Killing in the Emperor's Name, A collection: An argonian assassin's world Options

[The Metal Mallet]

Ooo, lots of mystery in this update. You leave us wanting more canis! I want to know who are these mysterious talkers. Though I do wonder if the first part of this update was taken from an outside perspective or of another character perspective? It kinda has the feeling of both but I'm leaning to an outside perspective.

Anyways, keep up the solid work!

[treydog]

I really enjoy the way you portray Mournhold. I also like Al's increasing frustration as he finds himself stumbling into various Tribunal quests during his search for Sethyas. The perspective shifts add a layer of complexity and detail that brings the story even more vividly to life.

[jack cloudy]

I think the first part was taken from the palace's informant's viewpoint.

Anyway, it was quite an intriguing update. Hmm, I wonder what the help from Cyrodiil is. New DB dudes? Hmm, DB=Dark Brotherhood. Let's see.......Dudes in Black. Sorry, couldn't help myself. Hey, this is how Luper is going to call them. Thanks for the inspiration, Canis!

[minque]

Hmmm this really is some piece of good work! It´s always very interesting how different writers interpret Mournhold! (City of fear, city of deceit)

[canis216]

Many thanks for the praise, friends, and for the inspiration your own stories provide. It was Trey's stories, in fact, that kept me coming here (lurking, for so long) after I was first lured in by Sinder Velvin's parody.

Yes, I've been messing around with perspective, and I'll continue to do it. I might even have a couple of new characters to bring in soon to this strange cast Morrowind provides. Might even screw around with time some, like here (ever so slightly). But enough foreshadowing! I've got an update to provide, and more to write, since I'm on an extended weekend (5 blessed days!) in my Missoula home after working and camping out for a couple of weeks near Bozeman. The ideas are bursting forth!
================================================


Assassins, Spies, and Smiths

“He’s working for the monarchy now? That doesn’t make sense.”

Ra’Tesh nodded his head and flashed a toothy, rueful grin. “Ra’Tesh hears that Tenius Delitian is very persuasive, in his way. Ra’Tesh hears that the hunter had little choice.”

I nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. No choice. But it complicates matters. Tracking someone who is being tracked is...” I glanced about the room, “risky.”

“Yes, Ra’Tesh understands. You don’t want to bring attention to yourself.”

“Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin.”

------------------------------------------------------

I downed my fifth brandy of the night and briefly scanned the roomed before turning back to the bar. “I don’t think he’ll be coming tonight, Ra’Tesh.”

“Hunters keep odd hours.”

“Yes. But you said he’s been coming in regularly, staying in that room… I just have a feeling that he won’t be tonight.”

“Ra’Tesh is getting a feeling, too.”

“What?” I set my bottle down on the bar.

Ra’Tesh nodded towards the upstairs. “The orc in the corner, he just leaves. Ra’Tesh thinks he was writing something under the table, looking this way a lot.”

“A spy.”

“You think so, Al? For Helseth?”

I barely caught the words—I’d made my own conclusions. I was already up, walking briskly way from the bar. In pursuit.

-------------------------------------------------------

Of course he was working for Helseth. I usually don’t spend much time in Mournhold—I consider it unhealthy—but I’d heard the rumors. And more. A Blade hears many things.

Still, I wanted to know precisely where this spy was going. Just in case.

I made my way out to the balcony of The Winged Guar just in time to see the orc duck inside the Craftsmen’s Hall, next door. If he was suspicious of me—and I’m sure he was—he’d be trying to chat up the local merchants to see what services and goods I’d been buying. The good spy, trying to confirm his intuitions. None of this surprised me—my work with Blades saw to that. But what to do? Should I kill him now, or later? From my perch on the balcony I had a good view of the elite ordinator patrols below. I spotted three, plus one of Almalexia’s Hands. Later. I would kill the spy later.

Who among the craftsmen would talk to the spy? Bols Indalen, of course, knew how I kept myself outfitted, knew that I was looking for viper-bolts too. He had also readily assented when I suggested I keep it quiet. He could be tricked into talking, but probably wouldn’t talk about me openly—the armorer was extremely impressed with my arsenal, and surely would have guessed my profession, and the consequences of speaking openly about it.

