Well here we go for part 2, I would suggest you read Interviews with an Assassin first, as some of that will become important later. But for now, let's deal with some...Family Matters


Part 1

On the choppy waters off the Gold coast, a small wooden boat rocked silently amidst the waves. On board hunched a group of figures, hoods pulled up against the rain that drove in almost horizontal sheets against them. Occasionally one taller figure amongst them would throw out his arm in an overly dramatic gesture, and a light spell would flare amidst as particularily suspicious collection of rocks, or some dense long grass on the coast.

The local mud crab population was not pleased.

A hundred feet further down the coast, lying flat behind a sand dune, two other figures lay. One was checking a collection of rings and amulets, and was dressed in simple leathers in dark earthy colours. The other was clutching at a broken nose, and nursing an ego that, if real, would have been sporting a quite vivid purple bruise.

“Ipff depfinately brokthen” the second figure moaned “You coulbdof warned meh”

“How was I supposed to know your grandfather gave you a water walking ring when I tossed you overboard” the first figure hissed. Poking its head above the dune to check the progress of the party in the boat.

“Anyway, that pirate stopped long enough to laugh at you that I could kill him, be grateful” The figure dropped back down and pulled out a small ring with the name “Fargoth” engraved on it. “Hold still”
The healing magic washed over the over man, knitting the broken bone and sealing up blood vessels. “It still doesn’t look right” sulked the man, attempting to wring out the hem of his robe. The other figure glared at him and grabbed the nearest silence charm he had.

“Don’t worry, i’ve got a better one here” he muttered “just let me have another go”
“Don’t both, it’ll be fine” whispered the other man. “We should get out of here in case they search a shore.”
“Fine, but you owe me one. You know this place better than me, which way to Anvil?”
“Down the coast, as long as we follow it we’ll get there.”
“Right then, stay low and behind the dunes, that search party’ll head back in a few moments.”
“I still can’t believe we were robbed, by pirates!”
“Technically on you were robbed, and it wasn’t worth much anyway.” Muttered the other man, a Bosmer in his mid 20s, dark brown hair curling around and framing his face.
“Yeah...I guess so” whispered the other man, a Breton in his mid 30s, dressed in a fairly simple brown robe. “Anyway, you never did finish telling me how that story ended, my book would be worthless without it’s ending.”
“Who knows” whispered the elf, positively sliding between shadows like some form of jaguar covered in oil...and a chameleon spell. “Maybe i’ll finish telling you some day.”

Martinus Serruq watched him go, and attempted to follow as stealthily as a man in a water drenched robe could, which roughly equates to a one legged guar. He was still not sure why Threndafel, the Bosmer assassin he had met in Morrowind had saved his life, he also wasn’t sure why the Bosmer assassin was in Cyrodil, beyond the likely chance of assassinating people, but the man’s attitude on the few days they had been on the boat the “Racer’s Beak” had implied there was something infinitely more personal about the matter...

-Four Weeks before the pirate attack-

Eno Hlaalu was a quite, friendly faced man, he also killed people for money, though less and less these days. He was getting older, and a bit bored with his line of work. Still, he knew that the God Mephala had plans for him, and for someone who was on their way, someone he would know when they arrived. But first, he needed someone to leave the province, to help with some family matters...And he knew just who to ask.
Threndafel had been with the guild for a good few years, and he was good. Not the best, but he was very good. What’s more, he had nothing much to lose, not that he was looking for death, he just didn’t mind the idea. Not many people knew how he had made his way to Morrowind, or why, he didn’t talk about it much and none felt like asking. But Eno Hlaalu knew, he had made sure of the man before offering his place, and so he knew exactly why this job would appeal. And a man with a cause was always more likely to get the job done than a man fulfilling a contract.

The Bosmer stood before him now, dressed in leathers the colour of rich soil and vibrant plants. He had a youngish face, creases around his mouth seemed to allude to someone that loved to smile, but his eyes were always watching, always moving, and had that haunted look of a man who’s seen more than his share of the darker side of life.

