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    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    Aaaaand I posted in the wrong forum. Hopefully this gets moved.


    It was Sundas, and Daggerfall was bustling with life. The great spires that rose over the city's amalgam of architectural styles, which were like the rings of a tree in that they each told of a different time in Daggerfall's history, casted odd shadows across the huge city. It made one feel small to look out across this, but at the same time, the city was a sea of life and excitement. Dwarfed by the skyline, Kebu weaved between the noisy throngs of Daggerfellians that crowded the avenue running from the main gates to the towering palace, walking with an unusual lack of purpose. He was headed for the Muddy Boar, a local tavern he frequented and enjoyed, but he had unhappy memories on his mind thanks to the date. In the sea of humanity, only occasionally parted for a clattering cart or palatial procession, Kebu wanted to steal something, not even for fun, but to divert his thoughts. The afternoon sun hung high overhead, illuminating his sea of potential marks under a blue sky.

    He chose the first woman he saw dressed somewhat well, a jeweled brooch prominent on her silken gown; he passed her by, discreetly unlocking a street merchant's chicken cage and timing it so that the birds fluttered out just as she walked into their path. The sight of his plan working perfectly cheered him a little as he swooped into action, hurrying up behind her and bumping past, swatting at the aimless fowl and swiping the mark's jewelry imperceptibly, then sliding into an alley before she knew what had hit her. Luckily, he could take the path he had chosen the rest of the way down to the Muddy Boar.

    When he emerged into the avenue once more, he was right by the tavern, and on his way in, he fished out a handful of Septims for a copy of the local paper being peddled by the door. As he pushed through the wooden door into the cozy dimness of the sparsely-filled tavern, he looked down at the paper and frowned.

    11th of Frostfall, 3E 324

    Today marks the seventh anniversary of the end of the Miracle of Peace, when the Great and Illustrious Kingdom of Daggerfall brought an end to the endless wars that formerly plagued the land, bringing the many rebellious city-states under its flag. The day also brought improved relations with the neighboring kingdoms of Sentinel and Wayrest, as well as a renewed alliance of the Empire...

    "Oy there," said James, or Jemsé, the pleasantly plump proprietor of the Muddy Boar when Kebu took a seat at the bar.

    "What brings you here, mate?" he asked in his thick Wayrest accent - the man was well loved by the city 'in spite of' it, Kebu was told, but he didn't see how his accent was different from anyone native to Daggerfall, let alone why it would matter.

    "Something strong," Kebu answered a bit dejectedly.

    "What is it, noon?" Jemsé asked with a bit of a joking lilt. When Kebu didn't have a retort, he followed, "Oll right then. How you gonna pay?"

    Kebu slid the brooch across the table.

    "You must be awful thirsty. Go on then, what's got ya down?" he said, preparing a drink.

    "Today," he began, looking off through one of the small windows at the tavern's front and tapping on the bar with a Septim, "seven years ago today-"

    "Was the Warp," Jemsé interjected.

    "...Was the day I was exiled from Hammerfell. Never to return for a period of seven years."

    "So?" Jemsé asked, setting a glass of brandy before him. "I thought you hated that place."

    "I do," Kebu said.

    "Well then, what's the issue? You don't have that hanging over you any longer, you should be glad."

    "Yeah, yeah, I should, but it's all I can think of today." He took a swig of brandy, feeling the warm tingling sensation it brought to his throat. "I feel like- like I'm going to wind up back there sometime soon, much as I want to never go back."

    "Then just don't go back!" Jemsé said. "Can it be that hard?"

    "I don't know, Jemsé, I don't know."

    "Boy, you're no fun today, Kebu."

    Kebu gave a little melancholy chuckle. "Come back when I'm a little deeper into my cups and maybe I'll be more cheery."

    Kebu leaned on one elbow as Jemsé walked down the bar, preoccupying himself with the drying of glasses and maintenance of the smooth oak surface. The Redguard turned back to his liquor, but after a short time, Jemsé was back around.

    "Did you ever tell me what you were exiled for?" he asked.

    "Once, maybe."

    "Refresh my memory," Jemsé said.

    "Well, I did a lot of things - you know that time wasn't exactly ticking right back then - and I don't remember more than fragments of a lot of it, but after those two days were up and time was running normally again, I was in the arms of a pair of Sentinel palace guards with a bag of jewels and finery at my feet." Kebu chuckled. "They threw me on a boat here that day."

    "Oh, that's rough. Have another drink," Jemsé said.

    "Best thing that ever happened to me. And thanks," Kebu answered, sliding his empty glass to the barkeep.
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    He wiped a head of sweat from the tip of his nose and cursed for a fifth time. The alchemists face was hovering but a hairs breadth from the alembic, the contents of which bubbled happily, quite oblivious to the nearby imperials growing temper.

    "No please, do continue to simmer, it's not as if I had plans for the rest of the day. Please do take your time."

    Perhaps if the poison had been able to hear the thinly veiled threats coming from it's creator, it would have increased it's pace and would have reduced far quicker. As it was, the poison was living up to it's namesake and had been slow to develop throughout the entire process, from the very moment Ferrus had begun to grind down the antlers he had procured.

    "Sodding potion, never even wanted to go through all of this anyway. Blasted merchants, always pressing for the more irritating potions. Perhaps if I increase the heat it will speed up the process..."


    The budding chemist slowly increased the flow of flame and the potion began to let off a gentle hissing sound as it continued to reduce at a now rapid pace.

    Not one hour later, Ferrus was griping at a local guard, his face and clothes covered in an unhealthy covering of soot and ash. "I'm telling you! The equipment must have been contaminated! There is no way the potion should have combusted like that! I've been working in this city for years and this has never happened!"


    "I'm sorry Ferrus, but I'll need to fine you for damage of public property regardless."
    Ferrus gestured wildly at the flaming shell of what had been his home and his shop. "Public property? Public property! That was my home you ignorant troll plops! I paid damn good coin for that worthless husk and now I'm supposed to pay a fine for damaging public property?"
    The guard raised a hand that began to glow with retrained energy. "Ferrus, I have to ask you to calm down or I will be forced to retrain you."

    The alchemist raised his hands in surrender, his face contorted in an ugly expression of disgust.
    "Fine, fine, I'm calm. I just hope that you can live with yourself knowing that you've threatened a homeless man who has just lost his entire livelihood. Your mother would be ashamed I'm sure. Do send my regards to that steaming pile of dung for me will you?"


    As the guard began to unsheathe a shortsword in protest Ferrus turned tail and began to stroll over to the Muddy Boar in search of a strong drink. He was only left with the small coin purse strung to his belt, but considering the events of the day so far, spending his remaining gold on booze was worth it.

