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]

Eventually, the cramped tunnel gave way to a great dome of a room. Braziers cast fitful light upon massive pillars leaning haphazardly against the walls. Across the way stood a platform of stone where rested what I took to be a huge plinth or altar of some sort. Amidst the piles of ruined stone and more ominous piles of skulls, I could make out the remains of an intricate mosaic floor. Of more immediate concern were the two large goblins that wandered through the gloom. They appeared to be simply scavenging through the ruins rather than serving as formal guards, so I hoped I could handle them separately. With that in mind, I quietly climbed atop a boulder in the mouth of the tunnel and intoned “boghu tromhad” to bring the magical bow to me. I waited until the goblins were at opposite ends of the room and targeted the nearest. It was a difficult shot, downhill in flickering light, so I had no real hope of making a kill. My purpose was simply to bring the monster to me. The arrow flew true and stung the goblin, which shambled toward my hiding place. Fortune favored me, as he had to negotiate a steep ramp with roughly cut footholds. That gave me a chance to bleed him a bit more.

What I did not count on was that this particular goblin knew how to cast a Firebloom spell without using a scroll. I was badly burned and had no choice but to imbibe a restorative and endure the pain before it took effect. However, I was able to put paid to the goblin without alerting his companion, so my suffering was worth it. Still, as soon as he fell, I crawled behind the boulders and shivered as my healing potion finished its work. The second goblin was easier and once he fell, I took some time to look over the room. When I reached the far side, I realized that the massive construct I had seen was actually the remains of a gigantic throne, with a seat some ten feet off of the floor. Perhaps it had once been occupied by an equally massive statue- I could not imagine a living being that would have needed such a chair. The nearby doorway, which carried the legend “Old Mournhold City Gate,” reinforced my surmise- the entrance to a great city would likely have been adorned with some heroic statuary.

Beyond the door I endured a seemingly endless time of dodging through damp, torch-lit tunnels, shooting at goblins and sprinting away. I did not always escape their retribution; I suffered a number of terrible, crushing blows from their clubs and claws. Restorative potions saved me from certain death, but the injuries still told upon me. Healing magic draws upon the will and substance of the patient; the greater the healing, the greater the drain on the recipient. At last, I could go no further; my reserves of strength and will were gone. In truth, so worn had I become that I am surprised the goblins did not mistake me for one of the unquiet spirits in that haunted place. Swallowing a levitation potion, I made my way to a crumbling balcony in some forgotten cavern and slept.

Physically refreshed, but still mentally on the ragged edge, I passed through a round metal door into the Old Mournhold Residential District to continue my demon-ridden hunt. I was no longer even sure of my reasons for being there- only deadly purpose was left. The watery cave containing the residential ruins gave me pause- it held the remains of buildings similar in style to those of Vivec. My mind could not comprehend the massive cataclysm that must have been unleashed to destroy and bury such a huge city. But that reverie lasted only a moment and I returned to my hunt. I lost count of the goblins I slew- a dozen, two dozen? It did not matter, for none were the leaders I so desperately sought. Finally, I reached a tunnel complex called the Tears of Amun-Shae, caverns that pre-dated the original city of Mournhold, ancient beyond measure. My heart told me that I was close to my goal at last. Now I simply needed to find the goblin leaders and finish my task.

Actually, the first of the goblin chiefs found me- or rather he ambushed me as I stuck my incautious head into the Tears of Amun-Shae cavern. Although I passed through the door with my customary stealth, Kurog the goblin had made a lair for himself in a chamber above the doorway. While my attention was focused ahead of me, he launched a series of destructive spells from above and behind. I spent several anxious moments fighting the effects of fire, shock, and poison before I could retaliate. When my health was restored, I levitated and faced my tormentor. It was then that the weakness of his hiding place became apparent- there was no back door. That lapse illustrated the error of relying solely on surprise for victory- what do you do if surprise is lost? What happens if the enemy survives the initial ambush? Careful thief that I was, I would never trap myself inside a place with only one exit, as Kurog had done. His spells exhausted, all he could do was gibber and froth at me as I floated out of his reach and pierced him with arrows and incinerated him with Hellfire scrolls. Half of my mission was accomplished; all that remained was to find the other chief and I could leave this place.

The second chief, Durgoc, was both easier to find and harder to kill. Easier- because he did not possess the spells of his dead compatriot; harder- because he regenerated health at an alarming rate. I was at last able to herd him into a dead end cavern, where he, too, fell to fire and steel. My long struggle against the goblins was over, though I took no satisfaction in it. As for the Altmer trainers- I neither knew nor cared where they might be hidden. Whether they abandoned the scheme and fled or remained to leave their bones alongside those of their goblin army- it was all the same to me. Before leaving the ruins of Old Mournhold, I did one last, distasteful chore and then took myself away from that place forever. Not even my accidental discovery of a vein of adamantium ore could entice me to return. The job had been long, hard, and brutal and all I wanted now was to take a hot bath and then sleep for a week. But first, I needed to report my “success.”

I made my long, slow way back out of the ruins of Old Mournhold, back to the surface, and at last climbed the steps of the Temple. Without pausing to ask for admittance, I entered the reception area and limped across the polished marble floor. My clothing was torn and still covered with blood, that of the goblins and my own, and I stank of the sewers and the smoke of torches burning underground. But I simply ignored the disapproving looks of the Temple functionaries as I made my way to Fedris Hler. When I stood before the steward, I upended the sack I carried. Two objects fell out and bounced across the floor. I didn’t wait for a reaction, but simply turned to walk away, as mute as the snarling heads of the goblin warchiefs that rolled to a stop at Fedris Hler’s feet.

Here Ends Chapter 2

This post has been edited by treydog: Oct 27 2005, 12:31 AM