"You have a way with words, Gareth Laul," the traveler said in passing, rain slicking down his graying face. "A way with words can get you anywhere,"
Gareth watched him go. The dark elf was stooped low with bundles and sacks, his dirt-colored rags clinging to him with water. The Green Road was vast and long to him, and the tiny elf seemed to be swallowed by the deep fissures and cracks in its earthen surface.
He pocketed the ten gold, and sighed. Gareth had no hope of ever leaving Bravil. From the tips of his gold Breton hair to the toes of his worn leather boots, bought on his father's meager Guard salary, he was a native Breton, through and through.
He turned back, and wandered the sloping trail back to Bay Roan Stables' sloping, chipped wooden form. The morning air was dark and dense with fog. He waved a half-hearted hello to Antoine Branck.
"Gareth!" Antoine smiled languidly, and waved from behind the fence. "Got a few discount paints, here. Cheap. Need a steed, boy?" he motioned to a huddled group of bony, morbid-faced horses.
"No thanks, Antoine," Gareth called back. The red-faced man tried to sell him one every day. "Got to run the gold down to my father before he gets edgy."
The man nodded knowledgeably, and went back to raking the downtrodden grass of the Stables.
Across the dilapidated wooden bridge, and through the heavy, wooden front gate of Bravil. Gareth had run the same path for five years, ever since he was old enough to trade with the few traveling merchants on the Green Road.
A harried-looking City Guard smiled vaguely at him. Gareth knew him; it was Yaxley Benirus, a friend of his father's. The Imperial's eyes were ringed with tired circles, a red-purple.
"All right, Gareth?" he sighed, his chain mail clinking softly as he scratched an arm.
Gareth nodded.
"You?"
"Ah, you know. A couple of rotten thieves from Leyawiin robbed Silverhome on the Water last night, the skooma-sucking bastards." He was showing signs of going into a rant, which was Gareth's cue to move on.
He lived in a small, okay enough apartment overlooking the Lucky Old Lady. The walls were thin and splintered, the floor buckling, but he could afford a few thick woolen rugs and a nice sleeping cot, which was more than most. He ascended the steps that twined like snakes up the rickety building, and thumped noisily across the walkway, high above the streets. An old Argonian woman grumbled at him from her peeling stoop.
His father was waiting for him at the table.
"You got some gold?" he asked, eagerly, standing up to hug his son. Timothee Laul was a desperate looking man. His long copper hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, revealing his lined, anxious face. Eyes a startling blue, the same blue as Gareth, were set into sun-tanned skin.
"Yes. A Dunmer with an appetite bought the ale off of me a little ways up the Green Road,"
Timothee smiled, and rubbed his hands together.
"Excellent, excellent. Right, then. Give it to me," he brandished a gloved hand. He was still wearing his uniform; the yellow crest featuring a twisted stag was slightly stained.
Gareth hesitated for a moment, savoring the feel of the heavy gold in his pocket, then breathed out, and fished it out of the fabric.
Timothee counted the thick disks. Nine, ten. He smiled again, and patted his son on the shoulder.
"Almost enough, Gareth. Almost enough to move into a bigger apartment. Maybe near the water? What do you think, away from crazy old Ursanne Loche and City-Swimmer?"
He could only nod and force a smile. The morning was still early, the sun barely clinging to the sticky, clouded sky. There was a day to enjoy.
But Gareth couldn't help but wish. Wish that they didn't need the gold. His father always wanted more. More gold, more house, more oppurtunities.
But the one thing Gareth knew Timothee Laul didn't want more of, was his son.
"Hey, Gareth, check this out!" Lathon Litte looked more than a little drunk. The young Redguard was grinning widely, his arm around a giggling Bosmer girl. "Elysnia here's got seven stolen property arrests. Seven!" he cracked up again. The Wood Elf drooled a little.
"Lathon, what in the name of Akatosh are you doing here so early in the morning?"
Lathon rolled his eyes.
"Just celebrating another successful adventure," he hiccupped. "Found a boatload of jewels and the like in that old Ayleid ruin."
Lathon came from wealthy stock. His family ran a series of shops in Imperial City, but they cut him off when he started to adventure for profit. He moved to Bravil, set up in the nearest bar, and started to meet girls right away. He and Gareth were quick to be friends.
The Bosmer girl was now snoring loudly into the folds of her own skirt. Gareth carefully picked his way around her, and seated himself next to Lathon, who looked decidedly more sober than he had a minute ago.
His friend peered into his face.
"Why the long face, Gareth?" Lathon frowned anxiously. "No merchants today?"
"No, no,"
"Ursanne try to guilt you into finding her husband?"
"Uh, no."
"Because seriously, that lady is hell bent on finding that old bastard,"
"No, Lathon,"
"Then what?"
Gareth groaned. Lathon was only trying to help, but he could really talk an earful. But the Redguard had also set off on his own, to make his own life. Not one carved out by his father. It was worth a shot…
"Lathon, you think I have a way with words?" he regretted it the minute he said it. Surely his friend would laugh him off, talk some sense into him.
"What, like a merchant? Sure, Gareth. Sure, you do." Lathon replied, his face containing no trace of cruelty or laughter.
With this, he pulled from behind him two large, frothing mugs of ale.
"To us!" he roared, and Gareth couldn't help but smile.
They came in the night. Three of them, dressed in thick black cotton. An Argonian, a High Elf and a Breton. All of the gold, stuffed into a small sack.
There was no hope of stopping them. Timothee tried, raising his rusty old sword in front of him, and brandishing it at the robbers.
"Stop right there, criminal scum!" he snarled. "You have violated the law. Pay the fine or serve your sentence,"
"Shut up, old man," the Argonian woman laughed, waving her heavy scaled tail tauntingly behind her.
"By the Nine!" Timothee shrieked, outraged. "I'll have you executed, you skooma-sucking wastrels–"
Gareth elbowed him.
"Shut up, Father, it isn't worth it," he hissed. "They don't care,"
"I'll have their heads," his father wasn't listening. "I swear, if the Count hears about this–"
"Regulus Terentius is a good-for-nothing drunk," the Breton sneered. "He doesn't care about an old Guard and his son,"
With that, the three pushed their way through the door, and were off into the night. Gareth could hear Ursanne Loche, pleading with one of them to find her husband. It gave him only a small amount of joy to hear the High Elf's frustrated growls.
All their gold was gone. Five years worth of it. Enough to buy a nicer apartment, enough for a new life. In the hands of some gang of ugly thieves.
Timothee slumped on the bed, looking destroyed. His tired, weathered face was defeated, his hair strewn messily about his shoulders.
"It's over, Gareth," he sighed, his head in his hands. "We're done."
The door, blown open, let in a silken stream of faded moonlight.
He had an idea.
"Father," Gareth started, nervously. "What do you think about the Green Road?"
Timothee shrugged.
"A road to Imperial City," he said forlornly. "Why?"
He took a deep breath.
"I think I can make it big in the City as a merchant,"
Timothee looked up, his eyebrows raised.
"A merchant? Gareth…" he looked unsure.
"Look, we have no choice. You're getting too old for Guard duty, and I don't have a job," he pleaded. "Please, I have too."
The air from outside was suddenly extremely cold. The sound of a beggar wandering the streets mournfully echoed up the dirty streets.
His father raised his head, and nodded.
"If you must."