The Weaving of Yjarrn - იარნის გამოქსმვა

by Levi Buchanan

Yjarrn is floating through life until a scrape with the Riften city guard changes everything.

1. Part 1: The Weight of Gold

The Weaving of Yjarrn

Part 1: The Weight of Gold

This is it, Yjarrn thought to himself as he scampered through the streets of Riften. This was one joke that just might have been stepping too far over the line. How on earth do you explain to Helga that her tenants might like her statue of Dibella more with a bit of make-up? Well, it was certainly not by saying she was worth looking at now. Yjarrn had no idea she would take the comment so personally, nor that she would call the guards on him for trespassing when he refused to apologize for "stating an obvious fact."

Yjarrn was not exactly sure where he was going. The wooden structures of the city all looked pretty much the same, and the lack of light reflecting off Masser and Secunda did not help. He crossed the bridge and tore down the alley behind the Bee and Barb, but when he neared the marketplace, a guard stepped out into his path.

"Well, now, thought you could get away, huh?" the guard asked. "You're going to be spending some time in the dungeon, rat. We have enough trouble with crime here to put up with vandals."

Yjarrn had never actually done anything to the statue of Dibella, though to be honest, he still thought it lacked a bit of flare for occupying such a prominent place in the Bunkhouse. When had suggesting vandalism become synonymous with committing it? Ever since the Imperials had taken back Riften, the city guards had become exceedingly difficult, feeling they needed to prove they still had a reason to exist. Yjarrn did not begrudge them this. No one in the city wanted Maven to think they were no longer useful, but for some reason, rather than strong-arming the real criminals, the guards started coming down a lot harder on the small transgressions or finding infractions where there were none. Just the other day his friend, Wujeeta, got fired from the fishery because one of the guards "found" skooma on her. What a load of skeever droppings!

The guard took a threatening step forward and drew his weapon. "Are you coming quietly?" he asked. "Or are you going to make trouble?"

"Well," Yjarrn stammered nervously. "I'm not really guilty of anything."

"Oh, really?" the guard asked, obviously mocking him, but he lowered his blade slightly. "Then why are you running?"

"It seemed the smart thing to do when Helga pulled an ax out from behind her counter," Reeves said, still eying the guard's sword. "I'm a little afraid of blades."

The guard smiled wickedly and raised the tip of his sword back up. He also heard the footsteps of at least two other guards coming up behind him, and his heart sank. It seemed as though once again he had found the exact wrong thing to say in the situation. It looked like he would be spending some time in the dungeon. He raised his hands in surrender, but suddenly the guard lunged forward, the tip of his sword aimed squarely at his chest. Looking back on it later, Yjarrn had to admit it was a rather girlish scream, high-pitched and far louder than it should have been, but it worked out in his favor. He managed to swerve out of the path of the weapon just in time, and the guards behind him collapsed on the stone roaring with laughter. The guard in front of him gave him the strangest look, but Yjarrn did not wait for the man to regain himself. He bolted, leaping over the howling guards who were now effectively disarmed and nearly worthless, and squeezed himself into the small gap between the Pawned Prawn and the Black-Briar Meadery.

Sucking in his gut, Yjarrn was just able to get between the buildings, and he quickly forced himself several feet through the small crevice. He twisted his head up and around to see the guard who had tried to stab him sticking his sword into the open space behind him. Yjarrn felt throwing up, though he did his best to hold it in thinking about how much of a mess it would make in such a confined space. The guard was yelling and cursing, but Yjarrn barely heard him. He squeezed out the back and found himself on a small section of stone wall overlooking the dock with the rook of the Meadery in front of him. With one last look at the floundering guards behind him, he hopped onto the roof. He had intended to run down to the end and find a way off the front side of the building, but the wooden slats were half rotten. A sickening crunch accompanied his foot sinking into the roof, and he subsequently lost his balance, rolling down the slats, and landing hard on the solid timbers of the dock.

Yjarrn tried to breathe, but the wind had been brutally forced from his lungs on impact. He laid there helpless, like a fish that had been thrown up onto the dock, flopping around in a vain attempt to find a way to get oxygen into his body. It was probably only moments later when his lungs finally, painfully pulled in the surrounding air, but it felt like an eternity. Yjarrn sat up, greedily sucking air into his lungs over and over until he heard the sound of feet clattering down the dock to his left. Why could they not let it go? At this point, he severely regretted his joke. It was not even that funny. No one in the Bunkhouse laughed except one little girl, and that was certainly not worth this. He had no choice. He took a deep breath and leaped off the side of the dock into the water below.

The fall was farther than it seemed, and the water was far colder than Yjarrn had anticipated. However, he forced himself to stay under and swim farther away, afraid that the guards would continue to track him if they saw where he was going. He soon emerged on the stony shore across from the dock and below the deck of the vacant house the city had still not found a buyer for. He crept up the steps to the back deck of the house, keeping low, and hid behind a barrel.

The guards had just arrived at the spot where he had jumped off the dock, and they were looking around at the water under the dock and scouting the shoreline. Was he seriously worth this effort? What was the world coming to when he would be hunted down for trying to crack a joke? It was at that point, hiding amongst the barrels, wet and shivering, that Yjarrn of Ivarstead vowed never to tell another joke. He did not keep this vow.

Slowly the guards began to trickle away until only the guard who had originally stopped him remained. Yjarrn heard him swear loudly as he buried the blade of his sword into the dock post. He spent the next minute or so swearing even louder as he attempted to dislodge it, and when he finally did, he left.

"I wonder what knotted up his undergarments," Yjarrn whispered to himself.

The backdoor of the house had not been used for some time as cobwebs covered the keyhole and other parts of the door. Yjarrn tried to rake the lock quickly, but it refused to yield. After breaking off a pick in the door, something he was fairly sure a good quality pick would not do, he gave up on finesse. He looked over to the dock and around the corner toward the stables. No one was there, at least no one who was paying any attention. He braced himself against the handrail opposite the door, and pushed off, planting his foot directly between the double doors. He heard a crack, and once again, he scanned the area around to make sure he had not given himself away. When he was again sure no one was watching, he repeated the action, and the doors succumbed. Yjarrn darted into the house and closed the doors behind him.

"Why haven't I tried that before?" Yjarrn asked himself. "That was a lot easier than fiddling with picks on a difficult lock."

After catching his breath, Yjarrn stood up. The doors swung loosely in the doorframe, but that problem was easily taken care of by the big chest just inside the door. Nothing was inside, but it was easily heavy enough to keep the doors closed once he slid it up against them.

Yjarrn plopped himself down on the dusty bed. The interior of the house was in far worse shape than the exterior. It was dirty and neglected. Cobwebs covered every conceivable place where a spider might think to build their traps, and the faint smell of mold permeated the stale, musty air. He could not help but think that Jarl Blackbriar might have had a better time selling the dump if she had someone clear it out or at least open a window.

"Her loss and my gain, I suppose," he said, laying back on the bed.

Yjarrn immediately regretted that action and a squeal caused him to jump up out of the bed. A small skeever twisted itself out from under the furs and straw and scurried down into the basement. Yjarrn decided that "gain" might not necessarily mean good. He grabbed the broom from beside the door and began beating bed. if he was going to be sleeping here tonight, he was not planning on sharing the bed with anything. The broom also did quite well in clearing the cobwebs away, and he swept the dust from the floor off into the basement.

"Enjoy that, vermin!" he hissed as he swept the last bit of filth down to where the skeever had fled. "You come back up here, and I'll put the handle of this across your ugly face." He did not expect the skeever or anything else down there to understand him, but the threat made him feel better about relaxing in his new hideaway.

Yjarrn spent the night there and the next day. There was plenty of food hidden away in the barrels that had not yet spoiled, chunks of beef somehow preserved for who knows how long by the salt in the barrels. He laid back on the bed, munching on the salty beef and reading the second volume of Songs of the Return. It was an easy read. He knew the story pretty well already, as most Nords did, though he personally thought the Nords were rather stubborn to bother coming back at all. The way they described Atmora and the distant green summers, the place did not sound all that bad. Why leave? Why bother trying to fighting an enemy who had almost wiped you out? Yjarrn sighed. It made sense. Nords, for the most part, were rather stubborn, to the point of stupid, and coming back did end up working out for them. Yjarrn was so involved reading the book, he did not hear the grinding of metal in the lock of the front door.

The grinding of the metal scraped around until a small click sounded and the door slid open. It was the click that finally got Yjarrn attention, and he looked up to see a man with long red hair standing in the front room of the house staring at him with a sly smile.

"That was some display you put on yesterday, lad," the man said.

Yjarrn jumped up off the bed. "Who are you?" he asked.

The man continued as if he had never spoken. "It was tremendously gratifying to see Hrolgir that upset after you lost him," he said. "He has been causing me all kinds of trouble ever since he was promoted last year. I guess he got a taste for success."

"What do you want?" Yjarrn asked, slowly reaching for the handle of his broom.

"No need for that, lad," the man said. "I'm here for you, but I don't want to arrest you. I represent an organization the specializes in making people rich, and I think we could have a mutually beneficial relationship. My name is Brynjolf."

"Yjarrn," the scared squatter replied.

