The contract, my reowking of some of Oblivion's events Options

[Remko]

Well, since I was specially asked by a fiend, I will be posting this one as well. I was re-reading it and couldn't conclude otherwise that it's obvious it was the first fan-fic I wrote. Hope it isn't too disappointing.

Chapter1: The hangover

He woke up with his head throbbing and a woozy feeling in his stomach, a silent witness to the night before. ‘Ooohhh, I really should stop drinking that cheap rubbish,’ the hung-over Altmer thought, while cradling his head in self-pity. A severe burst of pain rushed through his forehead and he wished he had paid more attention when they tried to teach him the fine arts of restoration. He barely knew how to heal minor wounds, let alone cure a serious hangover. Or even how to get rid of a bump that had mysteriously manifested itself on his head and he couldn’t help but wonder where that had come from. His recollections on the previous days were still somewhat blurry.

‘Now to open my eyes,’ he murmered to himself. Reluctantly the Elf opened his eyes and immediately shut them again in agony of the bright light that greeted his new day through the bars of his small, square cell.
Although the light was a lot dimmer than he had anticipated it was still hurting his eyes and consequently, the throbbing in his head got worse. Quickly he shut them again. A grunt of agony left his throat. ‘Where in oblivion am I?’ he wondered while re-opening his eyes, slowly this time, and took a few glimpses through his squinted eyelids. First things he became aware of now he finally could take a decent look around, was that mouldy, green bricks and a metal gate in one of the walls enclosed him. Definitely not the room he had rented in the Talos plaza hotel a couple of days before the events that, apparently, got him thrown in jail.
‘Not again….. By the Nine, how am I getting myself out of here this time?’ he sighed.
This damp, cold confinement seemed familiar from the last time. But, then again, he had noticed all jails tend to look the same throughout the empire. It was just another cell, just like all the others.

A raspy voice broke through the relative silence of the morning:’You are never getting out. You are going to die here, you snotty Altmer hahahaha!’ Gently he sat up from the stone slab. A damned lousy excuse for a bed but what could he expect from a prison? A brief throb of pain though his head, this time in the area of his temples, rather than his forehead, rudely reminded him of his condition. He wished he had something decent to drink instead of something you wash your clothes in.

‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ he whispered and made a face, while trying to rub his stiff, sore back. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t really reach the spots that hurt the most, which disgruntled him even more. Why couldn’t he just lie down and die? Death appealed a lot more to him than this bloody hangover. Judging by the taste in his mouth something had already died in his mouth so he figured he might as well pass on too.
The banter from the opposite jail carried on some time but Hargeth just ignored it. If he hadn’t been feeling so miserable, he would probably have taken offence in it but he really didn’t feel like acknowledging that pesky Dunmer how he felt about it. As there isn’t really a point harassing someone who just ignores it, the Dark Elf soon grew weary of it. He did make a mental note though. A lot could be said about Hargeth but not that he is the most forgiving type and even less when he has been drinking. The last individual thinking that was now sleeping with the slaughterfish. The memory on that particular incident brought a shade of a smile on his face.

Returning to the present day from his wandering thoughts, he wondered if the guards had left anything to quench his terrible thirst. The convict turned his head, slowly; to make sure the throbbing in his head wouldn’t return in the severity it hit him last time. In a corner there was a tan pitcher with some fluid in it that could be identified as, well, wet. Calling it water would be an insult to real water. He was actually glad that it was a tan pitcher so couldn’t really see the colour of what was in it. ‘Hmmm, smells like rat piss,’ he grumped while bringing the pitcher to his mouth to quench his thirst and to get rid of the awful taste in his mouth, briefly hesitating uncertain of what was in the pitcher but then decided he didn’t really care. It could hardly be worse than his current state. He took a careful sip but even that upset his stomach and made him loose whatever he still had in it. ‘It IS rat piss,’ he thought and agrily tossed the pitcher in a corner shattering it in a lot of pieces. And if being in jail with a terrible hangover didn’t suffice, sure enough, a shard bounced back and cut him in the face. ‘Oh great!’ Frustrated he wiped the welling blood from his cheek, again cursing the lack of attention he had paid to learning restoration. He made a second mental note to start with that, well, when he got out of jail that was.

