Jack Kreacher

A geode crystal was a mesmerizing wonder of the natural world. Kreacher had a habit of holding them against the light in such a way that the light fractured, like a prism splitting a full rainbow spectrum. Only there was something different about it when done with a geode containing a soul. The saturation of colors shifted and stacked and then unstacked, a constant fluctuation. Kreacher stood over his basement work table and held the geode in front of the lantern as his face was painted with light. He gazed at the gem with a fascination that was unfaded after years of familiarity. What a pity that after the soul is expensed the gem itself shatters into tiny useless fragments. If only they were like my vials, to be used again and again and only needed to be sterilized when used.

It certainly would save a fortune if that was the case. He looked down and away from the gem and down at the dead siamese cat and brushed a finger sadly across the stitches he put in above the feline's liver. She had ingested eggs and raw meat consistently for months and the inevitable eventually happened. The family had said that she had been slow and quiet for the last few days and this morning she was still but breathing shallow. Kreacher was just about to touch the gem to the cat's forehead but hesitated right before contact.

"You know the family will probably just continue to treat their cat badly, right? It's a waste of a perfectly good soul."

"That's a good point," said Kreacher, looking at the stiff figure of Mittens the taxidermied ginger cat. He was forever stuck in the one sitting pose, just staring with his amber eyes at whatever he was placed in front of. Which, in this instance, was a detailed chart of the human anatomy Kreacher had picked up for cheap in an open-air market now decorating a small part of his basement wall. After Lareal had forced him to take Mittens down from the noose there was no other real place to put him, but Kreacher was performance shy so he made sure to turn the undead cat to face the wall. "But isn't all life just borrowed time? What difference does it make if this soul gets to live for a week or a life time? It'll be more time it got to spend alive than it would have otherwise."

"You're just making excuses because you need the money. Know what? You'd probably make a lot more money if you were actually good at healing instead of just killing them."

"I'm not taking this from a brain dead animal," retorted Kreacher. A glow filled the basement as he touched the gem to the siamese forehead. After a brief scuffle with the alarmed feline he managed to grab it in such a way that he had a grip on all its limbs.

"Oh, wow. That's not good." said Mittens.

Kreacher didn't have the time to bother with the musings of a dead cat. He was too busy dealing with a live cat to let Mittens comments get to him. Upstairs, after walking awkwardly up the rickety steps, he met with the cat's family: a breton mother and her daughter. The mother was a young adult with crow's feet already forming around her eyes. Her daughter was chewing on her finger tips and whimpering in a chair by the front door. When she saw Kreacher come out of the basement with her pet frantically trying to escape his arms she gasped and run up to him.

"Nasha!"

Gladly, Kreacher handed the cat over to the girl. Already he was developing a rash on his face where the siamese had scratched him. The diagonal cuts on his left cheek getting raw and agitated.

Interestingly, the cat known as Nasha was licking the girl's face as she wept and held her. As far as Jack Kreacher knew cats didn't lick anything besides their privates. The little girl didn't care though, she clenched her cat as tight as banker grips his purse.

"Thank you," said the mother. She came up to Kreacher and gave him a bear hug. "You have no idea how much Nasha means to my little girl."

"That's okay," said Kreacher, patting the mother on the back. "But if you really want to show your appreciation I'd suggest not feeding your cat scraps from the table. Keep it up and I'll be sure to see you again." With a few waves, well wishes, and goodbyes both the girl and mother were eventually making their way out the door. Before it closed Kreacher could've sworn that the siamese let out a high pitched bark. It gave cause for him to pause. Then he reluctantly shut the door and went to the kitchen. A fit of sneezing racked through his body before he got to the water pump and washed as much of the dander off his arms and face as possible. He took of his gloves and rolled up his sleeves, throwing them down to the floorboards. That was one of the perks of this building, an indoor water pump. Not many houses, even those in the high risers, had direct access to a water well they could use whenever they felt like it. Not even the previous owners knew there was a free supply of clean water just a dig away from under their structure. It was Lareal who found out there was an aquifer, and after digging through the foundation and chipping away at the surprisingly very porous stone covering the natural water, he bought a bunch of pipes and set up the manual pump. Very impressive for a man with a gimpy leg.

He winced as he placed a wet rag against his cut. After a few dabs he ringed it and watched the water go down the floor drain. Then Kreacher left the kitchen; went to his desk and took the fragrant bottle out of the drawer before pocketing it.