    Roughly pushing the door aside, Ferrus stalked over to the bar, his mood foul. Roughly pushing a few gold pieces across the counter his made to grab a nearby bottle of what he hoped was something potent and vile. When the barkeep Jemsé went to protest, he took one look at the crisped imperial and kept quiet, readying a second drink for when Ferrus finished off his first.

    "Nothing good ever happens on Sundas."
     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    The drink was beginning to lift Kebu's spirits as it flowed through him, and before long another downtrodden man stomped in. He snatched a bottle of liquor and growled, "Nothing good ever happens on Sundas."

    "What's the issue, friend?" Kebu said, looking over at the Imperial who sat at the bar. He noticed that the man was covered in soot, and joked, "The life of a chimney sweep not fulfilling you?"

    The man glowered at him, and Kebu eyed Jemsé inquisitively. The Redguard hadn't seen this man around the tavern before, but most travelers wouldn't go for a drink without cleaning up first, so the Imperial had to be a local. "I apologize," Kebu said, sliding over so that there was one stool between the men. "Next one's on my tab, friend. Want to talk about it?"

    The man was beginning to thaw a little, but still wouldn't budge. "Hey, you know, there's always a bright side. You said nothing good ever happens on Sundas? I was kicked out of my home on a Sundas - this one, actually, seven years ago - but if that hadn't happened, I never would have wound up here."
     

    Delusional

    Connoisseur of Hallucinations
    "No no no no, you imbecile!"

    A flustered Breton man stumbled out of the tavern kitchen, tripping over himself as he tried to escape the furious Imperial that pursued him.

    "You put garlic in that?! Garlic? Do you even have a brain in there?!" Gregory yelled as he rapped roughly on the Breton's head, who promptly flinched in pain.

    "I... I... I'm sorry, chef... please don-" the Breton stammered, face flushed and clothes stained with flour.

    "Quiet! Shut up! I don't want to hear it! Do you have any idea how to cook, you dimwit?! You prepare food like my grandmother! And she's dead!"

    "I... okay, chef, I- I'm sorry!"

    "Gah, to hell with your petty apologies! Now get the hell out of my way!" he yelled, shoving the Breton away and storming into the tavern, where conversations had halted mid-sentence and patrons stared in disbelief at the red-faced Imperial who had just made quite the entrance.

    "What are you all gawking at, huh? Huh?! Is there some sort of issue?!" he screamed as he took a seat at the bar. As the stunned patrons slowly turned back to continue their conversations, undoubtedly murmuring about this strange man who had made such a scene in the usually peaceful tavern, Gregory waved the bartender over.

    "The strongest drink you have," he said, still fuming. "You think someone who calls himself a cook would actually know how to cook... some people..." he grumbled as the hesitant bartender set down a cocktail of several strong liquors.

    "Here. Go hire yourself a real chef," he mumbled as he lazily tossed a large coin pouch at the bartender, who scrambled to catch it, surprised and shocked.

    Gregory took a long swig of the drink, content with the strength of the beverage. There was nothing like hard alcohol after having to deal with incompetent fools of cooks. Gregory feared one day he might get so angry his heart might explode, but until that day, there would be no mercy for those fools.

    Lost in his thoughts, Gregory suddenly noticed several other patrons also seated at the bar staring at him still. He turned to them scowling.

    "What in Oblivion are you all staring at me for?!"
     

    Farthlion

    I swear to drunk, I'm not Talos.
    "Give me my money you bitch," the seething Imperial place a hand on his sword in warning. He was somewhat drunk, already on his fifth pint of whatever concoction he had ordered.

    Odell took a swig from the tankard in her hand, enjoying the feel of its contents falling down her throat. She had just lost a game of chance - dice to be exact. "If I don't?"

    "If you don't, you're gon' be real sorry."

    The Breton woman grinned wildly and leaned back in her seat, "Would ya like to make a bet on that?"

    The man narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, obviously contemplating the consequences of his honor if he were to attack a woman in public. "I'm done betting with you. Give me my fluffing money."

    "Are you?" Odell questioned him curiously, "Because I'm certainly not. I swear on the Divines I'll pay you double if you make me even feel remotely sorry for not paying you." By now their dark corner of the gambling house had attracted the attention of a handful of fellow patrons. The Breton knew that if she were to walk out without paying she would regret it.

    The Imperial drew his sword and took a shaky step toward her. Odell took out her own blade, a steel dagger. She watched him grip the side of the table with his free hand in order to regain his balance, "Or how about this? Double or nothing. If you can hit me with that sword of yours, I will pay you and pay for your drinks."

    "You're on, Breton."

    Odell took a step to the side as the Imperial drunkenly lunged at her with his sword. He stumbled and grabbed onto a nearby chair, but his weight was too much and he took it down with him as he fell into into the wall.

    "That went even better than I expected," Odell marveled as she realized that her attacker's head had collided with the wall and knocked him out on impact. Odell quickly gathered the spare coin on the table and fled the building.

    The tavern was not far down the street. She had been staying there for the past week, having become well acquainted with the owner. Although she was a gambler at heart, Odell was also a very friendly person who would never turn down a chance to drink with friends.

    The Breton sat down at her usual spot at the bar. The bartender set her usual drink in front of her and wet to tend to a frazzled looking customer. Odell could only watch as the man downed a cup of dangerously strong liquor.

    "What in Oblivion are you all staring at me for?!"

    Odell smiled at him, "No need to worry my friend. I'd imagine it's that you are such a fine shade of red right now. Men who usually come here that are red in the face often are a hideous color. You," she gestured at the man to emphasize her words, "on the other hand are a delightful change."

    The woman stuck out her hand, "My name is Odell."
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    Krul sat numb in the long grass. The blades tickled at his knees as they danced in the harsh winds though he did not feel them. His eyes remained glued to the spot where not moments before Lagarz had stood, silent in his grief, but now he too was gone.

    It was his death that had quelled Krul's rage.

    Slowly the warrior stood up, his clan forged warhammer lying forgotten on the ground where he had fallen. Heavy feet dragged through the swathes of grass, leading him to the barren battleground that had once been his home. The air was still heavy with sorcery, the latent magic still dispersing from the mages display of raw, chaotic power. The forces unleashed here had been enough to ruin and level an entire stronghold. The mages at fault lay dead amongst his kin, their mangled and destroyed bodies proof of the clans battle prowess.

    Lagarz now existed as burning embers, his body engulfed in otherworldly flames. He had been going to see if their shaman had at least survived the surprise attack, but his feet had led him over an errant fire rune. Krul had barely had the time to process what he was seeing before his blood brother had collapsed, his death cry a keening wail that would haunt Krul to his last days.