Because of the racket he had made the Dunmer prisoner noticed Hargeth had hurt himself which was enough for him to start mocking his fellow in-mate in the opposite cell again. ‘Keep that up and you will have the guards save out on a lot of fun!’ and almost fell to the floor laughing.
‘I hope you choke in it!’ A growl from the opposite cell was its reward. Hargeth couldn’t care less and went back to feeling sorry for himself.
His thoughts wandered a while when he heard the distinct clang of armoured guards coming down the stairs to the cellblocks. Casually they strolled passed the front cells while taunting the prisoners in the cells there.

‘How did you like your…. beverage?’ a fat, balding guard asked him with a smug grin on his face while looking at the remains of the pitcher.
‘I guess my suspicions weren’t too far off, rat-piss, guard-piss, all the same,’ Hargeth replied and immediately regretted making that comment. The barely hidden insult triggered the guard to come into his stinking cell and rewarding him with a couple of cruel kicks to the stomach, much to the Dunmer in the opposite cell’s amusement.
Shuddup or you’s next Dreth!’ the guard barked towards the opposite cell. Valen Dreth was quick to shut up and withdrew into one of the darker corners of his cell. The Dark Elf had probably learned the hard way as well.

His nose had a strange angle in it, indicating his nose had been broken too, probably by the same guard. Most guards he had encountered in previous stays in prison scattered over the empire were kind compared to this one. This particular guard knew exactly where to beat into prisoners where it hurt the most. It was likely he practised a lot in being efficient in crippling prisoners. What was a captain doing a simple guard’s work anyway? It seemed Hargeth more and more likely the fat guard was just a sadistic honoured user taking pleasure in abusing prisoners. Or did the Legion really didn’t have anyone else for the job? Hargeth had hoped the distraction the Dunmer, Dreth had created would have kept the guard from making it worse but, much to his dismay, the guard wasn’t finished yet.

The guard, who fancied a drink himself judging the man’s breath, which still heavily reeked of ale from earlier, had spotted the remainders of Hargeth breakfast from the day before, or even the day before that. Hargeth couldn’t for the world remember. The guard’s face split in two by a very grim smile.
‘Are ya foulin’ up me cell? Ya know wot that means, don’t ya?’ the guard, obviously, rhetorically asked. Not that the guard would be able to spell rhetorical or even would know what it means but for Hargeth that made no difference what so ever. Of course Hargeth knew, having spent his fair share in jails.
He braced for the inevitable steel gauntlet in the face and the steel boot in the guts, kind of treatment. ‘That’s another similarity between a lot of jails,’ Hargeth grimly thought.
Unfortunately for him, he was right. The guard grinned slyly and whipped his steel gauntlet in Hargeth’s face. He could hear his nose breaking with a sickening snap just before he hit the ground like a ragdoll. In no time at all his entire face was covered in blood that came pouring out of both his nostrils.
Quickly he rolled himself up into a ball to protect himself the best he could against the relentless kicking of the guard. Most of the blows landed in his back and stomach. Then the guard kicked him in the head with his steel boots, he fought to remain conscious but it was futile. His whole world went spinning and then went black. Just before he passed out he thought:’If I’m ever getting out of this rathole, you best watch your back because I will be coming for you….’

When he re-gained consciousness, most of the light had faded and so had most of his hangover. His physical condition had hardly improved though. Instead of the throbbing headache it now was a constant whining in the back of his head. Apart from that, he had bruises everywhere. Even in places he didn’t know he could bruise. Gently he touched his nose and cringed in pain almost to the point of bringing a tear into his right eye.
‘Yep, that’s broken for sure…’ he couldn’t help but chuckling to himself over his misfortune, immediately collapsing in terrible agony. Apparantly, he had broken a rib as well. After recovering from the agony, he gently went to inspecting the rest of his injuries.
Softly he touched his left cheek with the tips of his fingers. The tan shard had made a shallow gash, about one, maybe one and a half inch long. At least it had already stopped bleeding and there was a crust of dried blood covering it.

