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]

Though the more primitive side of my nature, still roused to its full fury by the recent fight, urged me to burst through the doors and continue the slaughter, I held back. I had taken no serious wounds, but the battle had cost me the only destructive magicka scrolls I owned, not to mention over half my arrows. Without the advantage of the scrolls, I could not be sure of surviving another such struggle. Worse yet, the goblins I had defeated had been subofficers- the stronger warchiefs were still somewhere ahead. I could back out now and obtain the weapons I needed to continue the fight or I could press on, using what I had. If I left, the goblins would almost certainly discover the bodies I had left strewn about and would therefore know that they were being stalked. But as the battle-madness wore off, reason asserted itself. Surprise was a fleeting thing- an ambush could be turned back on the ambusher if he did not achieve a decisive victory in the first few moments. These last goblins had proved very hard to kill and there was no guarantee that I would find a suitable place to make a stand deeper inside the ruins of the old city. Besides, if someone did discover the corpses, that could work to my advantage. All they would find would be dead goblins, with no sign of who or what had killed them. At first, they would be on alert, patrolling aggressively. As time passed though, the tension would take a toll. And then I could return- rested and re-supplied- ready to take up the fight again at a time and place of MY choosing.

Although I had used up a great many of my arrows, I was still well supplied with potions, so I believed that I could find what I needed in the Great Bazaar. Using my Divine Intervention amulet carried me to the Palace courtyard, from whence I walked to the marketplace of Mournhold. Besides the vendors in open stalls, the Bazaar included half-a-dozen stores, each catering to a different need. Because time was of the essence and because I wanted to have some money left, I avoided the bookseller and went directly to the pawnbroker’s establishment. The proprietor was an Argonian who suffered under the name Ten-Tongues Werehat. After I took a quick glance at the merchandise he had on display, I casually made a Thieves Guild sign and asked,

“Is this everything you have? I was really looking for scrolls.”

The Argonian gave a nervous glance at the oblivious guard and then allowed,

“Every now and then I'll have special bargains on certain items. Just for valued customers like yourself, of course. I'll see if I can make you a deal.”

He then produced three or four scrolls containing the incantation for a spell called “Hellfire.” That was exactly the sort of thing I needed, so I looked them over to ensure that the spells weren’t flawed. When I expressed my interest, Ten-Tongues named a ridiculously low price of 60 drakes per scroll. My normal bargaining sense disappeared and I blurted,

“How can you sell these so cheaply?”

The pawnbroker gave me an offended look and grumbled,

“I don't see why everyone has to assume that just because I'm capable of offering some very good prices on quality merchandise that there's something shady going on! I was just telling Ahnia the other day that...ahh...err, nevermind.”

Ahnia- that name sounded familiar. Then I remembered- remembered stumbling over a black-clad Khajiit in the sewers who had said, “Ahnia does not know you.” After a little persuasion Ten-Tongues admitted,

“Okay, okay. She's a Khajiit. An entrepreneur of sorts. She'll meet me in the sewers beneath here from time to time, and have things for me to sell. I try not to ask too many questions, you know? She carries a pretty sharp knife. So I just do business, like I always do. There's no harm in it, right? It's not like it's hurting anyone.”

That answer satisfied me; I would never interfere with someone who was just trying to make a living. My only concern was that no angry wizard was going to confront me and demand payment for his scrolls. Just to keep up appearances, I strolled through the Bazaar a little longer, stopping in at the armorer to pick up a couple of hundred arrows. At last, I returned to my hiding place beneath the Palace to rest for a day or two. And then it was time to continue my goblin hunt.

All too soon, I once again stood outside the doorway to the Old Mournhold Battlefield. Before entering, I spoke the words of the spell that conjured a magical bow from the Void. Upon slipping through the door, I heard the deep grunting of at least two goblins, but did not see any in the immediate vicinity. The corridor curved to my right and then plunged downward; a quick scan showed two large goblins wandering about. Hoping to isolate one, I extracting a potion of levitation and fired an arrow at the nearest. My plan failed spectacularly- the arrow bounced off of the huge creature’s thick hide and his enraged bellow alerted the other to my presence. They both raced toward me, barking excitedly as they came. I had been prepared for such a possibility, and used the levitation potion I had been holding. The larger goblin countered with a guttural chant, and again I was subjected to the scorching agony of a Firebloom spell. I dodged in time to only catch the edge of the resulting burst of flame; better still, I was out of reach of direct physical attacks. These goblins proved somewhat smarter than their brethren- when they saw that they could not reach me, they ran from the hail of arrows I launched at them. A nerve-wracking game of cat-and-mouse followed- I would wait until the goblins stopped, then lower myself to the floor and shoot at them. Goaded by the arrows (many of which bounced off) and encouraged by the idea that I was within reach, they would race back and attempt to catch me as I bounced back up to the ceiling. Finally, a lucky shot took one of them to his knees and I finished him as quickly as possible with no false notion of chivalry. The other fled- perhaps intent on raising the alarm- but his panicked flight took him into a caved-in tunnel with no exit. With no more mercy than the goblins would have shown me, I cut him down.

With the apparent sentinels removed, I had time to rest and prepare for more exploration. First I cast the Beggars Nose spell to determine how many additional enemies might be present. To my relief, my heightened senses showed only one possible hostile creature, as well as an enchanted item. Before I got carried away, I realized that the enchantment might be something carried by one of the Altmer trainers. For whatever reason, my spell was unable to discern men or elves that might wish me harm. It was worth keeping that fact in mind, particularly here in Mournhold, where the factions and alliances were quite murky. With the utmost caution, I crept through collapsed tunnels. The only worked stone left appeared to be bits and pieces of the destroyed walls of Old Mournhold. The enchantment I had detected turned out to be an axe that had belonged to an unfortunate warrior. His skeletal remains lay beneath a boulder that had not killed him outright, but rather had pinned his legs. How horrible his last hours must have been, unable to free himself, praying for death to bring release from his torment.

As I worked my way deeper through the nightmare maze of collapsed walls, I came across more bones from the combatants in that ancient struggle. Here they lay, names and deeds forgotten, entombed far below a great city that did not even care about the cause for which they had fought. The bones of the coward mingled with those of the hero; sinners and saints were locked in an embrace for all eternity. And I, thief though I was, let them lie. Whatever they had possessed, whoever they had been- now they belonged to death and to history. Overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness, I sent a quiet prayer to the ghosts of those forgotten dead, asking them to strengthen my arm as I carried out my fight against the goblins far underground. Whether they heard, I cannot say. But at least none hindered me.