The Discord of Skyrim
Chapter 1: Cities in Ruin
Markarth
2
The walk to Markarth was largely uneventful; a nice change of pace from what Gaul was used to. He forced his way up the footpath, donning the guise of a humble traveller. He knew he had arrived when he first laid his eyes upon the worn down, strong standing walls of Markarth. These walls had stood the test of time. These keepers of peace had separated the populous from the danger and chaos of the outside world, these unsung heroes stood proud and tall as Gaul entered the stone city from the doors below. Gaul was now in Markarth, and Markarth was now stuck with Gaul.
Gaul’s appreciation suddenly, and violently turned to disgust as in full view of the guards and people, a man, a simple commoner, who would put up no fight if confronted unsheathes a dagger and takes away all that a poor young woman could have become. As the mans dagger was securely in place in the woman’s back he shouted
“THE CITY BELONGS TO THE FORSWORN!”
It was as if a switch was flicked and the guards sprung into action, lathering the assailant’s blood onto the intricate stone carvings with slashes of their swords. Markarth had tasted blood, Gaul witnessed blood, and with this he understood. He understood that the walls were not for keep the chaos out, but for storing it within. The forsworn, a tribe he had limited knowledge on, was murdering on the streets and the guards did everything they could to dispose of the body.
“Awful, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” Gaul did not turn his head to the man; it was hardly worth the effort.
Un-phased the man continued “A woman, killed right in the middle of the street. I wonder if it could have been…prevented.”
The pause. Why did the man pause? Gaul’s interest had been struck and he turned his head, slow and decisively. Once again, maintaining that elegantly smooth tone he remarked
“Yes. It is awful, but why bother me?”
“Because we can help each other”
The mystery man slipped Gaul a note and retreated. Gaul placed the note in his pack and strode towards the inn. He opened the door, taking a note of everyone with in and walked towards the counter. Across the room the fireplace roared with seats around it, filled with the folk that take refuge in the city, feeling safe surrounded by the stonewalls that hugged them so tight.
“A room for a night please”
“Long day?” The innkeeper asked in his thick, hardly subtle Nordic accent.
“Like you wouldn’t believe” Gaul replied, handing over 10 gold pieces
The innkeeper nodded, “3rd door on your left.”
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Once he was settled he began to plan his usual preparations for a city. Tomorrow would be finding a place to set up shop, and begin his liberations. While ruminating about the days ahead he remembered the note. He took it from his bag, sat on the cobble chair and read it.
“Meet me at the Shrine of Talos
Eltry”
The Shrine of Talos. Anyone caught there would be hung on account of the white gold concordant. A perfect place to meet.
He burnt the note, locked the door and laid back, into the bed. “The city belongs to the forsworn” rattled through his mind until he was able to fall into a slumber. A slumber, that unbeknownst to Gaul, was being watched by inquisitive eyes through the metal grates of a largely thought inaccessible vent.
Markarth’s stonewalls made Markarth safe from the outside, but how safe do they make it, from the inside out?
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