Of Wine and Gold: Chapter One

• Posted by Casey March 6, 2014 - 1,351 views

  Table of Contents

  Don't forget to read the Preface                                                       

  ---------------------

  It is said in Cyrodil of Skyrim that its timberland ranges wide, and sighting tall Ironwoods is a sure sign you have come deeper into the forest than you reckoned. As I fled the bedlam at Helgen I kept some length from the tree line, never straying far into the wood. Eventually I felt some degree of security and solitude under the canopy's filtered warmth. Nirn had shifted again, presenting her face to suns zenith; the colonnaded rays of heat that pierced through the treetops above brought forth a bouquet of pleasant earthy odors from exotic flora all around me. After a time I even stopped to gather a few samples of species I had only read about back home. Calmed thus I also felt the impact of perspicuity restored. All my training and years of confronting similar circumstance took hold. Perhaps now is a better time for us to become better acquainted, patient reader, so you will not accuse me of being reticent or aloof.

   I was born on those leagues of drear farmland that straggle the outskirts of the Imperial City, and spent my childhood as a farmhand amongst many brothers. I was always small of frame, especially for farmers stock. This set me apart from my peers even then; I was a pensive and brooding child, and given to introversion. I was drawn to solitary hobbies such as reading, botany and hiking the surrounding woodlands. My years from adolescence to young adulthood were transformational as is usual for that period. I learned to love wine, women, and gold above almost all other things, but I lost little of my solitary nature, or my scholastic inclination.

   It was perhaps my sixteenth summer when I began a promising career under the tutelage of a rather masterful thief known as The Jeweler by all the best circles of business in Cyrodil. I also thereby denounced the farm, family, and whatever future the military could afford me. Before my nineteenth winter, I had proved myself more than a capable agent in almost all forms of profitable endeavor and nefarious enterprise. I cultivated a deep respect for the art due to my mentor’s tutelage, and upon my twentieth summer fell the final test. It was to accompany my mentor on his most coveted and thoroughly planned retirement heist, and refrain from ending our lives thereby. We always work alone, so perhaps this is more significant than I can make it appear.

   We traveled together to the deserts of Hammerfell and found a certain ancient temple my mentor had known of for some time. Firstly came the task of gaining entry without detection and mayhem at the hands of the warrior-monks inside the interior complex. We then slowly skulked our way to the hidden treasury room, imagining baleful eyes on us the whole time. Once in that fabled adytum we easily made good with the contents therein, under the incorruptible vigil of myriad poisonous serpent species. So great was my mentor's foresight and ingenuity. Later, as that most audacious burglary was being celebrated, my mentor awarded me my professional cognomen. Introducing me to several of his prominent contacts in the City as 'The Snake Charmer', giving me perhaps too much credit for our success, that whole chapter of life was the highlight of my youth to be certain. Now, so as not to appear over-boastful I do admit to my fair share of blunders and misfortunes, the most prominent in fact having prompted this very self-exile to Skyrim. Of my past, that is perhaps all there is to tell.

   Now at the time I was fleeing from Helgen, I became aware of my immense thirst and hunger. I had not a septim, and was fugitive to boot. Fortuitously, a small cabin in a nearby clearing I had spied seemed suspect of holding foodstuffs. I could smell something being cooked. I remember cautiously approaching it for a time, darting from tree to tree, feet scantly touching the ground between shadows. Do recall that I was wary for the dragon, any pursuing captors, savage wildlife and all else Skyrim boasted. Also, it took me an abominably long time in this land to find gear and equipment suitable to my tastes- and at the time of which I write I had only a few badly kept arrows and an old, warped longbow that promised vast inaccuracies. Thus I was relieved when I came upon the forest clearing, and found only an elderly woman sitting alone in a chair that overlooked the river. I waved affably, but was acutely aware of the image I presented: the dirty vagabond, half-wild eyed.

   She nodded graciously, then went back to her reading. Upon approach, she spoke without looking up from her book. “I’m just a poor old woman, dear. No need to trouble yourself with me.” I was going to ask for food, but I decided that I could probably take what I wanted and she would be none the wiser, due the polite indifference she gave my presence. The hut was a dilapidated affair of timbers, planks, and thatched roof, quite small and drafty. It lacked any form of door within the appropriate frame, and gave way to a few shelves, a single bed under an open window, and a few low tables arranged alongside two walls. I entered, found a chunk of cheese on a shelf. This only served to emphasize my thirst, prompting me to search the small cabin thoroughly. But I found no wine, and no gold.

