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]

Upon awakening, I had made a decision- although I wanted to find the Dark Brotherhood, the last few days seemed mostly to have consisted of stumbling about in the dark, mentally as well as physically. Being constantly on guard was a terrible strain, and I had not really found any worthwhile information. The people who frequented the sewers did so for reasons of their own and were not inclined to share knowledge with a stranger. Then, too, I had acquired some additional goblin gear that I could convert into gold at the Craftsmen’s Hall. Finally, and perhaps most decisive, I was a young man in the provincial capital. I wanted to see the sights, visit the shops, take a few moments to think of something other than fighting and dying alone and unlamented. As it turned out, the gods or someone close to them had different ideas.

As before, Master Indalen was glad to pay a reasonable price for the shields and weapons; better yet, he still asked no questions. However, he did become somewhat more talkative, to the point that he invited me into a corner of the Hall for a “quiet word.” Mopping his brow with a cloth, he spoke,

“Sera, it is obvious that you have a knack for survival. Though you are young, you have had success hunting goblins. The fact that you have done so and are still alive is a great testament to your skill. Therefore, I am minded to ask a favor of you.”

Before I could speak, he raised a hand to forestall me,

“I do not ask for assistance requiring force of arms- there are mercenary soldiers available for such things. Instead, I need to draw on your experience to assist me with a business problem. Perhaps you have seen that Imperial peacock, Ilnori Faustus, wandering about the Hall?”

When I admitted that I had seen the fellow, Master Indalen scowled and said,

“I hired him in a weak moment, as a favor to a friend. He is supposed to be an apprentice armorer. Ha! All he does is complain about the heat and the dirt. Worse yet, he is so full of himself that he offends the customers. He wants to be an adventurer, he says. Somehow, he thinks to overawe the bandits and monsters with his good looks and his fancy words. If you could talk to him- drive those romantic notions out of his head- I would appreciate it. Tell him what a ‘life of adventure’ is really like. He may never make a decent smith, but getting him to cease his constant whining would be worth a great deal to me.”

Master Indalen had treated fairly with me, and having an important merchant in my debt could be helpful, so I agreed to do my best.

The young Imperial was easy enough to find; he was standing before a highly polished shield, which he was using as a mirror. He seemed to be waving an imaginary sword around, shouting, “Ha!” and “Have at thee, foul knave!” When I noisily cleared my throat, he stopped jumping about and carefully combed his hair before turning around and looking at me in a superior fashion. He curled his lip in a sneer and drawled,

“Are you speaking to me, Breton? I suppose you want some armor or steel something-or-other, right? Well, why don’t you take your sniveling looks and ungrateful tone and talk directly to the smith? I’m ‘just an apprentice.’ I’ve got nothing to offer the likes of you. I don’t belong here.”

Although his insults were hard to stomach, I had promised Master Indalen that I would try, so I merely said, “I am sorry to hear you say so. You say you think there is somewhere that your talents might be better used?”

His answer was more of the same nonsense:

“Yes, just look at me. I'm the picture of perfection. Look at these nails. Do you know how much I had to pay those filthy Hlaalu manicurists for these? Look at my flawless complexion, the ideal proportions of my body. Do you think the gods created such an image of majesty for the purpose of blacksmithing? Certainly not, my very naive friend. Clearly I am destined to become an adventurer.”

Trying to strike the right balance between respectful doubt and outright skepticism, I asked, “Are you certain that the life of an adventurer is what you want?”

He responded haughtily, “That's right. I'm too good for this place. Slaving over a hot forge is a job best left to the plebes. I mean, look at old Bols over there with his torn, sweat-and-saliva stained shirt, his head like a giant, corprus-infected melon, and that faltering gait of his like a guar with venereal warts. It's a wonder he even remembers to put his pants on in the morning, it really is. Now, compare him with me.”

Still trying to reason with the Imperial idiot, I ventured, “Perhaps strength and skill with arms and armor might be useful attributes for an adventurer….”

With an even more pronounced sneer than before, Faustus asked, “Do you mock me, plebe? I aspire to heights greater than you've ever dreamed of. Do you think monsters and evil men will stand any chance when they behold this majestic specimen of humanity striding toward them? No! They will quail and faint at the sight of me. I will wave their corpses aside with a swipe of my hand. My greatness is inevitable. In fact, I believe I will start on my adventuring just today. Mark my words, Breton-- next time you come around, you won't find me here.”

And with that, the insufferable fool strode out the door and into the street.

I was even more stunned by Ilnori Faustus’ sudden departure than by his monumental arrogance. For a few seconds I simply stared at the door, overwhelmed by an unaccustomed feeling of guilt. Even though I personally believed that Master Indalen was better off without such an unsuitable apprentice, he had asked for my help. I felt somehow responsible for his loss, but had no idea what to do about it. Then too, I feared that I might have contributed to Ilnori Faustus’ death, which was likely to occur sooner rather than later. The best that could be said was that I had ensured that some bandit or creature was probably going to be bored or at least confused for a few minutes. All in all, I felt that it might be wise to avoid Master Indalen for a time, so I made a much more discreet use of the exit. As I pondered what to do next, a High Ordinator approached and asked if I was “Trey, Adept of the Temple.” When I acknowledged my identity, the silver-armored guard handed me a sealed note and left. Breaking the seal on the parchment, I found that Fedris Hler, Steward of the goddess Almalexia, required and requested my attendance on him at my earliest convenience. He would await me in the reception chamber of the great temple of Mournhold.