“Cyrodil?” the Bosmer asked, a slight hint of tension in his voice.
“Cyrodil yes, it’s that big province in the middle” replied Eno Hlaalu, as he rummaged in a small chest he had on his desk. “I need someone there to help with the movement of some items, they all need to reach Vvardenfel in the next few months, they’re very important to the Tong.”
“I see, but...why me?” the Bosmer asked. “Surely Edward, or Garrok would be better suited, they’ve both lived there for longer, know the terrain...”
“I also need someone to deal with some...family matters. You could say a matter of brotherhood” Eno replied, turning to watch the Bosmer’s expression. As he had expected it darkened instantly. The man’s hands, that had already been resting on the bone handles of his long knives tightened, and the blades shifted a fraction of an inch out of their sheathes.
“You...you know why I can’t...won’t...do deals with them” the Bosmer hissed.
“You misunderstand me” replied the grandmaster, and set out a roll of several scrolls on the table, they bore no seal, but were tied with grey ribbons. “I want you to deal with them”

A dark light crept into the Bosmer’s eyes, the kind of fire that had been waiting for a spark.

“Well...” he whispered “It’s about time...”

WOO HOO !!!




LOVED this !!!


If I have any nit at all it is that you seperated the story from the prologue - I would put a link at the top of this chapter to "Interviews with an Assassin" so no one misses reading it - that is too good to get lost from this section!! Awesome Write !!!

Great, love the Fargoth mention I would love to read "Interview" if you could post a link.

At first Interviews was going to be a whole seperate story, however during writing I found myself struggling with the style, and deciding that it was better to keep some things secret for the sequel. But yes a link will be put up.

Anyway, thanks for the comments, hope you enjoy this next installment, I felt Martinus needed some love...and well, love is tough.

Part 2

The walk hadn’t been easy on Martinus, while he had thought his time in the harsh lands of the Dunmer had toughened him up, but he was still a scholar at heart. He wasn’t used to days trudging through long grass and over clusters of boulders, and he certainly wasn’t used to the sheer amount of mountain lions that appeared to have set up camp near Anvil. Threndafel however, was moving with the determined pace of a man on a mission, it was as if the grasses parted before him and the rocks were but steps for his benefit, even the mountain lions seemed to decide that it was just one meal not worth risking.

Anvil however, was a welcome site for both men. Martinus had always been good friends with some of the folk in the mages guild there, and was certain that they would be able to help him get back on his feet. Meanwhile Threndafel had been told that there were sympathetic contacts there that would help him get to the heart of the Morag Tong in Cyrodil, where his first set of orders lay, beyond the secrets of the Grey Writs he had been given back in Morrowind.

The men parted ways with only few words, Martinus couldn’t help but be struck as to how the Bosmer had changed. He had always been distant, talkative, but it seemed like he was just going through the motions and his mind was elsewhere. Now though, he had barely said two words, and seemed to burning with some sort of passion that drove him forwards, and Martinus feared that it would not end well.

It was night by the time Martinus had persuaded the guards to let him in, Threndafel had chosen to to head away into the hills surrounding Anvil, and the Mages guild was locked up for the night. However Martinus was well aware that there was always one or two apprentices around who didn’t know a decent unlock spell, and checked all the obviously secret places for a spare key. After despairing that the mat and flowerpots yielded no results he found it on top of the door frame and let himself in, after making a mental note to criticise the mages on their laziness.

“Hello?” he called tentatively, his nose still hurt and so the cry came out more as a moan. “Anyone there?” He heard shuffling and muffled voices from behind the door to the Mage’s quarter. “Can anyone help me?” Martinus called again, his voice echoing from around the empty hall. He heard more shuffling, a key in a lock, and what sounded surprisingly like the words one, two and a very half hearted three.