   I was beginning to think the woman merely drank from the river and kept no refreshment indoors when I found a small cellar door, half hidden under a rug and loose thatch. My hostess hadn't bothered seeing after me, so I slipped down through the passage and found myself in a reeking chemical laboratory, complete with cauldron and skulls. This of course aroused my curiosity, and I do not remember if I found anything to drink. What I did find was a note, apparently written by the elderly woman. It read something along these lines:

   Helgi, dear, why do you hesitate? You can feel the power coursing in your blood! Renounce that child of yours and come live with me in the forest. My sister will be here soon! Together, we can form a proper coven, and your training will truly begin!

   This was disquieting. My blood ran cold. Witches and magicians, thaumaturgies and séances, these are the things one should fear most in my business. I launched myself back up the ladder, but stopped short as I stepped outside the cabin. Here I had come face to face with my most attentive hostess, the witch. She screamed, she gestured: some dire creature stepped forth from the gaping portal she had conjured. I was on my heels and away before I could notice much else… In my line of business, the only thing worse than confronting a wizard, is making enemies with a coven of witches. They are known to be capricious, yet when given, their word is their bond. No matter how excessive the vengeance sworn might be...

   As I continued my headlong peregrination into the wilds of Skyrim, I heard her voice resound behind me. “Nobody may know my secret! Fool! Look what you have made me do!” I did not look, but kept running.

   It took months to adjust to the climates and thin atmosphere of Skyrim, given that my own land is of lower altitude. I found in those early days I had not the capacity of lung to sustain long sprinting, something that was merely a hobby and never taxing back home. It was also in those early days that I obtained a rudimentary education of mountain climbing by trial and injurious error. It differs greatly from scaling the towers and leaping across the balconies of the Imperial City.

   I made my way to Whiterun Hold by nightfall, and there spent a few days picking pockets for my dinner and a bed. After a few minor burgles, I found a strange gem for my efforts of breaking into the Jarls quarters at Dragonsreach; after making discreet inquiries in a nearby meadery, I was directed towards the Rift for the most likely place to find a “safe and fair appraisal”. This latter part was emphasized.

   Then there were perhaps two uneventful weeks spent in a skeever-den called ‘the Bee and Barb’, in Riften proper. Mainly passing the time in my rented room (as was all I had originally come to Skyrim to do), practicing a few tricks I knew well in my youth, but had near forgotten. Mostly parlor tricks, circus illusions; but I practiced until I could cast one without making a sound. This has proved invaluable in my toils, and the technique of silent casting has proven applicable to all my repertoire of the magical. Also during this time, I was applying the art as I saw fit. Let it be known good reader, that even though I do not expressly state each instance, I was practicing the art anytime it seemed profitable, so as to keep myself fed and rent a roof over my head.

   It was perhaps a month after the events of Helgen, summer had begun in earnest, with fine weather and abundant produce in the market. Becoming acutely aware of my pecuniary deficiency and restless from being cooped up, I had discovered myself uneasy one morning. However the weather promised to be fine, and I thought about exercise, or perhaps exploring a bit of the Rift countryside. I came down from my room at the inn to a rather pleasant and coincidental excuse to do just that as I took my breakfast that most auspicious morning. I heard someone address me over my shoulder,

  “Running a little light in the pockets, lad?”

  *

  Brynjolf always called me lad. He addressed women as ‘lass’. I never asked about his past, but I presume he was a sailor or raider for some time of it. He was my introduction to the Guild in Riften. On the morning I write of, he proposed a scheme that seemed feasible in all aspects, and I agreed heartily to the tasks he sought to employ me for. It was a simple Sweep and Shill, something to do about a rivalry in the marketplace. Bryn had the townsfolk gather around his market stall and spouted the exaggerated inducements of a charlatan selling his cure-all, while I nabbed some jewelry from a nearby booth. Bryn had nearly everyone's attention. I then crept over and placed the incriminating bauble in my mark’s pocket. A few homeless squatters who hadn't bothered to get up for Brynjolf’s boisterous proposal eyed me enviously, but otherwise kept silent. No others noticed the appropriation or redistribution of wealth, and that meant I was clear. I covertly donated a few coins upon on the homeless wretches, and all was well.