Brynjolf paused. After a moment, he chuckled, "Really? Like what goes on the loom?"

Yjarrn sighed, "Yeah."

Brynjolf coughed and composed himself, "It's a pleasure to meet you," He seemed to stumble over what he was going to say next, but he caught himself and eventually decided not to repeat the name. He sat down at the table and asked, "How would you like to be rich?"

"It hasn't worked out yet," Yjarrn said.

"Clearly," Brynjolf replied. "But I can make it happen."

"Yeah?" Yjarrn asked. "How?"

Brynjolf smiled, "You clearly have the skill to slip away from the city guard when it's called for, and you can get into a house, even one most could not hope of entering without the key. Do I really have to spell it out for you completely?"

"It would help, yes," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf sighed, "Alright, I assume you have heard of the Thieves' Guild?"

"From time to time," Yjarrn said.

"I believe we might have a place for you if you are interested in making a bit of coin," Brynjolf suggested. "It's not the best of places, but it certainly beats out what you have here."

"Aren't you that merchant that keeps trying to push that weird elixir in the marketplace?" Yjarrn asked.

"Falmer blood elixir, yes," Brynjolf said.

"Do you know how disgusting that sounds?" Yjarrn asked. "I don't know how many people actually know what a falmer is, but would you want to drink its blood?

"You might have a point there, lad," Brynjolf conceded.

"Is it actually blood?"

"Of course not," Brynjolf said. "It's lake water with some animal fat and red dye."

"Still gross, but a little less so," Yjarrn said. "Maybe call it extract or something else."

"That is not the point of this visit," Brynjolf said.

"But even falmer extract sounds pretty bad," Yjarrn said. "I wouldn't want to drink anything extracted from a falmer, blood or anything else."

"Can we get back to what I was offering?" Brynjolf asked, the irritation rising in his voice.

"Maybe call it Extract of the Sea and use blue dye?" Yjarrn suggested

"Enough!" Brynjolf snapped. "Do you want to join?"

Yjarrn nodded.

"Good," Brynjolf said, leaning back in the chair. "There is a bar in the Ratway called the Ragged Flagon. Get there and I will tell you more about how we can make each other a lot of gold." Brynjolf sighed, stood up, glared at his irritating candidate, and without another word, left the house.

After Brynjolf left, Yjarrn walked directly to the door and locked it. Then he grabbed the chair, wedged it against the door, and sat down staring thoughtfully into the fire. What was he going to do? On one hand, the Thieves' Guild had been gaining a little more notoriety in the last year since the dragons had once again disappeared, but they were far from perfect. It was not that long ago Yjarrn had turned the other way while the guard turned a Thieves' Guild member into a pincushion. In the chaotic minutes following the thief's rather grisly demise, Yjarrn had taken the opportunity to lift what he had taken.

He could still see the thief's face, full of surprise, even at the moment of death, and it worried him that the guard was willing to give a summary execution for a stolen candlestick and a couple of gems. If he joined up with the guild, he would be declaring an allegiance in the war currently being waged in Riften, and he was not sure he wanted to make himself a target.

Yjarrn woke up a few hours later. The orange embers of the fire still glowed brightly in the hearth, and the night wind whistled through the tiny spaces between the house's timbers. He stumbled over to the bed and fell down on it, but the moment he hit it, he could not sleep. His mind raced over the risks and possible rewards of joining the guild. One statement kept going through his head, "How would you like to be rich?" Brynjolf asked him this question as if all it would take to have pockets full of gold would be his signature on the contract. Yjarrn sat up in the bed, staring at the front door of the house as if he expected it to give him the answer to his apprehensions, but it only returned his stare with silent indifference. A moment later, he kicked the chair out of the way and left the house.

It was a cold night in Riften, and the cool air brought Yjarrn's senses to life as he crept through the city streets carefully avoiding anyone who might recognize him. He could still hear the new bard Keerava had recently hired singing her heart out in the Bee and Barb. She had a great voice. It reminded him of Lynly Star-Sung back in Ivarstead. She was the only reason he ever went to the Vilemyr Inn, but he had never worked up the courage to approach her. She was far too beautiful, and had he walked up to her he knew nothing remotely charming would come out of his mouth. Why bother chasing an impossible dream? This one, however, the dream of getting rich with the Thieves' Guild, that seemed so much more achievable. Maybe, if he was successful, he might find something to say to her, but if not, he would always remember how her voice rang in perfect harmony with the melody of her lute on cold nights in Ivarstead, nights just like this one.

The marketplace was empty. Across the channel, Yjarrn could see a guard leaning against the wall outside the Temple of Mara. He waited, but the guard did not move. A few minutes later, another guard walked passed him and slapped the guard hard in the side of the helmet, buckling the man's knees. Yjarrn cursed his poor luck. The guard was asleep! If he had just gone, he would have been fine, but now the man was awake and likely in a foul mood. After giving the inattentive watch a firm dressing down, the patrol moved along back up the street toward Mistveil Keep. Yjarrn waited, hoping the guard would again slump back against his wall, but it never happened. Apparently, the wakeup call had been enough to get his attention, and now he was walking back and forth in front of the temple. What a pain in the backside! Why had he not gone? Anyone else would have gone! They would not have been worried that the guard was standing there! Then it hit him. Anyone else would have just walked across the marketplace like it was no big deal. He was not looking to nab anything! He was doing nothing wrong, just walking from one place to another. There was no need for the guard to stop him unless he remembered him from the afternoon before. Yjarrn took another look at the guard who now appeared to be wide awake and watching over the city's central plaza.

"Wonderful," he whispered, as the last hopes he had of the guard returning to his nap faded. "I might as well give it a shot," he sighed. "What could go wrong?" Then he answered his own question several times over in his mind and swallowed hard. None of those seemed like pleasant ways to die. So, along with all of his reservations, Yjarrn stood up and confidently stepped out into the plaza.

A few strides in, long before the guard had ever laid eyes on him, Yjarrn tripped on a loose stone and fell face first into the short wall surrounding the central market. In severe pain and grasping his face but certain the guard had heard the result of his clumsiness, Yjarrn squirmed his way back against the wall all the while fighting the intense urge to cry out, possibly with some less than flattering words for those responsible for laying the plaza's stonework. The guard called out, but Yjarrn stayed quiet. He could taste blood, and he felt the warmth of it on his hand. He pressed lightly at the throbbing place on his jaw and felt the tooth give way. He spit it out on the cobblestone and waited, listening. The last thing he wanted was the watchman to come over and try to help him. If anything would maximize his catch on being detained and ultimately arrested for resisting arrest yesterday, that would be it. The guard called out again. This time he was closer, and Yjarrn quietly scrambled away to the other side of the wall holding his bleeding face.

"Who is out here?" the guard asked. He was now standing where Yjarrn had tripped. If he looked down, he might be able to see the small spatter and smear of blood on the stones in the faint light of the moons.

Yjarrn waited, controlling his breathing as much as he could and putting pressure on his bleeding gum. This is not starting out well, he thought to himself. What was Brynjolf thinking bringing me on? I can't even walk casually across town. For a moment, it sounded like the guard had given up. He wandered around the area, looking into the deep shadows, but he found nothing. Yjarrn could hear his footsteps trudging back toward his place by the temple when he noticed two steel-clad feet standing in front of him.

Yjarrn looked up at the tall, Nord woman standing in front of him. She was completely outfitted in steel plate, except for a helmet, which seemed like a rather large oversight considering how vulnerable a person's head is in a fight, and this person looked ready for a fight. A streak of blue war paint covered most of the left side of her face and she carried a large single-edged battle ax with a wicked backspike. It was well careful and sharp, but it had been used, testifying to the combat she had put it through. Yjarrn could not remember the last time he had seen someone so intimidating. He almost called out for the guard when she reached down to help him up.

"Are you ok?" she asked. "It looks like you got into a bit of a scrap."

"I'm fine," Yjarrn said, excepting her help.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It looks like you were bleeding quite a bit."

"Yes," Yjarrn said, embarrassed. "I tripped on the stones, knocked out a tooth." He could hear the guard coming over, and his heart started to beat faster. Should he make a run for it? There was no way he could push past this woman if she held onto him. In his mind was a picture of her easily holding him off the ground by the scruff like a helpless kitten until the guard made it over to arrest him. What was he going to do? If the guard arrested him, he might be the first member of the guild to be arrested before he was even initiated! Once that got out, he would never be able to show his face here again. He would have to move back to Ivarstead or over to Whiterun. Windhelm was out. Even if he wanted to move to the coldest, ugliest, most inhospitable city in all of Tamriel, the Civil War was still raging in Eastmarch. Ulric was barely holding on to Windhelm and Winterhold, and no one who was not involved with the war was going north.

"It's alright!" the woman said, waving to the guard. "He'll be fine."

"If you say so Mjoll," the guard said. He turned around and walked back to his post.

Mjoll? Mjoll the Lioness? She was back? Yjarrn suddenly felt the need to find a toilet. This was the Hunter of Thieves, the one who was making it her business to drive the Thieves' Guild to extinction? He felt faint on his feet and suddenly found himself trying very hard not to fall over again. Trying to steady himself he asked a question, "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm on the lookout for members of the Thieves' Guild," she said casually as if she was not going to bury that ax in their skulls when she found them. "Have you seen anyone skulking around out here?"