    Silently Krul sank down onto the charred earth and clumsily retrieved a small earthen clay bottle from his scouting pack. Usually the vessel would contain water found in streams and river, occasionally hot springs, but today it would serve a new purpose. Without giving much thought to his actions the hulking warrior began to gently gather the ashes of his soul kin into the container, his fingers shaking as they carefully gathered his friend's remains. Hot tears rolled down the orc's cheeks, marring his carefully applied war paint, the white dyes dripping down his face to give the effect of a melting skull in stark contrast against Krul's dark skin. Once the ashes were contained Krul fastened the stopper and attached the makeshift urn to a leather tie around his neck. The vessel was the length of his hand at most, small and unsightly in its less than perfect craftsmanship, but the heavy presence of Lagarz upon his breastbone gave Krul the strength to stand upright once more. His fine orcish armour glimmered darkly in the light of the setting sun, its jagged outline casting a ghoulish shadow as the warrior turned his back on all he had known.

    Krul walked.


    ----


    Ferrus silently finished his drink, a few drops spilling down his whiskered chin as the alchemist quickly exchanged one drink for another.

    "I am sorry to hear of your loss friend...but I fear I lack sympathy. You see I too have lost my home, just now in fact. My home, my workshop, my supplies....all gone in a blue blaze of fire. The guards who I have known my entire life have shown no sympathy and threaten to charge me for damaging public property. So here I am, spending my last septims on troll piss in hopes that when the guards inevitably come to charge me, I will be far too drunk to care."


    The alchemist finished his tirade with a barely restrained sob, his hands gripping the edge of the bar in barely contained rage. His frustration mounting Ferrus turned once more to the man who had unwisely sought his company.

    "You are a man of the world it seems, one who knows precisely how to respond to a crisis, to a such catastrophic turning point in life. I find myself now at a crossroad though it appears that I only have one available path. What say you hmm? What advice can you offer an alchemist with no shop, no gold and no roof to shelter his unfortunately balding head? Which path do I take? I ask you for I am lost, and no answers will await me at the bottom of this tankard."
     

    Delusional

    Connoisseur of Hallucinations
    "My name is Odell."

    Gregory turned, still fuming, to face a smiling Imperial woman who sat nearby, hand extended.

    "Master Chef Gregory Renault," he seethed, turning back to face forward, ignoring the invitation for a handshake, "and I do not appreciate being gawked at!" he finished, nearly yelling the final words. He waved for the bartender again, gesturing for a refill. This night was a particularly awful one, and more liquor was all he could do to prevent snapping and possibly get himself injured or killed on his way home.

    He turned back to face the Imperial woman. He took a deep breath, and spoke in a forced, even tone. Gregory could tell some patrons becoming visibly irritated with him, and it would probably be in his best interest to refrain from having another violent outburst.

    "I suppose there's something you want? Or do you just wish to amuse yourself by toying with the angry chef?"
     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    Another patron entered the bar, this time a streetwise-looking woman. "Hah, and you found it odd that I should be drinking so early!" Kebu said to the bartender.

    "I am sorry to hear of your loss friend...but I fear I lack sympathy. You see I too have lost my home, just now in fact. My home, my workshop, my supplies....all gone in a blue blaze of fire. The guards who I have known my entire life have shown no sympathy and threaten to charge me for damaging public property. So here I am, spending my last septims on troll piss in hopes that when the guards inevitably come to charge me, I will be far too drunk to care."

    Kebu felt for the man. After the shock had worn off, he himself had realized that exile from Hammerfell was little punishment. This man, on the other hand, had lost something he actually cared for.

    "You are a man of the world it seems," the man continued, "one who knows precisely how to respond to a crisis, to a such catastrophic turning point in life. I find myself now at a crossroad though it appears that I only have one available path. What say you hmm? What advice can you offer an alchemist with no shop, no gold and no roof to shelter his unfortunately balding head? Which path do I take? I ask you for I am lost, and no answers will await me at the bottom of this tankard."

    "Hmm..." Kebu scratched his head, taking a sip of his drink. "Well, you're an alchemist who can't make potions, so I suppose... your best bet would be to regain that faculty. And in regards to that, you best bet would be to find some gold." The Imperial looked on blankly. He was a man without hope, but the Redguard thought he might be able to offer him some. Kebu slid onto the empty stool next to the forlorn alchemist. "There are a few ways you could do that. I might know one."
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    Ferrus squinted at Kebu.

    "You may have piqued my interest. What exactly did you have in mind?"

    Looking over at the ruckus taking place behind him the imperial glowered sourly into his drink before taking another liberal swig, the contents of his tankard dribbling around the lip and wetting his scraggly beard.


    -+-


    The merchants daughter carefully extricated herself from the arms of the sleeping nobleman. His snores did much to cover up the sounds of the girl slipping back into her linen breeches and tunic. She never wore armour to her weekly engagement, the scuffed leather and hidden knives had a way of setting her lover on edge. It wasn't like she would slit his throat while he slept, as she had explained to him countless times, yet she was never able to completely dissuade Edwyn.

    Pursing her lips as she sought to see in the darkness of the early morning, Elsa moved fluidly across the room. Carefully sidestepping any of Edwyn's misplaced clothes that might disturb his sleep, she chanced upon a quill and parchment. He had been working on his correspondences when she had announced herself at his windowsill, he had almost knocked over the inkwell in his haste to allow her entry. Thankfully the pot had remained upright, the ink slightly tacky in substance having been left uncorked overnight. Elsa made do however and quickly penned out a hasty note in her familiar scratchy hand. It was neat enough she wagered, if a little spiky. She lacked the elegant loops and flourishes that Edwyn so diligently practised. The note was rather unlike her. It was short and to the point. No sense in avoiding the subject she supposed. She had managed to avoid directly answering Edwyn's proposal to elope, and action which was not only completely abhorrent to Elsa, but she found it sickening that the lad had grown so attached so quickly. One last tumble had been allowed, but now she had to cut cords and remove herself rather quickly.

    Looking out the window she could just spot the suns rays peeking over the tops of the mountains. That have her one hour to return to her own room, two hours before she would need to set her father up for the market, and roughly fifteen minutes for her to satisfy her own burgeoning needs.

