Chapter 10. Stranger in a strange land.
Cyrodiil, largest province of the empire and home to the Emperor, the Imperial palace and the Imperial city. And that was where Varvur found himself now, staring up at the gates that gave entrance to the greatest city known to civilization. It stretched out as far as the eye could see, and was home to thousands of people. Here was one city that was most definitely many times larger then Vivec. Even standing outside the gates one could hear the noise of the crowds.
Varvur’s trip to the Imperial City had been uneventful; he had been able to travel with a large caravan heading out of Kragenmoor. He’d joined it as a guard, something no caravan could ever have too many of. The pace hadn’t been as fast as Varvur would have liked, but at least he could be sure of a good cover story for being there, and no trouble with anyone along the way.
What greeted him just beyond the gate was the Talos Plaza district. Named after the old Emperor Tiber Septim, believed to have become divine himself and risen as the god Talos. It was getting very late, so Varvur decided to find a place to sleep for now and start his search on the morrow. Though with such a large place he had no idea where to start looking. Unlike the inns, his quest did not have convenient signs to point the way.
Varvur took a room at the Tiber Septim hotel. While he slept for a few hours, he found himself wide awake again in the middle of the night. Something had woken him, perhaps a dream. He faintly recalled hearing a loud booming voice warning him to leave Cyrodiil with all haste lest he never be able to leave alive. Feeling hungry, Varvur slowly stood up, dressed himself and went into the dining room to see if there might be an early breakfast for him. Thinking back to the dream he had to admit he was more shaken then he’d care to say. Something about that voice really gave him the creeps.
Varvur was lucky- there was indeed some food to be found in the dining room, and it seemed he wasn’t alone. In front of the fireplace he saw a kindly old man- no, not just a man, a Legionnaire it would seem. At least he was wearing Legion armour, though of an old-fashioned kind. The man himself looked to be very old, balding with grey hair on the back of his head and on the sides. He was staring into the flames, likely thinking of times long past. Varvur turned and sat at the table; there was some fresh bread to be had, as well as an assortment of sweets.
“Did you have trouble sleeping, young master Sarethi?”
Varvur looked up; the man had spoken though he was still sitting with his back to him. Somewhere in his mind he was wondering how the man could know his name, but he found himself answering all the same,
“Yes, I had a bad dream; it’s starting to fade already though.”
“Heh, bad dreams. Yes some people inhabit our dreams to try and dissuade us from doing what we must. Don’t worry about it, though. If people were really that confident about themselves, they wouldn’t have the need to send us dreams, now would they? They’d simply be here themselves.”
Varvur thought about that, and found it made a lot of sense.
“So,” the old man continued, “what brings you to this fair city?”
For a reason Varvur didn’t understand, he did not reply with the cover story he’d been thinking of but answered honestly.
“I’ve come in search of my late master’s killer. His assassin isn’t here but someone that can lead me to him or her is most likely somewhere in this city. Fafnir he’s called. You wouldn’t by chance know where I could find him, old man?”
The old man looked at Varvur, smiling. He had the nicest eyes Varvur had ever seen.
“Well young lad, there’s no chance involved, but yes I would happen to know where to find Fafnir. He does indeed live in this city. And even comes into this hotel from time to time.”
“Then please, old man, tell me where to find him.” Varvur excitedly exclaimed.
“Hm, I think I will now, however, the question you need to ask yourself, Varvur, is: Are you willing to pay the price for the information? I can lead you to Fafnir, and beyond him you will find your answers, but I require a favour in return. Are you willing to repay me that favour?”
“Yes, if you can lead me to lord Nerevar’s killers, I promise I will do whatever you ask of me.”
“Be careful what you say there, young master Sarethi. You never know if someone might not take advantage of it. But it is good of you to promise. Very well, it is not for me you need to do something, but you will meet someone in a few days time. He will ask you for a very large service, not just killing someone, not just a bit of money; no, this is a service of the most serious kind. If you promise me that you will do this service for him, then I will give you the information you want. And don’t worry, what he asks you can wait until after you’ve uncovered the assassin.”
