Redemption., Cause being evil sucks. Options

[jack cloudy]

Ok, another start. I was going to hold off on this one for a few months but the point is, if I don't switch my focus around regularly, I'll go nuts. And letting it rot on my harddisk feels like a waste. I'm also a bit worried for spoilers regarding my other stories but hey, this might actually serve to keep my interest in other stories fresh. A spoiler here leads me to ask myself 'then how did it exactly happen?'.

So umm, yeah. Let's get going.

part 2

Redemption

Chapter 1: End of the wait.

Drip….drip…..drip. Cold water dripped down between the bars and along the rough stone. The crackle of thunder roared through the chamber, the flash of lightning erased the darkness for a brief moment.
,,Bloody bad weather today.” The Dunmer who inhabited the cell mumbled. He glanced at the cell opposite his and sneered. He then walked up to the bars and gripped them with his hands.
,,I said, bad weather today.” He repeated. For a few seconds, he waited. Then he scoffed and walked to the dirty rag that was his bed.
,,Not very talkative today, are we? Well, I envy you. All that water coming in through that peekhole. Fresh water! I haven’t had fresh water in months!” He spun around and faced the bars again.
,,In months, you hear me?! Then why don’t you take advantage of the circumstances and enjoy this luxury your cell provides but mine doesn’t?!”

The man in the other cell lay on his back in a corner of the cell, hands folded under his head, legs slightly spread, feet almost lying in the pool that spread on the floor. The window of his cell lay at the bottom of a slope, which allowed a steady stream of muddy water to enter. To any casual observer, it would seem that he was asleep, comfortable despite the Spartan conditions of his surroundings.
,,Don’t get over-excited. Water isn’t the most important thing in the world.” He replied softly without opening his eyes. The Dunmer grit his teeth.
,,You and your self-righteous proclaimants. Then what is the most important thing in the world, wiseguy? Well, out with it. Show us the great wisdom of the Altmer.” He spat.
,,That is a different thing for each individual. What is the most important thing for you?” The Altmer answered calmly.

The Dunmer kicked one of the walls in his cell.
,,Answering a question with a question of your own? Well then, listen carefully. I don’t know why but I’m just going to tell you! The most important thing for me is a woman! I haven’t had my fun with a woman in five years, I’m telling you. Five years! That’s horrible!” He said.
,,But at least I’ll be out of here soon. And when I do, I’m going to enjoy it all the way. I’ve always been popular with the ladies, unlike you. A different girl each night, and then some. Makes you jealous, doesn’t it?” He gloated. The Altmer shrugged, the only motion he’d made in the last two days.
,,I don’t see any need to be jealous.” He said.

The Dunmer cocked an eyebrow and stalked back to the bars.
,,No need? The Altmer says there is no need to be jealous! Oh, but now I remember. You don’t feel the need to be jealous because your blood is so pure and there is a lass waiting back home who was born just to suit you. Born just to suit you, all thanks to the breeding program you High Elves have. All thanks to your quest for purity.” He snickered and watched his fellow prisoner intently. If he’d been expecting a sign of anger or any other emotion, he would be disappointed.
,,Believe what you will.” Was all the Altmer said.

Thunder roared again. Then, silence, safe for the soft clatter of the rain. The Dunmer had returned to his bed and watched the dark sky outside his window.
,,Believe what you will. He’s got issues. I bet his mother always beat him whenever he had impure thoughts.” He muttered to himself hatefully. He then rose.
,,Believe what you will?” He repeated, louder this time.
,,Well, I know what I believe. I believe I’ll use the cache of money I’ve stored under the loose rock in the wall. I was going to save it for later, but this place and you have gotten on my nerves, so there. I’m going to have some fun in this place, even if it kills me!” He decided and pried loose the brick he’d mentioned.
,,Be carefull what you wish for.” The Altmer warned. The pool had now crept up to his bare toes, but he did not move them. Even though the water was near freezing, he did not seem to be bothered at all by it. Meanwhile, the Dunmer scooped up the coins he’d hidden and counted them. He chose to ignore the other.
,,Fifty-four Septims. That’s enough for the guards to buy themselves a couple of bottles.” He spoke, got up and raked one of the coins across the bars.

