From the files of Eno Hlaalu - A Morrowind New Life Tale, Celebrating Chorrol's 20th Anniversary Options

[Burnt Sierra]

Old Life - 30th Evening Star (30th December)

On the last day of the year, the Empire celebrates the holiday called Old Life. Many go to the temples to reflect on their past. Some go for more than this, for it is rumoured that priests will, as the last act of the year, perform resurrections on beloved friends and family members free of the usual charge. Worshippers know better than to expect this philanthropy, but they arrive in a macabre procession with the recently deceased, nevertheless.

New Life Festival - 1st Morning Star (1st January)

Today, the people of Tamriel are having the New Life Festival in celebration of a new year. The Emperor has ordered yet another tax increase in his New Life Address, and there is much grumbling about this. Still, despite financial difficulties, the New Life tradition of free ale at all the taverns of Tamriel continues.

*
*

Morrowind. The name itself brings to mind a land of contradictions, a country of exotic beauty and savage violence, from the civilised cities to the lawless frontiers. It’s a land where ancient tradition and religious beliefs uneasily mix with progressive Imperial Rule. A country populated with ancient wizards, power-hungry politicians, assassins, thieves and soldiers. A land where life is cheap and corruption rife, and racial tensions are always simmering just beneath the surface.
For all this diverse selection of people though, the end of the year is a time of celebration. The transition from Old Life into New Life, the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next, is full of the promise of change and hope. Men and Mer (and Orc) dance, drink, and tell tales of the year ending and talk of their dreams of the future. Sometimes these tales are actually true. There are the grand tales that talk of great heroism and honour, redemption and sacrifice, and trickery and deceit. Then there are the small tales, frozen moments of everyday life – sometimes comic, sometimes tragic and sometimes mundane.
This is just one of those tales.

*
*

1.

Vivec City: Arena Canton – 30th of Evening Star, 3rd Era Year 426

“…and out of nowhere, this Nord just appears. Two seconds before, nothing, then this giant was just… there, swinging this massive, and I mean massive, damn battle axe aimed straight at my head. I’m pretty sure I squeaked, and I ain’t really the squeaking kind.”

The voice belongs to Rogdul gro-Bularz, one of the senior assassins active in the Morag Tong, and sitting around him in rapt attention are his brethren. The most dangerous assassins in all of Vvardenfell, peering up as though it’s story time at school, albeit with considerably more weapons. And Cyrodilic Brandy. The table in front of me is littered with half-empty bottles and a mess of candle stubs pooling wax onto the scarred wood. The room is dim, hidden deep in the canton’s underworks, the stone walls stained from the humidity from the nearby canals.

“Can an Orc squeak?” asks Ulmesi, using a nearby dagger as an impromptu toothpick. She is slight for a Dunmer, even boyish, with an unruly tangle of white hair tied back with a red bandana.

“Kinda like a musclebound Scrib, maybe? Eek!”

The table vibrates faintly with every belly laugh, each thud sending a tremor through mugs and elbows pressed tight together. My brethren are a motley mix, with all races of Tamriel represented. I am the oldest. Their Grandmaster. I watch them with pride: Rogdul’s brute strength, Ulmesi’s speed, Hickim’s confidence, Dunsalipal’s guile.

“Shut up,” says Rogdul, “this Orc squeaked anyway. You’d seen the size of that damn axe coming at you, you’d have squeaked too.”

“Elves always squeak.” Says Hickim, a Redguard visiting from the Balmora Guildhall. He looks like he’s never missed a day of training, lean muscles coiled beneath dark skin.

“So, I duck and roll out of the way.”

“Whilst squeaking.”

“Yeah, so I’m ducking, rolling and squeaking, that massive damn axe whistles just above my head, I roll, this damn axe crashes into the nightstand next to me, just disintegrates, shards of wood flying everywhere, then I’m back on my feet and finally there’s a little distance between us. I’m thinking, ok, a chance for me to catch my breath, but oh no, this Nord,” he spits, “swivels and throws this damn battle axe at me, like he’s just throwing a bottle or something that weighed nothing. Everything freezes. I’m stood there, frozen.”

“Still squeaking?”

“I’m frozen, you idiot. You can’t squeak when you’re frozen. This massive damn axe coming at me, me frozen,” he pauses and takes a slug from his tankard. His hands are rough as calloused pumice, his knuckles scarred and fingers thick.

“And? You can’t just stop there; there’s an axe coming at you!” says Ulmesi, leaning forward, elbows on the table. Her eyes are wide, the red of her irises almost glowing.

“Misses me by I don’t even know, not much and crashes through the wall behind me.”

“Through the wall?”

“Cheap wooden walls, you know what these pay by the hour inn rooms are like.”

“So, what happened?”

“This almighty crash, wood splintering, then this absolute blood-curdling scream of horror from the next room. Me and the Nord,” he spits again, “our eyes meet, and then we both turn to this hole in the wall. We see this woman screaming, and this man, maybe her husband, lover, I don’t know, just impaled on the far wall, this massive damn axe stuck right in him.”

The low ceiling makes it feel even darker. A heavy and conspiratorial gloom. Our hideout is a place where secrets are kept, hidden deep underneath Vivec City.

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah, you never think about the people in the next room.” Says Hickim, shaking his head.

For a moment, it looks like everyone is thinking about the nameless people in the next room, the ones who didn’t expect to be part of the story. I take a swig of brandy, enjoying the burn down my throat, hitting with an aftertaste of spicy resin and distant cinnamon. Their faces glow in the candlelight, shadows flickering with every subtle movement.

“So, what happened next?”

“The woman is screaming, frantically pulling at this massive axe, as if pulling it out would somehow bring him back to life. Axe that size, there ain’t nothing bringing him back, you know what I mean? Anyway, she’s screaming and pulling, and the Nord,” he spits, “he moves to the hole in the wall, looking like he’s in shock you know, like he can’t believe it’s his axe that’s done it, so I come up behind the big bastard, slip my dagger into his throat, I mean I really ram it in there, shoulda seen the size of him, and just saw it back and forth like I’m cutting through, I don’t know, wood or something.”

“There’s a lot of wood and squeaking in this story.” I point out.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, he stops moving, I check he’s dead, and I get the hell out of there.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“I don’t know, probably still there screaming. The job was done; I just wanted to be anywhere else. Makes you think though, you book a room, you know, for whatever, a little love night, next thing you know, massive damn axe through the wall.”

“You got away clean?” I ask.

“Yeah, I mean everyone was running to her room, not the one I was in, and she never even looked round, just had her eyes on that Nord’s,” he spits, “massive damn axe.”

Rogdul’s mouth twists like he’s chewing the words, savouring each one in the telling. He leans back, tankard in hand, takes a large gulp and liquid splashes onto his scarred leather armour. Ulmesi picks wax from the table with the tip of her dagger, rolling it absently between her thumb and forefinger, while Hickim takes a drink as if the bottle owes him something.

“Life is a fragile thing.”

“Yeah, you never know when your time is up.”

“You know what I’m taking from this story?” says Hickim.

“What’s that?”

“Always check the inn and pay for the one with the thicker walls.” There are a couple of groans at that, a chunk of bread arcs across the table and thunks against Hickim’s forehead before dropping into his lap. He reaches down, grinning, crumbs dotting his chin and the table in front of him, picks it up and takes a bite. “Thanks!”

“So, come on, Grandmaster, you must have some good New Life tales to tell,” says Dunsalipal, Master from the Sadrith Mora guildhall, his gaze fixed and expectant.

“Well, let me think.” I say, and the other guild members lean in slightly, elbows nudging aside jugs and battered cutlery. The low hum of conversation fades as everyone waits for me to speak. Whilst I run through a list of tales, the rough grain of the table rasps beneath my fingertips.

“Oh, come on, you have your own Chronicler writing a book about your life sitting right there! Are you really claiming none come to mind?” says Ulmesi.

“Yeah, we want a classic Morag Tong New Life story.”

“It’s not that I don’t have any; it’s that I’m not sure sharing them with you lot is a good idea.” I say. Immediate sounds of protest come from every angle. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell you about one that started my own New Life’s tradition. Now, let’s see, this took place about three years after the events of A Beautiful Duel, so I was about twenty-five.”

“What was the job?” asks Rogdul. To my right, I see the Chronicler’s quill hovering above parchment, prepared to strike, while every eye around the table fixes on me.

“This story isn’t about the job itself. The target, however, was a House Cousin in House Hlaalu. I’d done my research. Politician. Obsessed with image. Very particular about his hair. Every week, without fail, he’d go to the same barber in Balmora.”

“Foolish. Should always alter your routine, just asking for it if you don’t,” says Rogdul.