"Nope!" Yjarrn said quickly.

Mjoll's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.

Yjarrn grasped at the first thing he saw. "I'm headed to Mistveil Keep," he said. "The steward needs me to make some deliveries."

Mjoll nodded, "Don't get too mixed up with the jarl. She still has dealings with some rather disreputable people. You seem nice. I wouldn't want you to fall on the wrong side of things."

In that moment, more than anything else, Yjarrn did not want to fall on the wrong side of things. He nodded, and Mjoll walked off passed the smithy and out to the docks. She was already gone when Yjarrn realized he was still nodding. Slowly, he brought his head to a stop and swallowed. He was tempted to return quietly to the abandoned house, but he had already come this far. He glanced over to see the guard watching him and quickly turned and walked over the bridge toward the keep. A quick right and a few steps down the stairs and Yjarrn was standing in front of the door to the Ratway. In front of the door was an iron cage door, which the jarl recently had locked, but the lock was easy enough to rake open. Yjarrn opened the door and quietly descended down into the tunnels below the city, unsure exactly where he was going or what he might stumble into once he got there.

No matter how quiet Yjarrn attempted to be, the sound of his boots against the stone steps seemed as loud as a smith's hammer in the stone tunnel running underneath Riften. Softly, step by step he crept through the passageway, pausing from time to time to listen. At first, there was nothing except the distant sound of water flowing through the sewers, but very quickly a dim light appeared ahead of him. As he approached the warm glow of a fire, he could make out the voices of two men arguing over something. They were trying to stay quiet, but their voices echoed off the stone walls with complete clarity.

"Why are we still down here?" the first voice said. "Do you know how long we have been sitting around that fire waiting for something to happen? Over a year, a ruddy year, and we are still living in this sewer!"

"Shhh!" the second voice cautioned. "Do you want someone to hear you? We have to wait for the right moment. You don't worry about that. You worry about bashing people's heads in, I'll worry about Guild."

"If they haven't found us by now, they aren't going to," the first said. "We could hold a dinner party for all the jarls and they still would not know we are here. No one comes this way! No one ever has!"

The second voice did not respond for a moment. He seemed to be weighing his companion's words. "I have to admit, I have not seen anyone down here in quite some time," he said.

"Fifteen months," the first added.

"Hmmm, yes," the second voice admitted. "Maybe so."

"Absolutely so," the first said. "I've been marking the days on the wall over here."

"Wow! How have I not noticed that?" the second asked.

"Because you are constantly absorbed in yourself and this plan of yours," accused the first voice. "It hasn't worked because no one is here, and no one cares. I used to be worried about the guild finding out about us, but they haven't. If they have, they obviously don't care. Why? Because there is nothing to care about. The only people to rob down here are a few lowlifes and that boxer who keeps getting bored and punching skeevers, and they don't have any money. If they did, they wouldn't be here! Why would we come to the sewers to rob people? People don't like sewers. They smell like crap!"

"My plan is great!" the second voice responded. Apparently, he had dismissed his companion's line of reason. "It just hasn't worked yet! We just need more time and we are going to be rich! Rich! We'll have a house as big as the Black-briars! You'll see!"

Yjarrn jumped when he heard a sickening crunch followed by the thud of a body hitting the stone floor. The sound of several more impacts echoed down the tunnel, and Yjarrn had to grab his mouth to keep himself from crying out. He quickly hid in one of the notches built into the side of the passageway and stayed quiet as the angry footsteps of one of the men stomped passed by.

"Gonna tell me to keep waiting down here the rest of my miserable life for something to happen," the man grumbled. "Nothing was ever gonna happen down here Stupid Drahff! Stupid plan! Had me sit down here in an ugly damp sewer for a ruddy year! What was I thinking? Hope you're happy!" he called back over his shoulder. "I took care of my part! Should have done it fifteen months ago and saved myself the irritation!"

The door up to the city slammed behind him before Yjarrn moved. He crept out of the small cubby, thankful the large, angry man had not noticed him. In the chamber, Yjarrn saw how the argument ended. There was not much left of Drahff's head and what was left looked like a sausage that had burst through its casing. The bloody mess did not take Yjarrn by surprise, but it did overturn his stomach, which had always been a little weak, in just the wrong way. At first, he heaved, but he managed to hold it back and turned away. Unfortunately, the image of Drahff's brains splattered across the stones was firmly fixed in his mind. Again, he held it back and attempted to flee the room, but as he did, a slick piece of Drahff sent his foot up over his head. Yjarrn landed next to the corpse, and this was too much for his stomach to handle. It emptied itself in violent spasms, adding to the already considerable mess. At some point, there is just nothing left to heave up. Despite his stomach's attempts to expel even more, Yjarrn managed to get to his feet and stumble out of the room.

Yjarrn leaned weakly against the wall spitting that nastiness from his mouth and trying to wait out the stomach spasms. He tore off his shirt, which was so covered in filth that it was no longer worth trying saving, and threw it back into the chamber with Drahff. Thankfully, his pants were still clean, though he did not know how, and the only filth on his boots was what he had stepped in.

"Ugghhh," he moaned, breathing heavily. "That was so disgusting."

"What was that?" he heard someone call out. "Who's there?"

The calls were coming from a room just passed a raised bridge, a contraption Yjarrn assumed was set in place by the Thieves' Guild to keep visitors away from their underground tavern and perhaps to make his first trial a bit more difficult. If Yjarrn was going to be honest with himself, he had already had just about all he was willing to take, but whoever was calling out sounded like they might need some help. Yjarrn was not usually the kind of person to give out a helping hand. He had not had very many, and most of the ones offered had wanted something in return. The voice seemed frail, though, almost vulnerable. It reminded him of his grandmother, and if she had somehow gotten lost down in a sewer like this when she was alive, Yjarrn would hope someone might be nice enough to show her the way out. Besides, he still wanted to get to the Flagon, if for no other reason than to see Brynjolf's face when he made it.

The sound of metal sliding against metal and then firmly into place preceded the lowering of the bridge into place. On the other side, still clutching the lever, was a woman dressed in rags who was not nearly as old as her voice made her sound. As soon as she saw Yjarrn she ran in the opposite direction.

"Wait!" Yjarrn called after her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know where the Ragged Flagon is! Come on!" His hands flopped down to his sides as the woman disappeared into the dimness. Unfortunately, Yjarrn did not have to wait long to see her again. She emerged from the far chamber running directly at Yjarrn swinging an ax with bloodlust in her eyes.

Yjarrn's eyes bulged and several unseemly words escaped his lips as he turned and ran. Keenly aware of the mess he was coming up on, Yjarrn deftly leaped over Drahff and hid around the corner by the fire. The crazy, ax-wielding vagrant charged into the room swinging wildly in all directions, and not having taken the state of the floor into account, promptly slipped in the filth and landed on what was left of Drahff. Covered in blood and sick and screaming in what Yjarrn could only guess was a mix of rage and confusion, the woman attempted to stand. When that failed, she dove for her ax, which only succeeded in covering her with even more filth, and when she finally got to her weapon, both her and it were so covered with nastiness, her first swing sent it flying out of her hands as she fell once again to the stones. This time she did not attempt to get up. She lay quietly, as if asleep on the floor next to the severely disrespected corpse of Drahff. Yjarrn stood in the corner by the fire, hardly believing what he had just seen.

"You need to find your calm, lady," Yjarrn muttered as he carefully stepped around the mess and out onto the landing. He was moving quietly now. He was not interested in meeting anyone else down in the Ratway, and if the first taste of the Flagon was anything like this, he was out, no question. After crossing the bridge, he slipped around the corner into another chamber and passed that he came to a door. Slowly, expecting something horrible to happen at any moment, Yjarrn opened the door.

The chamber on the other side of the door was dark except for the light shining in from the hole in the ceiling and the candles and chandelier illuminating a bar at the far end. Yjarrn could see several individuals dressed in dark clothing sitting at tables drinking and talking. Standing water took up a large portion of the floor, and a dank, musty smell filled his nostrils. It was not the most luxurious place he had ever seen, but it was far from the worse hideout a group of miscreants could have picked to hole up in. He crept silently around the edge of the pool, careful not to give away his presence until he knew for sure he was in the right place. Then, he saw what he was looking for. Brynjolf was sitting at one of the tables talking to a smaller bald man. This had to be the place! Yjarrn gave himself a once over. He was already coming in shirtless and a bit rough for wear. There was no need to have any lingering pieces of Drahff on him as well. Satisfied with his appearance, Yjarrn stepped out of the shadows and walked into the Ragged Flagon.

"Well, it's about time you made it here," Brynjolf said, throwing back the rest of his pint and slamming the mug on the table. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to take me up on my offer."

"I nearly didn't," Yjarrn replied.

"What changed your mind?" Brynjolf asked.

"Poverty," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf nodded, "Fair enough, lad. Come with me."

Yjarrn started to ask who everyone was, but Brynjolf patted him hard on the back and nearly shoved him toward a door at the back of the Flagon. Yjarrn started to open it, but Brynjolf grabbed him by the shoulder. "Nope!" he said. "This way." The thief opened up a wardrobe placed sitting up against the wall and removed the back panel. "Follow me," he instructed.

