Chapter 2
Tulvel was a thief. A proper thief mind you, with a guild and everything to back him up. Not that being associated with a guild meant much these days, not since the Oblivion Crisis and certainly not since the dissappearance of the Grey Fox. To anyone outside of the guild, it was business as usual, most people were content to go about their daily lives not even acknowledging the existance of an organised group of burglars, the notion was entirely ridiculous. The Empire did nothing to discourage this line of thinking. To anyone inside the guild, well, it was a shambles. The once proud Cyrodiilic thieves guild was now broken and fragmented.
This change didn't happen overnight, of course. Every organisation needs a leader, and the thieves guild's leader was the Grey Fox. The Fox had always been eccentric to say the least. But after the business with the Septims and the daedra; things took a turn for the worse. It started off subtly to begin with, certain jobs were just slightly more outlandish than others. Over time however, all the jobs just became more and more insane. 'Go steal an ogre's loincloth', 'fetch me the doily of the Countess of Bruma', things of that ilk. In the end they were just ignored and the Grey Fox faded away into the background, nobody can really remember the last time they saw him; but they knew it was the beginning of the end when he was gone for good.
Almost as soon as the Grey Fox left, there was a split in the guild's leadership, certain parties vying for control. In the end it boiled over into what could best be described as a schism. Certain people took their supporters and went on to greener pastures, Skyrim, Elsweyr, Hammerfell. Regional guilds popped up everywhere. The golden age of the thieves guild was well and truly over. A few people stuck around with the original organization, of course. Tulvel being one of them, more out of a misguided sense of loyalty than because he wanted to. Right now, however, he was regretting that decision.
As he entered his rather meager room, he collapsed into a nearby chair and leaned forward; rubbing his temples and letting out a long sigh. Who knew the people in Morrowind were so inhospitable anyway? What happened to solidarity with your fellow countrymen? And how in Oblivion was he supposed to have known that 'drakes' were just another word for Septims? Coming here had definitely been a mistake, he should've just cut his losses and ran; but no, his damn Dunmer pride had to get the better of him. His misplaced Dunmer pride, because apparently he didn't know the first thing about being a Dunmer, a fact that was becoming increasingly evident.
He was by no means a bad thief. He just made very stupid mistakes every now and then, everyone does. Falling out of a second story window and landing on a passing guard was one of those mistakes. The guild hadn't appreciated paying his fine, they decided to show this lack of appreciation by sending him to the backwater of Tamriel. A terrible island, in a terrible province full of terrible people and terrible things that wanted to kill him. Well, that's what he'd heard at least.
Regardless, this assignment was obviously a punishment. Steal a spear from a bunch of Nords living in isolation in the North of the island. Nobody said if it was a particularly special spear. The note he'd been given just said it was a spear. There could be an infinite amount of spears on Solstheim and he had to find this specific spear. Needless to say, Tulvel wasn't happy and he was content on staying unhappy.
Standing up from his seat and moving over to his, well, slab covered in furs. He wasn't going to call it a bed, he should've expected such a backwards place hadn't invented the mattress yet. Unceremoniously dropping down onto it he quickly fell into a rather uneasy sleep, not surprising considering the circumstances. Well, perhaps on the bright side the Nords would be more hospitable?
Who was he kidding?