,,What are you making all that racket for, prisoner?!” A guard inquired in a gruff tone. He’d come to investigate the cause of the noise. The Dunmer looked the man up from head to toe.
,,Tell me, friend? Have you been doing well at your card-games?” He then chuckled. The Imperial’s brow furrowed.
,,None of your bussines, Dark Elf scum! Now keep it quiet down here!” He spat. He waved his arm across, pointing at the Altmer in the other cell.
,,Take an example from him. He’s been here since before I was born, and not even once did he cause trouble.” He added. The Dunmer smiled, revealing two incomplete rows of yellow-brownish teeth. Perhaps he’d once been popular with the ladies but in his current state, popularity would need some help.
,,Just as I thought. You’ve been losing badly, haven’t you? Well, I just happen to have the solution to that particular little problem of yours.” He whispered and flashed a coin. Instantly, the guard became twice as attentive.

,,How much do you have?” He asked in a coarse whisper of his own.
,,Twenty-seven in total.” The Dunmer lied. He then leaned in as close as he could without hitting the bars with his forehead. Thunder echoed through the prison complex.
,,Twenty-seven perfectly legitimate Septims. Twenty-seven shiny bits of gold and copper. They could be yours, so very easily….for a small favour, of course.” He offered. The guard licked his lips and let his eyes slip to the coins the Dunmer now held up in his hand, yet still out of his reach. He thought of going back to the barracks and taking the keys to the Dunmer’s cell, so he could take the money by force. But if he did that, his commander would have him fired and thrown into a cell instantly on the charge of accepting bribes. He would be better off listening to what the man had to offer.
,,I’m listening.”

The Dunmer leaned in even closer, resting his forehead against the bars.
,,Good, good. You see, I’m feeling rather…lonely. While he doesn’t cause any trouble, our friend over there is a poor conversationalist. A man of few words. So I was thinking, if you could help me out, perhaps provide me with….suitable company? I would be more than willing to help out a friend who is in need of a financial boost. Rub my back, rub yours?” He whispered. The guard looked into the crimson eyes of the prisoner, glanced at the Altmer, the coins and weighed the risk. If the Altmer talked, he would still be in trouble. But the gold-skinned fellow appeared to be sound asleep, impossible as it might sound with the thunder and lightning playing outside. The Imperial grinned, a greedy grin.
,,For a friend, why certainly. It would be a pleasure, no, an honour to help. In fact, I just seem to remember that prisonblock C is undergoing renovations. We need to relocate the current occupants. I was just wondering where to move some of them anyway. I’ll see if I can send over a…better conversationalist.” He said and held out his hand. The Dunmer grinned and handed over some of the coins.
,,Half now, half upon delivery.”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Mar 6 2012, 08:29 PM

[jack cloudy]

And then indeed nothing. So more than three years later I'm trying to pick up the pen again. Don't have anything better to do anyway. I also want to go back to reading other people's fanfics while I'm at it. Let's see if it lasts. I just hope I'll remember all the old plotpoints I'd decided on. Unlike smarter folk, I never wrote down an outline of the story.



Chapter 4.10


Near Chorrol

“You self-righteous, arrogant honoured user! I hope another champion appears and kills you! For good this time!” Angoril’s eyes narrowed.
“Vicente, hold your tongue. Do not force my hand. You would not enjoy it.” He thought venomously. The Altmer then shook his head as he climbed to the top of a small hill. He had to admit to himself that he’d rather not met the vampire. Being a drinker of blood and a high-ranking member of the Dark Brotherhood, his loyalties were never in doubt.
“It is only such a shame that your loyalties never lay with me. As long as you fear me, you will cower among the shadows, but if that fear were ever to fade…” He did not finish the thought. It was not important, not at the moment. Besides, if that fear were ever to fade, he would simply have to restore it.