The apprentice—the “damned idiot” Indalen had spoken of—was too busy shirking his duties to take much notice of me, I thought. Though it would be a pleasure to gut, er, silence the arrogant young imperial, it wouldn’t be necessary.

I hadn’t used any other services in there… but there was that mad weaponsmithing orc wailing away at his force not five paces away while I did business with the armorer. And orcs are very clannish; most of the orcs on Vvardenfell are at least acquainted with each other, and in the rest of the Empire the pattern generally holds… and perhaps the weaponsmith would remember me. Perhaps I was in big trouble.

[canis216]

Overheard

I see a lot of folks in here. Yeah, argonians sometimes. Black robe? Shady type? Uh no, I don’t remember anyone like that. No, I really couldn’t say…

-------------------------------------------------

Argonian? Do you mock me, plebe? I’m too busy preparing for life as a free adventurer too bother with such trivialities—I aspire to heights greater than you've ever dreamed of. Do you think monsters and evil men will stand any chance when they behold this majestic specimen of humanity striding toward them? No! They will quail and faint at the sight of me. I will wave their corpses aside with a swipe of my hand…

------------------------------------------------

Well, I don’t get too many argonian customers. I think Effe-Tei, the palace mage, is my only argonian regular. That ‘Ten-Tongues’ fellow used to pester me a lot about how I did certain scroll enchantments, but I haven’t seen him lately…

------------------------------------------------

I was wondering when you’d get around to me, Bakh. Been a while since I’ve seen you slinking around here. What is it this time? Huh? Shady argonian character, some kind of killer? Yeah, I think I’ve seen somebody like that. Needed armor repair, had some exotic weapons…

This post has been edited by canis216: Jun 15 2007, 08:09 AM

[canis216]

Keeping to the Shadows

How long has he been in there? Ten minutes? Twenty? He must be getting some answers. I could burst in there, I think, spray him and everyone else with viper-bolts, escape the ordinators, and get the hell out of Mournhold.

No, no. I shake my head. One single spy isn’t worth it, isn’t worth all that. Crazed thought. I think I’ve had too much brandy this evening. No, the way is to wait for him to enter a nice shady spot and then strike, from behind, with one hand over his mouth and the other raking Kills-You-Dead across his throat. Or maybe I could perch on the roof of one of these manor buildings, put a bolt in his heart as soon as he steps outside the door of the damned Craftsmen’s Hall, let those elite ordinators frantically search the plaza for the shooter while I lounge around above them.

Too late; the orc spy is out the door and making for the Temple courtyard—maybe he’s on his way to the palace already, or maybe he’s heading for the Great Bazaar to so he can find more information. I don’t know—I have to follow. I eased my way over the balcony’s edge just as the spy went out through the gate.

It is getting darker by the moment in Mournhold, so I have little trouble following the orc even as he seems to grow ever more nervous. Perhaps he feels like he is being watched or followed; he takes cursory glances back but I blend easily into the shadows. But it may just be the spy’s normal paranoia. I too, know this feeling. Every Blade does. Even ex-Blades. In any case, he doesn’t see me. He does pause by the giant gate-door leading into the palace complex, but not long; he moves on to the way to the Great Bazaar, and enters. A moment later I follow.

The orc is making a beeline for Ten-Tongues’ shop. Of course. He figures that one of Mournhold’s few hist folk would remember if he ran into another, one who just happened to wear dark hooded robes and carry the tools of an assassin’s trade. And he figures correctly, more than he could have possibly guessed.

He doesn’t leave Ten-Tongues’ shop until forty minutes have passed.

[The Metal Mallet]

Ohh the subtleties of espionage. So very fun to read. It'll be interesting to see how Al will finally get his hands on this orc. Perhaps the orc will convince Al to spare him? We'll see I assume.

[jack cloudy]

Postmachine alert! What Mallet said, this is fun to read.

Now with the forty minutes, I assume that Ten-Tongues let all ten of his tongues do their work well. Too bad for him, but Al is in a sensitive mood right now and rather easily provoked to 'silencing' the talker. The fact that they aren't exactly friends doesn't help the tongued one either.

[minque]

Good read Canis! And as a matter of fact it was Trey who inspired me as well! Well I´m suffering from writer´s block, so I just try to catch up on the other stories here, and yours is a very enjoyable read!

[canis216]

Post-machine alert indeed! I told you the ideas were bursting forth!

