Author's Note: Hello again! I suppose you could call this the beginning of Act 2, though it's not really that structured. Either way, things are picking up! Welcome back, and thankyou for reading as always.
Life in the poor side of Dragonstar was hard – even more so since the prison break a week ago. The city was still in chaos; guards only dared to go out in groups of four or more (and always in daylight), shop's shutters went down at sunset and didn't open again until midday, beggars were slaughtered and left in the gutters... and you heard stories. One night, from the upstairs window of the inn they were sheltering in, Gold-Heart, Octavian, Vilyn and Guilbert saw flames licking up from the West Side and a column of smoke stretching away into the sky. The next day they heard rumours from travellers in the inn's main room that someone had set fire to the guard captain's manor as night fell. The flames had grown out of control, the travellers said as refugees gathered around to listen, and in the dry conditions had leapt from house to house. They said that almost half that side of the city now lay in charred ruins. That night the inn saw an influx of men and women with fancy clothes and clean skin looking for a place to lay low. They were told the inn was full but they jingled their purses and a good two dozen poorer men were thrown out onto the street to freeze. The situation looked dire for the group of escapees too, until Guilbert Lelles spoke up and one of the rich men vouched for him and they were allowed to stay.
Maybe there was more to the young, innocent Guilbert than first met the eye, Octavian thought from where he was seated by the fire, wrapped up in a threadbare brown blanket. It was strange, given how warm Hammerfell was during the day, just how cold the nights got. Guilbert sat across from him in a ragged armchair, brow furrowed, trying to make out the words on one of his destroyed books. Then again, maybe he's just a rich brat with some lucky connections.
Vilyn was sitting on a dining chair that he'd pulled over from a nearby table, staring into the fire and pressing his thumb delicately against the blade of his dagger. The fire glittered in his ruby eyes. It seemed as though Vilyn had been sitting there, unmoving, for hours. Octavian stared at him but the elf didn't seem to notice; lost in his thoughts, Octavian guessed. Vilyn was a bitter man, even more so than Octavian had first assumed. His mind always seemed to wander to thoughts of violence, fire and death. Not once in a week of knowing him had the Imperial seen him crack a smile, not one that wasn't laced with poisonous hate or sarcasm at any rate. The sooner I'm away from here, the better. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. But each time he did, he could never decide on a better plan than the one he had now, which was just to lay low and survive. But the company and the environment and the situation made him uncomfortable, and each day he grew more restless because Cirroc had slaughtered his men and there was nothing he could do to avenge them. So the thoughts rattled around his head over and over again, getting nowhere, and wore away at him until he could do nothing but stare into the fire and brood. He glanced across at Vilyn again with newfound understanding. Maybe he was in the same situation, just with an altogether darker train of thought looping in his head. Octavian scratched his dirty, straggly beard - he hadn't shaved since before he'd left Skyrim - and shook his head. The sooner I can get away from here, the better, he told himself again.
His stomach growled. He wondered how long it would be until Gold-Heart came back with food. The innkeeper, a man named Oska, had agreed to give them a place to stay and hide from the law until things in the city returned to normal, but he refused to give them free meals (which Octavian could fully understand), so they relied on Gold-Heart's swift fingers – or Vilyn's telekinesis charms, depending on whose turn it was – to feed them. But it was dark now, the fire was getting low, and he still hadn't returned.
"Where do you think he is?" Octavian asked, not specifically of either of his companions.
Vilyn was the one who replied. "I don't know, but he'd better be back soon," he spat, lifting his eyes from the fire. Octavian was sure the glint of the fire remained in his eyes for a brief second. "And if he doesn't come back with a feast fit for a lord I'm going to pry off his scales and roast him up myself. This is taking too long." Octavian noticed a small, neat bead of dark blood swelling on the end of Vilyn's thumb – where it met the dagger's tip. Vilyn didn't seem to notice at first, but eventually he brought it up to his mouth and sucked it clean. "Bloody Argonians, you can't trust them."
Guilbert eyed the elf with two big eyes and went back to his reading. They were all getting irritable. Octavian closed his eyes and leant back in his chair, planning to bury his hunger pangs in sleep.
Gold-Heart dropped the sack of potatoes and onions at the alley entrance and ducked quickly into the shadows. The figure he'd spotted was moving quickly down the street, flanked by eight soldiers with the dragon and crown of Dragonstar on their chests. It was cloaked in darkness, but Gold-Heart caught glimpses of a face in the dim light coming from the house windows. There was nothing overly remarkable about him to the average passerby, but Gold-Heart's cold-blooded pulse quickened immediately. I'd know that thin face and dark slick hair anywhere. "Our very own Lord Cirroc," he whispered to himself. But what was he doing out at this hour? And in the East Side, of all places, so far from his palace and guards? Surely it was too dangerous in the city for a midnight saunter?
Gold-Heart backed further into the alleyway as the group passed him by. Cirroc was muttering something to the soldier nearest to him, but Gold-Heart couldn't quite make out what. They were moving fast though, and the soldiers' hands were at their sword hilts as if they were expecting trouble. Food can wait, Gold-Heart decided. Whatever this was, it was something important. So, leaving the potatoes and onions where they were, he set off down the street after them - moving slowly so as not to arouse their suspicion.
Their discussion grew more heated as they walked, until Cirroc's voice grew loud enough to hear.
"I know it isn't the best place for a meeting, but it's safe. Gods know the Empire's ears are everywhere these days, and the people don't exactly harbour much love for me at present, do they?"
"Exactly, my lord, so – forgive my insolence - wouldn't it be safer to meet him somewhere in West Side?"
Cirroc laughed harshly. "The noblemen are more dangerous than the beggars in these troubled times – they blame me for the collapse of their trade businesses, the riots, and the looting. By the gods, they treat me as if I myself opened the prison gates and ushered them out!" He cursed under his breath. "This little incident will set back months of progress. He won't be pleased."