“Indeed. Although he had no reason to suspect he was in any danger, otherwise he might have done.” I lean back, reaching through the years. “Anyway, early afternoon, 30th of Evening Star, and I was ready.”

[Renee]

Oh gosh I miss Morrowind.

Priests performing free resurrections. Not true, but rumors persist and families show up with their deceased loved ones anyway!

Dang I had a whole bunch of other text but posted it somehow in the New Year thread. Dangit.

This post has been edited by Renee: Jan 2 2026, 01:36 AM

[macole]

So sorry to hear about the couple in the next room. Kind of spoilt their fun.

[Acadian]

Rogdul is right – you absolutely cannot squeak when frozen! And I hope the couple had finished their. . . business before that terminal interruption.

Seriously, a delightfully engaging writing style as you set then maintain the scene perfectly while Rogdul weaves his tale. I could see, feel and hear every detail.

Wonderfully done! Do I detect another story coming?

[Burnt Sierra]

2.

Balmora - 30th of Evening Star, 3rd Era Year 388

There's nothing like the smell of boiled Kwama eggs and spilled Sujamma in the morning. Problem is, it's now early afternoon, so the stink's had time to get comfortable in the gutters. I stand between two buildings opposite Llethan's barber shop, imaginatively named Llethan's, where the eaves weep icy water down the back of my collar. I watch the foot traffic, or what passes for it on the final day of the year in Balmora: a couple of sullen Dunmer hauling a crate apiece, and another who seems to take a slow pass around the entire town, hawking black-market Scrib jerky. Of the few people whose attention he gets, they ignore him. I guess everyone has already stocked up on dubious-quality jerky for New Life. Or they don't want to spend the rest of the night heaving their guts up. I keep my head down and my face wrapped. The wrap is for disguise, sure, and because the wind knifes my face through the gaps in the buildings and I'd like to keep my nose.

The barber's sign creaks overhead. Two crossed combs carved into a flat of driftwood, the handles painted a flaking red. Although the door to the shop is shut fast, a powerful gust of icy wind causes the frosted glass of the front window to rattle each time it blows past. Very fancy-looking is frosted glass, looks almost elegant. Also stops people seeing inside, which suits me fine. I watch the street, counting each pedestrian, cataloguing every face, every gait, every quirk in their step. Balmora is slow today. People are too busy nursing hangovers from the pre-New Life festivities, or they're inside their homes preparing the meals for the night's celebration. Only the desperate or the ridiculously vain are out and about. Lucky for me. I keep track of the rhythm of the street. The sullen Dunmer have got their crates inside a building, and the voice of the Scrib jerky seller is fading in the distance. It's time.

I open the door, and step inside the Barbers, eyes flicking around for priority number one. Finding Vedaren, the bodyguard. Nobody knows if that's his first or last name; he's just Vedaren. And I have a weighted cosh with Vedaren's name on it. I spot him to the right, sitting in a chair reading a pamphlet about forthcoming Arena fights in Vivec, and am across the distance before he rises from his chair. The cosh makes a swooshing sound and then a very satisfactory thump as it crashes into the side of his skull, sending reverberations up my arm, and he collapses to the floor motionless. I give the body a sharp kick to make sure he's not faking, then drop the cosh and pull a crossbow from its harness on my back, and aim it into the room. In front of me, staring in shock, are the two people I'm looking for. Almse Llethan, hairstylist and barber for Balmora nobility, stood over a chair with scissors in her perfectly manicured hands. Sitting in the chair, towel around his neck to protect his fine silk shirt, is Meril Dorvayn, a relatively low-ranking politician in House Hlaalu. The chair's wooden footrest grates against the floor as Meril tries to stand, then thinks better of it.

"Don't move." I say, "I'm only here for the money. Nobody does anything stupid, nobody gets hurt."

The best robber I ever knew was a Nord by the name of Ulren. He claimed his name was Ulren the Unseen, though I always thought he just liked the sound of the alliteration. He had a few simple rules for doing a holdup. One, you always want to start by making a splash. He compared it to an illusionist he'd seen. Make their minds so overwhelmed with one thing that consciously they just shut down and become much more willing to go along with whatever they're told. Actually, he used to say, "Shock the hell outta them so they get brain freeze." I'm hoping the cosh has made an impressive enough splash. If it didn't, the crossbow pointing at them should help. Two, always be polite. Call them sir or madam. Polite feels like firm ground for those newly pliable minds, makes it seem regular, and regular keeps people calm. Dorvayn and Llethan are both Dunmer, so I guess I'm going with sera and muthsera. Three, if anything goes wrong, don't talk, just act. Of course, it didn't do Ulren much good in the end. We found his body floating in the waterworks, missing some parts of him I'm sure he'd rather have kept. Quite a memorable sight for the fifteen-year-old me. But while he was alive, damn, he was good.

Clippings of dark hair scatter the floorboards around Meril's chair, and a framed certificate from some Hairdressing Guild I've never heard of hangs framed near the door. A powerful scent of citrus, some sort of oil I suspect, floats across the room from the scissors that clatter to the floor as Llethan's grip loosens, her wide red eyes looking blank.

"You're robbing me?"

"Yes, muthsera. Just kindly put all your gold into a bag, pass it over here, and then you get to go about your day with a marvellous story to delight your friends at whatever party you people will go to tonight."

Meril Dorvayn makes a disgusted snort and begins raising himself from his chair.

"Not so fast, sera, stay seated, please." I say, levelling the crossbow at him. "This can go one of two ways. Everybody stays calm, everybody stays smart, and everybody walks out of here alive, with the only injury belonging to that goon over there having a sore head tonight. That's the route I'd prefer. The other option is I kill all of you, and then take the gold. Your choice, sera, but if I see you try to move again, I'm going to assume you've chosen option two."

He slowly sinks back into his chair, eyes glaring at me. "You have no idea what a mistake you're making. Don't you know who I am?"

"Don't have the slightest clue," I say. "Who are you?"

"I'm a high-ranking member of the Great House Hlaalu! And you are trying to rob one of the businesses under the protection of the House. I suggest you run out of here, leave Balmora and never come back, and maybe, just maybe, I won't send a squad of assassins to hunt you down and bring me your head!"

"An entire squad of assassins?"

"That's right, fool. Now get out of here before I lose my patience." He has a nasty look on his face; a look I've seen my whole life. The look of a bully certain he's found someone he can intimidate.

"Well, let me ask you something then, sera. If you're going to send a squad of assassins after me, why would I possibly let you live?" I ask, the crossbow pointing at his chest. "Looks like you've chosen option two, yes?"

"Stop it!" Llethan says. "Both of you, just stop it."

I say nothing, just keep the crossbow pointed at Dorvayn.

"Fine," he says. "Take the money. Almse, do as the thief asks." He leans back in the chair, as if he's no longer interested in this conversation, but the gleam of sweat on his forehead is rather ruining the effect.

"At once, sera."

"A wise decision." I say. "Although if you are as powerful as you claim to be, I think I might leave town fairly quickly, anyway."

An uncomfortable pause, for him anyway, then the shuffling of footsteps, and Llethan returns, bag in hand.

"This is all the gold I had in the safe, I promise. Just take it, and please, just leave us."

"Thank you, muthsera. If everyone just remains calm for another moment, this will all be over. Now, if you'd be so kind as to tie the top of the bag." I pause, and wait for her to do so. "Thank you, muthsera. Now place the bag on the floor, and use your foot to slide it towards me." Another pause. "Excellent. Now, just take a few steps backwards, I'll grab the bag, and we're all done."

I wait for her to do so, and look over at Dorvayn. Now that he thinks he's safe, he's not even looking at me anymore. Good. I step forward, kneel to pick up the bag, and then shoot him in the face with the crossbow from about three feet away. I freely admit I'm not the best with crossbows, but even I can't miss from that range.

Llethan screams, falling backwards in horror. "What are you doing? I gave you the money!"

"One moment, muthsera, if you please," I say, and walk over to Dorvayn's body. The bolt had entered at an angle, turning his face into something lopsided. A dark wetness spreads across the floorboards beneath his feet, and the room now carries the smell of opened bowels and something copper-sharp. Better safe than sorry though. I load another bolt, which clicks into the groove with a pleasingly smooth resistance, place the crossbow right against his temple, and fire again, then turn to face Llethan. "My apologies, muthsera. You were saying something?"

"I gave you the money!" she says, a slightly hysterical note in her voice.

"So you did." I say and use my foot to slide the bag of coins back towards her. "Afraid I lied about that. This was never a robbery. This was a Writ of Execution."

"What? Why pretend to rob me then?"