He reached the top of the hill and stopped to look at the surrounding landscape. Even from here, his view was obscured by the many trees. While he knew he was somewhere near Chorrol, he didn’t know his exact location relative to the city. On top of that, wilderness navigation had never been his strongest point. He would need to be able to see all around him in order to find Chorrol.
“Levitation? No, I’d rather not in case someone sees me. I could perform an illusion to make myself look like a bird of course, but let’s not. It would be better if I used a natural vantage point. One such as…” He thought to himself and smiled. From where he was standing, he could just barely make out the tip of a bleached white tower rising above the treeline. One of the many forts that had been built in Cyrodill throughout the ages, no doubt. It was the perfect solution. Even if someone saw him on top of the tower, no one would find it unusual. Adventurers and local children did it all the time, usually in search of their respective definition of treasure. Also, there didn’t seem to be any roads nearby which made it likely that the fort was uninhabited. Or at least not inhabited by any bandits. Those tended to operate closer to their source of income, namely lone merchants or small caravans travelling along the ancient cobbled paths of Cyrodiil.

From the top of the tower, he should be able to fix his position more accurately, The Imperial city was famous for its tower which served as a landmark no matter where one was in the province. From there, finding the direction for the city of Chorrol would be a simple matter. With those thoughts in mind, Angoril moved on.




Chorrol, northern hills.

The silk plantation he had been looking for was located just north of the city itself. He had passed Chorrol without entering. There were a few places he knew off from before his imprisonment. If those still existed, it would be faster for him to visit those than to try and find any contacts in the city itself. The moment he saw the plantation come into view among the trees, memories came to Angoril’s mind. He kept walking as his thoughts wandered off to the past. Scarcely three minutes later, the path he was following curved around a large boulder and he found himself in front of the gate. The Altmer shook his head.
“It is odd. Last time I visited this place, it was nothing but a humble hovel and some worms in a box kept in the backyard. Now, it is a sprawling complex the size of a small village. A very small village perhaps, but a village nonetheless. I wonder how the owner became so succesfull. Although, I suppose much can change over half a century.”

He paused to observe the place before going any further. It was surrounded by a solid brick wall, covered in only the smallest patches of moss and only interrupted by the gate he was standing in front of. Through the gate, he could see that there was a large three-floor building in the center and two rows of long and much lower buildings on each side. Behind the buildings lay the plantation itself, invisible to his eyes but for the telling humm of magicka-enhanced organisms. Whether those organisms were plants or animals he couldn’t tell, not from this distance. Countless rosebushes lined the path leading up to the large building and stacks of individual roses were hung in baskets on the walls surrounding the plantation as well as each individual building. The path itself was cobbled and meticulously swept clean. Finally there was the gate which provided entry to the plantation. It was a masterful contraption wrought of steel bars inlaid with a bronze relief that gave the entire construction the appearance of a metallic rosebush. Above the gate was a plaque, which told him the name. Quite fittingly, the plantation was called ‘Rosendorf hall’.

He walked up to the gate and waited till he was noticed. Within moments, a servant met him on the other side of the gate.
“Yes?” The man asked simply. Angoril bowed before answering.
“Good day. I would like to speak with the master. Would that be acceptable?” He said when he rose again. The gatekeeper frowned.
“Appointment.” He then said. While it came out as a statement, it was clearly meant as a question. It made Angoril smile. The gatekeeper did not seem to be a man of many words.

“Unfortunately, I do not have a formal appointment. However, I would appreciate it if you could just announce me.” The Almer replied in a polite tone. The other man nodded.
“He’ll decide. Name or title?”
“Imperial Customs Department.”

The moment he’d said that, the gatekeeper’s eyes widened. Just as quick though, he regained his blank expression. He was a professional and no matter who was at the gate, he would follow protocol to the letter.
“Please wait.” He spoke and marched to the tallest building. Behind his back, the Altmer allowed himself a short victorious smirk.
“Time for you to dance to my strings, good sir.”

Several minutes later, he was led into a spacious living-room. Seated in a sofa next to the fireplace was the man who could only be the master. Dressed in the finest Colovian silk, a subtle advertisement of his own products, and reading a book on poetry, a sign of a civilized person of the highest breed. The Altmer noticed the clues the man attempted to drop, then purposefully ignored them. They were the clues all successful men used, whether they be merchants or nobles. Only those who had made their fortune by steel resorted to different means of showing their sophistication. All he needed to know was that this pudgy Breton was one of the largest businessmen on the market when it came to Colovian clothing, as was apparent by the size of his estate.