He also realised in disgust the beating he got by the guard had caused Hargeth to have fallen exactly in the spot where he had lost his breakfast earlier. The smell of the regurgitated food in his shirt almost made him gag.
The garment hadn’t been too clean before the incident, now it was almost too dirty to touch, let alone wear it. To add to his misery, try as he might, it was virtually impossible for him to take the sackcloth shirt of with the broken rib. He couldn’t raise his arms enough because of the pain so he would have to reside with it. He was really starting to dislike that particular guard.

‘You alright?’ A gentle, throaty voice, probably a Khajiit female, asked from the cell next to him, breaking him out his contemplations
‘What do YOU care?’ he snarled. The prisoner didn’t respond again. ‘Nice Hargeth, real nice, finally someone to talk to and you bite of his head. Just great.’ His temper hadn’t improved at all.
Piece by piece he had been puzzling back together some of the circumstances that had got him thrown in prison. From what he had recollected, things were looking bleak for him. It appeared to him unless some kind of miracle would happen he was going to be stuck here for a long time. The Imperial Legion didn’t take kindly on murder. Especially when a guard is involved. Most of the details were still fleeing him but he remembered vaguely it was a contract gone sour. Had he been betrayed? He really didn’t know. He didn’t really care either. His profession had taught him not to look back unless you don’t care what’s ahead of you. That usually was the tip of a sword so he’d better care what’s ahead.

The harsh words awoke the Dunmer in the opposite cell. Dreth had a strange smile around his lips. The grey haired, light blue skinned Elf obviously had enjoyed seeing Hargeth being beaten up. Hargeth couldn’t really blame him; he would’ve probably done the same in his place. It had been a long time ago he had felt so utterly helpless. He made a promise to himself to never let that happen again. And then threatened the Dunmer to toss a fireball into his cell if he’d open his gob again. Ofcourse Hargeth knew that wasn’t really useful with Dunmer being heridatary fire resistant, but it at least would be good for a laugh.
‘Maybe I’ll do it anyway, just to annoy him.’ The thought made him smile, which was quite rare. But then he realised that would probably lead to another beating by the guards.
‘Bugger..…’

The days grew shorter and longer again. In the passing weeks and months he had decided now was a good time to catch up on his restoration skills, rather than waiting until he got out.
He had to be careful not to let the guards catch him practicing his magic though, so he only practiced at night. A few days before he had been careless and the guards had caught him practicing. He had paid a bitter price for his carelessness. Another beating and, as a result, a dislocated shoulder. He thought that after the fractured rib other injuries could hardly be more painful. How wrong had he been. He had to use a wall to slam his dislocated arm back into his shoulder. The sheer pain of this had made him loose his consciousness. This setback didn’t put him off practicing though, it only made him more determined. The determination had started to get him somewhere. The restoration spell he never had managed to cast wasn’t so hard for him anymore and he used it to ease some of the pain of his broken rib that still plagued him.
Next, he applied it to his shoulder. He could feel the strange light tingling sensation of muscles contracting and regaining some strength. When he also tried it on his nose, it only made him sneeze, changing nothing. He rested with the fact his nose would forever be visible in the inner corner of his right eye.

More weeks passed, nothing much changed. Dreth had annoyed him some more and eventually Hargeth actually lobbed a fireball in his cell while the Dunmer prisoner was soundly asleep. The dry grass in the cell had caught fire in no time, clouding the cell in thick, black smoke.
Valen woke up because of the smoke penetrating his nostrils. ‘What the..’ Dreth didn’t continue his tirade because of a sneeze and then got up from bed, while cursing Hargeth in several languages, to put out the fire. The Dunmer was jumping around in his cell to stamp it out, still swearing, much to the other prisoner’s hilarity. Inevitably, it alarmed the guards and it got Hargeth in trouble once again. He was almost getting used it to it, hadn’t it been for the beating to his head. At least it made the day less dull.