"Simple psychology. People who know they're about to die will frantically fight for their lives. But when they think it's just about money? Especially not even their money? Less fight. Less messy." I look at the remains of Meril Dorvayn, the blood sprayed on the mirror and pooling on the floor, the coppery smell which seems to get stronger. "Well, less messy for me. Sorry about that. At least you didn't get robbed though, right?"

She stares at me, but no words seem to be forthcoming. After a few seconds, I turn, walk through the shop, open the door and step outside. Wait, I think. Not so fast. I turn back around, re-open the door and step back inside.

"Don't mind me," I say. "Forgot my cosh."

With the cosh safely tucked away, I'm back on the street. Balmora is still nice and quiet, just deserted enough that nobody can say for certain what they did or didn't see, and walk at a comfortable pace. If you run, people remember you, but moving with the bored shuffle of a labourer on a break, people's eyes just glaze right past you. Bored shuffle or not though, I don't waste time. I have a Silt Strider to catch, leaving shortly, and I know it won't be long before Llethan recovers from the shock and goes to seek help. Plus, I'm looking forward to this next stop. New Life celebrations, and I'm planning on having the best seat in Morrowind. Desele's House of Earthly Delights in Suran. Maybe I can get away with shuffling along a little quicker, I think to myself.

[Acadian]

’There's nothing like the smell of boiled Kwama eggs and spilled Sujamma in the morning. Problem is, it's now early afternoon, so the stink's had time to get comfortable in the gutters. I stand between two buildings opposite Llethan's barber shop, imaginatively named Llethan's, where the eaves weep icy water down the back of my collar. I watch the foot traffic, or what passes for it on the final day of the year in Balmora:’
- - What a powerfully evocative opening scene setter! Perfectly captures the sights, smells, temperature, precip and time of year in an appropriately foreboding way.

Buffy has never done a preplanned assassination for hire. That said, long ago near the end of the Third Era, she did assassinate a rogue mage in Chorrol who had been expelled from the Mages Guild and represented an ongoing and deadly threat to Buffy. She chose an assassination rather than a ‘fair fight’ because, at that time in her life, she was frankly quite outclassed by Earana when it came to slinging spells. My point is that I well-remember the painstaking planning and detail that went into her self-appointed ‘mission’ as she ultimately fired a single poisoned arrow under cover of darkness over a distance that relied more on a detect life spell than vision, then melted back into the night. She was subsequently invited to join the Dark Brotherhood but declined their offer.

Your assassin similarly planned out every detail, waited until the time was right and cooly completed his task. That you painted his target as rather unlikable was a bonus. I’m glad he did not kill Llethan – I’m sure Balmora needs a good barber more than they need another self-important great houser.

A riveting episode!

[treydog]

Absolutely love this! The story-teller has such a wonderful dry humor, which works perfectly with his other skills. And it also makes me nostalgic for Morrowind... Cheers, my friend.

[Burnt Sierra]

3.

Suran

I get to Suran on a Silt Strider run, hopping off at the main platform as late afternoon turns into early evening. The town squats on the edge of Lake Masobi, the whole place smelling faintly of unidentified cooked meats, tobacco, and the sour reek of money. Behind me, the caravaner is already hustling the next batch of travellers toward the ramp.

Suran is a Hlaalu place, which means it’s full of the sort of people who can smile while they’re picking your pockets or foreclosing on your family home. Most of the action clusters around the square, where traders, moneylenders, and hawkers have set up stalls under awnings of dubious cleanliness. In the back alleys lies the other business of Suran. Slave trading, contract work, the buying and selling of small, deniable deaths.

The square is busy this evening. Pilgrims and priests, mercenaries and revellers all cluster in groups, pretending not to be sizing up each other’s purses. Above the din, a pair of local brats are hurling insults at a guard walking his rounds, who ignores them with the sullen professionalism of a man paid too little and hated too much. I can’t think of a better place to celebrate the New Life festival. Even the air itself feels tight with anticipation. Like a room waiting for someone to start a fight, the one everyone secretly came to see.

My stomach growls and reminds me to focus. There are vendors everywhere, of course, each stall proffering some culinary abomination that passes for street food in Suran. One old Dunmer woman ladles out a stew that practically glows in the dark. Another, younger, sells skewers of roasted Marshmerrow with a secret glaze made from a “family recipe” that any Khajiit would recognise immediately. The aroma is equal parts floral and feet. Then again, you don’t come to Suran for the gastronomy. You come for Desele’s. The House, as everyone calls it, is the worst-kept secret in the Ascadian Isles. If you’re looking for liquor, or company, or the possibility of leaving with only some of your teeth and none of your dignity, this is the place. If you get there before it gets too busy, you can even get food.

I cut across the busy square, narrowly avoiding a pickpocket whose hands dart toward my coin purse with the stealth and subtlety of a Slaughterfish. Doesn’t do him any good. I keep my coin in a hidden breast pocket, sewn into the lining of my tunic, a trick I learned from a Skooma dealer in Vivec’s Lower Waistworks who’d lost three fingers and all his savings to competitors’ enthusiasm. The would-be thief senses the futility and shrugs, grinning with the easy fatalism of the poor. A bell somewhere chimes the hour, and in the square, a Temple priest clambers atop a crate and begins exhorting the crowd to embrace the New Life and reject sin. His words dissolve into the general hum of commerce and vice. Nobody listens, but everyone is a little happier for having seen the show. Approaching Desele’s, I spot two bouncers at the door: burly Nords with matching scars on their foreheads. They’re scanning the crowd for trouble, or maybe just for sport. I’m not what they’re looking for. Too small, too obviously not drunk enough to cause problems. I square my shoulders and make for the entrance, already feeling the warmth and noise of the tavern spill around me.

Inside, feeling the bouncers’ increasingly interested gaze on the back of my neck, I hand in my crossbow and cosh at the weapons-check station. It’s a small alcove immediately inside the vestibule, manned by a Dunmer with the professional cheer reserved for morticians and moneylenders. He has a tattoo of a sprig of Bittergreen curling up his wrist, and he takes my crossbow with a little whistle of appreciation, then my cosh (silvered, weighted, and ugly) with a nod that says he’s seen worse but not by much.

“Name?” he asks, already locking my property in a lacquered case behind him.

“Eno,” I reply. No point in using an alias; the House runs on mutual understanding and a bit of leverage.

He slides me a token, palm to palm, and leans in close. “You break it, you bought it,” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s talking about the drinks, the dancers, or the unwritten rules that keep this whole place from turning into a bloodbath.

I nod as if we’ve shared a secret and let the current of noise sweep me further inside. The main room of Desele’s is a riot of colour and flesh, stuffed wall-to-wall with every stripe of local fauna and visiting degenerate. The air is thick with grease, perfume, and a harmony of competing shouts, laughter, and off-key singing. At the centre, a raised stage glows in lamplight, where a pair of Argonian twins in little more than body paint are doing things with their tails that defy natural law. A squad of sallow-faced punters crowd the foot of the stage, raining coins and slurred encouragement up at the performers while ignoring the servers weaving expertly between spilled drinks and grasping hands. More than one patron is already sleeping it off in a booth, having surrendered to the unique hospitality of Suran’s finest.

No one even glances up as I make my way to the bar, except a man in the far corner who flashes the briefest of smiles. An assassin’s hello, if I ever saw one. Galyn of the Tong. I nod back and point to my stomach. On the top floor, there’s another stage that opens later in the evening, but for now, that’s where I can get food. I lean over the bar and inquire about being seated upstairs. Above the din, the Argonian twins finish their act to a hailstorm of coins and stomps and whoops from the crowd. At the next seat over, a well-dressed but slightly unsteady on his feet Dunmer is attempting to impress a cluster of local girls by drinking an entire flagon of Sujamma without pausing for breath. One bartender steps out from behind the bar and gestures for me to follow her upstairs.

*

I’m focusing on my bowl of stew. It’s hot, tastes pretty good. Some sort of meat. Definitely plenty of salt. Not glowing, which I find comforting. Warm bread on the side. It’s doing the job, and the two tankards of Mazte are going down smoothly. I’m just dipping a chunk of the bread into the bowl when a woman practically tumbles into the room, clutching a battered satchel to her chest. Her hair is the colour of ancient brick dust, and her clothing is a patchwork of careful repairs. For a moment she stands blinking, scanning the layout. Her gaze lands on the bar, where the upstairs barkeep is polishing glasses with the slow, unhurried boredom of a man who has seen every variety of drama twice before and has learned to file it all away under “not my problem.”

She strides up to him. “Tovas, please, I—” she starts, but the barkeep cuts her off with a practiced flick of the wrist, setting the glass down as if to punctuate his point.

“Dorisa, you know the rules. You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”

“But I need the work. I have nowhere else to —”

He leans in, voice going low. “Look, I told you before. We had to let you go. There was a lot of pressure from outside. And they’re not the type of people you want to get on the wrong side of.”