It was time. Kreacher got the closed sign and hung it on the front door. Lareal Inventors & Kreacher's Petnasium still dangled from its post like it had the day before and would hopefully stay that way for a long time. A night of being along with his thoughts had nearly driven Kreacher to the brink. Shadya had driven up the rent. He needed to know why and/or convince her to change her mind. Luckily, he knew that one of her other tenants had gone out of business and that an auction was being held to pay back as much debt as possible. Earlier, when Kreacher had suggested going there to confront Shadya, Lareal had outright refused, saying, "The best thing you could do is your job. Just stay at the shop and take as much of our client's septims as possible." Well, Kreacher had tried. He had lasted for about an hour after Lareal had gone out job searching and it just about drove him mad.

Memory was a fickle thing for Kreacher. He had enough difficulties trying to remember most people's names, and directions were even worse. There were precisely twenty three shops, five storage facilities, and six houses in the merchant's district. As far as Kreacher was concerned though there was only one-his. Anyone who asked him for directions generally regretted it. Sightseers and shoppers seemed to be in the minority this particular day though. On every street corner there was at least one city militia guard; their tough leather armor masking their physical traits. Kreacher never did like their particular style. Guards in Senchal wore helmets that hid their features behind a fierce tiger, and it made him feel uneasy. It reminded him of the tribunal warriors of Morrowind and their expressionless faces. Perhaps that's the point. To put everyone at ease and make them seem more powerful than they actually are.

As Kreacher came up on a street corner he noticed two guards speaking to each other next empty stall. One was leaning against a wall and the other was standing with his hand lazily gripping the hilt of his scimitar. Both spoke in an open manner; without fear of eavesdroppers listening in. It was poor of them do to do, because after spending so much time cooped up in his workshop Kreacher was eager to catch up with local affairs. He slowed his pace, but made sure to keep his gaze ahead and appear nonchalant. Slowly, as he got closer, he was able to clue into the conversation.

"-is it true?"

"Yeah. Some inspired skooma traffickers thought it wise to slaughter a bunch of imperial soldiers."

"But why?"

"Got no clue. If anything the Empire is just going to come down even harder on them. They're not going to let something like this go on unpunished. There's going to be retaliation, and we're all going to suffer for it."

"Is it also true that Krin is in the city?"

"Looks that way. Just a couple of days ago we got an orc who killed two guards; said he was looking for Krin and his search led him hear. Maybe it's true. I don't know. But the last thing we need is-"

Nothing interested Kreacher less than politics. He left the guards behind and quickly forgot everything he had heard. Eventually he found himself outside what appeared to be the shop he was looking for. It seemed familiar. There were wooden figure of a obscenely fat Khajiit with a long mane smiling knowingly on the right side of the doorway. For the life of him though, Kreacher just couldn't recall where he had seen it before. The sign hanging on it's post was covered with a poster with the words Foreclosure Auction on it in bold black letters.

Coming in and out of the shop were a mish mosh of people, most of them Khajiit in silk and sashes. Some were dressed casually, bargain hunters searching for items nobody would miss and coming out with a bag full of silverware. As Kreacher stepped inside he was greeted by a high elf woman, a guard standing next to her with steel plate armor and sword as thick as a tree trunk. "Another vulture?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you one of those church freaks? Actually, nevermind. It doesn't matter. Just remember to obey the rules: don't steal, don't fight, and don't break anything. Do any of those and Gersbach here will cut you in half." The guard in the armor stared at Kreacher through the eye slit in his helm. Kreacher had the feeling Gersbach could and would carry through with that threat with glee.

"Uhm, actually… I'd prefer it if you could point out to me where Shadya is if you could. She's here, right?"

The High Elf rolled her eyes and crossed her wispy arms. Gersbach chortled. His chest plate shook from the vibrations.

"Do I look like I care?"

Kreacher grimaced. A headache was in the works already so he decided to not answer what was probably a rhetorical question in the first place. She didn't seem to care much as he was walking away so he took that as a positive sign. Inside the shop was just one big room with shelves and a staircase leading to a second floor. Plenty of people were sliding along the walls, checking the price of the merchandise. At the counter was Shadya, speaking quietly to a casually dressed breton man with greasy hair. He had an incense candle on the countertop and was engaging the woman in some playful bargaining. Too bad Shadya wasn't having any of it.

"How does one septim sound?"

"Ten is as low I'll go."

"What about three?"

"Ten."

"Five?"