As Yjarrn followed Brynjolf through yet another passageway, the thief began to tell him about the Guild. It was not a particularly flowery introduction, bare bones at best, but it gave the new thief the rundown of what he could expect as the newest member of their organization.

They came to another door and passed through it into the largest chamber yet. Yjarrn started to wonder just how big this subterranean network was and whether the biggest part of Riften was above or below ground level. At this point, he would not be surprised if the next door had an entire city behind it.

"This is the Cistern," Brynjolf said as they entered. Once again much of the floor of this room was covered by standing water, though the smell was not quite as overpowering as it was in the Flagon. Beds lined the walls of the Cistern, and Yjarrn saw the eyes of several shady characters lock onto him as they walked toward the center of the room. A shadowy figure looked up from a desk at the far end of the room. When they saw Yjarrn, they moved around from behind the table with a silent elegance that was difficult to miss. "This is our Guild Master," Brynjolf whispered. "Be polite, she's not mean, but she also does not forget a slight."

The dark elf met them at the center of the Cistern. "Who is this you have brought me, Brynjolf?" the Guild Master asked.

"This is Yjarrn," Brynjolf introduced him. "Yjarrn, this is our Guild Master, Karliah."

Karliah reached out a small, almost delicate hand to his, and as he took hold of her hand, she searched his eyes with a penetrating stare. Unlike most dark elves, her eyes were a vibrate shade of purple that seemed to peer deep into him, seeking out anything he might be holding back.

"What brings you here?" she asked. Even though she had let go of his hand, her eyes had not released him.

"I would like to do a little better than scraping by," Yjarrn said.

Karliah smiled, "I think we can help you with that. Brynjolf, get him outfitted, please. Our members are professionals. They should not look homeless."

"Right away," Brynjolf answered.

Karliah turned, casually running her fingers across Yjarrn's stomach as she did. He startled slightly at her touch, and he thought she might have let out a tiny laugh. The Guild Master walked back to her desk, though it seemed almost as if she glided for all the sound she made and turned her attention back to the papers spread out over it.

"Yjarrn," Brynjolf barked. "Your attention."

Shaken from his trace, Yjarrn only nodded.

"I need you to go see Tonilia back in the Flagon," he said. "She has your new armor. Do you have a weapon?"

Yjarrn shook his head.

"Hmm, I don't think that has been an issue before," Brynjolf muttered. "We have a smith down here now. I'm not sure what else he's good for if not for this. You can see him after Tonilia and then come back here. I have an idea for your first job."

It was not until Yjarrn got back to the tavern that he realized he had no idea who Tonilia was. He looked around. There were only two women in the Flagon, so he figured his chances were fifty-fifty. The first woman he approached was a blonde Imperial who was drinking alone at one of the tables. Yjarrn had not made it a couple of steps passed the bar when she saw him approach.

"What do you want?" she said, her speech slightly slurred by drink.

"I'm looking for Tonilia," Yjarrn replied.

"Do I look like Tonilia?" the woman asked.

Yjarrn's jaw dropped. He had no idea how to answer this question, and the woman already seemed ready to draw her blade. "I don't know who Tonilia is," he finally managed to say.

The woman glared at him. "Do you see this?" she asked attempting to motion to her face and nearly poking herself in the eye. "She does not look like this." One of her eyebrows rose as if ready to challenge whatever he had to say next, though Yjarrn suspected all the effort she was displaying might just be her attempting to stay upright in her chair.

O for one, I suppose, Yjarrn thought to himself, and he walked over to the Redguard woman sitting on the dock. He figured if this was no Tonilia, at least she looked a bit nicer than the Imperial and might be willing to direct him to her.

"Tonilia?" he asked hesitantly.

"What d' ya need?" she replied.

Success! Yjarrn thought, though he tried not to let the elation of not getting yelled at again show on his face. "Brynjolf told me to come to you for my armor," Yjarrn said.

"Right," Tonilia said. She reached back behind her into one of the crates. "Here's the jacket and the hood." She rummaged around in the crate some more, and not finding what she wanted, opened up another and grabbed a pair of leather boots and gloves off the top. "And here's the rest," she said handing them over.

"No," Yjarrn shook his head. "Brynjolf said I would be getting armor. This is leather."

Tonilia nodded, "That's the armor he was talking about."

"It's leather," Yjarrn replied.

"Yeah," she said.

"You realize the leather on the pants is far too thin to stop anything," Yjarrn said. "Arrows and blades are going to cut right through this, not to mention axes, and how am I going to run with an arrow in my leg?"

"There is such a thing as leather armor," Tonilia retorted.

"Sure," Yjarrn said. "But this isn't it. Sure the jacket might have thicker pieces to it, but they aren't certainly aren't water hardened. It's not really armor until you do that, though it'd be even better if you added some steel plates and make it into a brigandine."

The word did not flow off her tongue well. "Bri… gan-deen?" she asked. "But if we add steel, it would no longer be light armor."

"But this is hardly more than leather clothing," Yjarrn argued. "How can you honestly call it armor? Maybe if they wiped the flat of the blade across my backside I'd be alright, but if not…" Yjarrn did not bother to finish the statement.

"Listen," Tonilia dropped her voice. "We know it doesn't work as well as it could, but it has some nice enchantments."

"Like what?" Yjarrn asked.

Tonilia explained, "The jacket has increased carry weight."

"Why?" Yjarrn asked, confused.

"So you can carry more loot," Tonilia replied.

"Why not just sew a few extra pockets on the back right here?" Yjarrn asked. "And there are some places here in the front perfect for smaller pockets to hold gems. That has got to be cheaper than paying for an enchantment, don't you think?"

Tonilia just stared at him, unsure how to respond for a moment. "Look," she said. "It may not work the best…"

"You mean 'at all'," Yjarrn interrupted.

"Shut up!" Tonilia scolded him. "I know it's bloody leather, but…"

"Hopefully not," Yjarrn said.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm hoping not to bleed on it," Yjarrn replied.

Tonilia scowled at him. "That is not what I meant," she said.

He tried to start again, "That's…"

"Shut up!" Tonilia yelled. "Take the ruddy armor and be happy we gave you something to be dressed in, running around here half naked and then criticizing clothes, I ought to beat you senseless, you ungrateful s'wit!"

Yjarrn was not at all happy with the first impressions he was making in the Ragged Flagon. After Tonilia had harangued him off the small dock in front of everyone, the rest of the patrons seem loath to even speak to him. He made his way around the tables, doing his best to ignore the scathing glare he was getting from the barkeep, and walked over to the dark elf smith, who had set up shop in one of the spaces built into the outside wall of the chamber.

The smith was laughing as he walked up to him. "Boy, I have not seen Tonilia that angry in some time," he said. "Thanks for the show. I've been telling them for some time that thin leather might look good, but it isn't going to do a lick of good if an arrow hits it." He shook his head. "I have a lot of good pieces of steel here I would like to hammer out into some useful armor, but all they want are more weapons. I don't suppose you would want to commission some?"

"Sorry," Yjarrn said. "I don't have the coin for that yet."

"Shame," the smith murmured. "What's your name, boy?"

"Yjarrn," he replied.

The dark elf laughed and looked up at him. "Yjarrn?" he asked. "Like a ball of yarn?"

Yjarrn sighed, "Yes, like a ball of yarn."

The blacksmith whistled. "Oh, boy, you had better make a name for yourself or that name will do it for you, and not in a good way. Did your mother like you?"

"Apparently not," Yjarrn shrugged.

"Anyway, Yjarrn," the smith said. "My name is Vanryth Gatharian, and you must have come over here for something. What can I do for you?"

"I need a weapon," Yjarrn said.

"Of course," Vanryth sighed. "What are you looking for? A sword? That's what most of the new recruits ask for."

"What's wrong with a sword?" Yjarrn asked.

"Nothing, they just aren't the very useful for a thief, only really good for running a man through, and the Guild frowns heavily on that. Most of this lot opt for daggers," Vanryth said waving his hand toward the patrons over at the tavern. "A small blade is a better, more useful for prying as long as the tip is not too rigid, but everyone in the city is allowed to carry weapons! Why not carry something a bit bigger and more useful for getting in and out of places?"

"Like?" Yjarrn asked.

"An ax," Vanryth suggested handing Yjarrn one of his steel war axes. "This handy piece of weaponry can hack through a door or a chest rather quickly if you can't pick it open, and that backspike would work perfectly to pry open a door."

"As long as you don't mind grabbing hold of the blade," Yjarrn remarked. "I like the idea though. What about a war hammer? Do you have one of those?"

The smith gave him an odd look, but he looked through is chest and came up with a large, four-foot-long steel war hammer, and despite multiple pleas for him not to, places the hammer into Yjarrn's hands. The poor thief, unable to deal with the weighty weapon, dropped unceremoniously to the ground. With a lot of straining and groaning, Yjarrn managed to haul the weapon back up onto the table.

"This is not what I wanted," Yjarrn said.

"You asked for a war hammer," Vanryth said. "That's a war hammer. It's a bit large, but it is a great weapon."