‘If they beat me enough, maybe they can straighten out my nose again,’ he thought, while being punished by the guards. It appeared the guards hadn’t much better to do but tormenting prisoners. That moment he promised himself he was getting out of this godforsaken prison alive and rather sooner than later. Besides practicing his restoration skill he also started getting back in shape by doing physical exercise, as far as the small, square dank cell allowed, to get his strength back up. Months of basically doing nothing had weakened him. He wouldn’t stand a chance against anyone outside in this condition.

Clang, clang, clang.. The jailors were doing their round again. The ruckus had awoken him from his sleep. Since a couple of weeks the guards started to stray from their usual schedule and started patrolling more random. Hargeth didn’t like it one bit. Did the guards know about his secret plans? Once again, the guards found a reason to torment the blonde Altmer. In his sleep, unknowingly, he had tumbled the bowl for his excrements over. The smelly guard, as Hargeth started to call him in his mind, was about to enter his cell to punish him for the hidious crime Hargeth had committed by kicking over the waste bowl when another guard shouted:’Captain Avidius, Hayn wants to talk to you!’ The fat, smelly guard grumbled something barely audible but Hargeth could tell with his, for a Mer, keen sense of hearing Avidius had little respect for his collegue.

‘Interesting,’ he thought, and abscent-mindedly pulled his pointed ear. Of-course he didn’t let the smelly guard show he had heard the comment Avidius had made about Hayn. Avidius gave Hargeth a final cruel kick in his back and left the cell. From the corner of his almond shaped eyes the Altmer prisoner spotted something else interesting. Avidius was carrying around a small bottle. ‘That could be useful,’ he thought. Hargeth had always been quick in spotting opportinities in the simplest of things. For instance, broken bottles make excellent weapons. He grinned slyly when he thought about how he had found that out. Spending a lot of time in shady inns did have its advantage after all.

Avidius slammed the gate shut with a loud bang to make sure all the prisoners were awake. Angrily the guard made his way back to the offices, grumbling and swearing at everything and about everyone. Hargeth noticed he was possibly even more drunk than usual. The ale smell on his breath alone was enough to notice he had been drinking heavily. A more amusing telltale was that Avidius could hardly walk in a straight line, bouncing into the grey stonewalls, when he made his way back to the guardroom. ‘I really need to get out of this place.’ A cunning but dangerous plan was starting to form in his head.

[Remko]

@mALX1: That really makes me happy! Thanks a lot! Oh, and I found the "know->now" mix-up.


Chapter7: Crossroads

‘Why me?’ he thought in despair.
Hargeth had been thinking about Pilatus’ and Rhialla’s proposition for days without making a decision. His foot was now almost fully healed thanks to Rhialla’s care. She turned out to be a terrific healer. Her cooking wasn’t bad either. Last few days had exposed her as the powerful wizard she was denying to be. His foot didn’t hurt anymore when he ran, although, in the cold damp morning it was still whining slightly. Rhialla told him it was the scar tissue around his bones in his foot plaguing him and that it could take years to fully heal. She had also taught him a couple of useful spells allowing him to help himself next time.

Although the adventure and the challenge appealed to him, the odds of succeeding were stacked up against it. After all, he was a wanted man by the Imperial Legion and he assumed Blackwood company wouldn’t like him very much either. That led to another problem. What if he didn’t take the job? Where would he go? Back home?
The contemplations brought back memories from his youth. For an Elf he wasn’t that old yet. He would be considered in his twenties by his own kin, if he had been human, he would’ve been in the autumn of his lifespan. He could barely remember his parents, it seemed ages ago he had fled Summerset Isle, never to return again.
‘Damned Imperials,’ he cursed when the circumstances of his unvoluntary departure opened up to his mind’s eye. He had been born a simple boy, born from a family of honest farmers, living contentedly from what the land provided before Summerset Isle had been annexed to the Tamrielic Empire by force. War had spread hard and merciless. His brother had been drafted to serve his homeland and had died underneath a Cyrodiilic silver long sword early in the war. His parents were murdered by the Legion under the pretences they had not been cooperative enough.