    Wetting her lips she cast one lat glance at the sleeping Breton before dropping the note on the pillow where she had lain. Then, quick as you like, she snatched a rather becoming jewelled goblet from his sideboard and hooked her legs out of the chamber window. Tucking the neck of the goblet under her belt she gripped onto the trellace that wound it's way up the mansions side. Climbing down with practised ease she quickly reached the ground, her moccasins moving silently over the cobbled dining area. Her route took her past an array of tables and chairs, between two ghastly statues of the king's advisor and his wife, and through a small hole in the flora that landed her just a few minutes walk from the marketplace. Brushing blossoms from her dark hair Elsa made her way to the markets at a leisurely pace, though she kept close to the shadows. A small noise caught her attention and she whirled her head around, the gold hoops lining her ears tinkling lightly from the sudden movement.

    Seeing that it was simply a stray dog worrying at what looked to be some kind of carcass Elsa curled her lips in revulsion before turning back to her own path, meandering between stalls till she reached a rather ramshackle building with a worn sign hanging from the front. The sight of the painted scales always relaxed Elsa, the familiarity setting her mind at ease, if only for a few moments.

    Quietly she let herself inside with a rusty key, her fingers muffling the sound of the doors latch as much as she could manage. Seeing that her father was still passed out by the hearth as usual she smirked before making her way upstairs to her small room. She dumped the pilfered goblet rather unceremoniously onto a pile of various trinkets and odd parts. She would have to visit Genovieve soon to unload her haul, that could wait till the morning.

    Yawning she scrubbed at her eyes before moving about her room to pack. Edwyn's proposal had shaken her, though she was loathe to admit it, and she felt that now was the time to move on. Papa would understand, he knew she had been aching to leave for a while now. It would be for the best she was certain.

    She had a worn map of high rock pinned to the wall with a knife. She'd pulled it from the pack of a wandering bard years ago, at the time only thinking of what adventures she might embark on, not once considering how the bard may have fared without guidance. As it was her actions had prevented him from accompanying a doomed expedition. Rather than die at the hand of an unmanned necromancer he now lived a quiet life with a woman he had met not long after realising his map had been pinched. They currently owner a small farm and their carrots we're said to be the finest around.

    Rolling up the unassuming map she tucked it into her small pack along with some healing remedies and a small hide cover that could act as tent or cover in a moments notice. Happy with her meagre provisions she decided to grab some food later that afternoon after scouting for a potential lead as to where she go first.

    Leather vest strapped on over her tunic and her twin daggers strapped to her ribs, she felt far more clothed. She finally wrapped her rough cloak about her shoulders and slipped up the hood before slipping out the window into the dewy morning air.


    As the sun reached the midpoint in the day Elsa peered out from the shade gifted by her fathers stall. He was distracted as usual, haggling viciously with a trader for what looked like some carpets from the Alik'r. Elsa looked away. Chances were her father would talk the tradesman down to a ridiculous price. She'd been gifted with his way with words it would seem, he always came away with a good deal.

    Her fingers itched. Chewing her lip she scratched idly at the back of her neck where the heat prickled her skin. Deciding to deal with the issue she kicked away from the stall and made he way through the crowd, deft hands plucking at loose coin purses where she could.

    She quickly found herself in a small alley between a few houses and a burnt down building...the alchemist? Damn. Ferrus had been her regular supplier for the harder to find ingredients. At least she was stocked up. Using the smoke for cover she began to clamber up the roughly hewn stone of one house in particular, the tarred toes of her moccasins easily finding footholds for her ascent. The building was owned by the blacksmith...she expected the usual haul. It was always easy finding some gold lying around or a few finished pieces she could always fence. He never branded his work, the idiot, so his work was always the easiest to move.

    Once inside she grinned. The lack of light gave her the perfect environment and she easily flitted about, examining various objects, valuing them silently in her mind.

    She briefly heard a quiet scuffling sound and froze, slipping her left hand around the hilt of her orcish made dagger. Holding her breath she waited before gently exhaling through purses lips as she slipped into the inky darkness, her toes curling in anticipation as she waited. Determining that she was once again alone she resumed her search.

    Finally she found something worth stealing. Sat atop a barrel that had been pushed into a corner was a rather wonderful helm. It had been fashioned in steel by the looks of things, the metal dyed an odd hue of blue, before the edges has been gilded. All in all it was quite spectacular and would be worth is weight. Licking her lips she stalked forward, her lips pulling into a smirk as her gloves hand rested upon the pate of the helm.
     

    Farthlion

    I swear to drunk, I'm not Talos.
    "I suppose there's something you want? Or do you just wish to amuse yourself by toying with the angry chef?"

    Odell chuckled, "I mean no offense sir. I have dined with chefs myself." She took a sip of the drink in front of her, recalling the past, "This one man - a Bosmer - was a clever fellow, always cooking up interesting concoctions. One day I bet him that I would be able to guess the meat in his mystery stew. The man took my bet - quite eagerly - stating that there wasn't a chance I would make the right guess. He allowed me to take a pot of it home. The next day I came in and guessed correctly. The mystery meat was none other than human thigh muscle."

    Odell didn't wait for the man to give her any sort of reaction, "One may ask how I knew. Well, a dear friend of mine told me to bring that pot to the cemetery outside of the city I was currently residing in. Dogs lived there - dogs who were accustomed to the taste of human flesh. When I set down both the pot and a fresh chicken, the dogs went straight for the stew. What hungry dog passes up on a fresh kill for something mixed with vegetables and heavily spiced? A dog which knows what it likes."

    The Breton shuffled the half full cup of alcohol between each hand, sliding it across the bar from palm to palm as she spoke, "I won a great deal of coin that day. Firstly, for the bet, and secondly for turning him into the guards." With a pause Odell looked at the man next to her, "So tell me Master Chef Gregory Renault, do you have any secret recipes?"
     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    "You may have piqued my interest. What exactly did you have in mind?"

    "Well, firstly, you'll need to pay off your bounty to the guards, something I can help you with." Kebu raised a finger. "You know what? Wait here. I'll go find something to help you in that area. Don't worry about it, I should be back before the guards come 'round. Jemsé, get my friend here another drink," he said as he stood up, walking out of the tavern. Down the street he spied the smoldering ruins of the poor Imperial's house, around which a crowd was forming; conveniently enough, the blacksmith's shop next door was receiving little attention as a result. That would be his mark.

    The Redguard walked down the street toward the shop, swift yet unassuming in his movement, until he stood outside the door, looking around to divert suspicion. As citizens buzzed past him left and right, he stole a glance through the storefront to see a large, well-stocked store... whose owner was going around and attending to his various wares, leaving little opening for a direct approach. A staircase led up to the top level, giving him an idea; Kebu glanced around and saw that there was a window on the side of the building that opened into the second floor.