"I'm sure it is," Yjarrn said. "But how am I supposed to sneak around unnoticed with this? It's enormous!"

"That would be difficult," the dark elf admitted.

"Impossible is the word you're looking for," Yjarrn corrected him. "Impossible. I would like a hammer, maybe a couple of feet long that I can carry in one hand."

"You can't carry that in one hand," the smith laughed.

"I can't carry that with two hands," Yjarrn corrected him again.

Both of them stared at each other for a few awkward moments.

Yjarrn sighed, "Can you make something like that just smaller? About this big?" Yjarrn placed his hands about two feet apart from each other and looked the smith directly in the eye. "Like this? With a much smaller head on it?"

Vanryth looked at Yjarrn like the young thief had completely lost his mind. "I have never seen anything like that before in all my years here in Skyrim."

"Really?" Yjarrn asked. "Never?"

Vanryth shook his head, "No."

Again, both of them stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments, but this time Vanryth broke the uncomfortable silence. "I'll see what I can do about it," he said.

"Thank you," Yjarrn said, throwing his arms out to his sides in relief. "I'll be back tomorrow for it with the coin."

"I thought you said you didn't have any coin," Vanryth said.

"Hopefully that will change by tomorrow," Yjarrn called back over his shoulder.

"Welcome back, lad," Brynjolf greeted Yjarrn when he returned to the Cistern. "I trust you got yourself sorted."

Yjarrn nodded.

Brynjolf smiled, "Good, because I think I have a job you're going to enjoy. It's nothing too difficult, just enough to get your feet wet, and it helps us out quite a bit as well."

Brynjolf's mischievous smile had piqued the new recruit's interest. "What is it?" he asked.

"How would you like to get a little revenge?" Brynjolf asked.

Yjarrn was confused. He wasn't much for any kind of retaliation, and as far as he was concerned, there was no one he felt the need to settle a score with. What was Brynjolf alluding to? The biggest scare he took recently was that psychopath in the Ratway, and she had already taken a pretty rough spill for her part in scaring the living snot out of him. "Who are you talking about?" he asked Brynjolf.

Brynjolf gave him a questioning look and said, "Hrolgir, of course!"

"Who?" Yjarrn asked.

Brynjolf's questioning look turned to one of amazement, and Yjarrn felt a little sheepish for forcing his new boss to expound. "The guard who nearly killed you," Brynjolf explained. "And if you were any fatter, he likely would have. He usually doesn't give thieves the chance to surrender."

Yjarrn gulped. He knew things had been bad, but he didn't know just how bad.

"That's why we keep surveillance on him," Brynjolf continued. "Which is how we saw your little escapade. I figured you'd be begging for this job, but if you don't want it, I'll see if Vex is sober."

"No," Yjarrn said. "I'll take it."

"Alright then," Brynjolf said. His smile had now returned. "I need you to plant this on him." Brynjolf handed Yjarrn a small bottle made from opaque purple glass. "Do you know what it is?" he asked.

"Of course," Yjarrn said.

Brnjolf continued, "Riften has had a growing skooma problem recently, and our new jarl has been doing her best to get rid of it. She is not the kind of person to tolerate anyone making money without giving her a cut, and they are operating out of bounds. If we can implicate Hrolgir as part of that ring, he is going to disappear, and I for one, am looking forward to having him out of the picture."

"I see," Yjarrn said, taking the vial. "Anything else?"

"Yes, once you get that on his person, I want you to drop a few more off at his house. We need to get enough into his possession that he looks like a dealer. It's the door just across from you if you leave back the way you came through the Flagon, or you could plant them first if you want. Either way, you do that, and the rest will be taken care of," the veteran thief promised.

By the way, Brynjolf was speaking, Yjarrn got the feeling he was just a small cog in a much larger machine. He just hoped he managed his part well enough and the rest of it worked together as smoothly as Brynjolf seemed to think it would.

"Hey!" Brynjolf nudged him. "Are you alright, lad?"

"Absolutely," Yjarrn lied. "Never better."

Brynjolf nodded, "Of you go then."

As Yjarrn made his way out of the Cistern to the Flagon and back out the Ratway, he could not help thinking about something Brynjolf said, "He is going to disappear." There are a lot of things that could be meant by the word "disappear." The jarl could reassign him somewhere else. Having Hrolgir out at Fort Greenwall or patrolling of the farms would certainly make it easier on the Guild. The jarl could easily expel him from the guard, and the embarrassment would force him to move to another city or even look to cross one of the borders over to Cyrodiil or Morrowind. Surely Byrnjolf didn't mean the "show up floating in the lake" kind of disappear, right? What kind of jarl would do that? Yjarrn's expertly crafted rationalization had helped allay his growing guilt by the time he stepped out next to the channel of the lower city. Now all he had to do was find Hrolgir. It shouldn't be too difficult. The problem would be making sure the guard did not see him.

Yjarrn's heart was beating like a rabbit's who had just realized he had burrowed into a wolf's den. The city had taken on the air of enemy territory. This was the guard's home turf, and he was the trespasser. Luckily, a couple of the enchantments on his "armor" were much more useful than carry weight, with the noticeable exception of his hood, which was good for nothing more than shading his eyes from the sun.

Yjarrn decided to plant the skooma at Hrolgir's house first. If things did go wrong when he attempted to put the drugs on his person, at least there would be something there that might save the job. He could see the door the moment he exited the Ratway and crossed the channel over to it. He quickly scanned the area, and as soon as no one was watching, he deftly picked the lock. He inched the door open just far enough for him to see that there were no lights on in the home. Even the hearth appeared to be quiet and cold. The burglar took on more glance around and then backed quickly into the house and shut the door behind him.

In the dimness of Hrolgir's home, Yjarrn was effectively blind. He had spent just enough time outside for his eyes to adjust, and now his pupils were doing the best they could to expand in order to let in all the available light. Had he been smarter, the thief would have merely waited the few moments until he could see again, but being nervous and in a hurry, he immediately turned and moved toward a bookcase on the back wall, one of the only structures he could make out in the darkness. Unfortunately, as he strode hastily forward, he caught his hip on the edge of an unseen dresser. The pain was excruciating, shooting through is hip and down his leg.

Yjarrn cried out before he could stop himself, "Mother… father! Why?!" He sunk instantly to his knees, his eyes wet with tears. "Who puts a ruddy dresser there?!" After a few moments of mostly being irritated with himself, the pain dissipated and Yjarrn could see that the dresser was up against the wall just as it should be. "That was stupid," he muttered to himself as he snuck over to the bookcase. He placed a couple of the vials of skooma on one of the shelves and dropped the largest one in the chest, keeping the smallest to plant on Hrolgir himself.

Once he left the house, Yjarrn walked up the steps to the main part of the city. He tried to act as casual as possible, but he was afraid of getting identified. The clothes he was wearing were rather obvious. Everyone in the Ragged Flagon and the Cistern were wearing something similar in black or varying shades of brown, and every thief he had seen caught in the city was wearing exactly what he was. He almost expected to hear the guards call out the moment he stepped up onto ground level, but they didn't. Strangely enough, they seemed oblivious to what he was wearing and seemed to regard him as they always had. Maybe it was some strange effect of the getup Tonilia had given him, or perhaps the guards and even the citizens of Riften were just missing a little something in their ability to recognize the blatantly obvious. After standing in front of Mistveil Keep in plain sight of at least two guards as well as everyone in the marketplace, Yjarrn decided that whatever the reason was that he was not already face down on the stones, it was working for him and he would go with it. He hid himself in the short alleyway between the keep and the Blackbriar mansion. The barracks and the jail were up by the keep, and any guard who wanted to get down to the city would have to pass within his line of sight to get there.

A few hours passed. At first, Yjarrn stood leaning against the side of the mansion. The standing turned to pacing, and after a couple more hours, he found himself sitting up against the stone wall wondering when in all of Tamriel Hrolgir would be starting his rounds. Yjarrn's focus was starting to drift, and as he was gazing off into the marketplace he saw one of his colleagues looking standing casually against the marketplace's stone wall by the Argonian jeweler's stand. She was a Nord woman, dressed almost exactly like he was, except without the nearly worthless hood, and like him, attracting no attention from those surrounding her. She looked disinterested and bored at her post, but maybe it was just part of her cover. Yjarrn guessed that this was the other thief on the job, probably waiting to tip off the guard once she saw him finish his part. She glanced over at him, and Yjarrn averted his gaze. He could feel his face flush, and he berated himself for the awkward moment, telling himself to keep his mind on his mark.

About half an hour later that mark came strolling down the steps of the keep and turned right down the street leading in front of the mansion. Yjarrn ducked his head just enough for the hood to shield his face and congratulated himself for his smoothness and for finding a use for the hood as more than a sun visor. He listened as Hrolgir's steps moved closer and closer. As they drew near, he raised up his head enough to see the man's boots, and as he planted his foot next to Yjarrn, the thief slipped he small vial of skooma into his boot, between the fur and the leather front. Once Hrolgir passed, Yjarrn looked over toward his accomplice to give her the signal that it was done, but she was already gone. Yjarrn was impressed. The woman must have eyes like a hawk. He shrugged. His part was complete, and the only thing left to do was escape back down to the Cistern where he had no doubt Brynjolf was waiting with glowing accolades.