Varvur replied after a moment in thought, “I accept.”
“Good, very good. The man you’re looking for lives in the market district, and often frequents the Merchants Inn there. He has his own house though, where you can find him. Ah, and please, have this.” The old man handed Varvur an ancient-looking coin.
“I reckon it’s not worth much anymore, but it should help you remember your promise, wouldn’t you agree? Young men these days so swiftly forget things.”
“But I promised, old man, and I won’t forget my promise. I will repay this man’s favour, whomever he may be.”
“ Good, that is good of you, Varvur. Now, I think these old bones are ready to give sleeping one more try. Good night, master Sarethi, may you be blessed in your travels.”
Just as the old man was walking out of the door, Varvur called after him, “But sir, you never told me your name.” He wasn’t sure if the old man had heard, but he thought he heard a whisper of “Wulf” as the door closed.
Varvur must have gone back to bed after that, because he woke in the morning to a nice warm sun shining outside. He remembered his conversation very vividly, but wondered if it hadn’t just been a dream? That is until he pulled his trousers on and felt an old iron coin in his right pocket, just where he’d put it last night. Smiling to himself, he dressed further and headed out into the city. He didn’t have to ask around a lot to be pointed to the Merchants Inn. He went inside and ordered a glass of wine. Not everyone in the inn looked entirely respectable, so he thought it best not to pronounce to the world that he was a noble. And in his rough travel clothing and with all the armour and weapons, he knew he could easily pass for a mercenary. Looking around the room he saw a number of other people, a few Nords, some Bretons, mostly Imperials though, no Khajiit or Argonians and only a few Redguards. It didn’t take him long to find the man he was looking for. In the corner there were a few rowdy Nords, one of which was called Fafnir by his friends.
It was early in the afternoon, yet already it appeared most of the Nords were drunk. Appeared to be, because Varvur saw that with Fafnir, most of the meed seemed to somehow wind up either on his clothes, or in the plant standing next to him. One had to really look carefully to see it, but to Varvur is was clear this Fafnir was not nearly as drunk as he wanted others to believe. While he was laughing with the others, his eyes were constantly looking around, taking in every part of his surroundings.
Varvur made sure to keep his head down, and never to look directly at Fafnir. He knew it would be best to simply wait until Fafnir went away, so that he might follow him home and question him there. It took a few hours, but around supper time Fafnir announced to his friends that he was going home. Varvur waited until he was outside, then payed his tab and followed him. As he got outside, he was just in time to see Fafnir round a corner on his right. Slowly and quietly following him, he cautiously looked around the corner, and saw Fafnir opening his door. Varvur slowly crept forward and then sprinted the last few yards so that just as Fafnir was closing the door again, Varvur threw all his weight at it and flung himself inside. Fafnir stumbled back with a look of surprise on his face. He was clearly not expecting someone. Varvur closed the door, and shut the latch. He wanted to be sure no one would disturb him in his conversation with Fafnir.
Fafnir roared, and from the wall he picked up a wicked looking warhammer. It was all white with a head that had ridges on it. Anyone hit with that thing would likely not survive, so Varvur knew had to make sure to avoid the Nord’s wild swings. . He drew his own blade, but feared it would not be enough to stop the heavy hammer. Therefore, he also grabbed a round wooden shield hanging on the wall next to the door. Armed with sword and shield, he stepped into the living room. Fafnir smartly stayed in that room, his warhammer would be next to useless in a small room, but in here he could swing it as much as he’d like. He started by swinging it over his head, gaining speed with every rotation, round and round still faster and then aimed it at Varvur, who was just barely able to get the shield in front of him. Varvur felt his entire arm ringing from that one blast and realized how lucky it was that he had grabbed the shield; he could only imagine how his arm would have looked had the warhammer connected with it. The two men circled each other, Varvur getting a few blows in, a small scratch on an arm, a slice at a leg, all small wounds which had Fafnir bleeding, but it seemed there was no slowing him down. He kept swinging the warhammer and at times aimed it at Varvur. After a few blows, the shield was ready to be tossed aside. It would likely not survive another blow. Varvur had to think fast. Just then he saw that Fafnir was extending his hand again for what might have been a killing blow, but Varvur used all of his speed, moving not away from Fafnir but nearer to him, and turning just a bit, he brought his sword arm down with lightning speed.