    There was an iron wind vane on the corner of the roof which looked strong enough to hold his weight. Before moving, the Redguard covered his face and called, "Gods, is somebody still inside?" to occupy the gawkers at the smoldering ruin next door. Thoroughly hidden, Kebu pulled his trusty whip off his belt and slung its end up, where it wrapped around the iron pole and itself. He tugged on the leather tool, and secure in its steadiness, began to use it to walk up the side of the brick building. Stopping in shadow at the level of the window, Kebu was pleased to see that the latch on the window was not closed. He noiselessly pushed it open and bounded in on padded feet, collecting his whip into a neat coil and getting his bearings.

    There were multiple shelves and racks of weapons covering the walls of the room, along with a table of blueprints, diagrams, and books, and a grindstone. One of the shelves along the stairs blocked his view of the room, but on its corner he spotted an ornate steel helm; convinced that it would do nicely, the Redguard reached around, thinking he would snatch it, be out in a second, and then fence the loot.

    He grabbed under the faceplate and began to take it, only to find that the helmet betrayed an unexpected tug away from him. He quietly padded up the couple steps that led onto the main floor of the second level and found himself face to face with a woman.

    Bright green eyes greeted him around the corner. Short brown hair framed a pretty Nordic face, race betrayed by a slightly strong jaw that was situated in a small smirk, but set apart by the multiple golden hoops that pierced her ears. The leather armor and daggers were visible from under a half-open cloak.

    Kebu opened his mouth in a smile of surprise, looking around the room and glancing down at the stairs, down which the proprietor of the shop went on with his business without knowledge of the events going on over his head. He finally looked back up at the Nord thief, brushing a hand through his short dreadlock mohawk. He chuckled. "I'm going to need this helmet, if you don't mind."
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    Ferrus grimaced as his short lived drinking partner dashed away. The alchemist sorely doubted Lebu or whatever his name was could truly help him, but stranger things had happened he supposed. Finishing his drink he slammed the tankard down just as the door swung open. Turning around his stomach seemed to drop as he recognised guard armour.

    Pushing away from the counter he tried to walk forward but his feet refused to cooperate. He'd not drunk enough surely? Although he hadn't eaten since two days prior...that would explain why the room had begun to roll ever so slightly. It seemed he'd need his sea legs if he were to walk to jail with his dignity in tact.

    "Ferrus, by order of the-"

    "Gennelmen, fear not. I shall...I shall come away with, ease and gracioussss...ness." Offering his hands for the guards he recalled the effortless grace of the nobility and lifted his chin high. Sadly this small movement was enough to cause his balance to falter and he found himself falling backwards, his head smacking soundly against the rotting wooden floor.


    -+-


    Clutching her prize to her chest, fingers tightly wrapped around the helm, she nearly missed the telltale sound of feet padding across wood. Freezing she waited till she came face to face with a tall red guard, his face dimly illuminated from the light outside. He laughed softly before addressing her, "I'm going to need this helmet, if you don't mind."

    Elsa pouted momentarily, reluctant to give up her prize, such a pretty pretty prize. She quickly glanced over his person, assessing her best course of action. Her eyes alighted on a leather whip, coiled at his hip. Interesting.

    She batted her eyelashes coquettishly and tapped a fingernail against the helm. "Well it so happens I may need this helmet as well." Elsa paused and lifted the helmet onto her head. It was too large by far and sat at a rakish angle on her head. It would offer very little protection in a fight, but of course that wasn't what she had in mind.

    In her years of thievery Elsa had learnt to value one rule above all others. Always have an escape plan. As such she liked to keep an easy getaway at her back when she could. This was no exception.

    "Clearly we share a common interest so I'll ask what I'm sure you will find to be an easily answered question." Elsa stepped closer, offering a daring smile up at this fortuitous stranger. In all honesty she didn't mind losing out on the helm, she had plenty of gold hoarded away and an already monstrous pile of trinkets to sell. But she so very rarely met others within her own line of work that when such opportunities presented themselves, she had no choice but to dive head first and see what happened.

    "Just how badly do you want it?"

    Leaving her question hanging in the air she pressed a kiss to the thief's nose before darting away and swinging out of the window behind him. She was long accustomed to the rooftops of Daggerfall and had no issue navigating her way around the city. With her treated shoes she was able to grip the walls with her toes with hardly any effort, and calloused hands were used to the rough scrape of stone and tiles.

    Once on top of the smithy she adjusted the helmet and waited for sound of her potential pursuer before lightly running to the side of the building. Hardly caring for any onlookers she took a running leap and landed in a crouch on the next building over. Dancing across the shingled roof she moved with precision, her arms balanced out at the sides. Her eyes scanned ahead looking for a place to lead her new friend.

    She paused, leaning against a chimney as she glanced over her shoulder. He was keeping up, good. Looking ahead she noticed some drunks ambling over to the tavern for their regular fix...as well as some guards dragging a rather singed looking Ferrus out, their arms hooked under his shoulders. Frowning she gave a scene a moments thought before plunging forward, skittering down the roof until her feet met the edge of the building.

    Below there were some barrels pushed against the wall, making the drop down a little less painful. Her light weight meant she had little to worry about as she dropped down onto the tallest barrel. Her feet balanced on the rim of the container, she braced herself before dropping down onto the walkway beneath, barely missing a passing mother and her children. Winking at the rather offended looking fishwife Elsa skipped away, skidding around the corner of the tavern. She had made her way around the back of the establishment and quickly pressed herself to the stone wall when she saw the tavern owner peer out of the back door. He'd likely heard the racket she had made dropping down from across the way. Holding her breath she waited until he had returned inside, quickly moving to slip her foot between the door and the doorjam. Wincing at the heavy wood bruising her foot she slipped in, once again adjusting her helmet before elbowing her way to the bar. Recognising Gregory in the crowd she offered a mock salute and a small bow before turning to Jemsé and lifting the helm from her head.

    Dark hair stuck up at odd angles from sweat and she struggled to tame her appearance. "Just the usual Jem, though make it as cold as you can, I've worked up quite a thirst."
     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    The Nord looked Kebu over as they held a stalemate over the helmet. "Well, it so happens I may need this helmet as well," she said playfully.

    Figures, the Redguard thought. The thief pulled the helmet away quickly, but not so sharply that Kebu would make a move, placing it on top of her head haphazardly and moving closer to the Redguard. "Clearly we share a common interest so I'll ask what I'm sure you will find to be an easily answered question." She moved closer still, a spark in her eye setting Kebu on edge. She was going to do something, and the thief had only so many guesses what that 'something' would be. "Just how badly do you want it?"