“BE PURGED SPIRIT” was not what the surprised Breton had expected, neither was the turn undead spell that picked didn’t so much pick him up, as asked if he wouldn’t mind falling over if it wasn’t too much trouble. The group of mages that confronted him appeared equally baffled, and one attempted the spell again, successfully ruffling Martinus’ hair. The Breton recognised the leader of the group, a short round Imperial by the name of Derio.
“Could someone explain what’s going on?” asked Martinus, straightening a painting a third, and particularly lazy, spell had almost sent off centre.
“I’m sorry Martinus, I know it must’ve been traumatic for you, but your dead! Please just move on and stop bothering us” replied Derio, a look of pity across his face.
“I can assure you i’m not dead” replied Martinus. “And i’m pretty sure your an Antronach so stop wasting your magicka on trying to banish me and explain yourself”
“Your boat was attacked, all men lost!” replied Derio
“Wait, but my body wasn’t on board, because I wasn’t” stated Martinus, feeling that it should have been fairly obvious.
“You could’ve been washed overboard...” muttered Derio a bit shyly.
“By what?!”
“Deadra”
“Deadra!” cried Martinus “What in the name of Akatosh’s third nipple would a Deadra be doing on a boat, let along in Cyrodil! Is a gate to Oblivion going to open and just spew a bunch out?!”
“Don’t you take your death out on me” cried Derio in a hurt voice “It’s not my fault deadra took your body and no one cared that you were...” He shut up quickly
“What...what was that?” Martinus hissed.
“Servillius, he...he moved the guard not to search...said...said your family would be better off with the money...” Derio murmured, scuffing one shoe on the paved floor of the Guild Hall.
“Servillius...that no good son of a thrice...sload kissing...dremora...un washed...” Martinus turned, one hand idly catching on fire. “Excuse me, I must go and have a word with Servillius, and then I shall be back. I expect a clean bed, a bath, and quite possibly your letter of resignation.” Martinus hissed, before opening the door and storming off down the street.

Inside the mage’s guild there was a very awkward silence, Derio finally broke it before turning to his two apprentices. “See, I told you turn undead might have a delayed effect but it always works.” The castle guards meanwhile, decided that an earful from the Countess was better than the dishevelled, half drowned, wheezing, slightly steaming Breton that was storming the bridge and let him through. Similarily the first servant Martinus passed gave him a key and murmured a “Happy to help”. Upon finding the right door, and deciding to be civil, Martinus knocked twice before kicking it in with a strength born from sheer unadulterated rage.

“Oh Cousin!” he called in his sweetest sing song voice “I think we need a few words!”

I just finished reading your story(interview with an assassin and Family matters) and I like what I see I found the last part to be quite a bit fun as well. The comment about Akatosh's third nipple was priceless. And I can't imagine how annoying it must be to first get robbed and then find out that your friends have labeled you dead. I sure can understand his anger Keep up the good work.

Another great addition !!! I agree with Saqin, you have a touch of humor that comes through wonderfully in your write !!

Wow, I really need to stop forgetting to update this. Thanks for all the feedback, I hope to get this running a bit more regularily soon.

Part 3

Servillius looked up from his desk, a sneer plastered across his face. A tall, solidly built Breton he had long ago made up for his lack of magical skill by forging his body into a weapon of war, and was now the head of the castle guard in Anvil. He was also Martinus’ cousin through marriage, and had long ago labelled the soft scholarly man as a waste of space.
“Ah, Martinus, I was hoping you’d have had the decency to turn a profit and collapse in a pit somewhere but it seems the Nine haven’t decided to grace us with that blessing just yet” Servillius sneered as he leant back in his chair. The office was sparely furnished, but every surface was gleaming and all belongings were neatly ordered, with the kind of precision a lifetime of military training ingrains onto a man.
“I’m sorry, cousin, to disappoint you once more.” Spat Martinus
“Don’t fear, i’ve grown used to it by now” sighed Servillius “But now that you’re here you may as well make some use of yourself. Tell me you at least have a half passable book to try and peddle.”

Martinus twitched, an image of his half finished manuscript left in his bag on the abandoned boat out at sea.
“Well I would have, however as you may not have noticed I was subject to a vicious pirate attack and was forced to abandon my belongings.” Martinus cried out in exasperation. “I sure wish there was someone here whose job was to ensure that Anvil was safe, some form of Guard Captain perhaps!”

“Now now cousin, don’t throw a hissy fit, we are investigating the attack and will bring them to justice” replied Servillius, a slight steely tone entering his voice at the attack. “However, as I see it, you are currently without job, finance, or friends to go too. Therefore it is my duty, as family, to help you out.”

Martinus eyed his cousin carefully, this was certainly not what he had expected, in fact he was expecting more of a night in the cells for forcing an entry.

“How so?” he asked “And why?”