Fafnir cried out in pain and in shock, and Varvur took the moment to aim yet another blow at him, though this time he hit him with he hilt of the blade, as hard as he could on the back of his head. Fafnir slumped down, his right hand still clutching the stump of his left wrist, while next to him lay his mighty warhammer with his left hand still holding it. Fafnir was bleeding heavily, and Varvur knew he’d best treat that if he wanted to be able to ask Fafnir some questions. He lit the fireplace as fast as he could, using his own inner magic to bring the fire faster then it might have otherwise. Once a bed of coals was glowing in the grate, Varvur took a blade hanging from one of the walls and put it into the fire. When it glowed red with heat, he picked up Fafnir’s left wrist , and held the red hot blade against it, using the heat to close the wound.
After Varvur was sure the wound was closed, he bound Fafnir’s arms behind him and his legs together, then went to look through his home. He found very little of use, and no information, though there were some black Mallams in a top room, and he also discovered a hidden hatch on the ground floor, leading to a small basement. From the looks of it, the basement had been often used as torture chamber. There was a bolted down steel chair in the center of the room, a fireplace, and all sorts of needles, pliers, pins, knives and things Varvur did not even have a name for. It also seemed the room was well isolated and that little to no noise would escape once the hatch was carefully sealed. Varvur knew it would not be easy to get information from Fafnir, but was determined to do whatever it took. He carried Fafnir down into the basement, seated him on the chair and first untied his legs. He retied them with the steel bands attached to the chair, which went around his lower legs and ensured that he would not be able to free himself once the pin was inserted into the lock. Then came his hands; one could be locked in a steel band around the wrist, but Varvur had to use some supple leather to bind Fafnir’s left arm to the chair. And last there was a leather band that went around his neck to keep his head upright.
Varvur started a fire in the fireplace there, and then went to look at some potions standing on a plank above some pliers. They had clear descriptions on them for what they did. Some were used to keep people conscious no matter how much pain they were feeling, others were to inflict pain, to wake someone up or to put someone to sleep. He chose a small bottle that woke someone up, and mixed it with a potion that would keep Fafnir conscious, and forced it into him. Fafnir woke almost at once, shouted curses and did his best to get out of the chair, but of course it did not work. He threatened to kill Varvur once he got out, and all of his family, and much more. Varvur just let him shout a while to tire himself out. Then he hit him across the face.
“Tell me what L.L. stands for and you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble, Fafnir.”
“I will never betray the Brotherhood; you’ll need to kill me first before I betray my brothers.”
“Tell me Fafnir, how many people have you taken here to torture? How many unsuspecting people came to an end here? I imagine you have lost count yourself. But even knowing that, I’ll give you more choice then you likely ever gave them. Speak now, tell me who L.L. is, and where I can find him, and I’ll end your life swiftly. Don’t tell me, and I’ll be forced to make you speak.”
Fafnir said nothing at that, he only glared at Varvur and then spit in his face.