Yjarrn slowly picked himself up and walked down the alleyway, passed the walled-off courtyard behind the Blackbriar estate, to the graveyard. it was a creepy place to make into a secret entrance, but that must have been the point. Nords were not the kind to spend much time in places like this, and when he arrived, Yjarrn indeed saw that no one was around to save the statue of Talos that a few rowdy legionnaires tipped over as they celebrated taking the city. It had laid there, broken, for nearly half a year, but no one had bothered cleaning it up. Yjarrn had never thought much about it before, but knowing now what he knew of the jarl, he guessed she might have been keeping it there for a reason.

The shadowmarks that served as decorative windows of the small crypt marked the structure as the entrance to the underground lair of thieves. He found the same mark on the stone sarcophagus inside. It was his first time entering the Cistern by this route, and he pushed the button with some in trepidation, seriously hoping this was not some horrible guild joke that ended with him face to face with a rotting corpse. To his relief the stone below him shifted, revealing steps and a few wooden slats covering a small tunnel with a ladder just inside. Yjarrn walked down the steps, pulled the chain to close the crypt entrance, lifted the slats out of the way, and climbed down the ladder. It was not an incredibly long descent, and at the bottom, he found himself in one of the side passageways coming off the Cistern. Brynjolf was sitting there waiting for him.

"How'd it go, lad?" he asked before Yjarrn had even turned around.

Startled, Yjarrn let go of the ladder. He was grateful Brynjolf had at least waited until one of his feet was on the ground. He spun around saying, "I think it went pretty well."

"That's what I heard," Byrnjolf said, smiling.

Yjarrn looked back at him suspiciously, "Then why did you ask?" After an awkward moment he continued, "Forget that, how did you know? I just planted the skooma on him not a few minutes ago and came right back. How could you possibly know how it went?"

The two of them stared awkwardly at each other until Brynjolf held up a small coin purse and asked, "You want your pay?"

"Of course," Yjarrn said, snatching the leather pouch out of his hand. It nearly dropped out of his hand. "How much is this?" he asked, surprised at the ridiculously weighty purse.

"It's 300 septims," Brynjolf replied. "Not too bad, huh?"

Yjarrn's eyes widened. "Holy crap, what are they made out of?" he asked.

Brynjolf's eyebrow rose. "Gold, of course," he said.

"Gold!" Yjarrn exclaimed. "This purse has got to weigh twenty pounds! How am I supposed to carry it around?"

Brynjolf shrugged.

"Good thing I know where to get rid of some of this now," Yjarrn said. He tried tying it to his belt, which failed. It was not until he dropped half of it in the chest by his bed and distributed the rest of the coins evenly in the different pockets of his jacket that he was finally able to walk over to the Ragged Flagon without feeling leaning severely in either direction. He walked passed everyone seated at the tables without a word, which might have seemed rude if anyone there had wanted to speak to him, and directly over to Vanryth Gatharian.

"Hey there," the smith said with a smile. He was the only one in the entire Flagon besides Brynjolf who had ever acted kindly toward Yjarrn. "I hope everything worked out for you, mostly because I could really use the coin for this hammer." The dark elf reached down into the chest and brought out a newly made, onehanded, steel war hammer. "I just finished putting her together this morning," he added. "What do you think?"

"It looks great!" Yjarrn marveled. The head of the hammer looked just like the twohanded war hammer Vanryth had shown him earlier, except it was much smaller in order to be easily wielded in one hand. He stepped out of Vanryth's shop and gave the weapon a few swings. "It swings well. Did you test the steel?"

"Of course," Vanryth said. "The steel hardened up nicely on the quenching. No need to worry about that. It will hold up well."

"Excellent," Yjarrn said. "How much do I owe you?"

"Well," the smith said, scratching his chin. "A custom job like that from an expert weaponsmith like me will cost you seventy-five septims."

"Done," Yjarrn said. He handed over the coin, and Vanryth threw in a frog at no charge and showed the young thief how to secure the hammer to belt with the steel ring. "Thank you," Yjarrn said, admiring the look of his first weapon hanging from his hip.

Vanryth smile, "It's my pleasure, boy. If for some reason, you might need it repaired, come right one back, and I'll take care of it for you, though I doubt you will. I've never had anyone come by needing me to fix a weapon I've made." Vanryth paused for a moment then continued, "Or any other weapon for that matter."

Yjarrn gave him a nod and then headed back over to the Flagon's bar. It had been a long but very successful day, and he felt he deserved a drink. At the bar, he ordered a bottle of Blackbriar mead, which the barkeep delivered, and he prepared to enjoy a celebration by himself until he realized someone else was sitting next to him.

"I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," a voice next to him said. It was the bald man Yjarrn had seen when he first entered the Ragged Flagon, and it was the first time he had heard the man speak. "The name's Delvin," he said holding out his hand. "How do you do?"

"Doing just fine," Yjarrn said.

"I can see that," Delvin said, motioning to the bottle. "It's a good year. Vekel must like you alright."

Yjarrn looked at the label on the bottle. "That's good to know," he said. "I didn't think anyone around here liked me but the smith, and that's because I bought from him."

Delvin smiled, "Eh, don't worry yourself about it none. It can be a tough group, and they don't much like getting invested in a person until they know said person can handle themselves. It's nothing personal. We've just had a few too many recruits not return from jobs. It was worse a little while back before we realized the Guild Master was a cheat and a murderer."

"Karliah?" Yjarrn asked.

"Nah," Delvin said waving his hand. "Mercer, the one who ran things before her. It's a long, complicated story that I'm sure you'll piece together soon enough. Suffice it to say that we thought Karliah was the traitor. She was on the run from all of us, but she's a smart one. She started causing Mercer some problems, serious problems. Serious enough that he was forced to go hunt her down. She ended up dragging him back here, paralyzed, with evidence of his crimes. Our empty vault was the last bit of proof we needed that Mercer had been robbing us all blind. Brynjolf executed him on the spot, quick and clean, with no arguments. Ever since then, things have been going better for us."

"That's quite a story," Yjarrn said.

"We've had a bit of excitement recently," Delvin agreed. "But everything's been set right now."

"Glad to hear it," Yjarrn said.

"I see you met our resident shadow," Brynjolf said, taking the stool next to Yjarrn. "There is no one on earth that can equal Delvin when it comes to remaining unseen."

"Really?" Yjarrn asked, impressed.

"Absolutely," Brynjolf said. "On moonlit nights or in a darkened room, this man can literally become invisible."

"Stop it now," Delvin said. "You're making me blush."

"How do you feel about getting out in the field again tomorrow?" Brynjolf asked Yjarrn.

"Ah, come on Brynjolf," Delvin said. "Let the man enjoy his victory."

"I'd be happy to," Yjarrn said, jumping at the chance for another payday.

"Well then," Delvin said. "If you're so eager, I'll leave the two of you to it then. It was nice to meet you Yjarrn."

"Nice to meet you as well, Delvin" Yjarrn replied, but the master of stealth was already gone. Yjarrn spun around on his stool, but Delvin was nowhere to be seen. "Where did he go?" Yjarrn asked.

"Don't worry about that," Brynjolf said. "You have a job to do. We have a client who is obsessed with orcs. I don't mean that in an odd way. He is fascinated by their culture, and he has the idea that if he can return something to them of value, they will make him bloodkin."

"So, what does he need us for?" Yjarrn asked.

"He needs us to get him that something of value," Brynjolf replied. "He said the while he was watching the Largashbur Stronghold, he noticed the chief was wearing a new helmet, orcish but the design was different. He thinks the chief's forgewife must have made it for him, otherwise, he would never wear such a thing. I figure if it's that ugly, the chief might be happy it disappeared and just pissed enough to kill him if he brings it back. That's not our problem, though. You ready to rob some orcs?"

"You can count on me, boss," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf nodded, "Have a good night then. Enjoy your evening."

Largashbur was on the southeast side of Lake Honrich, just off the road that went southwest out of Riften. It was an orcish stronghold like any other in Skyrim, small, solitary, self-sufficient, and unwilling to welcome outsiders unless circumstances necessitated it. Yjarrn spent a couple of days watching the stronghold from atop the rocks to the west, trying to get a grasp on the comings and goings of the place. For the most part, the orcs tended to stay inside their stronghold, except when venturing out to hunt in the surrounding woodlands. Those that did not go on these hunting forays spent their time training or at the forge. Yjarrn got his first look at the helmet around midday on his first day scouting the stronghold. It was indeed every bit as horrible as he might have imagined. Even from up on the rocks, Yjarrn could tell that whoever had fashioned the helmet, had abandoned traditional orcish design to attach ugly black horns sticking out awkwardly from both sides. The helmet was also flatter on the front and covered more of the face, which to Yjarrn, seemed like it might be the only positive aspect of this unfortunate eyesore.

It was on the morning of the third day that Yjarrn decided to make his move. Most of the tribe had gone out to hunt, as they had the previous two mornings, and he was reasonably sure the chief was still in his longhouse. The only person Yjarrn could see inside the compound was a female orc dressed in hooded black robes, and if he could not sneak passed an old woman, what good was he as a thief?