“I’ve already been on the wrong side of them! You know that.”

The barkeep’s face softens a fraction, just enough to see that once, long ago, maybe he’d believed in something. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you know how it is.”

She sags then, all the fight gone out of her in an instant, her lips trembling with the effort of not breaking down in front of strangers. She manages a strangled thanks, then turns and blunders back toward the stairs, nearly colliding with a server on the way down. Just like that, she’s gone, leaving behind a room full of diners, trying to pretend that nothing has just happened.

Except me. I recognise that kind of desperation, and I know from first-hand experience that it doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. That flavour of helplessness that comes from the universe reminding you of your own irrelevance every damned day.

I push my bowl away, no longer hungry, and decide to follow her. Not because it’s my business, but because sometimes you just need to see what happens next. Or maybe because I never learned how to mind my own business, not really, no matter how much the Tong tries to drill it into you.

I catch up with her outside, in the alley, to the side of the tavern. She’s hunched over, shoulders shaking, making those small, wounded animal noises you can only make when you think no one is listening. I clear my throat gently, so as not to startle her into flight.

She flinches anyway, but pulls herself together, scrubbing at her face with the back of her hand. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just making sure you’re all right. You looked like you could use a drink, or a friend, or both.”

She gives a sardonic little laugh. “You think a drink will fix it? Maybe for a moment. But I can’t afford moments.”

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

She sniffs, considering, then shrugs. “My daughter. She was taken. By a man with money and friends in the right places. He says she’s his now. Well, technically she is his. Not by choice, though. Not that I had a choice. But I never thought he’d take her too.”

I’m not much for comforting words, so I just stand there and let her keep going.

“My husband tried to get her back. They slit his throat and threw him in the lake.” She wipes her eyes again, then finally looks at me, really looks at me. “You’re not from here, are you?”

I shake my head, and that seems to comfort her.

“Then maybe you don’t know. Or maybe you do. But in Suran, when someone like me loses everything, it stays lost.”

I nod, because I do know. Maybe not from Suran, but from every other place, just like it. I make a mental note of the name she’d been called: Dorisa. We stand in silence for a while. The noise from Desele’s wafts into the alley. Eventually, her face breaks into a bitter smile.

“New Life festival. What a joke. Worst year of my life. Lost the right to say no. Lost my daughter, lost my husband, my job, my home. Not sure what the God’s have in store for me next year.”

With that, she bows her head, and starts down the street, melting into the crowd around the square. I watch her go, feeling the familiar itch behind my eyes.

I head back inside, up the stairs. Time to talk to Tovas, I think she called him.

*

I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar, just out of range of the regulars’ conversation, and wait. Bartenders are like lamps. If you stand still long enough, they eventually shine some light your way. Sure enough, Tovas finishes pouring a Mazte for the man at the far end, wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better centuries, and ambles over. He says nothing at first, just tilts his head in the universal language of “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever’s not watered down,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Nothing here is watered down. Not worth the risk.”

I nod, accepting the answer, and lean in a little closer. “You know, I just went to check on that lady who just left.”

Tovas’s gaze flickers to the stairs, then back to me. He doesn’t answer straight away.. “She’s not supposed to come in here anymore,” he says, and there’s an odd note in his voice. Not annoyance, but something like guilt.

“That’s a shame,” I say. “She’s got more grit than most of the patrons down there. She said she used to work here?”

“Worked the floor. Good at it, too. Always brought in the regulars. But sometimes, being good isn’t enough. Sometimes, people with deep pockets and shallower patience have their way.”

I let that settle, watching his hands as he lines up empty glasses like little soldiers. “So, whose deep pockets and shallow patience had their way exactly?” I ask, casual as a breeze.

Tovas’s fingers freeze on the fourth glass. He glances at me, measuring my interest. “You a friend of hers?”

“Just a stranger,” I say. “But a stranger bothered enough to ask the right questions.”

He studies me for a moment. The silence stretches long enough that I almost expect him to walk away, but he lowers his voice to a bare whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but if you want to make life better for her, you talk to Sern Uvalas. Big plantation just outside the north end of town. Just don’t make it worse for her.”

I file the name away. “Thanks, Tovas. You’re a good man.”

He snorts. “If I was a good man, I’d have done something myself. Now finish your drink and try not to make trouble for the rest of us.”

I raise the Mazte in salute and sip. Sern Uvalas. Not a name I know. I’ve spent little time in Hlaalu territory in the last few years. Ever since that job in Balmora, three years ago, the Grandmaster exiled me to the East Coast of the island, otherwise known as Guarcrap crazy Telvanni mushroom territory. This is the first time I’m back, and here I am sticking my nose in again. Galyn downstairs might know more, though. He’s been working these districts for years, picking up every scrap of gossip and weakness the way some people collect jewellery. I’m suddenly aware of how long it’s been since we last spoke. A couple of years, maybe. I wonder what he’s heard since then, and what it will cost to extract it.

Maybe it’s time to buy a fellow Tong member a drink or five, I think. I tip the Mazte back, finish the last mouthful, and remind myself that no matter what the Grandmaster says, it’s always the little favours that keep a guild running. I head down the stairs, one hand steady on the railing, and take in the floor again.

*

It’s even louder than before, if that’s possible: the Argonian twins have made way for a couple of Khajiit, doing some sort of complicated dance involving a pipe. It looks like a mix between dancing, martial arts and a Sheogarath painting of a Skooma den. Someone started a handclap rhythm along the main tables, though to what I’m not sure, as it sure isn’t in time with what’s happening on stage. In the far corner, Galyn is perched on a wooden stool, boots up on the next chair, surveying the chaos.

I pay for two Mazte at the bar and weave through the crowd. Galyn tracks my approach with a slow raise of his eyebrow. He moves his foot but not the chair, so I haul it out and wedge myself in.

“Eno,” he says, drawing out the syllable like he’s tasting it. “Didn’t expect to see you this far west of the coast. You finally get tired of the Telvanni turning you into a test subject?”

I snort. “Brought back for a job in Balmora I finished earlier today,” I say, and slide a Mazte toward him. “This was just supposed to welcome the New Life festival.”

“And how did the job go?”

“Painlessly. For me, anyway.” I take a sip and aim for nonchalant. “You know anything about a Sern Uvalas?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on the table. “Big plantation man, yeah? What do you want with him?”

I consider lying, but Galyn smells a lie the way a nix-hound smells fear. “Someone’s kid got taken. It’s not sitting right with me.”

He weighs this, then shrugs. “Sounds about right. Not a nice guy. He’s throwing a party tonight, all the town’s bigwigs are invited. New Life and all that. Brought in plenty of muscle, so if you’re thinking of doing something stupid, and I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of that, bear it in mind.”

“Muscle from where?”

“Out-of-towners. Orcs, two of them, both look like they could throttle an Ogrim for sport, and a Redguard, real quiet, keeps his hood up even at the bar. Them and a bunch of Carmonna Tong thugs. They eat together, don’t talk to anyone, and Uvalas pays them in gold up front. You do the math.”

“Know how I can get an invitation?”

He drinks, then leans closer, lowering his voice. “You’re forgetting the First Rule,” he says. “No freelance. We don’t break contracts. You do, you’re out.”

“Not a contract,” I say. “A kindness.”

He actually laughs. “That’s what gets you killed, Eno. Kindness.”

I swallow a mouthful of Mazte. “You ever think about what we do?” I set my tankard down. “You don’t ever wonder if maybe we’re just a knife-for-hire? Just another tool for whoever’s got the deepest purse or the meanest grudge?” I wave my finger around the room, where half the people celebrating will still be in debt to the other half come morning. “We’re supposed to be there to keep the Great House’s in order, maintain some sort of balance. Instead, we’re bouncers in the world’s worst casino, making sure the House always wins.”

“You want to be a hero, Eno? Get a sword and join the Fighter’s Guild. We make good coin. We keep the peace, in our own way.”

I look at him. “You ever read any of the books in the library in the Grandmaster’s room?”

“What library?”

“He has a library in his room. I stumbled across it one day.”

“You stumbled across it? The Grandmaster’s room. That’s always locked. The one that no-one’s allowed in.”

“Yeah, that one. You know what books are in that library? All of them are by former Morag Tong agents. First Era, Second Era. Legends that we’ve all heard about. Ashur. Naryu Virian. The truth about what happened with Veya Releth.”

“Exactly how many times did you stumble into this library?”

“A few. Point is, the Morag Tong has always struggled with this aspect of what we do, and it’s usually been out of fear. Fear the Great House’s would turn against us. But, we’ve got to stand for more than just being blades for hire. Don’t you ever feel like the line between justice and cruelty is so thin, you could slit your own throat on it? This woman whose kid has been taken, she’s not guilty, not a mark, she’s just fallout.”

