Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 2 Options

[treydog]

Chapter 2

So far, my sojourn in Mournhold had resulted in a beating from a Wood Elf, nearly being eaten by goblins (and their pets), and the acquisition and subsequent loss of 1000 drakes. And I was no closer to finding the Dark Brotherhood or the reason they had been hired to kill me. The prices at the Winged Guar (and the payment I had received for one day’s work) showed me that Mournhold was an expensive place. If I was going to continue this search, particularly if I didn’t begin to see some results, I was going to have to come up with some cash. That problem I could solve, at least temporarily. Although the sight of all the ornate buildings and richly dressed citizens made my palms itch, I restrained my larcenous impulses. It is unwise in the extreme to ply the burglar’s trade in an unknown city- the risks usually outweigh the rewards. Although Helseth’s palace guards seemed to be restricted to the royal quarter, the same could not be said of the High Ordinators, silver armored busybodies who seemed to be everywhere, doing what Ordinators did best, issuing threats and watching everything too closely to allow an honest thief a sporting chance. But if a little creative redistribution of wealth was out of the question, I still knew where a few weapons and shields could be picked up. More important, I knew that the former owners wouldn’t make any objections. Despite their dietary habits, or perhaps because of them, goblins tended to make high-quality arms and armor. And given the fact that the only way for a non-goblin to obtain such was to kill goblins, those bits of merchandise should be fairly rare in Mournhold.

The Craftsmen’s Hall had been pointed out to me as the best place to purchase quality armor, so I gathered up a couple of goblin shields and a club and made my way there. The first fellow I encountered was an arrogant Imperial (is there any other kind?) who made a great show of being terribly busy and put-upon. It was obvious that the fellow was just waiting for an audience upon whom to unburden himself. A peculiar, some might even say perverse, aspect of my nature is that I tend to ignore overly dramatic, self-absorbed fools who attempt to draw attention to themselves. Beyond his theatrical manner, one look at this fellow’s smooth hands and spindly arms told me that he was not the smith. Therefore, I pressed on, following the smell of heated metal and the sound of hammers ringing on anvils. When I spotted a muscular Dunmer and a sweating Orc assistant, I knew I had found Bols Indalen, master armorer. The smith laid aside the tower shield he had been bringing to a mirror finish and asked if I had come for a set of custom armor. He further explained that he could work with glass, ebony, or his specialty, adamantium. Besides being measured for the armor, the customer was expected to provide the raw materials and a substantial payment. While I found it quite interesting that Master Indalen would speak so casually about trading in restricted materials, I knew I did not have the money to pay for such fine armor. Therefore, I raised a hand and explained,

“Actually, I am selling rather than buying.”

His red Dunmeri eyes widened slightly when I revealed the items I had to offer. He clearly recognized their goblin origin, but he did not speak of it as he carefully examined each piece. Finally, he gave a satisfied grunt and said,

“I don’t know how you came by these, and I don’t want to. However, if you are hunting goblins, you really should consider purchasing some of my custom armor. In any event, I will give you 2000 septims for the lot. And if you ‘find’ any more, please give me the first chance at it.”

That was a reasonable price, so I accepted without any haggling. Now that my visit to Mournhold seemed profitable again, I tried to think of a way that I could convert some coins into information. Master Indalen did not seem a likely source regarding the Dark Brotherhood, but he did reveal that adamantium ore could be found beneath the city. For obvious reasons no one was willing to say exactly where the deposits were located, but lost workings were known to be somewhere in or under Old Mournhold. If it came down to it, I might consider mining as a way to make money to finance my search, but I had no real desire to go grubbing about underground if I could help it. I wasn’t averse to manual labor, particularly not when it paid so well, but dangerous creatures and even more dangerous people had a tendency to lurk in dark places deep under the earth. With that thought, a feeble spark of an idea reached the dry tinder of imagination, and an idea burst into flame. With a distracted “thank you,” I turned away from Master Indalen and nurtured that thought. The Dark Brotherhood was a band of killers, not respectable businessmen. They didn’t have “two-for-one specials” or hang out signs advertising their headquarters. And given the nature of their “work,” they weren’t going to be found in the better part of town. No, they would be hidden somewhere away from prying eyes, somewhere hard to reach, somewhere that “decent” folk did not go; a place like the sewers and the ruins of Old Mournhold.

[treydog]

Now that I had resolved to search for my quarry beneath the city, I had to consider the question of where to begin. Mournhold consisted of four “quarters” or districts surrounding the central palace area: Godsreach, the Temple, the Great Bazaar, and the Plaza Brindisi Dorom. The area beneath Godsreach I had already “searched,” if running from goblins and rescuing Dilborn could be considered searching. As far as I knew, the Plaza provided no access to the sewers, and I doubted that the Dark Brotherhood was sheltering beneath the Palace or the Temple. It wasn’t that I believed either the Royals or the Temple were too pure to use assassins- I just imagined that their institutional paranoia would not allow a band of killers whose loyalty was negotiable to nest in such close proximity. That left the Great Bazaar, a place where the constant ebb and flow of locals and strangers would provide concealment for the movement of individuals with a sinister purpose. Also, it was said that anything could be purchased in the Great Bazaar, if one had the right price. That “anything” could certainly include the removal of an irritating or inconvenient individual.

A part of me longed to wander through the Bazaar and visit the shops, but I was only too aware of the passage of time. Although I had only been in Mournhold for a short time, I had managed to do several things that could bring unwelcome attention. How long would it be before word reached the Dark Brotherhood of a Breton, bearing a silver long sword? My actions in the Winged Guar would excite some talk, and the gambler Drathas likely had underworld connections, as well. So, regretfully, I ignored the swirling crowds, the sights and sounds, the sheer life of the Great Bazaar and made my way to a trapdoor leading down into the sewers.