The Breton looked up, then placed an exotic bird’s feather in the book to mark the page he was at. He stood up in a hurry and bowed profusely.
“The ICD! My father always spoke highly of your department. Regardless, I am Simanuel Rosendorf IV. Consider my home your home. Perhaps some tea?” He babbled, almost tripping over his own words. He was sweating only slightly, though not from excitement. There was a certain amount of fear which he couldn’t hide.
“I wonder if he’s done something illegal, on top of the usual that is. Smuggling? Illegal obstruction of his competitors? Slave labour? Or just nervous because I claim to be of the ICD and could be corrupt?”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir Rosendorf. I would be Angoril Bobardi. I thank you for the offer however, I will have to refuse. I am a busy man and can’t stay for long.” Angoril replied calmly.

Rosendorf gestured at a sofa with a smile, not taken aback at all.
“Of course. Have a seat.” He then said. Two servants entered the room and pulled back a sofa for Angoril to sit on. The Altmer sat down and waited till his host had done the same before speaking.
“Allow me to get straight to the core of my dilemma. I am conducting an investigation, a case of tax-evasion on mercantile products. Would you be so kind as to identify this robe here? Could it be one of your products?” He revealed the crimson robe and presented it to the Breton.

Rosendorf stood up for a closer look.
“Tax-evasion? I pay my taxes, like any good countryman. Ahem, this is not one of my products, thankfully. You see, we don’t sell finished garbs. We only sell raw silk to the clothiers. Silk of the finest quality, produced only by the finest silkworms imported from Argonia. Now it could very well be possible that the silk was produced on this here plantation. But I wouldn’t be able to confirm that without having a more indepth analysis conducted first.” He said resolutely after only a second of investigation. The Altmer merely cocked an eyebrow and said nothing, silently bidding the man to continue.
“Oh, but I do know what kind of person made this.” Rosendorf continued, with an expression of disgust.

“This robe wasn’t made by a proper Cyrodiilic craftsman. Please look here, sir. See this pattern of the fabric? It’s a Valenwood style, or so I’ve heard. It makes the robe quite…” He pulled on a sleeve with all his might. The robe didn’t tear.
“…durable. Yes, durable. Only a barbaric person like those Wood Elves could come up with something like that. And this item is plain on top of that! Not even the slightest frills or gold-thread. A durable robe, made of the high-quality silk. Preposterous! Why would silk have to be durable? It is a nobleman’s material! Clothing made from silk is a work of art! This, is just some mass-produced workman’s robe. And made from silk! It’s an outrage!” Rosendorf continued, his face turning red.

“You said it is a Valenwood product? Do they sell durable outfits made of Silk often in these parts?” Angoril interrupted softly. Rosendorf gently folded the robe and laid it down on a table before answering.
“Yes, I am positive it is a Valenwood product. But I haven’t heard of them using silk before, I just recognized the style that is the same they use with other fabrics. Hmm, doesn’t surprise me really. Silk is expensive. Those good for nothing thieving little midgets pretty much have to evade taxes in order to produce this much silk. It is a bit of a shame that they didn’t decorate their try at a silk product. Being a once in a lifetime chance for them, you’d expect them to try harder. If you wish to know more, you should go to a clothier owned by one of those Wood Elves. There is one in Kvatch. They don’t do silk products, but they might know someone who does.” Angoril wisely didn’t mention that the robe he’d shown Rosendorf wasn’t as rare as the man thought it was.
“They don’t do silk products? Are you sure about that, sir Rosendorf?” He muttered.
“Absolutely. We don’t do business with that store and neither do any of my competitors.” The Breton said resolutely.
“Any of your competitors? How would you know, without some espionage? Well, no matter. I already have a better tool for blackmail.”
“I see. Sir Rosendorf, On another note, would you mind if I saw your plantation for a bit?”