“Very well,” Varvur said with a determined look. He started by taking a few needles he’d put into the fire, and slowly inserted one underneath each nail of Fafnir’s remaining fingers. Unfortunately he got no answers then, not even when he cut off 5 toes one after another, not when he made an incision in his stomach, and used a hot knife to slowly cut away some inner muscles one small piece at a time. It wasn’t until he started on Fafnir’s groin that he finally got the answers he was looking for. By then Fafnir was only still awake due to the potion. If not for that, then he would have been long unconscious from pain. Varvur did keep his word though; after Fafnir had given him the answers he needed, he used a sharp blade to cut his throat. When he did it he could almost see gratitude in Fafnir’s eyes. And with it, after some gurgles, the screaming stopped.
Varvur felt very dirty. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to use such methods to get someone to speak; sometimes there was simply no other way to get information, but it was something he had never gotten used to. He slowly, as if in trance, stumbled up the stairs into the kitchen, and threw up in a bucket. He cried himself to sleep that night, sleeping in Fafnir’s bed. He knew he needed sleep before going on. After he woke he dressed, and went up to the top chamber. Fafnir had been clear, the man L.L. was called Lucien- he did not know the last name. To contact him, Fafnir would release one of the black ravens in his loft, with a small note attached to the leg that read only a single letter. F. Three days later, he would have to be sure to be sleeping in a room in Pell’s gate, a tavern a ways south of the Imperial City, just beyond the old bridge, and there Lucien would wake him.
After he let the raven out, he wanted to get out of this house as soon as he could. He took all of his own things, making sure to leave Fafnir’s items there, and got out of the house. As he stepped outside, a small patrol of guards was walking past, they looked at him, and as one drew their blades and pointed them at him.
“Halt citizen,” they loudly proclaimed, ”drop your weapons and then don’t move.”
Not understanding what was happening, Varvur still complied. Two of the guards went inside Fafnir’s house, while the other three stood guard over Varvur. As Varvur was wondering what was wrong, he looked down, and saw what the guards had also noticed, that his boots were still covered in blood. And naturally the two guards who had entered the house came back out, and told the others that they had found a body inside, terribly mutilated.
As Varvur was taken to jail, all he could think about was Pell’s gate, and meeting Lucien there. If he didn’t make it, all would be for naught.
On to the next chapter
Cyrodiil, largest province of the empire and home to the Emperor, the Imperial palace and the Imperial city. And that was where Varvur found himself now, staring up at the gates that gave entrance to the greatest city known to civilization. It stretched out as far as the eye could see, and was home to thousands of people. Here was one city that was most definitely many times larger then Vivec. Even standing outside the gates one could hear the noise of the crowds.
Varvur’s trip to the Imperial City had been uneventful; he had been able to travel with a large caravan heading out of Kragenmoor. He’d joined it as a guard, something no caravan could ever have too many of. The pace hadn’t been as fast as Varvur would have liked, but at least he could be sure of a good cover story for being there, and no trouble with anyone along the way.
What greeted him just beyond the gate was the Talos Plaza district. Named after the old Emperor Tiber Septim, believed to have become divine himself and risen as the god Talos. It was getting very late, so Varvur decided to find a place to sleep for now and start his search on the morrow. Though with such a large place he had no idea where to start looking. Unlike the inns, his quest did not have convenient signs to point the way.
Varvur took a room at the Tiber Septim hotel. While he slept for a few hours, he found himself wide awake again in the middle of the night. Something had woken him, perhaps a dream. He faintly recalled hearing a loud booming voice warning him to leave Cyrodiil with all haste lest he never be able to leave alive. Feeling hungry, Varvur slowly stood up, dressed himself and went into the dining room to see if there might be an early breakfast for him. Thinking back to the dream he had to admit he was more shaken then he’d care to say. Something about that voice really gave him the creeps.
Varvur was lucky- there was indeed some food to be found in the dining room, and it seemed he wasn’t alone. In front of the fireplace he saw a kindly old man- no, not just a man, a Legionnaire it would seem. At least he was wearing Legion armour, though of an old-fashioned kind. The man himself looked to be very old, balding with grey hair on the back of his head and on the sides. He was staring into the flames, likely thinking of times long past. Varvur turned and sat at the table; there was some fresh bread to be had, as well as an assortment of sweets.