“Well, as you may know cousin, i’ve been looking for a way to increase my standing here in Cyrodil, perhaps if I gain enough here I could return to High Rock, perhaps see about setting up my own Fiefdom. I think you can help me with this. You see, there has recently been some fuss over the Dark Brotherhood here in Cyrodil, in return for your help in bringing them to justice, I shall pay for you to live in comfort and peace here in Cyrodil for the rest of your life” Servillius said a cruel smile playing across his lips.
“Now, I know what you’re going to say, “But Cousin, that’s a death warrant! I can’t bring down the Brotherhood! I won’t do it!”, and yes you do sound like that by the way. But, here is the flipside of the bargain, you just illegally entered Cyrodil and Anvil castle, and may well be working with pirates. Of course, if you were to prove yourself loyal to the Empire then we wouldn’t have this problem, but as far as I can see it you may well be a dangerous criminal, and should be locked away for a very long time...I’m sure you can see where I am heading with this.”
Martinus felt the blood draining from his face, this was ridiculous, his cousin couldn’t just do this to him! But then again...he could. No one knew Martinus was alive, and Servillius could well keep his imprisonment a secret from their family for a very long time. On the other hand, the Dark Brotherhood had eyes and ears everywhere, as well as hands, hands with daggers, investigating them was the equivalent of placing your head in the jaws of a bear trap and ramming the pressure plate with your face.

“I will let you live in a house I own in the Imperial City, watched over by some of my men of course, I can’t have you running away now can I? They’ll bring me weekly reports, and if I feel you aren’t trying hard enough then I am sure the Imperial Prison has some cells free...So what do you say? A chance to walk in the sun for a few more weeks, or a trip down to the cells tonight? We have some lovely ones near the bottom that flood at high tide...”

The two Bretons stood, facing each other, Servillius towering over the smaller man, his face twisted into a cruel smile, while Martinus silently bowed his head, feeling his legs turn to scrib jelly as the room darkened around him.

And another

Part 4

Threndafel watched the old cottage from the shadows, he hadn’t seen anyone leave or enter for nearly half a day, but the well tended garden at the front was a testament to the owner’s presence and dedication, to most the garden would seem garish and flamboyant with its vast array of bright flowers and climbing vines, however to the eyes of any good herbalist it was a garden of poisons, many of which would be beyond the skill of any two bit thug. The final confirmation Threndafel was waiting for was for a sprig of Nightshade to be hung in the window, then he would be certain that it was owned by one of Mephala’s children.

His instructions upon reaching Cyrodil had been vague at best, he was to meet a contact outside Anvil, and gain directions to the sanctuary from them, before moving on to collect his first writ. He was not to begin carrying out his grey writs until established in Cyrodil, for fear of alerting any possible moles inside the Tong there. To be honest, he didn’t see what differences waiting would make, a new member and sudden deaths would have certainly tipped him off, but it was irrelevant, he hadn’t earned his place by disobeying orders and he wasn’t about to start with the sensitive nature of his mission.

As Threndafel waited his thoughts drifted back to his previous time in Cyrodil, a different time, a different life. He had come from Valenwood as a fresh faced youth, and had left a broken wreck of a man. His time in Morrowind had reforged him into a weapon, but in that reworking of himself something had been lost. He was awkward around people, only truly relaxed when alone, he no longer felt remorse for the actions he committed, no longer found joy in the simple things. Part of him lamented that loss, and it was that part that had desperately reached out to Martinus.

The Breton man interested Threndafel, there was a naivety there that reminded himself of his youth. The Bosmer figured it was something of a charitable act that had caused him to bond with the man. Seeing someone else’s dreams get taken away by fate, watching the man fail at writing his book had been painful to watch. And Threndafel had almost jealously attempted to keep the flame of hope alive in the man, unwilling to watch another man fall into darkness. It went against almost all Threndafel had been taught, both as a rebel in Valenwood and as a Tong in Vivec, to look out for his brothers and himself, to not endanger his missions, to observe mother Mephala’s ways and follow them.

He shook himself out of his musings, it was pointless, what was done was done. Now he was in Cyrodil he was determined to finish his mission, and only his mission. It was just another contract, another matter, nothing to do with his past. But no matter how hard he tried to force himself to believe it, he knew that he would never be able to distance himself from what had happened, it was as much an act of revenge as it was of business.

The cottage’s window was now decorated with a wreath of Nightshade, the dark purple petals of the flowers creating a splash of colour amongst the plain curtains that darkened the inside of the building. Threndafel was surprised, he would have expected himself to notice the movement, he had always prided himself on being observant and quick, but he must’ve been so deep in thought that he had lost track of his surroundings. Mentally chastising himself he moved out of his waiting place amidst a cluster of rocks out of which a tree had burst, shattering the boulder into a dark mass of jagged teeth from the hillside.