Rosendorf’s lips trembled, something which the Altmer observed in silence.
“Ahem, unfortunately we are conducting an extensive cleaning of all facilities right now. There was a locust plague that struck one of our neighbours you see and we don’t want to be next. The loss in revenue this quarter alone would be disastrous. Anyhow, we use alchemical products for this and it would be rather hazardous for your health if you chose to take a tour of the plantation at this time. Perhaps when you next visit us?” The Breton said, slightly too quick to be believed. Angoril shrugged and stood up.
“I am afraid that can’t be helped. As you suggested, perhaps another time. For now, I shall be off.” He replied and walked to the door which was held open by a servant. He stopped just before reaching it.
“Oh, one more thing. I noticed that some of your silkworms are low-quality mage-copies, which is illegal. So expect a fine on the order of half a million septims to land in your mailbox around next week.” The Altmer said casually. He turned around to face the Breton again, emotionless safe for an expression of mild disdain.

“What? You are mistaken!” Rosendorf yelped. To be fair, he kept himself quite well despite the shocking news.
“Mistaken? Oh, I wish I was. For me to be mistaken, that would be quite a sight. However, you forgot that a mage-copy has a distinct Magicka signature, one that is absent in the original. I can detect such signatures coming from all over your plantation. Just as an estimate, I believe one in five silkworms is false. Perhaps if you had taken the time to remember that I am an Altmer and therefore superior in the art of Magicka, you might have realized there is nothing you can hide from me. You have false silkworms which you did not report in your businessreport so you would not have to pay taxes for them. These worms produce false silk, which disintregates after roughly two months, at which point it can no longer be tracked to you. So most of your profits are gained from a false and temporary product. That is a serious crime since you do not claim to sell temporary silk. Regardless, you will have to pay the fine if you desire to stay in business, not to mention remove all false silkworms. Just be glad I allow you a chance to make amends. The alternate punishment is fifteen years in prison.”

Rosendorf’s eyes narrowed and flickered from one end of the room to the other. His self-control had begun to slip.
“But surely, the fine you named is preposterous? I mean, I’m not implying that you are preposterous, my good sir. Just that, it seems like somewhat much for such a small oversight. Besides, I don’t run this place. My father did, till he left it in the hands of his advisors. I’m merely the heir, the man who reaps the benefits and acts as the public image of the company. I had no idea this was going on, I assure you.” He pleaded calmly, but Angoril also glimpsed an expression that was one part fear, one part implied innocence and one part hate. Just the mixture of feelings the Altmer desired.
“Yet even so, as the official owner you hold full responsibility. What if the Emperor could blame every single problem on his aides? Without responsibility, there is no leash to prevent the outbursts we’ve had before. Surely you remember Pelagiad the mad? Another Pelagiad, and the Empire would fall. So that is why the Emperor holds responsibility. That is why you hold responsibility, sir Rosendorf.” The Altmer spoke.

Angoril had not moved since they’d begun arguing, nor had his expression changed. Yet there was an almost tangible menace in his voice. Rosendorf knew that any member of the Imperial Customs Department could ruin him with a single short letter. He knew that the Altmer held power over him, the power to send him into poverty. The rich Breton’s mind frantically analyzed the situation. There was no way he could get rid of the Altmer, not without drawing suspicion from the ICD. But the ICD, as well as its members, was not without flaws. He had been brought into this very same situation before, twice. Both times, the official had been easy enough to bribe. It would be expensive to add a third name to that list, but it would be less expensive than paying the fine.
“Please master Bobardi, sit down. You told me that you were a busy man, but perhaps you could stay here just a bit longer. I’m sure that we can work this out now, rather than go through a lengthy process of court and settlement later. You don’t want to be called away from your investigation after all because of my regretful mistake.”




OOC: I first wrote Rosendorf as the nervous corrupt merchantman, sweating, jumping up yelping and stuff. I then decided that given his success he should be made of sterner stuff and tried to rewrite him. The dialogue remained mostly the same, but his bodylanguage was changed. I hope I didn't miss any of the old Rosendorf.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Dec 30 2012, 10:49 PM