Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 3 Options

[treydog]

First, I apologize for the over-long delay in getting back to this story. Job change, severe writer's block, and my usual autumn depression combined to stop my writing cold. Anyway, for those who are still interested, here is the next installment.

T.

Chapter 3

The long struggle against the goblins had left me physically and emotionally spent. So great was my weariness that I would not even think of the purpose that had originally brought me to Mournhold. The Dark Brotherhood were agents of death, mercenaries who killed without honor or remorse, concerned only that they receive their blood money. And, just at the moment, that description hit too close to home for my comfort. Like the goblins, the assassins likely made their lair in the ruins of Old Mournhold, and I could not bear the thought of returning to those spirit-thronged tunnels. Although I was a thief, by definition a creature of darkness, the dark of a moonless night was far different from the unrelieved blackness beneath the city. At least when I crouched upon a rooftop, the air was wholesome- filled with the scents of cooking fires and stable yards- the odors of life in all its glory and simplicity. Under the city, every breath was labored, the air tainted with a miasma of deaths old and new, and thick with the plotting of deaths still to come. What I needed desperately was the light of day and the rumble of humanity going about the business of living. I wanted to wander through the Great Bazaar, acting as if I had nothing in mind beyond seeking a bargain on some exotic piece of art or craft from a far place, a place that had never heard of goblins or assassins.

Before making my way to the marketplace, I washed away the worst stains of my labors at the fountain in the Brindisi Dorom. As I did so, I was not certain that the High Ordinators would not object to my ablutions. In truth, I rather hoped they would make an issue of it- I held no very great love for Almalexia’s version of the Temple at that moment. Other than a few penetrating glances, my impromptu bath drew no reaction though, and I was soon refreshed and on my way. Although the idea of a real bath with hot water and soap tempted me to take a room at the Winged Guar, I was not ready to confine myself indoors just yet. Satisfied that my appearance would no longer cause some concerned citizen to call the guards or the healers, I proceeded to the Great Bazaar, where I frankly acted like a country lout loose in the big city for the first time. There was talk of a play to be performed, and I waited for a few minutes in hopes of seeing such a novelty, but there seemed to be some delay, so I moved on. As I climbed the steps, staring at the shops and plants and people, I became so distracted that I failed to notice a young Dunmer woman until I placed my foot directly in the midst her lunch, which she had set out upon one of the steps. She accepted my profuse apologies with more weariness than grace, and began to gather up the remains of her ruined meal. When I offered to at least pay her the price of a decent dinner at the inn, she merely sighed and said,

“That would be nice, but I really have no time to talk. There’s much work to do… No time for silly fancies like dancing or dinner. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to meet someone new.”

The way she said it made clear that she was really just thinking out loud rather than trying to interest the bumbling Breton who had just clumsily trodden on her lunch. Still, it seemed that I should at least offer her a sympathetic ear if that was what she needed. She was still fairly young, older than I- perhaps in her 30s- although it is always hard to judge such things among the Elven races. Her eyes were interesting- sad, thoughtful, with a spark of intelligence lurking in their depths. Recalling my own recent travails with employment, I agreed that work could be wearing. She nodded and said,

“Yes, that's right. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold. It's quite a sob story; are you sure you want to hear it?”

When I signaled my assent, she continued,

“Well, it's mostly my fault, really. My name is Marena Gilnith, and I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. They cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn't take it. He was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold. I was convinced that I'd be able to find the man of my dreams. Only, it hasn't worked out that way.”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug and continued,

“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I'd need money to survive on my own. I was determined, though, not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness from my parents and that loathsome man. I'd make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was. So I started working... and now it's all I do. I never have time to meet anyone. Let me know if you meet any nice, single men.”

It was the sort of request you hear fairly often- usually spoken in jest. But somehow I knew that she spoke from sincere hope, and a part of me responded with equal sincerity. It was as if our lives had followed similar paths, paths that could lead to loneliness and bitterness- if no kind stranger intervened. And so I said,

“Give me a little time, and I will try. Whatever chances, I will meet you here at this same hour in two days’ time.”

Perhaps it would have been wiser to refuse her request or to pretend that it was simply a joke, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken appeal in her eyes. Maybe I felt the need to do something that celebrated life instead of death. Or maybe I responded to the fact that she had confided in me, a stranger. In any event, though I had no idea of how to accomplish the task, I agreed. In truth, I wasn’t certain that I knew what a “good man” was; I definitely knew nothing about finding one. But as I considered more deeply, I realized that much of what I knew about choosing horses could apply to men. You wanted a good temperament, determination that did not shade into stubbornness, intelligence, loyalty… maybe I could manage this after all. Of course, that assumed that I could find any men who sought marriage- I did not really think Marena was interested in the other sort. That made things a bit more difficult- somehow, I doubted that even fabled Mournhold had a shop or market for marriageable men.