    The woman pecked Kebu on the tip of the nose with a kiss before bounding out of the window she had entered in, scrambling up the wall. "I could've guessed that," Kebu said to himself with a shake of his head as he ran after her, looking up and just catching her frame darting onto the rooftop. He followed, not climbing the bare wall as she had but jumping up and swinging himself onto the shingles above. The Nord was jumping to the next building over, and Kebu followed. This chase was turning interesting, and the thief was gaining a head on the Redguard, but it was only a moment before he saw her slide down the roof and onto a barrel. Kebu chose instead to sling his whip over a nearby clothesline and cross over the busy thoroughfare, stopping against the stone wall of the opposite building before dropping to the street.

    Kebu watched the thief dart into an alley, but he was well aware that that alley led to the back entrance of the Muddy Boar and decided not to follow. He simply walked in the front door, greeted by the sight of the Nord asking Jemsé for a drink.

    "I'll have whatever she's having," Kebu said, approaching the bar. "In fact, I'll buy for both of us, to thank the lady for the jog. And..." The Redguard looked around. No Imperial. "Guards take him?" Kebu asked the bartender, who responded with a nod. "Oh... Well, maybe I don't need that helmet. Miss...?" Kebu took his drink as he waited for the Nord to divulge her name.
     

    Delusional

    Connoisseur of Hallucinations
    "So tell me Master Chef Gregory Renault, do you have any secret recipes?"

    Gregory's shocked expression twisted into one of fury, his eyebrows furrowing over his dull blue eyes. This woman thought such a horror was some sort of comedic tale, and even went as far as to jest that Gregory would partake in the same atrocities.

    "How dare you accuse me of cooking like some filthy, cannibalistic Bosmer pig! I would never taint the pristine masterpieces I create with such vile and disgusting ingredients!" Gregory's voice grew louder, his face reddening as he spoke. He noticed several patrons glance over in annoyance, and decided to quiet his tone before he caused some sort of tavern fight that involved him being beaten to a bloody pulp with stools and chairs by several burly men.

    "My recipes are clean, brilliant, and masterful. You wouldn't dare insult my culinary skills after eating some of the delicacies I create. I ought to..." Gregory trailed off thoughtful, his glare softening and his tense body relaxing. "...I ought to prepare you some right now!"

    The Imperial stood suddenly and stumbled off to the kitchen, behind the bar, his head spinning from the liquor he had just consumed. He burst into the kitchen, where he found the tavern cook recovering from the earlier incident. He recoiled in shock upon seeing his assailant charge into the kitchen again, grabbing a nearby knife in self-defense.

    "Out of my way! I'm here to create masterpieces!" he shouted, shoving the Breton cook aside and taking a position at the counter. "You, fool! Fetch me a chicken! A fresh one, too! And I need a head of cabbage, some garlic, a few potatoes, and salt! Plenty of salt!" He began dashing around the kitchen, grabbing utensils and ingredients like a madman, throwing them onto the counter, preparing a workstation for him to create this incredible meal.

    "Um... sir... this is, well... this isn't your kitchen..." The tavern cook stood motionless at the entrance of the kitchen, dumbfounded. "It's... well, it's my job... not yours..." he stammered, knife raised and flinching, as if he were expecting the hotheaded chef to charge him and wring his neck.

    Gregory said nothing, instead continuing to collect all of the necessary utensils before turning to stare intimidatingly at the tavern cook.

    "Fine, if you won't do it, I will!" he exclaimed after several moments of silence, promptly storming down the stairs into the basement storerooms.

    "You can't... hey! You can't go down there!" the tavern cook yelled after the determined chef, fully aware his words would do nothing to dissuade him. "Well... I guess I should go fetch the guards..."
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    "Oh... Well, maybe I don't need that helmet. Miss...?"



    The barman rolled his eyes at that. As long as he'd known that scamp of a girl he would never have thought to see the day when someone would address her with any semblance of respect. To say it was amusing...well, he supposed it would be another thief who would tip his hat so gracefully.



    Elsa's eyes sparkled. She was rather enjoying all of this. Too rarely did she encounter others with shared interests. Even worse was that when she did meet such people, everything had a way ending quite messily, usually with her ultimately sneaking her washing past her father an attempt to hide the garish blood stains coating her armour and linens. He never said if he had seen her, but if the carefully wrapped bandages her often gave her were anything to go by, she assumed he had settled on his own way of accepting his youngest daughters’ antics.



    The girl offered her hand cordially, shaking her hair about her face self-consciously, provoking her earrings to tinkle lightly. "Elsa. You must be the mysterious redguard, Avik. I understand your name is unlikely to be Avik, but after seeing you cross the market so often I created a little story for you. Your eyes always looked so lost you see. As if you were seeing but not really seeing." Elsa gave a sad smile. She had crafted delightful stories for almost everyone she saw in the city, most of them utterly ludicrous, a merciful fancy to pass the time tending her fathers stall. Other were full of danger and romance, most were filthy tales of stolen hearts and waylaid treasures lost to the ages. Elsa had found that a merchant's life lent itself well to those with a burgeoning imagination.



    "Now to business. While I rather like this magnificent helm, I'm not in desperate need of the coin it could bring in. I'm quite happy to offer it to you as your rightful prize." Taking a deceptively delicate sip from the tankard brimming with frankly noxious ale, Elsa raised a hopeful brow. “Unless you happen to be leaving this city soon. I’m ah…in need of some company I think. I won’t stand much of a chance out there on my own but I need to leave. Today if possible. I’ve stumbled into a situation I can’t talk myself out of for the first time in my life.” The tail end of her sentence was mumbled rather bitterly as her gaze swung out to the rest of the tavern. Green eyes flicked between patrons. From a distance her posture and expression would suggest total apathy, but practised nonchalance belied how alert and on edge the young woman truly felt.

     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    The Nord extended a hand, and Kebu took it, shaking it after a hesitant second in which he decided that to kiss her hand would likely come across as an affront rather than a compliment, considering the worldly impression the thief got from her. "Elsa. You must be the mysterious Redguard, Avik. I understand your name is unlikely to be Avik, but after seeing you cross the market so often I created a little story for you. Your eyes always looked so lost you see. As if you were seeing but not really seeing."

    "Heh, funny you should guess that because... No, it's not my name," the Redguard joked. "My name is Kebu. It's a pleasure." He didn't respond to the last bit of what she said, not quite sure how to take that from a stranger - the fact that she had watched him before was something else entirely, though the fact that Elsa was a fellow thief meant it didn't cast much doubt upon Kebu's own abilities. It was strange she should think that; Kebu had always felt quite content in Daggerfall, or at least he thought that he did. But he was a transplant and that would never leave him. His line of thinking was moving into uncertain waters, sailing him back to Hammerfell, and he decided that that ship had best return to shore.