An Old Friend

‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat was just about to put away a considerable sack of gold when a familiar figure, dressed in black, strode into his pawnshop. The pawnbroker took a deep breath before speaking. “This is unexpected, Heik-Auri. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another day.”

The newcomer, Heik-Auri, shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, but his eyes flashed red. But his voice was icy calm. “One tires of waiting around at the tavern, so I figured I'd stop by and see if my order came in early.”

“Well… you are in luck, Heik-Auri. I just picked up your viper-bolts this morning.” Ten-Tongues rummaged around below his counter until he could produce a cylinder full of the deadly projectiles. “Two hundred fifty bolts, Heik-Auri.”

“Excellent. How much?”

“For you, twelve hundred septims.”

Heik-Auri rummaged about in the folds of his robe until he could produce a number of fifty- and hundred-septim coins. He set them firmly on the counter and took up the cylinder of bolts. “Now we have other business, Ten-Tongues. Like the spy.”

Ten-Tongues went white. Or as close to white as an argonian can get.

“I—I swear I told him no—“

Heik-Auri interrupted. “He was in here for more than half an hour, Ten-Tongues. You told him everything, didn’t you. For how much? That sack of gold, there?”

“Five thousand septims.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Ten-Tongues. You always did have a way with words. I’m going to put a stop to that.”

Ten-Tongues pulled an old iron longsword up off the shelf—Heik-Auri burst into laughter. “You mean to fight me with that old thing? You couldn’t cut crab meat with that. Don’t you have anything better?”

The pawnbroker kept the sword raised. “I told you, Heik-Auri, that I am a Shadowscale no more. I haven’t been in a fight since—“

“Since you failed to hunt me down and kill me?” Heik-Auri interrupted.

“No. After they kicked me out I—I did a bit of freelancing.”

For a moment Ten-Tongues fell silent, and looked down to his feet.

“No one likes an unaffiliated assassin.”

“Yes, Heik-Auri, and that includes the assassin himself. But then I hired on with the Dark Brotherhood—I thought it was the burden of working alone that weighed most heavily upon me, but the Brotherhood was worse. I don’t care to speak of the things I did.”

“So you got out of that business. Why couldn’t you leave me to my own, Ten-Tongues? You’ve made trouble for me, and it will mean trouble for you.”

“I am sorry.”

Heik-Auri drew both his blades—the vicious glowing daedric dagger Kills-You-Dead and the simple, elegant, black shortsword of ebony. “I am impressed by your contrition, Ten-Tongues. And believe me; I know much of what plagues the assassin’s conscience. I too, have thought much of leaving the trade.” The assassin’s voice suddenly took a harsh turn. “And you have made that harder for me, here in this city of the damned.” He flipped the ebony blade around, thrusting the hilt Ten-Tongues’ way. “You will fight me with this.”

“A fine weapon, Heik-Auri. I’m afraid I’m no good with one of these anymore.”

“Take a moment to feel it out. I can do no more for you. If we weren’t of neighboring clans—if we hadn’t known the same hardships, the same suffering—I’d just have cut your throat. I don’t like to fight fair.”

“Yes, Heik-Auri, I understand. I thank you for the honor.” Ten-Tongues waved the blade about a little, getting a feel for the balance, how it might best be used. He thought of the sparring sessions deep in the swamps of interior Black Marsh, the occasional weekend rambles through Greenglade, the stern lessons of Sneaks-in-Shadows, and one drunken, stumbling student who tore it all asunder. Was it all for naught? Or for the best? He shook his head, and his thoughts returned to the blade—the heft felt inexplicably comfortable now, like the weight had never left his hand.

“I’m ready now, old friend.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jun 16 2007, 08:52 PM

[The Metal Mallet]

Hmmm, Al is acting honourable for a change. I guess he really respects his race, an admirable trait given his Argonian race. It'll be interesting to see if Ten Tongues can handle Al. He's currently has the reach advantage and an ebony weapon certainly provides some bite. Then again, with Kills-You-Dead it doesn't take long for it to live up to its namesake.

I look forward to the oncoming duel!

[jack cloudy]

Yeah, the honour surprised me. Honestly, I thought Al would just take the viperbolts, pay and then do a 'try-out' by shooting one in ten's heart. After that, he would retrieve his money and the sack of gold.

