SKYRIM story
The setting sun cast the world into twilight shades of grey and white, and a faint wind made the roughly spun cloth of my robe itch abominably as I made my way to the city gates, making the scales of my neck prickle. To any passing observer, I would seem a simple apothecary, with my cheap robe and pouch of ingredients, the pitted steel dagger at my waist, for cutting herbs, naturally. Perhaps with a closer look at which ingredients, precisely, I was carrying, there would be suspicion, but people were rarely so observant. Give them an easy explanation and they wouldn't bother to look deeper.
"Hold, Argonian!"
The guard, a burly Nord, barred my way. "Your kind is not welcome in Windhelm. If you must come, use the other gate." He jerked a finger, Dismissively pointing to one side, and without a word, just a slight bow of my head, I went. Wouldn't do to stick in a guard's mind too firmly, better to be out of sight and out of mind.
The first thing that struck me was the smell. Fish, raw and freshly caught, cooked, pickled and everything in between. The smoke of a cooking fire underlay that scent, almost overwhelming the scents of pitch, damp wood. A harbour, then, pitch for waterproofing on wooden piers and ships, a little rot where it was insufficient. And, of course, there were a lot of people living there. The scent was unmistakable, the stench of people working, human sweat and Argonian breath, the acrid tang of fear merging into a cloud of slightly unpleasant sensation. Not somewhere any Argonian would stay given a choice, although I could see many working on the docks.
Fools.
It did not take long to get through the docks. Simply removing the cloak, making a bundle of cloth to carry, and I passed for just another labourer. Perhaps I would have been more inconvenienced if the people here cared at all to see who entered the city. I have little doubt that if an invading army came through, the mailed fist of the imperial legion, they would leave with a dozen more Argonian recruits in tow.
I climbed the narrow stair towards the side gate, shivering slightly at the cold bite in the wind. I muttered an oath, remembering the rather warm, comfortable clothing I had left behind to play the part of a wandering alchemist. Next time, to oblivion with the trouble my thieve's leathers could cause among the guard, at least I would be warm. For now, my destination was clear. A short way away, in front of the main gates, was Candlehearth Hall. A place of warmth, decent food and cheap drink. It had been a long, cold journey this far, even having taken a cart as far as possible, and I did not intend to spend the night in discomfort. The next morning, my business could be done.
I attracted a few odd looks, as I stepped into the tavern,and quickly paid for a room, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of wine. I knew I was being criminally overcharged, but handed over the septims quite willingly. After all, my line of work did not leave me short of funds.
I ate a leisurely meal, washing coarse bread down with the nordic wine. I felt a pang of homesickness, remembering the fiery taste of Argonian bloodwine, the complex flavours and the burn of alcohol; anything the Nords could make paled in comparison, and wine was far from their area of expertise. Nonetheless, it was cleaner than water, and weak enough to leave me clear-headed, not wanting to let my guard down, even in a place as comparatively safe as Windhelm…
That reawoke a trace of the paranoia which had remained a constant companion on the long road through Skyrim, where every shadow, every rustling tree could be one of their agents. I glanced around the room; checked the lock on the window, the door. I doubted that news of the bounty would have spread this far, or that I had been recognised, but even so, worry twisted in my gut. I had left my troubles in Blackmarsh. I just had to remember that; jumping at shadows wouldn't have helped me anyway. I climbed onto the bed, determined to get at least an hour's sleep before I had to do the job.
It's a commonly known dogma among thieves that quieter sounds attract more attention than louder ones; the sound of, say, a scream in the street is loud enough that everyone can hear it, and so it is not your problem. On the other hand, a knife scraping out of a sheath is a quiet sound, and it's quite possible that the only ones to hear it are you, and your would-be assassin. The one picking the lock of my room, however, had clearly not taken this lesson to heart.
The tumblers gave seconds after I had awoken; doubtless, my assailants expected to find me sound asleep, or at the least drowsy and slow. Easy prey. But one does not survive on the road for long without learning to sleep lightly, and as the door quietly opened, my knife was already in flight.
A bulky dunmer filled the doorway, shoulders broad, a pair of blades in his hands. Fortunately, he was unarmoured, probably avoiding attention as much as I was, and so the knife scored a shallow slash across his chest. Not a dangerous wound, in any other circumstance, but the concoction that clung to the small pits and imperfections of the blade gave him cause to pause; he barely made it a step inside before his muscles stiffened,collapsing, statue-like. A muffled curse behind him, as his companion slipped their lockpicks away, but I didn't stay to see who it was, already smashing through the window, diving to the cobbles below. As a cry rang out, some bystander alerting the guards, I was already making tracks through the nighted streets, ragged cloak wrapped close around me.