Once I had reached the foot of the ladder, I found myself standing knee-deep in a pool of water, which was thankfully fairly clear. The water seemed to disappear into an unfinished or caved-in passage to the east; a more modern ramp angled upward to the west. Beyond the dripping of moisture, all was silent, but I now knew better than to trust that seeming peaceful stillness. A whispered “mothaich biúthaidh” invoked the Beggars Nose charm, and I closed my eyes and turned a slow circle, allowing my inner eye to see what might be hidden. From where I stood, only a single possibly hostile creature was revealed, along with one magic source not far to the north. With my normal vision, I eyed the flooded passage with distaste. Useful though that innate ability to detect enchantments was, it revealed neither the nature of the enchanted item, nor the strength of the magic. Although I was able to swim, I did not much enjoy the prospect of submerging myself in that dark tunnel. The confined space as well as the water would put me at a disadvantage in a fight- and my improving marksmanship would be of no use. Then too, I didn’t really enjoy the prospect of swimming in a sewer, no matter how much of the water came from rainfall. In the end, greed and curiosity overcame fastidiousness and I decided to investigate that tantalizing hint of magic. Just before the water closed over me, I gulped my last remaining potion of water breathing, then plunged down the passage. After a sharp turning to the left, a flooded chamber was revealed, with a skeletal corpse in repose on the rubble-strewn floor. An arrow, still imbedded in the ribcage, hinted at the cause of this unfortunate’s death, but all of his other possessions seemed to have rotted or been scavenged- all that is, except for a potion bottle still clutched in his right hand. Feeling my water-breathing spell beginning to fade, I grasped the potion and quickly swam for the exit. When I had dragged myself onto relatively dry ground, I examined my treasure, which careful testing revealed to be… a potion of water breathing.

Much as I wanted to express my feelings about the gods and their “little jokes,” I restrained myself. Giving in to the strong desire to let loose a string of curses would only reveal my presence to anyone who might be nearby. I was a thief, not a berserker. Still, the state of my nerves nearly brought me to grief when I literally bumped into a Khajiit who was lurking in the shadows at the top of the ramp leading west. So quiet was she and so well did her blackened netch leather armor blend into the shadows that she might have been a shadow herself. Except that shadows don’t squall and curse in Khajiiti when you step on their tails. Once I had (metaphorically) climbed down from the ceiling and was able to speak, I apologized as best I could, to no avail. The Khajiit merely wrapped her tail protectively around herself and hissed,

“Ahnia does not know you; therefore she has nothing to say.”

It seemed that there was more to her attitude than annoyance at my clumsiness, but I didn’t see any reason to confront her- people who make the mistake of irritating Khajiit soon discover that they aren’t just “big kitties.”

After moving away from Ahnia, I recast my detection spell, which now revealed a half-dozen or so hostile creatures at various locations. Truth to tell, I rather enjoyed the prospect of a little swordplay- after the incident with the potion and the encounter with the Khajiit, a fight seemed like just the thing to vent my frustration. Soon enough, the spectral form of an ancestor spirit rushed toward me, uttering the eldritch wail of its kind. While a part of me wondered how a being with no vocal apparatus could create such a racket, another part was using my magical sword to good effect. Although I had been disappointed in the paltry damage my flame-enchanted silver blade had done to the goblins, it was quite sufficient for the undead. That proved fortunate, as I encountered several skeletons and spirits, as well as a few Rattus gargantuas, during my explorations. Finally, after many turnings and retreats from caved-in areas, I spotted movement that did not seem to be some spirit or creature intent on killing me. Observation revealed a Dunmer woman pacing a short section of corridor, casting fearful glances at a doorway. She had apparently not heard my quiet footsteps, so I took a few moments to study her from the shadows. She was dressed in clean but threadbare clothing and appeared to be both frightened and distraught. Nevertheless, I approached her carefully, unsure that any person with good intentions would be wandering about down here.

Stepping into the guttering light of a torch, I spoke quietly,

“May I be of service?"

She whirled about and threw up a protective hand, but then relaxed slightly and replied,

“Ah, you are not one of them, then. I feared…. No, I do not believe you can help me, yet I will tell you my story so that you may beware of the Black Dart Gang.”
She told me her name, Narisa Adus, and then sobbed,

“They have robbed me of everything I hold dear. They ambushed my lover and me in the Temple Sewers. Variner held them off while I ran. When I turned to look back, Variner was down. I just kept running. Now Variner's ghost comes to me at night, begging me to come to him, to rescue him. He says he has a message for me... but I can't go down there. I can't face the Black Dart Gang. Variner was a great fighter, but with one dart, he was dead in seconds. They'd kill me for sure.”

When I again offered my help, she paused and took in my armor and weapons, then shook her head.

“I do not doubt that you are brave enough, but they would kill you. They dress like poor beggars, but carry deadly poison darts- one is enough to kill most people. If you see them, flee. But if you see Variner’s ghost, speak to him. Perhaps you can bring his message to me.”

Although her words hurt my pride, I could not deny their wisdom- had I not just reminded myself that I was not a warrior? Seeking out a fight with this Black Dart Gang would be foolish, particularly when they were not my enemies. Stealth and cleverness would serve me, not the strength of my arm. Yet the mute appeal in Narisa’s eyes moved me. I, too, had been beset with troubling dreams and had heard the importuning of unquiet spirits. If I could bring peace to this one ghost, perhaps others of his kind would do the same for me.

This post has been edited by treydog: Sep 26 2005, 12:26 AM