He eventually managed to work the price down to nine but it probably took more effort than it was worth. Shadya gathered the coins in a sack and placed it below counter. When she came back up and saw Kreacher leaning in with a salesman's grin her eyes twitched. Looking for an opener to the conversation Kreacher decided it best to begin with a simple observation.

"So Shadya, I see you've-"

"Jack, what are you doing here?" asked the irritated landlord. The wind was taken out of Kreacher's sails before he could even begin. "I can't talk with you right now. I'm too busy. I'm- Oh hello!"

Another person, a Khajiit male, approached Shadya with a silver necklace with a floral engraving. While he and Shadya discussed the price Kreacher took the moment to examine the shop itself. He wandered over to shelfs full of antiques, glancing back every few seconds. There were a few inscrutable items, such as severed animal limbs available in either pickled green jars, or mummified braids. Kreacher felt compelled to smell them both. Picking up one of the more crinkly digits, he checked his periphery for inquisitive onlookers before taking a whiff. It was surprisingly pleasant, and it tempted Kreacher to give it a small lick across the knuckle. He recoiled instantly. The finger tasted like vinegar and cough medicine that was left to ferment for fifty years before someone pissed on it. He put it back in a hurry. Shadya was still conversing with the gentlemen when he looked back so he continued wandering about the store bumping into others and putting his prints on everything that did not belong to him. There was a part of the floor that was concave and it annoyed Kreacher whenever he walked into it to the point where he tried to map out the ground just to avoid it. A small leather sack was the next item to grab his attention. It was settled in an open drawer and, as he picked it up, the contents jingled. He turned it around in his hands and saw the words Lucky Coins stitched on it in golden thread with lots of fancy flowers embroidered around the trim.

"What kind of shop is this?" asked Kreacher.

"The best kind around."

If there was ever as silly a design as a person would ever have emblazoned on their apparel, it was the man standing next to Kreacher at that very moment. He was a non-native as far as Kreacher could guess: a dunmer with Ashland tattoos on his face and shaved head, but then again Kreacher could recall a time when he offended a Nord who had lived in Vvardenfell his whole life. A broken nose tended to stick with folks long after it's been healed.

The Dunmer's hazel robe had a unicorn crudely finger-painted on the front. I'm no consensuar of art but I have a feeling I could do better than that and I can't even draw a straight line. Kreacher smiled and nodded. "Oh? But why is that?"

"Well, you see," began the dunmer. His eyes twinkled as he stared ravenously at the pouch. "This shop here sells, or at once did anyway, lucky gems and charms. Every single product bends fate's favor to the holders wants and needs. It is by far the most valuable item one can acquire. I honestly can't believe that the shopkeep wanted to sell any of it."

Kreacher scoffed and opened the pouch. He drew a bronze coin from it and observed it from every angle. "There's a nine on both sides," the dunmer pointed out. "That means that just by holding that coin your luck is up by nine attributes."

"Oh, really?" asked Kreacher, no longer paying attention. He looked back at the counter. Shadya was no longer there. Wide eyed, he dropped the pouch and ran for the door. The sound of the demented Dark Elf scavenging the coins rolling on the floor carried all the way out in the street where Kreacher ran into someone he very much did no want to see again.

Oridir blinked in surprise as he was nearly knocked over by Kreacher on the steps. "Is that who I think it is?" queried the wood elf. Being this close up to the old man, Kreacher could count the wrinkles on his brow.

"No, it isn't." he replied, trying to get past the Oridir. Unlucky was the fact that this particular place of business was the only shop that had railings on their stairs, and the wood elf made up for width what he lacked in height. "Do you mind if I scooch on by? Just… just let me slide right through please." Kreacher looked out on to the street and couldn't see any hair, ear, or tail of Shadya among the windows and cobbled streets. The thought came up to him quite suddenly that perhaps he had simply missed her and that she might still be inside. After all, who was attending the counter? So just as he was about to traut back inside the building Oridir said something that made him doubleback.

"I just wanted to say something about what said earlier, Kreacher. My words don't always come out the way I mean them to and I… I hope that you don't think I'm an ass." With the heat bearing down on him Oridir took of his turban and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. "I meant to come by yours and Lareal's place earlier but… I've just been so busy and time has a habit of flying by when you get to my age."

An apology from the wealthy aristocrat was the last thing that Kreacher had expected. It genuinely touched his heart. "Thank you, and… apology accepted," said Kreacher, giving the wood elf a pat on the shoulder. It was almost like talking down to a child. "I'd love and stay and chat, Oridir, but I have to see Shadya really quick, okay?"