Still, it is a good update. Good dialogue.

[canis216]

The Old Ways

Two hist-folk faced each other on the bottom floor of the pawnshop, standing eight feet and eight years. On the east side of the room stood a figure wielding a daedric dagger, fearsome with its serrated edge and sickly glow of enchantment. The figure had just pulled off his black robe, revealing the chitin armor beneath—normal save for its blackened appearance. This argonian looked very fit in spite of the nicks and scars that could be seen in the few spots where his red-brown scaly skin was exposed. He took an aggressive stance, holding the dagger menacingly before him. His left hand he held back to his side, closed around a viper-bolt. He was accustomed to fighting with two blades, so carrying the bolt in his off hand was a comfort. It could also be brought into play in the fight to come, though neither combatant had to fear the venomous enchantment—they were both immune to poison.

The other combatant stood to the west, holding an ebony shortsword in a defensive position. He wore an exquisite shirt and his muscles were soft and undefined, in stark contrast to his opponent, who seemed hard as ebony yet limber as well-watered wickwheat. Yet the soft, unpracticed merchant was smiling almost serenely while his battle-hardened foe’s face was grim and rigid like stone.

The assassin, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, dressed dark as night—he made the first move, two syrupy stutter-steps forward. The merchant, Ten-Tongues Weerhat, managed to block the assassin’s dagger, slashing rightward, but could not defend himself from the viper-bolt planted in the soft flesh just beneath his right shoulder. He winced in pain and tried to push his assailant away. The combatants separated; blood dripped from the bolt clenched in the assassin’s left hand and trickled from the wound in Ten-Tongue’s chest.

“I had forgotten what it felt like to be stabbed.”

“You won’t forget again.”

The combatants assumed the same positions as before, and it was incumbent upon Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun to initiate the action once more. He darted in, feinting another slash with Kills-You-Dead but instead planted his left foot against the pawnbroker’s chest, sending Ten-Tongues flying into the wall. He, the assassin, did not press the attack—he resumed his fighting stance across the room.

“So you aim to punish me, Heik-Auri?” the merchant asked as he finally staggered to his feet.

“You need to get your bearings.”

Ten-Tongues assumed his defensive stance once more. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun dashed in the suddenly, made a quick leftward spin—Ten-Tongue’s attempted hack skidded uselessly off the assassin’s hard chitin armor—and brought the hilt of Kills-You-Dead down upon the merchant’s skull. Hard. Ten-Tongues collapsed in a heap.

-----------------------------------------------------

No, Weerhat, you need to really believe. If you do not believe that you cannot be seen, than how can you expect your opponent to believe it? Better, better—but you cannot forget your belief during the course of attack. This is difficult, but all born under the Shadow must learn to do so. Yes, excellent…..

You have come along way, shadowkin. Now we spar. Here is a new one. He thinks he is something special with that ebony blade, but we shall teach him some humility, eh? Go…..

Hmm… we must work on that blade work. Watch his arm tense there, but watch those hips all the more and you will see from where the strike is really coming. Let us make those strikes of yours really hit home. Do not just hack and slash—that is to be expected from any novice swordsman, is easily avoided. The thrust—quick, well-placed—is harder to see coming, difficult to block. Find the holes in his armor, Weerhat!

------------------------------------------------------

Ten-Tongues staggered back to his feet, grinning widely.

“Again.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun looked a little puzzled now. He discerned something of a wild look in his opponent’s eyes—it didn’t worry him, but it was curious. A little bothersome. But he assumed his offensive stance once more, this time with a small flourish of his daedric dagger—it cut the air with a whistle. He moved in once more, spinning with the aim to place a great rent across Ten-Tongue’s chest—but the merchant was no longer there, had vanished almost in front of his eyes. The assassin heard a whistling blade distinct from his own; he dived to floor, rolling away. The slash caught Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun on the side, a glancing blow that still cut a slit along the length of his cuirass. The assassin stood up out of his roll. He could hear his opponent’s footsteps approach but not see. He heard the soft rustle of a silken shirt… he spun quickly away, took the attempted thrust to the heart on his left bicep, and came out of the spin with a savage swipe at what he thought was his opponent’s back.

“Ahhh!” Ten-Tongues Weerhat materialized before the assassin, his fine shirt torn across the middle of his back and bleeding through. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun threw him against the wall.