    He took a drink, and thankfully Elsa moved the conversation onward. "Now to business. While I rather like this magnificent helm, I'm not in desperate need of the coin it could bring in. I'm quite happy to offer it to you as your rightful prize. Unless you happen to be leaving this city soon. I’m ah… in need of some company I think. I won’t stand much of a chance out there on my own but I need to leave. Today if possible. I’ve stumbled into a situation I can’t talk myself out of for the first time in my life.”

    The Nord wasn't so confident as she mumbled the last sentence, and it was safe to say that Elsa had Kebu intrigued. She was certainly something else, and Kebu didn't exactly have any pressing engagements - plus, anything to keep him from worrying about the end of his exile would be welcome.

    "You know, I think I'd be willing to offer a bit of company, help you out," he said, smiling. He leaned in a little, one arm holding him up against the bar. "So, where're you headed?"
     

    Ponder

    International Man of Mystery
    It was early morning, and a low fog hung over Daggerfall's waterfront district, having rolled ashore with the dawn tide. To a foreign barge making port for the first time, the fog would be oppressive and dangerous, shrouding the old lighthouse and the busy array of wood that defined the city's docks. This, however, did little to deter the merchants and stevedores setting up the daily market, who knew with reinforced certainty that the fog would clear within the hour. A stream of burly Redguard and Nord longshoremen flowed off anchored ships and into the city's streets, laughing and joking as they delivered crates of imported fruits and exotic goods, calling out greetings to merchants they couldn't see. Above it all, the ever-present cries of seagulls echoed across the city, as much a part of the waterfront market as the merchants themselves.

    Amidst the bustle sat Guillaume Gaehart. Although technically a guild thief, Guillaume considered himself more of a professional romantic, and his constant and elaborate wooing of anything even remotely female had made him a staple of the market. This morning, he reclined atop a large crate outside the Merchant's Inn, gazing forlornly into the fog.

    "But does she love me?" he asked Samira as she arranged the dates on her stall. "I mean, what if she's just using me for my handsome features and gorgeous body?" Samira, who had heard this countless times, ignored him, and continued to unload dates from a crate. Guillaume heaved a dramatic sigh, and closed his eyes.

    And then he opened them. From above his head, he heard the soft creak of a rope moving through a wooden pulley. The creak grew louder and louder, until a dark shape manifested itself through the fog. Guillaume squinted, and then rolled out of the way as the basket dropped onto the crate. Standing up and brushing himself off, Guillaume glanced into the basket. A small pile of golden Septims was stacked in the center, next to a note which said: More dates.

    Guillaume stared at the note incredulously. "For me?"

    "No," said Samira. "For me."

    * * *​
    Tanar Omani made little allowance for pride in her life. Happiness? Certainly. Satisfaction? Most definitely. Joy, desire, anger and fear? All part of life as a noble in the Great House Hlaalu. But pride, pride led to arrogance, and arrogance ruined people. An arrogant noble couldn't negotiate the perils of a court, run a plantation, or manage an economic empire. An arrogant scholar couldn't learn from her shortcomings and perfect her work. An arrogant person was, in short, a useless person. And Tanar refused to be useless. Nevertheless, she allowed herself a small surge of pride as she pinned the silver brooch to her robe.​
    It wasn't an extravagant brooch, nor was it particularly stylish--stylized drafting compasses seldom were. It was, however, an expensive brooch, although you couldn't buy it with gold. This was because the silver drafting compass marked full membership as a scholar of the Imperial Geographic Society. For most, membership cost four years of laborious study in the Imperial City, but Tanar had completed her resident scholarship in just over two. Some of her tutors believed she possessed singular brilliance, others accused her of dangerous ambition. Neither was exactly true. Tanar only began her studies with Grandfather's express permission, and she knew she didn't have long before he pulled her back into the world of diplomacy and political intrigue she'd been groomed for, especially now that Tanar's ties to her Colovian title had been strengthened. Tanar was determined to capitalize on whatever freedom she had left, which was why she volunteered to collect information for an entire geographic survey of High Rock, and brought herself all the way to Daggerfall.​
    Glancing in the small mirror which hung opposite the room's single window, Tanar couldn't help but grin. Gone were the carefully styled tresses and heavy makeup that accentuated her Imperial heritage. Instead, her dark hair was tied back in an unruly ponytail, and her features took on their naturally sharp, merish appearance, although they were still softer than those of her half-sisters. Rather than the extravagantly colored dresses popular in the Emperor's court, she wore a hooded red traveling robe, covered in ink splotches from a night spent fervently drafting letters and cross-referencing old maps. Some ink even speckled her cheek. Whatever she might have been in the past, whatever she might be in the future, right now she was a scholar, and she certainly looked the part.​
    Selecting a particularly juicy date from the bulging basket resting beneath the window, Tanar leaned against the sill and let the sounds of the early market in full swing wash over her, heaving a contented sigh. As she took her first bite, she heard the room's door creak open behind her, and the soft, padding footsteps that could only belong to Arthil.​
    "Good morning, milady. Are you prepared for the journey?"​
    Tanar didn't turn around, but gazed down the street and towards the docks, which swarmed with sailors and longshoremen. "Yes. Everything's packed and ready, and the horses will be waiting at the North Gate stables. Where were you?"
    "Managing family affairs, milady." Tanar heard the telltale whisper of cloth rubbing against a blade, but said nothing. No matter how detached Arthil might seem, he had his duties to Grandfather, same as her. Pushing herself from the windowsill, Tanar turned towards the door, grabbing her pack.​
    "Let's go and see who has volunteered as our escort, why don't we?" She asked, pushing through the door to her room at the Merchant's Inn for the last time.​
    * * *​
    Evidently no one, thought Tanar. She sat in a corner booth at the Muddy Boar, absent-mindedly chewing on dates and pouring over ancient road maps and mappa mundis. It was mid-afternoon, and no volunteers had shown. Maybe they hadn't seen the posters, or maybe they didn't care. Either way, it was increasingly likely that Arthil would be her only companion on the road.​
    Luciet and Grol had already left the city, escorted by Legionnaires. But the Legion still didn't patrol the Ilessian Road, and the Legate insisted she didn't have the extra troops to spare. Tanar knew she'd have to leave soon if she wanted to meet Luciet in Camlorn, but she held out in the hope of at least one straggling adventure finding their way to the inn. Nevertheless, as the sun fell, she gave up hope. Standing, she began to tidy her maps and pack them into her bag, but stopped when she heard a Nord at the bar say, "Unless you happen to be leaving this city soon. I’m ah… in need of some company I think. I won’t stand much of a chance out there on my own but I need to leave. Today if possible. I’ve stumbled into a situation I can’t talk myself out of for the first time in my life.”
    Tanar stopped packing and listened intently. The Nord's Redguard companion seemed to briefly consider her words before desponding. "You know, I think I'd be willing to offer a bit of company, help you out," the Redguard paused. "So, where're you headed?"
    Before the Nord replied, Tanar strode to the bar. "Apologies, but I couldn't help overhearing you two," she said to the pair. "My name is Tanar Omani, of the Imperial Geographic Society. I'm part of an expedition mapping the political and geographic changes in the province since the Warp. If you're looking to leave town, my associate and I are travelling north to Camlorn, and could use an escort." Tanar didn't care that she was talking to people who were obviously thieves. If she'd had actual volunteers, she might have been more picky, but as it was she didn't have much of a choice. "In fact," she said, raising her voice nearly to a shout, "If anyone is looking to leave town or earn some extra gold, the Society is hiring adventurers as guards for this branch of the expedition. The pay is good--two-thousand Septims upon arriving at Camlorn. If you're interested, meet me at the North Gate, or leave with me now. We depart in an hour."
     