[treydog]

I may not have slept the sleep of the just, but I certainly did sleep as one mortally tired and awoke refreshed and ready to face a new day. After bathing my face and hands, I stepped out into the bar area, where Ra’Tesh immediately called me over. The Khajiiti bartender quietly passed over a bulging pouch of gold and a sealed note, saying only that a “priesty soldier” had left them for me. A glance at the wax seal, which bore the symbol of the Tribunal Temple, clarified what he meant. Not wishing to draw too much attention, I retreated to my room and unsealed the note. Written in a spidery script, it bore the signature of Fedris Hler, and I could almost hear the Temple steward’s dusty voice speaking the words as I read them:

“You've gotten rid of the goblin warchiefs and that is excellent. I'm certain the army itself will scatter over the next few weeks. Our Lady will be pleased. A shame you weren't able to find the Altmer training them, but what can one expect from such as you.... Still, the Lady would wish for you to be rewarded. Take this paltry sum of 5000 gold and our thanks. If you wish to be of further service, the Archcanon would be pleased to speak with you.”

The gold and Hler’s words brought the horror of the goblin hunt crashing back upon me and I was sorely tempted to simply put the blood money aside. But common sense prevailed and I realized that I could perhaps use some of the money to make amends with Bols Indalen for costing him an apprentice. In that way something good could come from gold earned in a dubious fashion.

When I arrived at the armorer’s shop, it was to find the master smith in full cry, berating his former apprentice.

“Damn that Ilnori Faustus! Damn him! He left me a few days ago without so much as a wave goodbye. Just walked out the door. Well, good riddance, I suppose, but I still need an apprentice. If you find any able-bodied young person looking for work, let them know I need a new apprentice.”

When I admitted that Ilnori’s absence was perhaps my fault, and that I was willing to pay damages, Master Indalen waved it all aside.

“No, good sera, it is not your doing. That strutting cockerel was bound to do something foolish sooner rather than later- he just used you as an excuse. Still, if you know of anyone who appreciates craft and is looking for a job, send him my way.”

Although the smith had refused payment, I felt better for having taken responsibility for my actions and left with a lighter step. If I could not give the gold away, I would at least spend a bit of it on a drink and a decent meal back at the Winged Guar. As for Fedris Hler’s suggestion that I might be of assistance to the Archcanon- well, I would just have to think about that. So far, I had not been pleased with the Temple’s methods.


When I returned to the Winged Guar, I was greeted by a morose Redguard who said,

“Hi there, Breton. Care to drink away your troubles with me?”

Since that was precisely my intention, I agreed and paid for the first round. Still, my melancholy was not so great that I wished to broadcast the cause to all and sundry, so I asked him the source of his sadness.

He responded with a grimace and said,

“Well, my life isn't exactly gold-kanet-sunshine-happy at the moment. More like bungler's-bane-bummer. I got laid off from my job at the pillow factory last week. The market for pillows has really bottomed out in the last few years. Turns out that the average family home doesn't need 25 pillows per person like we originally thought. Who knew the market would turn so sour so suddenly?”

Slowly rotating his mug of flin on the bar, he continued,

“I really loved that job. For me, it was all about the work. But it didn't take long for the money guys in the exquisite robes upstairs to burn through all our pillow venture capital. Offices in the best Telvanni towers, 1500-septim chairs upholstered in the finest scamp skin, and unlimited stores of matze. We would spend 16 hours a day or more in there, doing what we loved -- crafting pillows. It was a dream come true for me. Ever since I was young, I dreamed of creating the perfect pillow. Well, those days are over now. I need to find work.”

Sometimes, I almost believed in the gods. Or rather, in the generosity of the gods. I had certainly seen enough of their vindictiveness in my short life. With a smile, I told Therdon (for that was his name),

“My friend, I happen to know that Master Bols Indalen in the Craftsmen’s Hall is searching for an apprentice at this very moment. Tell him that Trey sent you.”

Therdon’s face cleared and he said,

“Hmm.... Well, it's not making pillows, but it is work. I just might try that out. Thanks, Trey. Next time you see me, perhaps I'll be working in the smith's shop. Have a drink on me!”

With that, he bought me a bottle of vintage brandy, straightened his tunic and headed for the stairs. As for me, I gave Ra’Tesh a generous tip and retreated to my room to seek answers at the bottom of the bottle. Any seer will tell you that pure water is a far better medium for scrying, but the truth was that I didn’t really want to know the future.