The harsh truth was actually that his parents had risen up when those Imperial pigs had tried to rape his sister. Because she had struggled, her rapists had cut her throat. Just like that. Her being dead didn’t bother them either. Hargeth had witnessed how those monsters took advantage of the lifeless body of his big sister, time and again. The small farmhouse was torched; he remembered the screams from his parents being burnt alive. Hiding underneath the bed, he hadn’t been noticed by the Imperials and had escaped through a hidden hatch underneath a rug on the floor shortly before the torch was flung through an open window.

The ordeal had shaped him an entirely different way his parent would have wanted for him, he was certain. For years, he couldn’t remember how many, he had prowled the country, stealing what he needed, killing anyone standing in his way.
The bastards responsible for wiping out his family had been brought a to a sharp, pointy justice. The only justice he knew. He had sought the murderers for years and years, until he had finally traced them to the Cyrodiil capitol, Imperial City and had covertly executed them, like they had executed his parents and his sister in cold blood. His years of searching and the hate he felt towards the wrongdoers had changed him into a bitter, cynical assassin.

The painful memories of his past made his heart heavy, a lump in his throat, he just couldn’t swallow, annoyed him. He had left it all behind, it was in the past he told himself. ‘Then why can’t I shake this feeling?’ Hargeth asked himself. He had no answer.
The blur that previously had been blocking his memory dissipated, like curtains being drawn open. The memories appeared in a flash to how and why he had ended up in the jail he had escaped from, barely two weeks ago. He remembered falling through the roof of his last target, the officer in charge of the small contingency cleaning up what was left of the resistance in his homeland at the end of the war.

He hadn’t been betrayed after all. Gently he brought a hand to his head, the bump in his head was long gone, it was in a reflex and he ruffled his hair shortly. The moment he had decided to strike, one of the retired Imperial officer’s friends decided to stop by in the least convenient moment thinkable, discovering his position on the roof. Hargeth’s forced sudden movements had the rickety roof collapse, right onto his victim’s head. Unfortunately, a roof support beam dropped on his own head, knocking him unconscious.

Ironically, his target’s heart had also been pierced by his own blade that had hung on the wall as a decoration. Hargeth had been arrested by the now dead officer’s friend, Audens Avidius and thrown into that stinking hole he got to know so well. Only one question remained, if the headache hadn't been because of a hangover but because of the roof support beam, where had that distinct woozy feeling come from? For a while, Hargeth sat with his head between his knees, thinking this over. They had interrogated him before they had thrown him in jail. Poisons, potions and liquors had unwillingly been poured down his throat in order to get him to talk. Ofcourse, if one doesn't know anything, there isn't much to talk about. Vaguely he remembered his interrogators in frustration about the lack on information they got from him.

A sardonic smile curled his lips. ‘No wonder he hates me,’ he murmered. ‘The bottleneck I stuck in his side probably didn’t improve our relationship either.’
Hargeth grinned humourless. For once in his life he knew what to do. But decided that before he’d accept he would want some more answers. There were things he hadn’t been told; Rhialla and Pilatus were hiding something. ‘What kinda name is Pilatus for a Khajiit anyway?’

***

Gasping for breath, the muddy messenger stood in front of Avidius’ desk. Shortly before, the messenger had come racing into the Imperial office to report to the Captain. The officer’s desk in front of him was cluttered with snippets, empty bottles, wanted posters and battle-plans. The messenger didn’t dare taking a closer look at the interesting documents lying on the sturdy looking desk. Avidius had a notoriously bad temper and would, for no apparent reason, beat his submissives. And a messenger was as low as the Imperial legion hierarchy would go.

