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]

Behind the crates with their interesting addresses was a door inscribed as leading to “Old Mournhold- West Sewers.” In addition, someone had thoughtfully (and recently) carved a reversed “R” into the doorframe. Even without that guidance, the tracks on the muddy floor would have warned me that there were goblins nearby. And now I had a problem. Or rather a more immediate problem than the usual one of all the factions that wanted to kill me immediately, not to mention all of the others that wanted to use me and THEN kill me afterwards. Opening the heavy door would require me to use both hands. But I was certain that there were goblins on the other side, and I really wanted to have my conjured bow at the ready, which would require at least one hand. Then I remembered one of a thief’s best friends- a potion that would allow me to manipulate objects with the power of my thoughts, leaving my hands free for more important things. I had recently discovered the secret to creating such a potion and had several at my disposal. Suiting my actions to my thoughts, I consumed a potion, refreshed my conjured bow, and then willed the door to open.

Someone had taken care to oil the hinges of the door into the West Sewers; despite its great size, it swung open with no more than a faint stirring of air. And I was equally quiet as I slipped through and scanned the underground passage. A lone goblin was moving away from me, bobbing along in the peculiar hunch-backed gait of his kind. His slow progress gave me ample time to fit an arrow, draw to the fullest extent, aim at the base of his skull, and release. The shot dropped him like a sack of sand and he never made a sound. Muffled goblin noises from around the bend alerted me to the presence of another, so I edged along the wall until I was able to spot a misshapen shadow cast by the flickering torches. My luck still held; this goblin also had his back turned. Again, a single arrow finished the foul creature and I began to think that this would be a simple task. Be warned- such thoughts are a prelude to folly. If ever you believe that things are going remarkably well, you have overlooked or forgotten something important.

In this case, what I had forgotten was that goblins usually travel in packs. As the tunnel opened out, I suddenly realized that there were a great many shapes moving about in the shadows ahead of me. And, more to the point, those shapes had become aware of my presence. As I watched in horror, at least three goblins and a durzog began to run toward me, baying like a pack of wolves on the scent. Perhaps retreating would have been the intelligent thing to do. But I had come here to fight goblins, not to run away from them. Besides sheer bravado, there was another reason to finish this fight here and now- if I managed to escape, it would only be temporary. Eventually, I would have to come back. And I would have to confront goblins that were fully alert, aware that someone was stalking them. I would never again have the element of surprise on my side. For whatever reason, I decided not to run. I gulped a potion of levitation and clawed my way upward. Trusting in the magical brew to keep me suspended, I turned my body until it was parallel with the roof of the passage, hopefully out of reach. What I needed now was a secure place from which to thin the ranks of my foes.

Unfortunately, this particular section of the sewers was remarkably well maintained, with walls and roof intact. And I knew that I had not passed any handy ledges or cornices on my way here. There was nothing else for it- I would have to find a place deeper inside the complex of tunnels. Therefore, I began to move as rapidly as possible toward the goblins. That action surprised them for a few precious seconds and I was able to get past them before they thought to jump for me or throw something. Near a dead end, I saw what I needed- a massive, steep pile of masonry had fallen away from one of the walls. If I could reach that mound and somehow secure myself atop it, I need not worry about the levitation expiring. With the pack in close pursuit, I reached my objective; in the meantime, their hoots and barks had attracted additional goblins. When I at last knelt atop the pile of rubble and hooked one foot over an ancient pipe to hold myself in place, there was a virtual sea of leaping, snarling green bodies raging about the base of my refuge.

My precarious position made it hard to aim, but I knew that if ever I tumbled down into that seething mass, my last seconds of life would be horrible beyond imagining. Despite their constant movement, I was able to discern that most of the goblins who beset me were not the common soldiers I had encountered previously. Several of these creatures were larger and more powerful- they also wore more elaborate harnesses. The worst was one massive specimen who shouted and cuffed the others into some semblance of order, then pulled a scroll from his harness. With the air of a schoolboy called upon to recite a particularly difficult lesson, he began to read from the scroll in a harsh, halting voice. Comical though the performance was, it was also deadly serious, for I recognized the opening syllables of a Firebloom spell. Just before he finished, I was able to dump a fire shield potion over myself, thus rendering me proof against the worst effects of the incendiary spell. The fact that the scroll-reader was in command of this group gave me my first target, and I went to work with my magical bow.

My arrows largely sufficed to prevent any more spell-casting attempts, but those goblins were remarkably hard to kill. The first time my conjured bow expired and disappeared, I did not immediately recast the spell, but instead used my own elemental destruction scrolls. The resultant fire from one and ice from the other finally did for a couple of the goblins and I breathed a bit easier. One of those who dropped was the officer, which probably explained why none of them hit upon the idea of cooperating to bring me down from my perch. All it would have taken would be for a couple of them to boost a third to within reach, and this story would have been finished. Perhaps my constant rain of arrows also had something to do with it- even those that did not penetrate deeply seemed to sting the goblins into an unreasoning fury. Arrows bristling from their torsos and limbs, they thronged my rocky island and howled for my blood. I must have used over a hundred arrows before the last goblin fell and I was able to climb down.

I gave the bodies only a cursory search, enough to show that they were all from the same band as before. Beyond that confirmation there was other evidence of an organized plot- potions of healing, amulets to improve stamina, and even packets of moon-sugar. No wonder these creatures had been so hard to kill- they probably hadn’t even realized that they were being mortally wounded until blood loss stopped them. In addition to the one officer, there were four durzog-handlers and two regular soldiers in the group. Although their equipment might fetch a good price, treasure hunting was not my purpose. Besides, if I lived- the loot would still be here. If I didn’t…well, there was no point in planning for failure. So I left the macabre mound to continue my explorations. Just beyond the pile of rubble where I had made my stand were two doors marked with a corroded bronze plaque proclaiming that the Old Mournhold Battlefield lay just beyond. The irony was not lost on me, although I was in no mood to appreciate it at the time.