He scoffs, but not unkindly. “That’s the thing about lines, Eno. The only people who worry about crossing them are the ones with something left to lose.” His gaze flicks down to my hands, then back up. “You remember what it’s like to be hungry, don’t you?”

“We all remember. That’s why I’m sitting here and not floating face-down in a canal. But if we don’t stand for something…”

Galyn cuts me off with a sharp shake of the head. “We stand for ourselves, and for each other. That being said. I got no love for Sern Uvalas. You want into that party, I can get you a name on the list. But you’ll owe me.”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You might also want to head backstage, talk to those Argonian twins. From what I heard, they came here from that plantation.”

[Acadian]

I love how you linger over the seediness of Suran – your descriptions are fabulously rich with detail.

Looks like Dorisa’s serious misfortunes have struck a chord with Eno as he learns more about her situation and eventually discusses the role and morality of the Morag Tong with his fellow assassin. Galyn offers wise assassin advice which, of course, Eno does not intend to follow. The conversation also yields some info on this Sern Uvalas fellow, an ‘invitation’ to his party and even a tip to talk to the exotic Argonian twins.

"First Era, Second Era. Legends that we’ve all heard about. Ashur. Naryu Virian. The truth about what happened with Veya Releth.”
- - What a treat to hear names that Buffy is quite familiar with!

[treydog]

This story just sings with the atmosphere, tone, and feel of my favorite detective noir novels. And we learn about Eno, who may be tarnished, but still has a moral compass. Too many good bits for me to quote without just reposting the whole episode, but here's one that made me smile.

Ever since that job in Balmora, three years ago, the Grandmaster exiled me to the East Coast of the island, otherwise known as Guarcrap crazy Telvanni mushroom territory.

Most excellent.

[Burnt Sierra]

Acadian: I've always been fascinated with Suran. In both TES 3 and ESO it's very much the crime hub of the island. One of my favourite ESO moments so far has been The Scarlet Judge questline. Yet despite hinting at the underbelly of the town, it's always seemed too clean and neat. I couldn't resist the chance to try to flesh that out a little. Thanks Acadian!

treydog: As you've picked up, I'm very much channelling my inner Lew Archer. Unlike the Dark Brotherhood, I always found the Morag Tong more interesting. Legal writs, but they survive at the good will of the Great Houses. So unlike scary, emotionless black clad messengers of death, I always envisaged them as more of an agent. A mix of a detective, with a hint of Ethan Hunt, and the world weary cynicism of a traditional anti-hero. It's been great fun, in writing this, to really get to play with character voice more than usual. Thanks treydog!


4.

With the name Seviel Dralas, and his location gained from Galyn, it’s time to come up with a plan. Get the invitation. Talk to the twins to learn the layout. Get suitable clothing for a swanky party. Figure out how I’m going to get weapons in with me. Everything in steps. The trick is breaking the night into manageable increments, not letting the scale of the task make my mind run itself in anxious circles. First, I need the invitation. The other pieces of the plan mean nothing if I can’t get my foot in the door.

Galyn said that Seviel Dralas had been seen near the trade house, by the balconies and arcades that ring the main market square, so that’s where I’m headed. Galyn described him as a pampered scribe for one of Suran’s minor magistrates, who wears his tunic too tight, trying to give himself some shoulders. Twice around before I spot him on the upper level of the trade house, leaning against a pillar, gesticulating at a bored-looking Dunmer woman who is being paid by the hour to pretend to be delighted. From the look on her face, she’s not being paid enough, her smile so brittle it could snap at any moment. Seviel, meanwhile, is oblivious to her suffering, lost in his own cleverness. I head inside and up the stairs and emerge on the landing, which smells of smoke and spilled Mazte. Seviel holds court at the far end, one hand up in mock-serious declamation, the other anchored firmly to the woman’s wrist. His tunic is indeed painted on, and his hair shines with so much oil that a single candle could torch the whole balcony.

I take a position nearby, back to the railing. Seviel is arguing the merits of some legal precedent, his voice so nasal it could etch glass. The scribe flourishes his free hand, nearly upending a clay cup, and punctuates his argument by laughing at his own wit. His companion’s eyes glaze over.

I let them go a few more rounds, each more tedious than the last, before making my move. The trick to interrupting a conversation isn’t just timing; it’s the art of predicting when the two participants are at their mutual nadir. I wait until Seviel’s cup is empty and his wit, such as it is, begins its last gasps. His companion is now openly scanning the balcony for alternative company or the sweet release of death. As his punchline dissolves into the evening air, I sidle next to their table, radiating the polite but insistent presence of someone with urgent, official business.

When Seviel glances up, there’s a flicker of irritation that someone has encroached on his theatre. I bow my head slightly, feigning self-effacement. “Pardon, sera, but your reputation precedes you, and I find myself in need of your expertise.”

Seviel, never one to pass up a new audience, straightens and releases his death grip on the woman’s wrist. She vanishes so quickly I suspect she’d been holding her breath in anticipation. I’m momentarily impressed by her economy of movement; and I make a note to tip generously if I ever need her services. He gestures to an empty seat with mock-courtly flair. I take it, keeping my posture deferential but my eyes locked on his. The best way to disarm a narcissist is to convince them you’re a harmless admirer, then feed their ego until they choke on it. I lean in and lower my voice.

“There’s a matter of some delicacy I hoped to discuss, preferably out of earshot of the more, how shall I put this, excitable elements downstairs.”

That gets his attention. His pupils narrow, and he leans in, too. “You have my undivided attention, sera. Speak freely.”

I glance around theatrically, then duck my head. “I hear you’re to attend the New Year gathering at Sern Uvalas’s mansion. The guest list is, what’s the phrase, tightly controlled.”

He smiles, showing off teeth that have never known a day of honest toil. “That’s true. Security is quite stringent, I’m told.”

“See, the issue,” I continue, lowering my voice until it’s a conspiratorial hiss, “is that while I’d dearly love to bask in the same rarified air as our mutual associates, I find myself rather decisively off the guest list. Which brings me to an awkward juncture, and I do hate awkwardness.” I pause, let my smile show teeth, and then, quick as a lizard’s tongue, produce a slim dagger from my sleeve and set its tip to the soft meat just beneath Seviel’s ribs, obscured from the view of any onlookers by the convenient drape of the tablecloth.

To his credit, Seviel doesn’t scream. Instead, he freezes, lips puckered mid-smirk, eyes darting to the blade and then to my face, trying to locate any flicker of bluff. I give him none. The dagger is short, sharp, and very real. In the span of three seconds, his bravado evaporates, replaced by a clammy, wild-eyed panic. I keep my smile precisely calibrated. A shade under open menace, but enough to suggest I am eager to redecorate the square below with his innards.

“Now, here’s the proposal,” I say, crisp and businesslike. “You hand over your invitation. In exchange, you get to walk out of here with all your internal organs in their original positions. No one need be the wiser.”

He gulps, swallowing the stone in his throat. “You, you wouldn’t dare,” he stammers, but the quaver in his tone is all the permission I need. I flex the dagger ever so slightly, letting him feel the pressure, and watch his mind run through the consequences: making a scene, calling for help, and getting carved open like a holiday roast. Dunmer are nothing if not practical.

“It’s in my room,” he whispers, voice gone papery thin.

“Then lets go there, shall we? And do try to look like we’re old friends, I’d so hate to have to carve you up in front of witnesses.”

We head up the stairs; I keep him five paces ahead, just in case his courage is secretly growing back, until we reach a wooden door. Seviel fumbles the key, cursing under his breath, then finally opens it. Inside, his quarters are almost offensively neat. He hurries to the desk, flinging open the top drawer and producing the invitation, a lacquered card with a sigil pressed in red wax. He holds it up, reluctant to let go, then hands it over.

“Thank you, sera.” I say. “Now, you appreciate that I can’t exactly just leave you to scream bloody murder the instant I leave the room. However, I told you I wanted your expertise,” I muse, twirling the dagger between my fingers, “and I do value your cooperation. So, in the spirit of professional courtesy, I’m going to offer you a choice.” I pause for effect, then lean in, pitching my voice to a low, almost affectionate murmur. “Option one: I bash you over the head, old-fashioned but reliable. You’ll wake up with a blinding headache, a tasteful knot just behind the ear, and no memory of the next few hours. Messy, but effective.” I watch him blanch at the prospect, and before he can speak, I raise a finger. “Option two: I give you a potion. Perfectly safe, just enough to send you off to dreamland for a little while. You swallow, you drift, and when you wake up, you’ll be right as rain, save for a bit of stiffness where the restraints held you. In both cases,” I add, “I’ll of course gag and tie you up. For your own safety, and mine.”