    Aerin

    IOK's Token Brit
    "Apologies, but I couldn't help overhearing you two, my name is Tanar Omani, of the Imperial Geographic Society. I'm part of an expedition mapping the political and geographic changes in the province since the Warp. If you're looking to leave town, my associate and I are travelling north to Camlorn, and could use an escort."

    Elsa cocked her head and kissed her teeth as the dunmer turned away.

    "If anyone is looking to leave town or earn some extra gold, the Society is hiring adventurers as guards for this branch of the expedition. The pay is good--two-thousand Septims upon arriving at Camlorn. If you're interested, meet me at the North Gate, or leave with me now. We depart in an hour."

    "Adventurers or guards? Not quite sure which box I'd fit in. But it could work I suppose..." She had voiced her thought quietly, as if forgetting she was with company. To be quite honest she wasn't convinced. It wasn't as if she made excellent company, and at some point someone was bound to discover her moral standing, and that always led to problems. Still...

    Her train of thought was interrupted as she saw a group of house guards at the door. She recognised the sigil on their shields and cursed. Pulling up her hood she slowly made her way behind the bar and crouched down, out of sight. At Kebu's puzzled look over the counter Elsa made a garotting motion with her hand and placed a finger over her lips. Sitting tight she waited for the men to go. This was a well known dance between thief and barkeep, and she knew Jemsé would be good enough to keep her presence quiet. For now she would simply sit on the wet floorboards and wait. A flick of the wrist meant all was well. If he dropped the dishcloth however...well she supposed she'd need to make use of her little escape route for the first time since she intitally scoped it out.

    Perhaps this was what her sister had referred to when she had accused Elsa of always "finding trouble".
     

    Farthlion

    I swear to drunk, I'm not Talos.
    Odell sighed as she watched the mad chef disappear into the kitchen. The man had the potential to be an excellent source of entertainment. While simultaneously also being a superb source of money. If only he had stayed at the bar - Odell was quite close to striking up a bet with him. It had merely been an hour, but already the Breton was itching to play another game and gamble away her soul. Times like these Odell regretted her strange, yet loyal worship of Clavicus Vile. Then she would remind herself of the numerous occasions that his blessing of good luck came in handy.

    "If anyone is looking to leave town or earn some extra gold, the Society is hiring adventurers as guards for this branch of the expedition. The pay is good--two-thousand Septims upon arriving at Camlorn. If you're interested, meet me at the North Gate, or leave with me now. We depart in an hour."

    She craned her head in the direct of the sound. The deal sounded quite bland until the number two thousand entered her ears. Odell was nearly sold on that alone. If the source of this voice was willing to pay two thousand septims for a mere walk to Camlorn, then who knew how many extra septims the woman had to gamble with?

    The Breton got a glance at the nearby cast of characters. A Nord woman wearing light armor stood out. She looked friendly enough, but she held herself in a familiar way - much how Odell held herself. The woman had an air of confidence, but her eyes were opportunistic. She wasn't sure if she was an adventurer or something less innocent. Her friend on the other hand, a Redguard, was most certainly a thief. The average man wouldn't be able to see it, but Odell had encountered that gleam in his eyes before in less than honorary folks. His eyes were calculating, even if it wasn't intentional. A good thief was always calculating. A good thief also always carried money. Odell loved people who carried money.

    Downing her drink, Odell threw a few septims on the counter before sauntering over to the small crowd. She put on a wide and friendly smile, clapping the Dunmer woman on the back, "I would be more than happy to provide the capabilities of a guard as well as entertainment. I have a full repertoire of... games."

    "Adventurers or guards? Not quite sure which box I'd fit in. But it could work I suppose..." the Nord woman muttered to herself. So perhaps she was not merely an adventurer? Odell learned over the years that she was not adept at hiding her thoughts. She was about as transparent as glass. The Breton did not hide the quirk of her brow at this comment.
     

    The OP3RaT0R

    Call me Op. Or Smooth.
    "Apologies, but I couldn't help overhearing you two, my name is Tanar Omani, of the Imperial Geographic Society. I'm part of an expedition mapping the political and geographic changes in the province since the Warp. If you're looking to leave town, my associate and I are travelling north to Camlorn, and could use an escort." The Dunmer had interrupted before Elsa could answer Kebu's question, and in its wake she seemed to shift her thoughts elsewhere.

    "Adventurers or guards? Not quite sure which box I'd fit in. But it could work I suppose..." She thought aloud.

    "So, you're headed for Camlorn it seems. I'd be glad to accompany you," Kebu replied, thinking that the coin would not hurt either. Before they could discuss further, a few guards entered the tavern, walking slowly amongst the din of patrons, eyes scanning the room from behind their helmets. Kebu knew he had gotten away clean from his last few heists, and looking over he saw that Elsa had concealed herself behind the bar, looking knowingly at himself and Jemsè.

    The silence amongst the trio was tense for a few moments as the guards poked around the perimeter of the tavern, talking to people at their tables and slowly making their way around to the bar. They carried themselves with intentness, hands resting on their pommels, and it was clear they would not be shooed off. For a moment they stopped, talking to a particular customer, and at that distraction the bartender signaled Elsa's escape.

    Elsa hurried back into the kitchen, Kebu trailing inconspicuously, and they emerged into the back alley, shadowed by tall townhouses and strewn with crates of supplies for the various businesses the alley fed. Kebu closed the door behind him, then took a few steps toward Elsa as her eyes darted about.

    "What was that about?" He asked.
     

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