Upon the news the messenger brought, Avidius flew out of the chair he had been sitting in comfortably with his legs on the desk. With a crash the heavy chair hit the stone floor. The balding, fat legionnaire rubbed his eyes; he had been sleeping on the job, probably drunk. The messenger didn’t understand such behaviour was tolorated in the legion. The Captain must have friends on high places.

‘What?! They’re both dead?’ Avidius screamed.

The messenger nodded, ‘Yes Sir. According to the forester they have been ambushed by at least two, maybe even more. I think he mentioned the mercenaries you hired,’ Avidius gave the messenger a threatening look from beneath his brow upon this remark, ‘I mean, the loyal legionnaires,’ the messenger corrected himself - rumours were, the whole situation of the mercenaries he had sent after the escaped Altmer prisoner almost three weeks ago, was rather painful for the Legion Captain - were executed very professionally. It was very unlikely bandits were responsible. That was all he instructed me to relay to you Sir.’

‘You are dismissed,’ without looking at the messenger in front of him he waved him away. The messenger saluted, spun around on the heels of his leather boots and marched out the office, the spurs on his heels ringing in the rhythm of his march towards the outside.
Only after the door had been shut, Avidius real dismay about the situation surfaced. He swore and cursed and drank heavily, while pacing though his office and looking at the rapport the messenger had brought over and over, until his throat was sore and his mind clouded with liquor. With a sigh he sat himself down after putting the chair back and drank some more until he passed out. His last thought was suprisingly coherent. ‘How will I explain this to him?’

***

Pilatus frowned after Hargeth had told him he remembered his proceedings before he had ended up in jail and how his memories had suddenly surfaced and stared into the campfire for a while. ‘You should discuss this with Rhialla, it could be of importance. I am not much of a mage but this whole thing has the stink of magic on it.’ When Hargeth thought about this and he couldn’t do otherwise but concur with Pilatus’ assessment. It was a worrying thought.

What if his memories aren’t actually his own memories? What if his memories were somehow distorted and corrupted? And by whom? Was he even who he thought he was? He decided to follow his advice and consult Rhialla about this when she returned from the errand she had to run. The Khajiiti siblings had been keeping Hargeth in the dark about her mission. It didn’t really bother him but he decided to ask her about that as well. As soon as he got the chance anyway. For now he resided in getting answers from Pilatus.

Something irked Hargeth about the Khajiit warrior. Some things seemed out of place. The Altmer assassin had decided Pilatus must be something more than just being renowned because of his sister. Instead of contemplating on it he just asked bluntly: ’Who are you?’
Those three words held all the questions Hargeth had for Pilatus.
‘I am no expert but Pilatus isn’t a Khajiit name, is it?’ Pilatus face turned sad, the corners of his mouth dropped and he slowly shook his head. ‘You’re right, it’s not.’ Pilatus sighed and continued. ‘What do you know about Morrowind and the legend of the Neravarine?’

Hargeth made a dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘From hearsay only. Some rumours about some outlander being Lord Neravar reincarnated, whatever that’s supposed to mean. But I’ve heard he’s been missing for mon…’ The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. He gave his companion a piercing look; the truth was evident in the Khajiit’s eyes. ‘My name is Do’Sjiri,’ Pilatus started, ‘and I am the Lord Neraverine incarnate. Or, at least, so I’ve been told.’

The story Do’Sjiri told Hargeth both shocked and amazed him. He had always known Morrowind to be a strange place and its inhabitors even more strange. He was surprised to hear Do’Sjiri had fled his so-called destiny and had fled Morrowind altogether after having defeated the sixth house and its charasmatic leader, Dagoth Ur.