The door opened as he approached, inside was a fairly young looking Orc man. His hair was tied back into a topknot, and he wore simple loose fitting clothes. He didn’t have the height or build of other Orcs, but the calm confidence with which he stood betrayed an iron in him that the raging berserkers who valued their muscle lacked.
“I’m guessing your the Scalpel then” the Orc said, the rhetoric making it clear that Threndafel was despite what he might think. “You’d better come in, we have much to discuss.”

I’m happy to see an update, Ahrenil. I love the humor. Threndafel’s reluctant friendship with Martinus is intriguing.

Ooh, great line !!

Chapter 4 - I'd have to almost quote the whole chapter and spam your thread. You have a way with words and descriptive sentences, a subtle humor in the way you phrase things (in all your chapters) - this chapter displays these talents prominently !! Great write !!!

Cheers for the feedback, now my exams are over i'm gonna really crack on with this.
I've tried to model my writing a bit around Neil Gaiman's, he has a way of just throwing in little jokes and humour into the relations between his charcaters, and that's what I tried to go for with Martinus and Threndafel, though I am no where near as successful as I hoped.

Anyway, lets do this!

Part 5

Threndafel followed the orc into the cottage, the old hinges creaking with the effort of shifting through the years of salt water rust that had coated them. Inside the cottage was a simple affair, old worn wood warped by years of sunlight and salt, twisting the once smooth floor into a sea of ripples and ditches that threatened unseen splinters, with gaps between the planks allowing small amounts of grasses and weeds to push into the room, creating small fields of life amidst the barren furniture.

A simple table stood beneath a series of shelves, cluttered with dusty jars of dried leaves and reagents, aging alchemical equipment, and an array of other tools used to extract the maximum use from whatever plant was placed within their vice like teeth and serrated blades. Sunlight streamed in through a thousand small pinpricks in the curtains, starring the walls with spots of light, lighting the gloom with a soft glow that felt like a constant dusk. Underneath one window was a large worn trunk, thick bands of unpolished iron secured with padlocks, large enough to fit a fully grown ram, though the fit would be tight.

The orc gestured to a chair that rested next to a small writing desk as he sat down at his work table and began to shake varying herbs and leaves out into a mortar and pestle. As he carefully began to crush the varying plants, their sweet smells filling the cottage, he began to speak.

“You’re here on the Grandmasters orders, and we respect that, but you must understand that you’re a risk to us.” The orc began, adding small measures of clear water from a cracked jug on the desk to the mixture in the mortal. “We don’t enjoy the freedom that you do in Morrowind, we must hide who we are for fear of the Legion. We don’t know you, we don’t know your skills, and we are hesitant to risk ourselves only for you to give us away”

“I assure you, I am no amateur” Threndafel replied. “I’ve served many years, completed every contract, and I have not been caught since my early days”

The orc didn’t turn; instead he lit a small fire under a tripod, and placed the mortar onto it. “We understand you would not have been sent unless the Grandmaster believed you were capable of completing this task. But, we have to be careful, and so I have been authorised to test you. Understand that this test is not a slight on your skill; it is a reassurance for our fears, it is related to your purpose here, so it will not be wasted effort on your part.”

“I understand the need, though I do resent the lack of trust” Threndafel muttered, watching vicious purple steam rise from the mortar, the mixtures scent had changed from one of sweet summers to an acrid smoke that made the bosmer’bs bile rise. Something was definitely unnatural about whatever concoction the orc was brewing.

“As long as you complete your task, we have nothing to fear” the orc replied, taking the mortar from the heat and mixing it with a measure of a spirit from a bottle on the shelf. He shook the mixture carefully before bottling it in a small vial. “A boat recently came to shore, one of its crew, a Wood Elf named Thurindil, recently acquired an item we need. A belt that the Grandmaster requires sent to Morrowind. You are to retrieve it, and ensure that the bosmer drinks this potion.” The orc said, walking over to Threndafel, his eyes intent as he watched for the bosmer’s reaction. “It will cause him to forget the past few weeks, and thus the item in question, we would not want him to try and reclaim it.”

Threndafel eyed the potion carefully; it swirled like violet smoke inside the vial, clouds of darker liquid sliding lazily across the glass like fog trapped close to the ground. “Very well, though it has been a long time since I was a Thief.” Threndafel said, taking the vial and carefully slipping it into a pouch on his belt.