   Brynjolf met me a short time later in an alleyway by the pawnshop, confirming my assumption with payment. He told me to meet him in the Ragged Flagon, and we would speak further. “Use your nose, lad. You can't miss it.” If you’ve heard of Riften, you’ve heard of the Thieves Guild. The town-watch will tell passersby to stay out of the sewers, and be wary the ruthless band of cutthroats that make their home there. I would like here to clarify this affront to our whole mode of operation. Since my induction to that merry band, we could perhaps be held responsible for one singular event in which a life was intentionally ended- and that was the result of infighting. And even that was, arguably, poetic justice. We would have killed Mercer if we got our hands on him.

  But when we found him deep in a Falmer nest, he used a newfound power to topple the cave in on us, flooding that nightmarish cavern with the lake that rested above it. He lost his balance and fell to his death from the bejeweled statuary he stood upon, foiled by the very instability and chaos he himself created. No lives had we taken before or after my inauguration as Guild Leader; and since that short time ago when I abandoned the Guild, I’m sure Brynjolf has kept it all swords sheathed, as it was even before I came to them. I get far ahead of myself. 

   I apologize for my habit of excursus. I am not well versed in stylistic demands or the appropriate modes of writing for an audience. As I sit here at ease, sipping wine at my leisure, it is easy to reminisce so. However all such deviations will become clear and relevant in time, and I seek pardon for flights of fancy. The Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf told me that morning, was in the Ratway- the sewers beneath the town. If I could make it there alive, Bryn promised more employment.

   I know next to nothing of swordplay. I am no warrior and the sewers portended trouble, if Brynjolf’s encouragement to get through alive indicated anything. It would an exertion to be sure, and in very cramped quarters. Thus in order to prepare myself for whatever toils lay beneath my feet, I headed back to the Bee and Barb, spending a goodly portion of that morning’s profits for a bottle of good Surilie Bros. Vintage to fortify my nerves and enliven my wits.

  Around noon I waltzed casually towards the marketplace stairs that lead down to the apothecary on the boardwalk. Riften being ramshackle in its very essence, half the town is supported by an older and even more malodorous neighborhood beneath it. You will find the entrance to the Ratway barred with an iron gate, which give to few steps leading down to a heavy door. I entered, and knew from the smell I had found the door I sought. Some claim that we of the Imperial bloodline are tricksters at heart, swindlers with silken voices. Certainly it comes easy to me, to swagger into a room and fool the half-witted. Sometimes it works. Luckily, that day in those narrow sewer tunnels, it worked. There is scum down in the Ratway, unassociated with the Guild. Do beware these malnourished vagrants if you happen upon them. I was able to persuade them against doing me harm as I trespassed, but I don’t know if they would tolerate loitering.

   I began wondering what sort of organization Brynjolf operated; being increasingly troubled by the depths of sewer tunnel I traversed before finding the Flagon door. Not that I am in any way a gentleman. If I have ever presented myself as a scholar or been perceived as anything other than a bore for company, it is truly due to my mentor’s careful cultivation. I know how to appraise art and jewelry, I have studied histories, hunting and general marksmanship. In short I appreciate the finer things in life, and any outfit that operated out of a sewer was bound to lack them. But if you know of that little pub nowadays, curious reader, you will find it in much better condition than the rampant disrepair I discovered it in. We called it the Golden Goblet before long after my arrival. Vekel, who claimed to legally own the place, hated the nickname, but didn't mind the extra foot traffic or coin flow at all. This was due to my heroic efforts in felonious appropriation over the course of those next few months. A few of these jobs were truly daring enterprises, with a risk seemingly disproportionate to any immediate gain. Yet my practice of the art did not go unnoticed, and as my clientele expanded, so did the Guild’s influence, and perforce so did the Flagon.

  I propose, dear reader, that I write some of these more exciting adventures down, as the night is yet young and I have a great quantity of wine at hand...