Rhialla’s errands, as her brother, Do’Sjiri had called them, didn’t go as planned at all. In truth, the female Khajiit had been visiting several shadowy characters still owing her some favours from when she was still the Arch-Mage’s scribe. Politics always was a somewhat dirty affair and sometimes needed an unconventional approach through unlikely individuals.
She had befriended some of these individuals in the course of her employment. From the contacts she had visited until now, most had shied out of any promises they had made to her previously.

She didn’t lie to herself; she had counted on most of them not keeping their word. A promise was easily made but far harder to keep, especially for the people in the precarious position they were in.
Her contact in the Thieves’ guild was reluctant to do her a small favour as well. She was actually disappointed by, what felt to her as betrayel from their side. It appeared to her there wasn’t honour among thieves after all. Out of all people she had hoped, no, counted on it for them to keep their promise. They had never let her down before. Anyone knowing her well enough would have identified all the little details changing in her face, the small twitching of her ears and her thin lips curling into a sardonic, humourless grin, indicating her mood-change. Her conversation partner knew her well enough.

‘Can’t you see we’re all into this together?’ Her usually gentle throaty voice sharpened with disbelieve and sheer frustration. ‘If the remnants of the council falls apart, the entire empire falls into disarray. Or at least, what’s left of it,’ she added ruefully. ‘And, with it, all the indulges the reigning council allows your guild as well.’ Rhialla emphasized her rant by pointing at his chest. ‘Make no mistake; they have been lenient with the guild. Should the empire plummet into civil war you can count on getting involved, whether you like it or not. I suggest you consider this and consider it well, Armand.’

It wasn’t a threat to him personally but his face reflected his emotions. The Thieves’ Guild doyen didn’t like these possibilities. Not one bit. A frown appeared on his brow when he quickly thought about all the consequences and then realised his guild-master and personal friend, the Gray Fox, was politically involved enough to accept this threat as it appeared, an enemy to all. Amongst them, the ones inhabiting his beloved Imperial City Waterfront. The poor and the rejected.

He knew deep-down Rhialla was right and the guild should assist where it can. Civil war would destroy the empire and affect everyone living and prospering in it. ‘Allright, I’ll make the necessary arrangements to get your friend’s bounty paid off.’ He cleverly dodged using the wanted man’s name. You can never be sure no one is listening in who shouldn’t, even though their meeting and the consequent conversation was highly covert. Even his closest trustees weren’t aware of it, thus limiting risk of exposure. He knew from experience hungry people tend to be easier to persuade selling out. ‘I doubt that will keep Audens of his hide. And yours for that matter.’

She nodded in reply. ‘He’s slightly psychotic, isn’t he?’ The harsh tone in her voice had been replaced with her usual tone.
Armand grinned slyly. He knew all too well about the Captain’s behavioural flaws.
‘At least we’ll be able to move around in other towns without drawing too much attention to ourselves by the local guards, which will be nice for a change. If only for a while,’ she paused briefly to let out a hearty sigh. ‘Let me know when you’ve managed to bribe enough Legion captains and guards. I am sure you’ll find a way getting the message through once you did.’

‘Haven’t I always?’

‘That you have old friend, that you have.’ An ear-to-ear smile revealed her spotless, white teeth with the impressive Khajiit canines flashing. Then a thought came to her, as sudden and unexpected as lightning from a clear blue sky. ‘Hargeth can’t go to the waterfront, the Legion would apprehand him on sight, or worse, execute him.’ Her sudden doubt must have been visible on her face. Armand was ahead of her as if he had read her mind. ‘Y’know, your Elven friend can’t make his way here, you realise that, don’t you? Maybe we can meet somewhere halfway. And don’t worry, no one is going to follow me,’ Armand said with a sly grin.

‘That’s not a bad idea actually,’ she replied. ‘Say, in six days from now? You know the Ayleid ruin north from the prisoncompound, across Lake Rumare on the small peninsula?’ The Redguard, across the table where they where sitting at, thought about that for a few moments, ‘I think I know which ruin you mean. We’ll be there.’

This post has been edited by Remko: Apr 2 2010, 11:10 AM