“Very good, the man currently lodges in the Fo’c’s’le, it is likely the belt is with him, good hunting brother” The orc replied, opening the cottage door which complained once more with a long slow creak. Threndafel didn’t reply, just slipped out into the darkening evening, loping off down the hillside towards Anvil’s walls. The orc watched him until he was out of sight, and then moved around to the back of the cottage. A single pidgeon box leant against the back wall of the cottage, and from it the orc withdrew a hooded bird with a small tube on its leg. Into the tube he placed a single nightshade petal, and then set the bird to fly. As it winged its way north east away from the sun the orc smiled to himself, it was always nice when a plan came together.

Wonderful descriptions and scene setting detail !! Great Write !!

Part 6

Threndafel’s footsteps rung out clear and determined on the wooden jetty, he was no longer wearing his leather and assortment of knives, but instead wore loose fitting trousers with an open shirt. He wore an ornately decorated belt, the leather patterned and entwined to look like a sea serpent, from it swung a cutlass, the blade resting against his thigh like it belonged. No one had looked at him twice since he had changed, though the pirate he’d stolen it from would likely notice if they woke up, though with the amount of drink Threndafel had supplied he doubted whether the man would even be able to rouse himself for another two days at least.

He had spent the early evening watching the Fo’c’s’le, it wasn’t a busy inn, even when the workmen from the main town had drifted down to the docks they seemed to avoid the place. Those who did go in were obviously sailors, many of them sporting the dark tans and multiple scars of pirates used to a long journey at sea, likely back with plunder from far coasts or unlucky merchants. The point of interest to Threndafel was that he had yet to see any of the men leave, and it was mostly men who entered, meaning that there must have been a multitude of rooms.

Relaxing his shoulders and lengthening his strides to better mimic the swagger of the sailors he had seen enter Threndafel boldly opened the door and stepped inside the building, feeling the well oiled door open and close with barely a whisper, if all of the doors were as well tended it would likely make his job far easier, but life was never that easy, and he couldn’t help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise with unease.

Inside the building was dark, not just dark as in the absence of light, it was positively gloomy, as if the few lanterns had been placed to provide pockets of deep shadow and half light across the entire entrance. Somewhere further inside the building wood creaked like a ship on the water, and to Threndafel it didn’t sound like floorboards or settling roof beams were making the noise. The back wall was taken up with a long worn counter, the faint purple wood attested to years of spilt wine and an establishment that didn’t take the bar to be it’s main draw. Behind it leant a young looking Breton woman, her long blond hair spilled down around her shoulders and back, framing a plunging neckline and lightly freckled face. She stared at him intently; something about her eyes stirred his wild instincts. The primal part of his mind, always more prominent in Bosmer, told him that he was in the lair of a predator, and that his next few minutes would determine whether she would abide him or pounce.

With a quick glance around the room to check the corners Threndafel approached the bar, flashing the girl a smile that drew no response, rather she kept studying him, searching his face for something only she knew was there. He untied his money pouch from his belt and dropped it on the bar, ensuring to make the gold inside rattle and clink as much as he could before the action was finished.

“Evening miss” he greeted her, sliding onto a stool in front of the bar and leaning on it. “I’ll take a bottle of whatever’ll knock me from this stool and a glass for my mate whenever the lazy bugger gets down here”

The barmaid watched him carefully and then pulled a bottle of a dark brown spirit from under the bar, passing it over to him without a word. Threndafel poured out a ludicrous amount of gold in exchange for the drink, making sure to not care about how much. He poured himself a glass and drank it down quickly; it burnt his throat like fire though it did have a pleasingly smoky aftertaste. The barmaid watched his reaction carefully, before leaning down on the bar opposite him.

“You’re definitely not a sailor, and you’re not some workman trying to get in Mirabelle’s shift or you’d have asked me about her by now” the barmaid said, no hint of a question in her voice. “You’re not a local that’s clear, and you’re not a softy, you work for a living and it tells. Finally you have absolutely no idea what this place is or you’d not be at the bar.” She continued “So that just begs the question, who exactly are you? And what do you want here?”