He stares at me, mouth working, eyes flicking again to the door. I see the question forming behind his teeth, and I help it along. “You’re wondering if I’ll kill you either way. I won’t.” I let the assurance hang, then follow up with a flicker of genuine sincerity. “You have my word.”

He shudders, then sucks air through his teeth. “What potion?”

“Ah, a connoisseur?” I chuckle. “Alchemists call it ‘Vivec’s Mercy’. Smells like dreugh piss, but it’s painless. I’ve used it on myself, even.”

He considers. “I’ll take the potion. Please.”

“An excellent choice.” I reach into my cloak for the small glass phial and pop the cork. The aroma is of sulphur and rotten fish, which immediately fills the room. Seviel clamps his nose, but he’s committed now; he drains the vial in one trembling gulp, grimacing at the taste.

“Lay back, please. It’s faster if you don’t fight it,” I advise, already untying a length of cord from my belt. He collapses onto the floor, eyelids fluttering. I secure his wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency, then wedge a linen rag between his teeth, just in case his dreams turn noisy. By the time I’m done, he’s snoring softly, head lolling to one side. I pick up the key to the door, then turn back and check his pockets until I find his coin purse. This next step might require more funds than I’m carrying, and he won’t need them tonight. I lock the door behind me and head down the stairs.

*

Step one complete, invitation gained. Now, for step two. Talk to the Argonian twins. I can think of worse people to speak to. They certainly could dance. Their tails too. How I’m going to get to talk to them though, that I’m not sure. There is going to be security to stop punters from going backstage. Sure enough, back in Desele’s, I can see a Dunmer in an ill-fitting black tunic, arms crossed, staring holes through anyone who so much as glances toward the velvet rope separating the commoners from the staff area, and no doubt there’ll be others nearby. If I want to get backstage without a brawl, I’ll need either a good distraction or a very convincing reason to be allowed through. The bouncer doesn’t look like the sort to be talked down by clever flattery, but money talks, and sometimes it sings. That, or I can create enough commotion out here in the crowd to draw one or more away from their posts.

But that’s risky. I need both twins in a private setting, not the back room with half a dozen irate guards. Maybe I can pose as a VIP: noble curiosity, socialite with an appetite for the exotic, one of the perverts from the upper floor who gets comped in exchange for not burning the place down during their drunken fits. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than nothing. I just hope the twins aren’t carrying knives in their garters. I break from the crowd and angle toward the velvet rope, the bouncer’s gaze snapping to me. A few steps out, I walk slower, deliberately, the way you approach a startled Netch. No sudden moves, polite, but not afraid. My mind tumbles through a pile of greetings. I could go witty, suave, or obsequiously respectful, but none of them seems quite right for this wall of scowling muscle.

I paste on my most affable smile and treat him to a little bow. “Good evening,” I offer, letting my voice slip into something rich and unthreatening, as if I’m here to compliment his outfit and ask after his children.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. His face is a study in apathy, but his hands flex on his biceps like he’s preparing to crack things. Head size things. I can see the creative repairs made to his ensemble. Old blood perhaps, faintly blotted, or just the residue of a hundred manhandled patrons. Someone invested in keeping this particular specimen angry and upright.

“I was hoping I could introduce myself to some of the talent.” I say. “The twins.”

His face is unimpressed. “You’re not on the list,” his hands shifting to reinforce the blockade.

“How do you know, you haven’t taken my name?”

“Because there isn’t a list.” The bouncer says it with the bored, unblinking certainty that stops most people cold. He doesn’t say it particularly loud, but the implication is obvious: the only thing getting past him tonight is the heat from the hearth, and maybe a stray rat if it scurries fast enough. For a second, I entertain the image of inventing a list on the spot, pulling a parchment from my sleeve with a flourish, but it would only amuse me. His expression is so flat it might actually be a surface.

“Didn’t see that one coming.” I say, grinning. “Good one. How about this then? You ask the twins if they’d be interested in a private performance. A dance only, nothing more. If they are, you tell me what that would cost.” I keep my tone light, just the right mix of teasing and conspiratorial. The bouncer, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. He simply glowers, as if I’d proposed we do a three-legged race in a Shalk nest, and then, without taking his eyes off mine, he says, “House minimum is two hundred. Per. If they agree.” I whistle low, and then make a show of considering the number.

“Done,” I say. “But I want both twins, at the same time. No substitutions, no switching halfway through for lookalikes. I’ve been to places that try that.” I let my words trail off and flick an eyebrow, suggesting the implication is more scandalous than it really is. The bouncer’s mouth twitches, either a sign of approval or a minor seizure.

“Wait here,” he says, and then disappears through a side door. I wait. I pretend to be just another gawker, hands folded behind my back, but my mind is mapping every exit, every staff-only corridor, and every potential threat.

The bouncer returns with a second man in tow, this one older, in a smart outfit that actually fits. “You can afford the private room?” He asks, voice smooth as new parchment. I nod, and hand over Seviel’s pouch, letting its weight speak for itself.

He briefly looks inside it, smoothly pockets it and smiles. “Give us a moment to prep the girls. You’ll be called when ready. If there’s more in the pouch than the cost, you’ll get the rest back after the show.”

I thank him, and he wanders off with a bureaucrat’s efficiency. I drift back to the bar, order a Mazte, nurse it, and count the minutes until I’m summoned. When the bouncer returns, he doesn’t speak, just crooks a finger and guides me along a narrow hall behind the main floor. The air back here is thick with incense and something sharper, a combination of Skooma and the tang of body oils. He leads me to a curtained alcove with a small table, two glasses, and a plush seat facing a mirrored wall. “Wait here,” he says. “They’ll join in a moment.” He closes the curtain, leaving me alone with my reflection. I smooth my shirt, check the line of my jaw for sweat, and mentally rehearse the opening to my pitch. Getting these two on my side is vital. From outside, I hear footsteps, and then the curtain parts. The twins enter as one, moving with a dancer’s unnatural grace, eyes as bright as bioluminescent moss.

The bouncer, looming in the doorway, says, “No funny business. Keep it civil, and no touching unless they say so. You two, any problems, shout, and I’ll be right with you.” He then closes the curtain and walks away.

“You wanted a dance?” asks one twin.

“Actually, all I want is to talk, if you’re prepared to listen?” I push a stack of coins across the table, and motion for them to have a seat. “For your time and discretion, not for the house itself, they’ve already been paid.” They glance at each other, then slide onto the plush bench with artful synchronicity.

“Just talk?” the first twin says, her harsh syllables softened by a low, musical lilt. “No performance?”

“Not unless you count answering questions as a performance,” I reply, careful to keep my posture open and unintimidating. “I’m not here for pleasure. Sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“We’re prepared to listen,” says the second twin, the coins disappearing.

“It’s a bit of a sad story. A woman has her child stolen from her, and then her husband is killed. By someone not very nice. Now, this not very nice person lives in a big house on a plantation north of town.”

The effect is immediate: an angry hiss and the twins recoil, not physically, but in the tightening of their pupils, the sudden rigidity in their tails. Their posture, so fluid a moment before, hardens around a single word: plantation. I hold my palms up.

“I have no desire to upset you. But, lets say that someone was going to recover that child, and possibly find a way to deal with that not very nice man. they’d need to know the layout of that house. Where hidden things might be kept, so that guests wouldn’t stumble on them. Security. Ways of getting in and out. If there’s anyone in the house who might be a potential ally.” I look at them. “Is that something you could help me with?”

For a long moment, they say nothing, only exchange glances weighed down with history. I imagine a clockwork conversation flowing in silence, all nuance and blink and shifting tail. It’s the one on the left that speaks. “Maybe we know something,” she says, her voice pitched low, barely higher than the flicker of the sconce burning on the wall. “As long as it wouldn’t ever come back to us.”

“That I can promise.” I say, and pull out paper and pencil. “Lets start with the layout.”

[treydog]

Your descriptions are vivid and atmospheric - I can smell the odor of spilled drinks and the incense smoke intended to cover it up (and failing). And I always saw the Morag in the same way - in service to the Great Houses, but with their own set of values and sense of honor.

Quote time (one of many that stand out):

Galyn described him as a pampered scribe for one of Suran’s minor magistrates, who wears his tunic too tight, trying to give himself some shoulders. Twice around before I spot him on the upper level of the trade house, leaning against a pillar, gesticulating at a bored-looking Dunmer woman who is being paid by the hour to pretend to be delighted. From the look on her face, she’s not being paid enough, her smile so brittle it could snap at any moment.

That is a grand example of "Show - don't Tell." We are looking through Eno's eyes, seeing what he sees. He is such a brilliantly realized character, drawing us into his story effortlessly.