Oridir waved his hand dismissively. "Alright, alright. But when you see her, ask her when I can start renovating your shop. I've got a few contractors waiting to refurbish the building."

Kreacher blanked. Did he hear right? He cleaned out his ears and bent down so his ears were level with the Bosmer's face.

"Uhm, what?"

"Ask Shadya to give me the date so I can bring in the boys to refurbish the shop," clarified the wood elf.

Nodding, Kreacher stood back up and walked into the store. He could remember why the place seemed so familiar. That statue up front was the same statue that greeted him when he and Lareal had first moved into Senchal a year ago. Back then it was chocolate shop. It wasn't particularly great as the chocolate was quite bitter, but it was a great place to stop every once in awhile to in order to take the load off and converse with social seekers. Eventually, the place closed down for whatever reason and Kreacher had just never given much thought to coming around again. That wooden statue was actually carved from a tree that sprouted from out of the cracks, and completely unable to be budged unless someone cared enough to uproot it. Then someone came and turn this place into a trumped up pawn shop; and now who knows what it will be. Probably just another septim in Oridir's purse. Shadya was back behind at the counter with a small safe on top, counting the earnings so far with an attentive finger.

"Why are you doing this to me?!" demanded Kreacher just about slamming his balled fists into the wood. Shadya's ears shot up and she glanced up at Kreacher with a chastising eye. "I know you don't like me, but I've always paid my rent on time. But because some walking talking money bags waves his coin around you decide to fleece me and my friend? It can't be legal! You can't treat your tenants this way and not expect me to do something about it."

Shadya sighed and pinched the crevice of her brow. Kreacher sneezed and took another wiff of his herbal blend to relax his nasal cavities. After five seconds of utter silence between the two Shadya leaned across the counter, much as Kreacher did when he first got here, and cast a glare so intimidating that Kreacher gulped.

"First of all, I have every right to raise rent. Estate prices have inflated in the last month and I would be a complete thiz if I didn't adjust appropriately. Secondly, I could've thrown you and your friend out anytime I wanted to considering the fact you two dug a hole through the foundation which is completely against Elsweryrn bylaws. And thirdly," She grabbed Kreacher by the shoulder and pulled him in so their faces were inches apart. He could count the spots on her Khajiit cheeks. For a brief moment Kreacher considered how often he was pulled close to someone and why he had formed the habit of counting blemishes or unusual features. "Whether or not you can appreciate it I'm doing you both a favor. I've only known you for less than a year, and quite frankly, you're both some of the most talented young men I've ever seen… and the most driven. But you keep sabotaging yourselves just so you can keep playing acting like children and never ever have to part. When I was your age I had already moved away from my friends and family so I could get an education, and then I made new friends."

After that brief speech Shadya let go of Kreacher. He groaned as he massaged his bruised shoulder. He forgot that his landlord had at one point been a part of the military, but his memory was jogged when her grip nearly snapped his collarbone.

"I like to think we added value when we tapped into that water well," Kreacher added.

Shadya shook her hood disappointedly and went back to counting her septims. "You're a freak. You're a pale, egotistical freak who makes everyone uncomfortable just by being around. Just get out unless you're planning on buying something."

Leaving quitely, Kreacher nearly stumbled after walking into the warped section of the floor again. Oridir was sitting on the steps and waved at his passing by. Kreacher chose to ignore him. He ran plan over plan as he walked all the way back home. Those walking by either went around or collided with him as he was to focused on his thoughts. He came to a decision by the time he made it home. Almost every decision he had made in his life, from his career to the locale, was made out of spite for the thoughts and opinions of others. His parents had wanted him to become a grand magician when a sorcerer came to his village and revealed his extraordinary capability with magic. Instead, he chose to be a healer. They were so disappointed with their son that they didn't even acknowledge his existence for a whole year, and it was in that time that he and Lareal met and developed their friendship. Everything had worked out well so far, so Kreacher saw no need to change the course.

A couple birds with blue wings fluttered off the sign post when Kreacher made it back home. He opened the front door and took the closed sign down before going inside and falling down on the floor, tired and emotionally drained. He heard the thumping of a cane coming from the room on his right. It could only have been one person.

"Good news," said Lareal, gazing down at his grounded friend. "I went over to the local printing press to see if there were any job offers listed in the paper. There was. The Imperial Legion needed someone to examine a crime scene with a lot of experience in sciences. So I went to their base and they interviewed me. They gave me the job after just a only a few questions and they weren't even that difficult."

"Hurray," groaned Kreacher into the floorboards.