“Did you have trouble sleeping, young master Sarethi?”
Varvur looked up; the man had spoken though he was still sitting with his back to him. Somewhere in his mind he was wondering how the man could know his name, but he found himself answering all the same,
“Yes, I had a bad dream; it’s starting to fade already though.”
“Heh, bad dreams. Yes some people inhabit our dreams to try and dissuade us from doing what we must. Don’t worry about it, though. If people were really that confident about themselves, they wouldn’t have the need to send us dreams, now would they? They’d simply be here themselves.”
Varvur thought about that, and found it made a lot of sense.
“So,” the old man continued, “what brings you to this fair city?”
For a reason Varvur didn’t understand, he did not reply with the cover story he’d been thinking of but answered honestly.
“I’ve come in search of my late master’s killer. His assassin isn’t here but someone that can lead me to him or her is most likely somewhere in this city. Fafnir he’s called. You wouldn’t by chance know where I could find him, old man?”
The old man looked at Varvur, smiling. He had the nicest eyes Varvur had ever seen.
“Well young lad, there’s no chance involved, but yes I would happen to know where to find Fafnir. He does indeed live in this city. And even comes into this hotel from time to time.”
“Then please, old man, tell me where to find him.” Varvur excitedly exclaimed.
“Hm, I think I will now, however, the question you need to ask yourself, Varvur, is: Are you willing to pay the price for the information? I can lead you to Fafnir, and beyond him you will find your answers, but I require a favour in return. Are you willing to repay me that favour?”
“Yes, if you can lead me to lord Nerevar’s killers, I promise I will do whatever you ask of me.”
“Be careful what you say there, young master Sarethi. You never know if someone might not take advantage of it. But it is good of you to promise. Very well, it is not for me you need to do something, but you will meet someone in a few days time. He will ask you for a very large service, not just killing someone, not just a bit of money; no, this is a service of the most serious kind. If you promise me that you will do this service for him, then I will give you the information you want. And don’t worry, what he asks you can wait until after you’ve uncovered the assassin.”
Varvur replied after a moment in thought, “I accept.”
“Good, very good. The man you’re looking for lives in the market district, and often frequents the Merchants Inn there. He has his own house though, where you can find him. Ah, and please, have this.” The old man handed Varvur an ancient-looking coin.
“I reckon it’s not worth much anymore, but it should help you remember your promise, wouldn’t you agree? Young men these days so swiftly forget things.”
“But I promised, old man, and I won’t forget my promise. I will repay this man’s favour, whomever he may be.”
“ Good, that is good of you, Varvur. Now, I think these old bones are ready to give sleeping one more try. Good night, master Sarethi, may you be blessed in your travels.”
Just as the old man was walking out of the door, Varvur called after him, “But sir, you never told me your name.” He wasn’t sure if the old man had heard, but he thought he heard a whisper of “Wulf” as the door closed.
Varvur must have gone back to bed after that, because he woke in the morning to a nice warm sun shining outside. He remembered his conversation very vividly, but wondered if it hadn’t just been a dream? That is until he pulled his trousers on and felt an old iron coin in his right pocket, just where he’d put it last night. Smiling to himself, he dressed further and headed out into the city. He didn’t have to ask around a lot to be pointed to the Merchants Inn. He went inside and ordered a glass of wine. Not everyone in the inn looked entirely respectable, so he thought it best not to pronounce to the world that he was a noble. And in his rough travel clothing and with all the armour and weapons, he knew he could easily pass for a mercenary. Looking around the room he saw a number of other people, a few Nords, some Bretons, mostly Imperials though, no Khajiit or Argonians and only a few Redguards. It didn’t take him long to find the man he was looking for. In the corner there were a few rowdy Nords, one of which was called Fafnir by his friends.
