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]

Even though I despised the very idea of taking on a “hired killer” mission, I could rationalize that my targets were goblins rather than men or elves. And Fedris Hler hadn’t really ordered me to kill the Altmer trainers- he had merely suggested that it would be a service. If I could remove the goblins and avoid the Altmer, the trainers would no longer have any reason to hang around. Or so I hoped. And I ruthlessly stepped on the nagging inner voice that pointed out that Helseth could easily hire more goblins if the first bunch met with a series of unfortunate accidents. Regardless of my delicate sensibilities, I would perform this task. Perhaps I was afraid to ignore Fedris Hler’s “request.” Perhaps I thought that the Temple steward would be a powerful ally in my search for the Dark Brotherhood. And perhaps it was simpler than that- the goblins had nearly killed me, before I even knew the reason for their presence. Revenge against them would be pleasant. And better still, the loss of his goblin army would thwart Helseth. I had never met him, but the mere fact that he called himself “King” was enough to make me dislike the man. If knowledge of my motives causes anyone to think less of me, I can only say- first, I never claimed nobility of purpose or purity of spirit; and second, it is easy to criticize if you weren’t there.

What I needed to do first was complete my exploration and mapping of the sewers under the Palace. My previous wanderings gave me reason to believe that the goblins were based either there or beneath Godsreach, the other place I had confronted the creatures. And before I ventured back into the sewers, I would need more potions of levitation. The only safe way to hunt goblins was from a place that they could not reach. As I preferred to make my own potions whenever possible, I was going to have to go back to Vvardenfell for the essential ingredients. It was ironic, but the fact that there were no cliff-racers in Mournhold was actually a problem. I knew of three components that could be combined to create levitation potions- coda flowers, trama root, and cliff-racer plumes. And the only place I knew to obtain those items was back on Vvardenfell.

Effe-Tei was kind enough to transport me to Ebonheart, from which place I made my way to the Mages Guild in Vivec. Making use of the Mages Guild guides, I was able to gather the supplies I needed without staying in one location for very long. Throughout my travels, I spoke to no one except the apothecaries and guild guides, and kept the hood of my robe up to hide my face. It was my hope that, even if my enemies were informed of my presence, I would be gone before they could plan and carry out an attack. It was a sobering experience, and I wondered if it might be a foreshadowing of my future- homeless, constantly on the move, never able to settle in one place. On the other hand, if I did not deal with my enemies, my “home” would likely be an unmarked grave beside some deserted path. Thus, even as the sounds and scents of Vvardenfell tempted me to rest, to leave intrigue behind, I knew that I must go back to Mournhold and finish a fight that I had neither started nor sought. The Dark Brotherhood would never stop and neither would the person or power that had set them on my trail. And even if they had been inclined to call truce, I was not. My blood had been spilled and it would be redeemed with blood.

Returning to Asciene Rane in Ebonheart was hard; turning my thoughts back to Mournhold was harder still; but it had to be done. Despite the High Ordinators’ perpetual greeting of “Mournhold, City of Light, City of Magic,” I didn’t see it that way. To me it was a place of darkness, of plots and counterplots, of the Temple and the King scuffling over the most valuable coin in the game- power. Absorbed by such gloomy thoughts, I arrived back in the Palace reception area, where I absently greeted Effe-Tei. As I waited for the disorientation and nausea of the teleportation magic to fade, I briefly considered hiring Calvus Horatius, the mercenary fighter who had offered his services when I first came to the city. Having a good sword at my back during this goblin hunt would be useful- might even save my life. But my reasons for refusing had not changed- I would not take responsibility for another man’s life, or still worse, his death. I was too much in the habit of looking out for myself to find it easy to trust someone else. And I was willing to run away if the situation warranted. A mercenary might succumb to the fury of battle or find himself unable to escape. If that happened, my death would surely follow, for I would not abandon a companion. Better then, to take my chances alone. As a fellow I once knew liked to say about drinking,

“My limit is one- no matter what, I will always be able to count that high.”

And that logic applied to fighting, as well; with no allies, my every blow would strike an enemy.

My alchemy apparatus was undisturbed in the Palace basement, and I was able to quickly convert my ingredients into useful potions. While my various concoctions were simmering, I sorted through the scrolls I had “acquired” from one place and another during my travels. Normally, I prefer not to use scrolls in the middle of a fight- a comfortable chair in front of a nice fire is a better place to practice one’s reading. But…if I was floating out of reach of a snarling goblin, a scroll that called fire down on his head might be just the thing. And the magic from a scroll tended to be much more likely to work than most of my store of memorized spells. The time I had spent learning to skulk in shadows and to not stick myself with the pointy ends of my weapons had prevented me from becoming terribly proficient at Destructive magic. A summoning scroll or two would have been useful, but I hadn’t come across any of those. And ultimately, it was probably going to be down to my skill with the bow and the sword to keep me alive. Potions made and equipment repaired, I could delay my return to the sewers no longer.

Recalling the creatures I had sensed (and avoided) during my last foray into the Palace sewers, I made my way to the central chamber and from there to the west. As before, when I spoke the words “mothaich biừthaidh,” my heightened senses showed me that three possibly hostile creatures awaited me in the unexplored section. While I could hope that they were rats, my sense of smell told me that at least one durzog was about. Fortune favored me, though; for the passage started with a steep stone ramp leading upward. By crouching and sticking to the shadows, I was able to peer over the rise without being seen. Movement alerted me to a patrolling goblin, accompanied by a durzog. I downed one of my newly brewed levitation potions, conjured a magical bow, and then let myself drift up to the roof of the corridor. Neither of my enemies knew I was about until an arrow pierced the durzog’s thick hide. Unfortunately, that first strike seemed to be more annoying than harmful, for the beast gave a great roar of rage and charged toward me. I had a brief span of time to consider whether I had made a serious error- the roof here was not as high as at other places, and I feared that the durzog might be able to scrape me off the ceiling by rearing up on its haunches. That fear, along with the darkness, the sight of a charging creature that seemed to be all teeth and claws, not to mention worrying that my levitation might wear off- all combined to make marksmanship a trifle difficult.

Still, focusing on the durzog’s gaping maw paid dividends- two arrows found their way into that vulnerable spot. It was almost an afterthought to finish the goblin, which had waited too long to decide to run away. At the end of the corridor, a second goblin tried to hide among some massive crates, but his lack of a ranged weapon spelled his doom. With the passage cleared, I was able to come back down to the floor and take a careful look around. The crates were all stenciled with the words “Deliver to the Mournhold Royal Palace.” Interestingly, each address bore the same flaw- the “R” in “Royal” was reversed. Still more telling, each of the crates was perforated by carefully concealed holes. I now knew how the goblins had managed to come into Mournhold without being seen.