Gold-Heart frowned to himself. It almost sound like he's scared. But who should he be scared of? He immediately considered the King of Hammerfell, but threw the thought aside. If the King had come to visit, there'd have been a parade, and rows of soldiers, and all the labourers would have been given the day off in celebration – they wouldn't be meeting in secret somewhere in the East Side. So who could it be?
Cirroc and his entourage stopped outside an old rundown shack. It seemed like Gold-Heart was about to find out. There was a sign nailed to a rusty bracket above the door: the chipped paint could just about be made out to read 'The Mercenary's Whore.'
"Sounds like my kind of place," Gold-Heart mused and followed them inside.
The inn's ceiling was so low that Gold-Heart found himself constantly ducking, and a thick haze of smoke hung in the air, a scent at once bitter and savoury. Some kind of Redguard delicacy, he guessed. But other than the strange smoke the place was almost identical to every other seedy tavern he'd visited in his years as a mercenary and he blended in with the crowds right away. Cirroc's men broke away one by one, but Gold-Heart noted that each one of them took up a position in the shadows and kept their eyes fixed on Cirroc. Whoever he's visiting, he doesn't want them to know he's brought backup with him. Cirroc made his way to the back of the establishment, where a row of high-backed benches and tables were attached to the back wall. There was a man waiting for him. A man who wore a black hooded cloak over his usual clothes, but Gold-Heart saw the flash of hidden gold. Now this is interesting. Cirroc sat down opposite him.
Gold-Heart swiped a drunk man's drink when he wasn't looking and sat at the table just behind them, acting as casually as possible. When seated, the high back of the bench hid him from their view; he hoped it would make them forget he could hear them as well.
"There's a lizard in the seat behind us," He heard Cirroc utter.
"No matter," the mysterious companion said with an air of mildness. "Just another drunk. There are plenty in this locale – surely you've noticed?"
"What if he's listening?"
"So what if he is? He won't remember the words by morning, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to do anything with them. By the Aedra, you aren't usually this paranoid. What's wrong? Hiding something?"
"No, no, no, of course not."
"I hope not. And remember: I'm a wizard. I know when you're lying to me. Now. How are things progressing?"
"Well. Very well. The ambush in the Dragontails went exactly as planned – both sides were slaughtered with very few survivors, at least one of whom made it safely back to Skyrim to tell Tullius that the Redguards had gone back on their word and attacked them."
"Good. That's good. How have your men responded to the action? Have their suspicions been aroused? And another thing is troubling me: you say few survivors. How many? Where are they now? You were only supposed to leave one."
Cirroc's words stumbled out of his mouth so clumsily it was almost painful to hear. This guy doesn't need magic to tell that he's not telling the whole truth - it's probably written all over his face. "Yes, there – there were several survivors. The Imperials killed my sergeant in the battle and his second-in-command took over but he didn't know that the orders were strictly to take no prisoners, so several of their officers were brought back here. Stormcloak and Imperial alike."
The wizard's voice lost its mild tone. "We wanted this to be a clean operation, Cirroc. Each witness is a new mind to ask new questions. Where are these prisoners now? I want them killed."
Gold-Heart could almost hear Cirroc squirm in his seat; it would have been satisfying if the situation hadn't been so worrying. Fear stabbed him in the gut. They want to kill us. Two men sitting less than three feet from me want to kill me. The others would have to be warned, and fast. They had to leave the city as soon as possible.
"They – escaped," Cirroc went on. "And one was taken to Sentinel to serve in the King's guard. But -" Cirroc's voice broke off with a breathless whine and then a horrid mewing sound. The taste of electricity filled the air.
"You have come very close to failing, Cirroc. Another slip up and we'll find ourselves a lord of Dragonstar that can follow orders properly. I want these prisoners killed. Them and this second-in-command of yours."
"Why him? He's done nothing wrong," Cirroc managed between painful gasps. Gold-Heart hated to think what the wizard was doing to him. They say the wizards of Alinor can torture their victims just by looking at them – even kill them. Maybe this wizard is an agent of the Thalmor? The prospect was almost too terrifying to comprehend. After the Great War, the Thalmor had retreated to their territories to regain their strength, but everyone knew that the war would spark up again. If there were Thalmor agents in Hammerfell…
"He will die because I say he will die. He has annoyed me, and interfered with my government's plans, and for that he must be punished."
"But… but he's a Forebear. It is their tradition to recruit from the brave amongst their enemies. Surely you would not punish a man for -" another gasp and barely concealed scream.
"I could not care less about barbaric Redguard customs or traditions. He will die." Yep, Gold-Heart thought, sounds like a high elf all right. "He will die and the prisoners will die and then we will get everything back on track. In the meantime I will dispatch one of my own agents to deal with this Imperial officer you sent to Sentinel. With luck, Tullius won't hear about our plans and he will keep believing that the Redguards are his new mortal enemies. If he finds out… Well. Have you ever seen the Mind Dungeons of Cloudrest, Cirroc?"
"I can't say that I have."
"With luck it will stay that way. I will see you this time next week. Same location. And here." Gold-Heart heard the sound of coins chinking. "Call it an investment. Clean up this mess with the prison, hire the Dark Brotherhood – I don't care what you do, just see that it isn't wasted. And do not fail again."
The movement of clothing and sound of fading footsteps told Gold-Heart that the wizard was gone.
"Damned elves. Thrice-damned elves. I should never have gotten involved in this mess," Cirroc muttered to himself and then departed as well, his soldiers following. Some fifteen minutes later, when he was sure the coast was clear, Gold-Heart left his seat and ran back to Oska's inn, not once stopping, not even to pick up the potatoes and onions.