It was early in the afternoon, yet already it appeared most of the Nords were drunk. Appeared to be, because Varvur saw that with Fafnir, most of the meed seemed to somehow wind up either on his clothes, or in the plant standing next to him. One had to really look carefully to see it, but to Varvur is was clear this Fafnir was not nearly as drunk as he wanted others to believe. While he was laughing with the others, his eyes were constantly looking around, taking in every part of his surroundings.
Varvur made sure to keep his head down, and never to look directly at Fafnir. He knew it would be best to simply wait until Fafnir went away, so that he might follow him home and question him there. It took a few hours, but around supper time Fafnir announced to his friends that he was going home. Varvur waited until he was outside, then payed his tab and followed him. As he got outside, he was just in time to see Fafnir round a corner on his right. Slowly and quietly following him, he cautiously looked around the corner, and saw Fafnir opening his door. Varvur slowly crept forward and then sprinted the last few yards so that just as Fafnir was closing the door again, Varvur threw all his weight at it and flung himself inside. Fafnir stumbled back with a look of surprise on his face. He was clearly not expecting someone. Varvur closed the door, and shut the latch. He wanted to be sure no one would disturb him in his conversation with Fafnir.
Fafnir roared, and from the wall he picked up a wicked looking warhammer. It was all white with a head that had ridges on it. Anyone hit with that thing would likely not survive, so Varvur knew had to make sure to avoid the Nord’s wild swings. . He drew his own blade, but feared it would not be enough to stop the heavy hammer. Therefore, he also grabbed a round wooden shield hanging on the wall next to the door. Armed with sword and shield, he stepped into the living room. Fafnir smartly stayed in that room, his warhammer would be next to useless in a small room, but in here he could swing it as much as he’d like. He started by swinging it over his head, gaining speed with every rotation, round and round still faster and then aimed it at Varvur, who was just barely able to get the shield in front of him. Varvur felt his entire arm ringing from that one blast and realized how lucky it was that he had grabbed the shield; he could only imagine how his arm would have looked had the warhammer connected with it. The two men circled each other, Varvur getting a few blows in, a small scratch on an arm, a slice at a leg, all small wounds which had Fafnir bleeding, but it seemed there was no slowing him down. He kept swinging the warhammer and at times aimed it at Varvur. After a few blows, the shield was ready to be tossed aside. It would likely not survive another blow. Varvur had to think fast. Just then he saw that Fafnir was extending his hand again for what might have been a killing blow, but Varvur used all of his speed, moving not away from Fafnir but nearer to him, and turning just a bit, he brought his sword arm down with lightning speed.
Fafnir cried out in pain and in shock, and Varvur took the moment to aim yet another blow at him, though this time he hit him with he hilt of the blade, as hard as he could on the back of his head. Fafnir slumped down, his right hand still clutching the stump of his left wrist, while next to him lay his mighty warhammer with his left hand still holding it. Fafnir was bleeding heavily, and Varvur knew he’d best treat that if he wanted to be able to ask Fafnir some questions. He lit the fireplace as fast as he could, using his own inner magic to bring the fire faster then it might have otherwise. Once a bed of coals was glowing in the grate, Varvur took a blade hanging from one of the walls and put it into the fire. When it glowed red with heat, he picked up Fafnir’s left wrist , and held the red hot blade against it, using the heat to close the wound.
After Varvur was sure the wound was closed, he bound Fafnir’s arms behind him and his legs together, then went to look through his home. He found very little of use, and no information, though there were some black Mallams in a top room, and he also discovered a hidden hatch on the ground floor, leading to a small basement. From the looks of it, the basement had been often used as torture chamber. There was a bolted down steel chair in the center of the room, a fireplace, and all sorts of needles, pliers, pins, knives and things Varvur did not even have a name for. It also seemed the room was well isolated and that little to no noise would escape once the hatch was carefully sealed. Varvur knew it would not be easy to get information from Fafnir, but was determined to do whatever it took. He carried Fafnir down into the basement, seated him on the chair and first untied his legs. He retied them with the steel bands attached to the chair, which went around his lower legs and ensured that he would not be able to free himself once the pin was inserted into the lock. Then came his hands; one could be locked in a steel band around the wrist, but Varvur had to use some supple leather to bind Fafnir’s left arm to the chair. And last there was a leather band that went around his neck to keep his head upright.