Yjarrn made his way off the side of the mountain as stealthily as he could. He had about two hours before the hunting party would return, and he hoped to be well on his way be to Riften by then. The rockface was steep, but it was nothing he could not handle. Everything seemed to be going well until he realized that he had gone down the wrong side of the rocks and was now faced with a rather sizable gap between where he was standing and the top of the timber palisade surrounding the stronghold. He turned back and tried to climb back up the rock in order to descend in a better direction, but he quickly realized that was going to be impossible. He was stuck. His only option was to attempt a jump. Fortunately for him, there was a little room to make a running start. Yjarrn backed up as far as there was room for and took a few deep breaths, wishing very much that he had left the rest of his gold in his stash box by his bed back in Riften. He paced out the steps to the edge, counting each one and marking the place on the rock from where he would leap. Then, he waited. If he missed, he could run, but if he did manage to clear the palisade, he would land on hard wooden planks. It was going to make a rather loud noise. He had the image in his head of being chased around the stronghold by a feeble old orc woman until someone showed up to put an end to his embarrassment. That was not the way he wanted to go out, so he looked for a place to hide once he landed, and the short watchtower was what he settled on. If he made the leap, that was where he was going to hide until he was sure all was well.

Yjarrn took another deep breath and ran full-on toward the mark. Everything was perfect. Every step landed exactly where it should. Then, as his foot fell on the mark and he leaped, the old orc woman stepped out of her hut directly ahead of him and turned her head to look directly at him. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a snarl as Yjarrn flew through the air. He lost concentration and missed clearing the palisade, landing stomach first on one of the big, oak timbers. His cheeks puffed up as air rushed out of his lungs and the nasty taste of stomach acid reached the back of his throat. Yjarrn groaned, but he did not have time to hurt. The old orc was rushing as fast as she could toward the longhouse, and the last thing he needed was her raising the alarm for whoever was inside.

Yjarrn hauled himself painfully over the wall and rolled to his feet. Rushing down the steps, he locked onto the old woman and tore through the compound after her. He reached her just as she was passing in front of a large shrine bearing a comically oversized hammer and pulled her back against his chest, his hand firmly over her mouth.

"Don't cry out," Yjarrn whispered into her ear. "I do not want to hurt you. I just need that stupid-looking helmet your chief is wearing." He felt her relax, but she kept trying to turn her head. "Are you going to yell?" he asked.

She shook her head, and Yjarrn released his grip on her.

"You want the ugly thing?" she asked, surprised.

"Not for myself," Yjarrn quickly explained. "We have a client who hired us to nab it for him."

She looked even more confused now. "Why?" she asked. "It is the most absurd piece of armor I've seen in all my life."

Yjarrn shrugged. He wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible and get on with the job.

The old orc nodded, "As far as I'm concerned. You can have it, but my son loves the foul thing."

"If you really hate it that much, do you think you can help me get my hands on it?" Yjarrn asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That I will not do. I would never betray my son. However, if you promise me you will not kill him without him having the chance to defend himself, I will not cry out."

"Don't worry," Yjarrn replied. "That is not how we operate."

"Well then," the orc woman said. "I will be on my way." She turned away from Yjarrn and slowly walked back toward her hut.

Yjarrn guessed that she was running toward the longhouse because the chief was indeed inside. If he was, Yjarrn might be able to get out of this without another confrontation. He crept up to the door and checked the lock. It was secured, but the strange thing was that there was nothing except a flat piece of metal where the keyhole should have been. Yjarrn was a bit confused. He had never seen anything like this, a lock on a door that could not be picked. How was anyone supposed to unlock it? Was there even a key? He decided that it did not matter. he had the ultimate lockpick hanging from his belt. He pulled out his war hammer, hoped against all odds that the chief of the Largashbur tribe was stone deaf, and jammed the backspike between the door and the frame. It took a fair amount of muscling, but he quickly forced the door from its place.

The moment Yjarrn had the door opened, he understood why he had not been caught forcing it. Explicit groans filled the entire house, which was in truth only one room with two partial walls. Yjarrn could hear the bed moving to and fro with the overly exuberant and vigorous proceedings going on just passed the doorframe to his left.

This was going to be easier than he would have supposed, Yjarrn thought. This must be why the chief sends most of the tribe out to hunt every morning. With him indisposed, Yjarrn was going to have the run of the place. As soon as he found the helmet, he was gone. The thief quickly surveyed the room, and when he saw that the helmet was not in the front room, he started checking the rooms to the right while the moans of the chief and his companion covered any noise he might have made picking open chests and searching through belongings. Unfortunately, he came up with nothing other than a few gold coins, which he pocketed. There was only one terrifying reason why he could not find the helmet. It was in the room to the left, the room currently occupied with some rather busy orcs who might not take too kindly to their pursuits being interrupted.

Yjarrn crept toward the open doorframe. This is not how this was supposed to go, he thought, as he swallowed and peeked into the room. The situation was mostly how he imagined it would be. He was thankful that at least neither of the two occupants were looking in his direction when he saw them, but what was facing him was not much better. The worst part was that the helmet was not on the table or the dresser or flung onto the floor in a fit of passion. It was still resting firmly on the chief's head.

The thief ducked his head back out of the room. He's wearing it during that? Yjarrn thought. What a douche! Despite his feeling about the chief's eccentricity, it left the thief in a difficult situation. At first, he thought he might just grab the helmet off the chief's head and make a run for it, but then he considered the possibility that the chief might not be nearly as bashful as himself. Without armor to slow him, the chief might easily run him down. He was not getting that helmet off without the chief knowing about it. Nobody was that good. He had heard some stories of thieves who had "the perfect touch" stealing the clothing right off of people. They might have ripped something off, but the people being fleeced certainly knew about it. The idea that someone could undress a person with the mark being unaware was rubbish, pure and utter nonsense. He was going to have to figure out another way.

Looking back on it, Yjarrn could not remember whether it was the irritation of being unable to come up with a plan or having to listen to the incessant squeals coming from the bedroom, but he grabbed one of the heavy steel mugs on the table and hurled it at the chief's head. A hard, metallic clunk and a cessation of the goings on was evidence that he hit his mark. A moment later, the chief emerged from the room, completely naked other than the helm, and seething with rage. In his eyes burned the crazed fury hungry to tear apart anything and everything apart that got in his way. It was that look that threw Yjarrn off his guard just long enough for the chief to get the first strike in, sending the interloper reeling over the table and onto the floor. Yjarrn recovered quickly, rolling to his feet and pulling his hammer from his belt. As the chief effortlessly tossed the table aside, Yjarrn brought the head of the hammer down on the flat crest of the helm. The orc stumbled backward, staggering terribly. He swung wildly at Yjarrn, but the thief easily evaded, grabbing one of the nonsensical black horns and throwing his opponent to the ground.

"That is why you don't put horns on a helmet, moron!" Yjarrn yelled at the chief before stomping on the orc's groin. He had not planned that final assault, but his jaw was still throbbing painfully.

The chief's voice jumped up a couple octaves as he cried out in pain, and that was when Yjarrn noticed that the chief's companion was standing in the doorway, obviously hoping for a different result than what she had witnessed.

"Sorry about that," Yjarrn apologized before departing. His interruption was bad enough, but that final blow brought an absolute end to the activities.

"That is the most absurd helm I have ever seen," Brynjolf said when Yjarrn set it on the table in front of him. "Was he seriously wearing that?"

"Oh, yeah," Yjarrn nodded.

"Good work, lad," Brynjolf said. "I'll have it delivered to the buyer directly. Here's your cut."

Yjarrn was ready for the weight of the gold this time. He braced himself as Brynjolf dropped the purse into his hands. His arms wavered, but he was able to recover. The purse was even heavier this time, and Karliah did her best to stifle a giggle.

"You are making us a lot of coin, Yjarrn," Karliah complimented him. "Keep it up and you will know wealth beyond anything you can imagine."

Yjarrn believed her. He was currently the richest he had ever been in his entire life, and it had only been two days.

"You've earned every bit of it," Brynjolf said. "I'm happy I brought you on board."

"Do you have anything else for me?" Yjarrn asked.

Brynjolf laughed, "No, nothing at the moment. I just sent Cynric out on the last job I had, but if you're aching for another run, maybe Delvin has something you could do."

"Thanks," Yjarrn said.

"Thank you, Yjarrn," Karliah replied catching him for another fleeting moment in her deep purple eyes.

Yjarrn flopped down on his bed. He had not slept well the last two nights, and he figured it might be better to rest up for a while before going out on another job. He spent most of the rest of the day in his bunk, relaxing and reading the first volume from a series called The Real Barenziah, a character about which he had mixed feelings. He went to the training room, just to see what was happening, and finished up his day at the Flagon where he asked Delvin if there was any work to help with.

"Already itching to go, ay?" Delvin asked. "I'm not sure if you got lucky or not, but I have to say I was impressed that you managed to get out of Largashbur. Orcs are a bloodthirsty lot with far too much honor for my taste."

Yjarrn smiled, "I didn't know you had a taste for honor at all, Delvin."

"No, I suppose I don't," Delvin agreed. "Gets in the way, just like a conscience. You don't have one of those, do you?"

