a smile on his face, “if you are willing to ‘struggle’, as you put it, for Khajiit, you should also be willing to talk like Khajiit.”

“Can she help it?” I asked, playing along. “Is it her fault she spent twelve months on the snow-covered edge of the world speaking that dull tongue?

“Oh wait,” I shrugged, “yes, yes it is.”

Si’ glared at me. Frankly, I was not surprised. Still, it had the effect that M’aiq intended: we lapsed back into Ta’agra, which is the best tongue for telling secrets.

M’aiq downed his flin and spoke. “As we were saying: the fact that those abominations in your hands stopped a blade, J’dar, does not make them a wise investment.”

I grinned. “At the rate the Empire’s economy is sinking, I shall be able to sell them back at a profit.”

“Less of that, jungle cat. It is an important point; you can barely control the things. Between that and your hopelessly short knives, how do you intend to survive a real battle?”

I leant back on my chair. “M’aiq, let me tell you a story about my grandfather-”

“Do you know what saved you, J’dar?” Si’ suddenly hissed from beside us. “It was not your temperamental metal hands, and it was not your assassin’s knives, and it most certainly,” she snorted, “was not your useless magic. It was a sword, J’dar.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you implying?”

She leant across the table, fire in hers. “I am implying that it is time you gave up this mad nonsense and carried a real weapon.” She unhefted her axe. “Do you see this, J’dar? This is a real weapon. The Nords are not as stupid as they look.” She held it out to me. “Try lifting that.”

It must have weighed as much as myself. Straining to lift it to a combat stance, it slipped out of my hands, the handle smacking my foot. OW. As I sat down, nursing my foot and cursing under my breath, Si’valit picked it up and continued.

“You are weak, skooma fiend,” she said, as the patrons turned to watch the stupid kitties playing with the axe, “and that will kill you. Claws may have kept you alive in the Senchal alleys, but here, you need a sword.”

I stood up.

“That is interesting,” I forced a smile, “given that I never needed one to beat you.”

We looked at each other.

It is generally considered bad etiquette for a male and a female to come to blows. It harkens back, once again, to the deserts: it is not so much that females are weaker - they are so by birth, but not by destiny - as it is a simple fact that fights that remove members of both genders from a breeding population is tantamount to tribal suicide.

This gave M’aiq time to intervene.

Before we had time to think, he was on his feet, a hand on both our shoulders. He muttered a word, and I instantly lost all feeling in my body.

“They call this spell ‘paralysis’,” said M’aiq, as we toppled, “but I prefer ‘peacemaker’”.

It was a short effect. Consider the amount of effort one invests in tying someone up, or cutting all their tendons, and realise that even a nine-tenths saving of energy still asks very much of a caster.

Si’ said not a word as she got to her feet, unsteadily. Neither did I.

“In the name of all that is sweet and holy!” M’aiq roared. He seemed to grow in size, as if his robes were filling out from the inside. “Here, now, after everything we have seen, you choose to scuffle like moonless kittens? You are many years more than a month old, children, and the moons have chosen your forms. There is no excuse for this. None!

“Si’valit, you are dismissed. Leave this room, and do not return tonight.”

With a last piercing stare at me, the Nordish Khajiit turned on her heel and slunk away. It stung.

“As for you, mad city cat,” M’aiq gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

I sat. There are times to resist orders, and this was not one of them.

“She does it for your sake, you know,” he said, softly. He caught me by surprise: I had expected him to turn me inside out with words alone.

“She knows you, J’dar; better than I, at any rate. I, for one, totally fail to understand your… decisions, at times.

“She cares for you, young one, and she fears for your safety.”

“M’aiq, if you had not so adroitly stopped us from moving, I suspect she would have given herself more things to be afraid of.”

He waved a hand. “Enough of this. We shall speak again tomorrow, of your next assignment. I do not approve of your style, but you finish what you start. Go.”

I rose, and headed for the door. “More skooma, city cat?”

“Yes,” I said, with a grin, “I always finish what I start.” As I turned to the door again, I heard him speak again.

“Tell me, J’dar: what did your old friend ask you to find?”

I laughed, loud and harsh. I reached into my pocket, and I brought out a simple trinket. It was a ring. “This, my friend. I thought that, if it must cost three lives, it should go with one who saves them.”

M’aiq smiled. He twisted a finger, and the ring shot across the room into his outstretched hand.

“In that case, I should hold onto it for now.”

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Aug 7 2008, 12:54 AM