Varvur started a fire in the fireplace there, and then went to look at some potions standing on a plank above some pliers. They had clear descriptions on them for what they did. Some were used to keep people conscious no matter how much pain they were feeling, others were to inflict pain, to wake someone up or to put someone to sleep. He chose a small bottle that woke someone up, and mixed it with a potion that would keep Fafnir conscious, and forced it into him. Fafnir woke almost at once, shouted curses and did his best to get out of the chair, but of course it did not work. He threatened to kill Varvur once he got out, and all of his family, and much more. Varvur just let him shout a while to tire himself out. Then he hit him across the face.
“Tell me what L.L. stands for and you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble, Fafnir.”
“I will never betray the Brotherhood; you’ll need to kill me first before I betray my brothers.”
“Tell me Fafnir, how many people have you taken here to torture? How many unsuspecting people came to an end here? I imagine you have lost count yourself. But even knowing that, I’ll give you more choice then you likely ever gave them. Speak now, tell me who L.L. is, and where I can find him, and I’ll end your life swiftly. Don’t tell me, and I’ll be forced to make you speak.”
Fafnir said nothing at that, he only glared at Varvur and then spit in his face.
“Very well,” Varvur said with a determined look. He started by taking a few needles he’d put into the fire, and slowly inserted one underneath each nail of Fafnir’s remaining fingers. Unfortunately he got no answers then, not even when he cut off 5 toes one after another, not when he made an incision in his stomach, and used a hot knife to slowly cut away some inner muscles one small piece at a time. It wasn’t until he started on Fafnir’s groin that he finally got the answers he was looking for. By then Fafnir was only still awake due to the potion. If not for that, then he would have been long unconscious from pain. Varvur did keep his word though; after Fafnir had given him the answers he needed, he used a sharp blade to cut his throat. When he did it he could almost see gratitude in Fafnir’s eyes. And with it, after some gurgles, the screaming stopped.
Varvur felt very dirty. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to use such methods to get someone to speak; sometimes there was simply no other way to get information, but it was something he had never gotten used to. He slowly, as if in trance, stumbled up the stairs into the kitchen, and threw up in a bucket. He cried himself to sleep that night, sleeping in Fafnir’s bed. He knew he needed sleep before going on. After he woke he dressed, and went up to the top chamber. Fafnir had been clear, the man L.L. was called Lucien- he did not know the last name. To contact him, Fafnir would release one of the black ravens in his loft, with a small note attached to the leg that read only a single letter. F. Three days later, he would have to be sure to be sleeping in a room in Pell’s gate, a tavern a ways south of the Imperial City, just beyond the old bridge, and there Lucien would wake him.
After he let the raven out, he wanted to get out of this house as soon as he could. He took all of his own things, making sure to leave Fafnir’s items there, and got out of the house. As he stepped outside, a small patrol of guards was walking past, they looked at him, and as one drew their blades and pointed them at him.
“Halt citizen,” they loudly proclaimed, ”drop your weapons and then don’t move.”
Not understanding what was happening, Varvur still complied. Two of the guards went inside Fafnir’s house, while the other three stood guard over Varvur. As Varvur was wondering what was wrong, he looked down, and saw what the guards had also noticed, that his boots were still covered in blood. And naturally the two guards who had entered the house came back out, and told the others that they had found a body inside, terribly mutilated.
As Varvur was taken to jail, all he could think about was Pell’s gate, and meeting Lucien there. If he didn’t make it, all would be for naught.
On to the next chapter