“I see you remember your old skills now—I toyed with you perhaps a bit too long. Still, your lack of training—weak muscles, dulled senses—betrayed you. But in a way, I suppose, that bit of remembrance has salvaged some of your honor. Or maybe just bad memories from bad times.” the assassin hissed harshly into Ten-Tongues’ ear.

“I remember… hate.”

“Isn’t that all they really taught us, Ten-Tongues? And isn’t that why you quit the business? I’d like to do that too, but not just yet. Not at your hand. Goodbye, old comrade.”

The assassin drew Kills-You-Dead across Ten-Tongues’ throat. An ebony shortsword fell to the floor.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jun 17 2007, 04:28 PM

[The Metal Mallet]

Brilliant battle. That flashback added a nice touch. Now hopefully that scuffle won't bring the Ordinators along.

[jack cloudy]

I have to agree with Mallet, you've done it again.

The last sentence only served to increase the impact of the whole scene. Good work.

[canis216]

Inquisition

“Fedris ought to hear about this.”

“Sir?”

A pair of high ordinators stood at the door of Ten-Tongues Weerhat’s pawnshop, contemplating the pawnbroker’s corpse. The dead mer lay at the base of the stairway, in a pool of his own drying blood. One of the ordinators, the apparent leader of the two, dropped into a crouch over the balls of his feet, moving his gaze from side to side across the tiled floor. He murmured to himself, “Scratches. Clawed feet.” Then he spoke more loudly, “Liodris, check the wounds on that body. I want to know what kind of weapon did this. Be careful where you step.”

“Yes sir.” Liodris Aramel walked carefully across the floor to the body. It lay face down. “Slashing wound to the back, pretty deep. Not a totally clean slice—some ripping. I think the blade may have been a little jagged or serrated, sir.”

“Daedric dagger, Liodris?”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. A hard swing.”

“Any other wounds on the back?”

“No sir. But I do see a contusion on top of the head. Yes, it looks like the hilt of that dagger.”

“Alright, flip him over.”

“Well sir, I think we can pin down the cause of death. Weerhat’s throat is open wide. Same weapon, I’d guess.”

“Was it cut open from in front or behind?”

“Judging from the cut and the position of the body, behind. There’s some blood up on the wall there too—looks like the killer got the lizard up against the wall and finished him execution-style.”

“I can accept that. Any other wounds?”

“A few bruises—there was definitely a struggle—and a puncture next to the arm pit on the right side. Looks like… a bolt? Odd use of a bolt. Looks like he was stabbed with it and the assailant pulled it out. Like he was using it as a second blade or something.”

“Let me run this by you, Liodris. What I think we have here is a duel. Weerhat stood over there”—he pointed to a spot a couple paces north of the body—“and the killer stood opposite. The killer was the aggressor—I don’t see any sign of Weerhat advancing west but I see the killer dancing over his way. And the killer was toying with Weerhat; these moves are too fast for any pawnbroker to counter. Look at those marks.” He pointed to some indistinct scratches. “That’s a fast spin. Could you counter that? This killer was some kind of professional.”

“Pardon me sir, but who would send an assassin to kill a pawnbroker? And why the duel? Why not just take him by surprise and cut his throat?”

“The killer was an assassin, but this wasn’t an assassination.”

Liodris gaped at his commander from behind the silver mask. “Sir?”

“The killer was another argonian. And he knew Weerhat. It was duel, but do you see Weerhat’s weapon? No. And Weerhat didn’t have any proper dueling weapons anyway. I’ve visited this shop before—his blades were terrible. You couldn’t fight an honorable duel with one. So the killer loaned him one.”

“What? Sir, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Not much about argonians does, Liodris. But hear me out. The killer was using a bolt in his left hand because usually he uses two blades. The one he didn’t prefer, he let Weerhat use. Argonians are funny like that; even if they hate one of their countrymen they think it dishonorable to duel one unfairly.”

“How do you know all this, sir?”

“My family lived in Tear for a few years when I was not much younger than you, Liodris. I was glad when we moved to Vivec, but you never forget Tear, no matter how hard you try. Enough about that. Let’s follow this blood trail outside. It probably just leads to the canal, but maybe this one got careless.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Jun 18 2007, 03:40 AM

[The Metal Mallet]

Hmm looks like we're dealing with a fairly intelligent (or at least observant) ordinator here. Perhaps his experience in Tear will give this character a certain demeanor on the Argonian race. I guess it all depends on his stance on slavery as I bet he was sure to see some terrible things down there.