Raymond Chandler summed it up thus, and I can think of no better description for Eno Hlaalu -

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

“He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him."

[Acadian]

Eno quickly finds a bureaucrat who happens to have an invitation. Trey isn’t wrong in that your descriptions continue to mesmerize and draw us in. You render the oily self-centered Seviel as quite unlikable so the fact that his invitation and coin purse get pinched is no cause for remorse. Phase one of the plan is complete.

On to the twins. No injuries or ruckus setting things up to talk with them and it seems they may be sympathetic to his cause – encouraging!

Hopefully, obtaining the appropriate attire and figuring out how to get weapons in will go as smoothly. . . .

[Burnt Sierra]

5.

Leaving Desele’s, I make for Suran’s Outlaw’s Refuge. A stinking, labyrinthine den beneath the city’s legitimate commerce, where even the rats carry switchblades. The entrance is hidden through a judiciously unguarded sewer grate behind the town’s southern granary, and the wet slap of my boots echoes in the gloom as I descend. It’s not until I reach the warm, fetid air of the main concourse that I breathe easy: no one here cares what you’ve done, as long as you pay in coin and don’t bleed on the merchandise.

I weave past a moneylender. His thumbnail blackened at the edge, worn smooth from years of testing gold with mechanical precision. Behind him, a ledger lies open with columns of figures. Pretty much every Outlaw’s Refuge has a couple of moneylenders, a couple of fences, and a few other services that can be of use to a discerning clientele. A few steps further, an alchemist hawking “untraceable” poisons, his tiny glass vials catching the torchlight in greens and ambers. Conversation here is all murmurs and half-finished sentences, creating a constant low hum broken only by the occasional cough or clink of payment changing hands. In a city where the crime guilds keep to their own shadows, the Refuge is where their borders overlap. A neutral ground. Its only allegiance is to profit and the perpetuation of plausible deniability.

The fence I’m seeking is called Old Carethil, an Altmer, and a legend among black marketeers. He’s rumoured to have smuggled an entire ballista, disassembled, disguised as a set of musical instruments, and reassembled in under four minutes by a pair of Altmeri contortionists into a high society gathering in Vulkhel Guard many years back. If anybody can source a weapon that won’t raise suspicion, it’s Carethil. He’s hunched behind a warped pine desk, his golden skin lined with wrinkles and his face a mesh of burn scars.

I lean in close and keep my voice low.

“I need something that slips past a parlour inspection. Something concealable. But sharp enough to put a hole through chitin, if it comes to that. Also, if you’ve got anything that doubles as a conversation piece, all the better.”

He looks up thoughtfully, then stands and goes to a chest behind him.

“Concealable and a conversation piece, hm? This might do the trick.”

He comes back with a slender, lacquered cane and puts it on the table. The craftsmanship is exquisite; a dark ebony shaft capped with an ivory grip, the sort of thing a nobleman might ostentatiously lean on while evaluating the worth of your entire family. Carethil knocks the base of the cane against his desk and, with a twist, a stiletto ebony blade glides out, paper-thin and wickedly sharp.

“Too poetic for your line of work?” He asks.

“Not at all, but I’ll need some sort of disguise to age me. The effect only works if they don’t see a potential threat.”

“Talk to Ethrandora,” he says, pointing further down the room, to a small female Bosmer. “She’s an absolute wizard with make-up and prosthetics.”

“Thanks.” I say. “How much for the cane?”

Carethil smiles, taps a finger on the table and names a sum that would finance a modest kidnapping ring for a month. My lips purse as I do the silent arithmetic of what I have, but time is tight, and he holds all the cards.

“I’ll have to speak to one of the money lenders.” I say. “Put it to one side for me and I’ll be back shortly.”

“Of course.”

*

With Carethil’s price still echoing in my mind, I realise I’d better check how much money I’m going to need first. Looks like good deeds are expensive. Ethrandora’s stall is less a shop and more a fortification assembled from empty crates, lengths of mirror, and racks hung with wigs in every natural and unnatural shade. Ethrandora herself is a Bosmer of indeterminate age. She could be a prematurely haggard twenty or a well-preserved seventy, depending on the angle and the lighting. I clear my throat, and she snaps her gaze to me, eyes narrowing with the predatory focus of someone who could, given thirty seconds, convincingly turn me into a member of a different sex or species. She grins, baring surprisingly neat teeth, and gestures me into the makeshift booth. The close air is heavy with the scent of tallow, resin, and a trace of something chemical with notes of week-old corpse.

“Help you?”

“I need to look older. Wealthy and distinguished, but not so distinguished that I’ll stick in people’s minds. Unremarkable, maybe even frail.”

Ethrandora leans in, her nose brushing dangerously close to mine, and sniffs. “You want them to see a harmless old man. Not even worth frisking. That about right?”

I nod. “And it has to last until dawn.”

“You going to be facing water?”

“Not unless everything goes wrong, doesn’t matter if it comes off at that point.”

She cocks her head, then rummages behind her for a wooden box filled with prosthetics. Full of hooked noses, liver-spotted cheek patches, even a set of false ears slightly too large for any natural race. “Show me your face,” she commands, and I comply. Her fingers, cold and callused, prod my skin with the dispassion of a butcher testing meat for ripeness.

“Won’t be cheap,” she says.

“Nothing ever is. My next visit is to one of the money lenders. Just working out how much I need first.”

Leaving her stall, I sidestep a cluster of Khajiit hard at work haggling over a shipment of moon sugar, then duck around a boy no older than ten, already missing an ear and trying to sell me a “never-before-seen” writ of pardon. The moneylender, Varel, is a fixture in various Outlaw Refuges, and his is the only stall that has its own security, with two burly Nord guards. Varel himself is also a Nord, though the girth of his belly and the limpness of his moustache suggest an upbringing far removed from the tundras of Skyrim. His face is the colour and texture of raw liver, and his left eye weeps continually, forcing him to dab at it with a rag between every sentence. There’s a chain, and a spike nailed into the desk, presumably for emphasis. I approach, and he looks at me and grins, exposing a mouthful of teeth the colour of old cheese.

“Been a while.” He says. “Last time you came to me was in Sadrith Mora. How can I be helping you today, lad?”

“Short term loan, until the bank re-opens day after tomorrow. Enough for me to get a specialty item and, let’s say, a full evening’s worth of personal transformation. Plus maybe a few extras.”

“You know the rates. Interest is ten per cent, daily. Non-negotiable.”

I nod. “Done.”

“Fair enough. How much do you need exactly?”

The exchange takes seconds: the dull thump of gold, the scratch of a ledger. All legitimate, if you ignore the fact that every coin here is most likely stolen or bloodstained. The moment the money changes hands, his smile vanishes, replaced by the dead-eyed look of a man who has already factored your failure into his quarterly projections.

I pocket the advance and nod. “Pleasure as always, Varel.”

He gives me a lazy salute with his rag, already tallying up his next victim.

*

With the funds secured, I head back to Ethrandora, who is sizing up prosthetic noses and wigs like a sommelier choosing wines. I wedge myself onto the rickety stool, careful not to jostle a tray already loaded with blobs of spirit gum, strips of fine mesh, and glass ampoules. She starts by dusting my face with a pale powder, her hands so fast and practiced I barely see the motion before I’m coughing on the cloud of it. She mutters to herself as she works, fingers pinching and smoothing, painting on lines where none exist, drawing out the subtle hollows already lurking in my cheeks. Within minutes she’s layered me with a network of crepe wrinkles, crow’s feet so convincing I squint in sympathy. She glues a prosthetic swelling to one eyelid, then adds liver spots and a faint cobweb of broken veins. The smell of resin is so thick it coats the top of my mouth in bitterness. She slides a wig cap down over my ears, then fits an ashen-white hairpiece over the top, styling it into a dignified yet fragile comb-over. I stare into the cracked mirror she offers and almost don’t recognise the old, pinched stranger looking back, more likely to expire at a banquet than assassinate anyone in it.

“Needs an affectation,” she decides, after a critical once-over. “A limp, maybe. Or a cough.”

“Limp,” I say. “It will explain the cane I’m using from Carethil.”

“You’ll also need more suitable clothes.” She says as if the current state of my wardrobe is an abomination to all that is holy, or at the very least, to the Bosmeri sense of fashion. “No self-respecting noble would wear, well, that.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Go to Verara Rendo’s, and tell her I sent you. She’ll get you sorted out without too many questions or judgments. Word of advice: don’t try to haggle, and pay cash without arguing. Attempting either will get you charged double.”

“Won’t she be closed for the festival?”

“That’s why you mention that I sent you.” She says. “And tell her I’ve a couple of nice bottles of Greef I’m looking forward to drinking with her tonight.”