Threndafel cursed to himself, the girl was good, and he should’ve expected a barmaid at the docks to have her wits around her. “Alright, you got me; I’m a hunter by trade, but my mate Thurindil’s trying to get me a place with his buddies on their next outing. He said that this is where the sailors hang out, and that if I could convince them I was worth it I’d be able to get aboard” Threndafel explained “He was meant to meet me here and give me his lucky belt, I got a good haul from the some mountain lions out in the fields and he promised to sell it to me”

The barmaid laughed a soft chuckle that clearly told Threndafel that he was an idiot and should be ashamed. “You’ve been had friend, Thurindil’s already been here, boasting about this magic belt he found.” She chuckled again as Threndafel let loose a line of perfectly innocent words in his native tongue, though to an observer they’d seem like the foulest collection of syllables possible. “Tell you what though honey, perhaps we can help each other out. I want out of this dump, the men here all think they can do what they like and you’ll swoon over them, they’re a bunch of stupid louts. There’s apparently a much better class of boarding house opening over in Kvatch, give me whatever you were gonna pay Thurindil and I’ll take you over to the room next to his. Head in alone and he’ll know something’s up, no one gets a room alone here.”

Threndafel grinned, sliding the money pouch across the counter. “It’s all there, and then I’ll be gone and you won’t have to hear from me again, unless I swing by Kvatch someday”

The barmaid smiled and took his arm, leading him through a dim doorway into a long hall lined with many doors. The Breton girl lead Threndafel to one of the furthest, pointing to the one next to it and then tugging on Threndafel’s belt to indicate it was Thurindil’s. The Bosmer nodded and allowed himself to be lead into the room, as he walked in, taking in the single piece of furniture, a large worn bed next to a single window that opened onto the alley behind the building. He turned as the door clicked shut to find the barmaid still there, she smiled at him, and he once again felt his primal instincts stir at her hungry gaze. She crossed the room in two strides and wrapper her arms around the Bosmer, she leant in close and as they fell back onto the bed she whispered softly into his ear.

“Wouldn’t want him to get suspicious”

A while later Threndafel carefully cracked open the window and slipped outside, he didn’t mind if the breeze disturbed the sleeping barmaid, he knew she wouldn’t tell of his deeds to the guard. Luckily for him the gap between the next window and his was short, and the low hanging roof gave him something to hold on to as he edged his way across. He had left his boots off inside the room, and carefully prised open the window with his feet, a skill he had learnt from a Khajit years ago. A carefully swing and a prayer that there wouldn’t be a discarded cutlass on the floor like in his room had him inside.

Thurindil slept soundly on the bed, around him discarded bottles and clothes littered the floor. Picking through the items Threndafel found the one he had been sent for. It was imediately obvious, a simple piece of cloth, delicately woven but very plain, something about it just drew him, like a whisper at the edge of his mind. Carefully wrapping it around his arm Threndafel turned to the question of how to get the pirate to drink the potion the Orc had handed him. This wasn’t something to be left to chance, and so the elf turned to a tried and tested method, brute force. Clapping a hand over the sleeping sailor’s mouth Threndafel popped open the cork on the bottle and held it in front of Thurindil.

“I’ll make this simple, you drink this, I leave, and we both walk our separate ways. You call out, try to get help or struggle and i’ll have to throw you out the window and cut your throat with a shard of glass. It’s not pretty for either of us and I’d really rather not have to do that, so be a champ and drink the damn potion” Threndafel hissed “It’s not poison because if I wanted you dead you would be by now, you’ve got everything to lose if you don’t, so what do you say?”

Thurindil hastily grabbed the potion and Threndafel moved his hand, allowing the pirate enough room to drink it. Once he was sure the man had swallowed the last of the purple liquid Threndafel moved back to the window, turning one last time to see the other man’s eyes glaze with a purple fog as he began to twitch. Jumping down into the cobbled back street Threndafel straightened and headed back to the barrel he had stuffed the unlucky sailor who had lent him his clothes in. Reclaiming his own belongings and changing the Bosmer quickly headed around the city walls and into the hills, one drunken sailor and one traumatised elf the worse.

I enjoyed the image of the orcish alchemist at his work table in the dimly lit cottage. So that’s what scrambled Thurindil’s brains, a foggy purple potion. An altogether fun caper at the Fo’c’s’le!

You have brought the Anvil dock area to life here, bringing clearly into focus some of the residents !!! This is an area too long neglected in the fics - I love this !! Bravo !!