I sense a very engaging hunt is bound to happen. Lots of hunting going on in Mournhold it appears...

[treydog]

Exciting continuation to the story- I really enjoyed the back-story you created for Ten-Tongues- and the duel. You make Mournhold into a seemingly real place- everyone has a story, nothing happens in a vacuum, and people tend to notice dead bodies.... Great work.

[canis216]

The Morning After

A faint strumming noise compliments the usual morning quiet in the downstairs bar of the Winged Guar, save for the occasional dull clang of a missed note. It is not unpleasant, but it is enough to rouse Ra’Tesh, the khajiti bartender. He steps out of his small back room to take in the typical early morning scene—a few stray bottles left sitting on the tables, a few dirty plates scattered about—and the less typical but still-familiar shape of Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun seated at one of the corner tables in his black robe. The argonian is carefully plucking the strings of the lute sitting in his lap. The tune he massaged out of the lute was slow and unsteady, soporific like a smoking leaf of hackle-lo. Ra’Tesh spoke first.

“The Sun-Lingerer returns. What happened?”

The argonian looked up from his playing, mildly surprised. “Five in the morning. I figured you’d be deep in sleep by now, after the night shift. You cut off the tap at three, right?” Ra’Tesh doesn’t answer. “So, what happened? Things that shouldn’t have, friend.”

“The kinds of things that Ra’Tesh does not want to know about?”

“You could say that.” For a moment Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun went back to playing the lute, hitting the notes a little better now, half-whispering half-singing the words in a tongue utterly unfamiliar to Ra’Tesh.

“So the orsimer is dead?”

The argonian hit a stray note, but kept on playing, shaking his head. “No, not him.”

“The pawnbroker?”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun stopped playing and looked up at the khajiit. “How’d you guess?”

A faint grin spread across the khajiit’s face. “Ra’Tesh has seen that lute in Ten-Tongues’ shop in the Great Bazaar; the lute with the sloppy finish and bad tuning. Ra’Tesh wonders why one such as you would kill one such as him.”

“It’s complicated. Goes back to Black Marsh. I can tell you about it. But first I need some food. Got any crab meat?”

-------------------------------------------------------

At 7:30 Mitanne Limax stepped out of her rented room to the sight of a black-clad argonian and the khajiti bartender conversing quietly over plates of crab meat, scrib jerky, and scrambled kwama eggs. She dabbed on a little bug musk—the Cyrodiil had some bartering to do—and left the otherwise empty inn to the betmer.

“So you got out of there and the orsimer was gone?” Ra’Tesh asked, pouring himself a little flin.

“Yeah. I was kind of hoping he’d stick around the Bazaar a little longer asking questions, so I could keep tracking him, but I must have messed around with Ten-Tongues too much. Wishful thinking, anyway—I’m sure the son of a guar told him everything he needed to know.”

“So what’s next?”

“Ideally, I’d just find Sethyas Velas and get the hell out of a Mournhold. I’ve already got a good hiding place back on Vvardenfell, if I can just get the Morag Tong to leave me alone. He still hasn’t come back?”

Ra’Tesh shook his head.

“I may have to start asking around about him, again. But that brings attention.” The argonian swore softly under his breath. “Dammit, nothing is ever simple in this town.”

“Are you thinking that killing Weerhat was a bad idea?”

“I don’t regret killing him—but it does interfere with my larger goals. I don’t think I should be seen around Mournhold any more than necessary. Do you know a place to get armor repairs outside the Holy District?”

“In Almalexia? There’s the Fighter’s Guild in the Moraelyn Plaza. A few smaller armorers scattered about.”

“I’ll try the Fighter’s Guild, then. My chitin got a bit torn up in the fight.”

“So you said. And your arm.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. I took a couple potions. And I’ve been hurt worse before. But I should get some sleep.” the argonian said, finishing his breakfast and washing it down with a pull of brandy.

“If you see Sethyas Velas don’t hesitate to wake me. Otherwise, I’m not here.”

With that Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun marched over to his rented room, locking the door behind him.