Yjarrn took a drink, but he didn't respond.

"Either way," Delvin continued. "I've got nothing for you from the Guild. People have been snatching up jobs quicker than they come in. I do, however, have a bit of personal business you might be able to help me with, a little revenge, if you're up for it."

"What do you want me to do?" Yjarrn asked.

"I was up in the city, listening around, and I heard Madesi saying that someone I am not very fond of recently returned to Riften with a stash of gems," Delvin said. "Not sure what kind or where they're from, but the Argonian only had the coin on hand to buy a few of them. My guess is they are still looking for a buyer for the rest, and I'd like to see them pitched before that happens."

"Any idea where they are?" Yjarrn asked.

"Not for sure," Delvin said. "But probably in Aerin's house over by the main gate."

"That's all you want?" Yjarrn asked. "Just the gems?"

"Well, feel free to grab whatever else you want," Delvin shrugged.

"Alright," Yjarrn said. "I'll have the gems to you by tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow then," he said, then got up and left the Flagon.

Yjarrn stayed at the Flagon a few more hours, emptying a couple of bottles of Blackbriar mead and enjoying the dour ambiance of his new home. It had only been a few days, but he thought he was settling in rather well. Eventually, his eyelids began to droop, and he reluctantly found his way back to bed. The moment he collapsed on the mattress, he was asleep, and he slept hard until early the next morning.

Only the slightest remnant of a hangover remained when Yjarrn walked up the steps of the crypt and out into the Riften graveyard. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon and had not yet risen over the wall, casting an array of colors across the sky. Pinks and oranges blended smoothly into the pale blue sky, and the crisp morning air breathed life into Yjarrn's senses. Nabbing a few gems from someone's house did not seem like a difficult job, not one he would have to put too much consideration toward, but if his last contract taught him anything, it was that he could not predict how a job would go. Yjarrn walked nonchalantly through the back alleyway of Riften beside the city wall. The guard patrolling the area barely gave him a second look, though he should have. Yjarrn eventually found his way up to Aerin's front door. He knocked and waited. No answer. The lock was a simple contraption, nothing too difficult, and he opened it with relative ease.

The home had three levels, the room on the ground level, which he was in, a basement, and a level above. Yjarrn had done a few break-ins before he joined up with the Thieves' Guild, and his experience told him that he had about a fifty/fifty chance of finding the gems stashed hidden upstairs or stuffed somewhere down in the basement. He decided to try the upstairs first. As he crept through the room, he listened. No one had answered the door, but that did not give him complete certainty that no one was home. A full meal had been placed out on the table, and that concerned him. Most people did not set out food before they left, but some of it was eaten and it was not hot. He noticed a letter on the opposite table, and thinking it might give a bit of insight to the strange scene, he skimmed it. The hastily scrawled note was from someone named Madena asking for help from Mjoll. Mjoll! he thought. That monstrous woman from the marketplace? The one that could just as easily snap my neck as look at me? Why is she getting mail sent here? Does she live here? Did Delvin know about this? A flood of questions surged into his mind, but he did not have time for any of them. He briefly considered bugging out completely, but he did want to get paid for the job. If the gems were as valuable as Delvin made them out to be, this would be his biggest payday yet.

Yjarrn scampered up the stairs as quietly as he could. There was nothing in the first room, but a locked chest sat on the floor in the second. Fumbling a little with his picks, the thief realized that his hands were shaking. This is not what he needed right now. He took a deep breath and then proceeded to pick the lock. It was no more difficult than the one on the door, but it took him twice as long as he attempted to keep his hands steady. Eventually, he heard the click and the lock fell open. Inside the chest was some gold, which he pocketed, a set of nice clothes, and a leather pouch full of cut gemstones. Perfect! This had to be them! He secured them in his jacket, but just as he closed the lid of the chest, the door to the room burst open.

"You!" Mjoll fumed, rage burning in her eyes.

Yjarrn did not get a chance to respond before she swung her ax around, aiming for his head, burying the blade deep in the wooden chest. She did not even bother to pull in out. She grabbed the gibbering intruder and threw him hard against the back wall. Yjarrn slumped to the ground still trying to explain his actions but stopped when Mjoll ripped the ax free of the chest and swung at his head again. Yjarrn's quick reflexes were the only thing that saved him from Mjoll's wrath. He ducked under her swing and dove under the table. He went for the door, but he was almost decapitated again as Mjoll brought the blade of her weapon down directly in front of him. Yjarrn remembered squealing like a frightened little girl out of fear, but almost because the tips of his ring and pinkie fingers, down to the first knuckle, lay severed on the floor.

"You win!" he screamed. "I surrender!"

"I won't win until every one of your heads is on a spike decorating the walls of Riften!" Mjoll howled, kicking the table out of the way.

The legs slammed hard into Yjarrn's side, bruising his ribs, and causing him to unconsciously cry out again, a cry that only grew louder and more pathetic when he saw Mjoll towering over him bringing the ax down directly at his head.

"FU…" Yjarrn screamed, but the last part of the word was drowned out by the thud of Mjoll's ax burying itself deep in the edge of the table that was just barely covering Yjarrn's head. Both of them looked at each other, taking in but not quite believing the situation.

Yjarrn scrambled for the door, this time escaping Mjoll's grasp and fleeing down the stairs, knocking down some guy as he went. He kicked open the front door, but instead of making a run for the sewers, which is what Mjoll would expect, he ran for the gate, slipping out just as Mjoll burst out her front door.

Yjarrn spent the rest of the day hiding out in the woods outside of Riften. As night fell, he heard the howls of wolves, but he did not care. I was too scared to go back into the city. He wrapped up his fingers tightly in a bit of cloth and managed to keep enough pressure on them to stop the bleeding. As the sun rose the next morning, Yjarrn summoned up enough courage to slip back into the city. He crept quietly through the streets, doing his best to remain completely unseen and keeping an eye on the front door of Mjoll's house until it was out of sight. As he passed through the courtyard of the Temple of Mara, he saw a woman and her son begging.

Feeling a sudden pang of pity, he hid in the shadows next to her and pressed a gold piece into her hand, asking, "I have never seen you here before. Why are you out here begging?"

The woman answered, "Maven Blackbriar had my husband executed for smuggling skooma. He had never touched the stuff a day in his life, but she claims he had enough to kill a mammoth. I don't know why she would do that. He loved his job, and he was loyal to the guard."

Yjarrn gulped and asked with a trembling voice, "What was his name?"

"Hrolgir," she answered.

A tear began to form at the corner of his eye. He took all the gold he had in his pockets and gave it to the woman. She tried to thank him, but he would not let her, only whispering a quick, "I'm sorry," as he left.

Down in the Ragged Flagon, Delvin Mallory sat waiting for Yjarrn to return. On the table in front of him, next to a bottle of mead, sat a purse filled with gold pieces, payment for the job. He looked up when the young thief entered through the back of the tavern. "Glad to see you back," the old thief said. "I trust everything went well?"

Yjarrn did not sit down. He grabbed the edges of the table with both hands, stared directly into Delvin's eyes and asked, "Did you know Mjoll the Lioness lived in that house with Aerin?"

"Of course, I did," Delvin answered. "She was the mark."

"She gave me this!" he yelled, shoving his mangled and bloody hand in the old thief's face. "I would never have taken that job if I'd known she was the mark!"

"I guessed that," Delvin said. "Which is why I didn't tell you, but I needed the job done."

"And you didn't want to risk doing it yourself," Yjarrn said.

"Now listen here, whelp!" Delvin snapped. "I've been burgling since before your mother weened you. I won't be taking lip from you. You're good, but you're at the bottom of the food chain. You understand? If you take a job, you had better do it and not come crying to us when it doesn't go like you expect it to!"

The Flagon had gone silent. Yjarrn looked around. Every other patron in the tavern was now staring at them, curious at how the rest of the interaction would play out. The blonde Imperial, who was now as sober as he was, slowly shook her head and tapped the pommel of her dagger.

"Fine," Yjarrn spat, snatching the purse. "Here are the gems." He threw the small, leather pouch across the table at Delvin. Several of the beautifully cut gems broke free of the bag and fell on the table and floor below. The thief who had warned him jumped up, blade out, but Delvin raised his hand to call her off.

"Don't worry about it, Vex," he said. "Our new recruit is just having a little temper tantrum, not happy about losing his fingers. He'll be fine in a few days once he gets it through his head that this is a job that involves a bit of risk."

Vex sheathed her dagger and sat back down, but she did not take her eyes off of Yjarrn for a moment. Neither did Delvin or anyone else in the tavern.

"Why don't you pull up a chair, have a drink?" Delvin suggested. "You'll feel better about all of this."

Yjarrn was not in the mood for a drink. He shook his head and walked back out of the Ragged Flagon to the Cistern. There he flopped down on his bed and dropped his payment into his stash. There was a lot of gold in there now, enough to do anything. He looked up at the statue of Nocturnal, the patron of thieves, standing over near the other side of the Cistern. The place was not feeling as much like a home as it had the day before, and the members of the Guild were feeling far more like puppeteers than family. Yjarrn was not quite sure what he should do, but he was not happy with how things had turned out.