I take the long way around the main corridor, letting Ethrandora’s handiwork settle on my skin. The prosthetics pinch a little, and the spirit gum tugs each time I move my jaw to test a new expression. It’s not just convincing; it’s transformative.

*

Carethil has already set the cane aside for me in a velvet-lined tray, as though expecting it to be inducted into a museum. He’s reading a ledger when I approach, but the moment his eyes flick up, they widen ever so slightly in recognition. “Ethrandora’s done you up proper,” he says. “You could walk into a Council chamber and no one would dare ask you to take your shoes off.”

I smile, letting my lips tremble the way old people do when they’re both tired and vain. “Let’s just hope no one asks me to dance.”

He slides the cane over with a little bow. “The blade will hold against bonemold, even light glass. Just don’t try it against daedric plate. Not that you see much of that around.”

The weight of the cane feels natural in my palm. Holding my weight on it, I practice a subtle limp, dragging my right foot just enough to make the affectation credible, and Carethil nods in approval. I hand over the gold without flinching too much; he checks it, one coin at a time, before pocketing it and wishing me luck with the solemnity of a priest at a funeral.

I double back, weaving slowly through the press of footpads and cutpurses, trying out my new limp for the benefit of the crowd, and aim towards the Alchemist’s stall I saw when I entered. The owner is a Dunmer with hands dyed purple up to the wrists, deep-set eyes flickering with equal parts boredom and contempt. I don’t know his name, only that Carethil swears by his discretion and the purity of his potions.

He doesn’t bother with a greeting. Just squints at me, then lets his gaze drop to the cane. “You’re from the upper town, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Only by necessity,” I reply. “Carethil recommended you.”

He bares his teeth and says, “What can I get you? I’ve some particularly effective poisons available.”

“I’m looking for distractions and anything effective at disabling, but strictly non-permanent. Not to kill.”

“Always a pleasure to work for someone with professional ethics.” Despite the sarcasm, I detect a flicker of respect. Or at least relief that he won’t have to clean blood off his stall. He gestures for me to go behind a curtain. The back is much better organised, with shelves lined with flasks and vials, all labelled in a cramped, spidery hand. “You want to evade or incapacitate?”

“Both, preferably.”

He pulls bottles from the shelves, lining them up like a chemist preparing for a very illegal exam. “This is Chokeleaf distillate.” He lifts a vial of faintly blue syrup. “Spray this in a room and every living creature will be doubled over coughing for about three minutes. No permanent damage, unless someone already has a bad lung.”

He sets the next vial, this one orange, next to it. “Ban-dar’s Blight. Smells like crap, because it is, but it will keep anyone from tracking your scent for half an hour, and can be thrown like a grenade if you want to clear a hallway.”

I inspect the vials, weighing them in my hand. “Anything more selective? I’ll be surrounded by at least a dozen well-armed, suspicious types. I need something precise.”

He grins, this time with genuine pleasure. “How about this?” He holds up a crystal ampoule filled with swirling pearly liquid. “Markynaz’s Suggestion. Mist it into a drink or over a glass, and it will make the target extremely agreeable to small suggestions for about five minutes. Not mind control, but close.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re sure it doesn’t cause memory loss? I can’t have them missing gaps.”

“I’m not running a side line in memory wipes,” he says, offended. “You want amnesia, that’s a different department. This just, well, lubricates the will. The mind’s still sharp, but the edges get rounded. They remember the conversation, just not why they agreed with you so damn much.” To emphasise the point, he holds the vial up to the light, swirling it so the contents catch on the glass like mother-of-pearl. “A little dab on the rim of their glass, or even just the air near their face. Think of it as a charm spell in a bottle.”

“You got a few of those bottles?”

“Plenty. But hang on,” he says, then slides a neatly folded slip of parchment across the counter to me. “Dosing instructions. Never say I’m not thorough.”

“I’ll also take a couple of vials of the Chokeleaf distillate,” I say, glancing over the array of illicit chemistry, “and do you have anything that makes a loud bang? Or covers a lot of ground in smoke?”

The alchemist’s purple-stained hands twitch in delight, and he cackles like he’s been waiting half his career for someone to ask this very question. “Noise and fog, now you’re speaking my language,” he says, and immediately ducks behind a stack of weathered crates. There’s a crash, the tinkle of glass, and a low muttering as he rummages through crates. A moment later, he pops back up with a fist-sized tin and an armful of small, wax-sealed orbs.

“Here.” He plops the tin on the counter and lets the orbs roll across the surface. “Thunderclap. Looks innocent, doesn’t it? But you break the seal and toss it, and nobody inside a hundred feet is going to hear straight for at least three minutes. Works through most walls, even. Don’t use it in a small room unless you’re not planning on hearing anything either.” He punctuates the warning by tapping the tin with a yellowed fingernail. “You’ll want to use it outside. Maybe on a guardhouse if you’re feeling particularly creative.”

I pick up one orb. It’s heavier than it looks, and there’s a faint smell of burnt sugar and sulphur. “And for the smoke?”

He grins, gaps in his teeth like broken tombstones. “These are called Shroud Globes. Pop a couple on the floor and the entire room’s a fogbank. Dissolves in fifteen minutes, but you get maybe three minutes of absolute chaos first. No fire, no stain, dissipates clean. Ideal for exits, entrances, or just making a mess of things.” He pushes the globes towards me, then adds two more for good measure. “They come in a set. Consider it a discount for professionals.”

I weigh the globes in my palm, considering the possibilities, and then nod. “I’ll take a full set, and the Thunderclap tin.”

He slides them into a velvet pouch, then counts out the vials of Chokeleaf with exaggerated care, each time making a brief show of checking the seal, the level, and the label. I pay him, careful not to shortchange him even by a single coin; the kind of people who make these concoctions also creatively use their own merchandise if crossed. “Pleasure doing business,” I say, tucking the pouch and vials into the hidden pockets of my cloak.

*

What’s left is a matter of wardrobe. I follow Ethrandora’s instructions and take the rear exit from the Outlaw’s Refuge, duck through a series of alleys, and emerge two streets over, right in front of Verara Rendo’s shop. She specialises in clothes that look expensive at a distance and even more expensive up close. The displays are mostly mannequins draped with imported velvets and brocades, but there’s also a selection of gloves, masks, and hats that would make a circus jealous.

Inside, it’s quiet enough to hear the soft tick of a clock behind the counter. Verara is perched on a stool, mending a sleeve with concentration. She doesn’t look up until I’m three feet away, at which point she arches a single eyebrow so high I worry it’s going to detach and make a break for the ceiling.

“Ethrandora sent me.” I say. “And I’m supposed to tell you she’s got a couple of very nice bottles of Greef for later.”

Verara’s needle stills for a heartbeat, then resumes its frantic little dance through silk as if nothing in the world could surprise her. Only her eyebrow, which rises another impossible increment, betrays any reaction. “Is that so?” she says. Her voice is all smoke and sandpaper. “Well, isn’t that just like dear Ethrandora. Always thinking ahead to the afterparty. And always sending me clients who look like they’ve been rolled down the Smugglers’ Steps and left to ferment.”

She sets aside her work, giving me the first real up-and-down. Her gaze lingers on my fake age spots, the way the prosthetics pull tight beneath my left cheekbone, the way my limp is exaggerated just so. “Let’s see what we’re working with,” she says. “Turn around. Slowly.”

I do as instructed. She studies the line of my shoulders, the hunch of my back.

“What look are we going for here?”

“I need to look like a frail noble with a taste for rare parties and poor decisions. Expensive, but not ostentatious. Impressive, but not memorable. Can you help?”

She sizes me up in a single long sweep, then nods. “I do so love a challenge.”

[Acadian]

Writing in present tense is challenging. Most who attempt it end up occasionally slipping into the almost universally used past tense. But you manage it flawlessly and it quite works for this story.

You paint the entire outlaw refuge in muted shades of despair – rich in scents and minor details. Like this:
‘I weave past a moneylender. His thumbnail blackened at the edge, worn smooth from years of testing gold with mechanical precision.’

The elegant stiletto cane pairs well with a limp and the makeup of an old nobleman. Those clever elixirs should provide some flexibility and breathing room. Only the uniform remains to complete the package.

Deliciously ironic that Eno the assassin is using the tools of darkness to prepare for and execute a mission of light.

[treydog]

I love your cast of underworld characters, each of them distinct and vivid. My favorite is probably the alchemist...

“I’m not running a side line in memory wipes,” he says, offended. “You want amnesia, that’s a different department. This just, well, lubricates the will.

Have to admire someone who takes that much pride in his work. And every encounter and bit of preparation builds my anticipation of the moment when everything is put to use. Well done, my friend.