The Vigilants of Stendarr II

The guard was right. To call the Crabber's Den an outhouse was an insult to outhouses.

When one thinks of a tavern or an inn, one would hear the sounds of boisterous laughter and some cups clinking in toasts, the smell of smoky pipes and well-spiced meat, or the warmth of a roaring hearth to keep the chills of work and the cruel outside world at bay. The Crabber's Den had none of that.

Inside the Crabber's Den, the patrons, all of four people, huddled in their own corners of the commons, drinking quietly and only making a sound to cough or gag. The stink of stale sweat was typical of these places but the Crabber's Den had the added aroma fish and marshland and the 'welcoming hearth' was a flickering latrine.

The Vigilant entered without any fanfare, not even an acknowledgement from the innkeeper who was suspiciously missing from his rightful post by the taps. They picked a spot that was a far as they could from the other patrons.

Falrielle pulled up a stool, its third leg seemingly fashioned from an old broom handle and sat down with her back against the wall. Gideon slouched on a chair and rested his muddied boots on a free stool. Sven sat stiffly, opposite of Falrielle.

Falrielle bent her head low, and closed her eyes. Thoughts on her breathing. Only her breathing.

Gideon stretched out his arms with a yawn and then pulled down his hood, revealing a man with classic Breton features who has seen at least thirty winters. His light brown hair could've been described as flowy if it wasn't caked in mud. On his right lobe hung two golden rings; the other lobe was slightly torn.

'Why so skittish, boy?' Gideon said, scratching his beard. 'Worried about a dagger in the ribs? From them?' He nudged his head, indiscreetly at the other patrons. 'Don't be. It takes a special kind of stupid to pull a blade against a Vigilant. Go ahead, take off your hood.'

The boy obeyed. Like Gideon, Sven kept his sun-kissed hair long but unlike the Breton, the boy bothered to keep his hair up in a knot. Though he looked classically Nord, Sven didn't act like one, finding too much time to flush and fluster with embarrassment.

'Boy,' Gideon said. 'Verse VII. Let us hear it.'

'Fear not the dark for Stendarr watches us in the light,' Sven answered. The boy brushed his hands on the table before balling them into fists. Falrielle could hear his calluses scraping against the table like grinding stone. She inhaled and exhaled.

'Mull on those words.' Gideon leaned back and whipped out a pouch and a pipe. The Breton then tamped some snuff, a mixture of Cyrodiil tabac and other foul-smelling leaves, into the pipe. He stuffed a finger into the bowl and lit his pipe. Falrielle winced when he started smoking – the draw sounded like a sharp whistle and the puff, a raging hurricane.

'And where's that innkeep,' Gideon wondered aloud, blowing a stream of smoke into the ceiling.

Sven anxiously drummed his fingers on the table, each beat a thunder clap to Falrielle. Was that fear she smelled and sickness? Was it Sven? No, not Sven. He was nervous but nervousness had a different scent to it, this was truly fear. But who and why?

Falrielle inhaled deep and exhaled thoroughly. Breathe and focus, she chanted in her mind. Breathe and focus.

'What's a man to do to get a drink around here, Innkeeper!' Gideon said, waving his hand. The Breton had almost whistled for the man but stopped when he chanced a glance at Falrielle. She nodded in appreciation.

Her ears perked up before a voice even cried, 'I hear you; I hear you!' Like a bear, a rather large and hairy Nord emerged from the backroom with barrels of something tugged under his arm. He wore a canvas apron and was drenched in sweat. He walked to the Vigilants, each step making the floorboards creak in protest that if he jumped, the man would've fallen right through.

'Priests?' the innkeeper said with a rasp. The man definitely had taken a knife to the lung, Falrielle guessed, might as well been whistling instead of breathing. 'Why are you in here and not in the Temple? Sturm sent you here? Well, you can go back and tell him I'm not interested. In this place, the real world, we only trade in coin, not in favours.'

Gideon smiled fiendishly and said, 'What a worldly man we have before us. That will not be a problem – Zenithar rewards the honest worker and we are in need of your services.'

'Aye,' the innkeeper replied, tone unpleasant. 'What do you want?'

Falrielle's nose wrinkled when she caught a whiff of the innkeeper's words. He had been eating sour herring and boiled potatoes downed with musty vodka. She also detected that one of his remaining teeth had been rotting for some time now. She lowered her head even further, noticing the water reflecting from between the boards.

'We are but weary travellers and we've worked up a hunger and a thirst,' Gideon said. 'What's on the tap?

'Ale and beer.'

'I don't suppose you serve wine, do you? Wait, no never mind. I don't like the wines of Skyrim – they're goblin piss compared to the ones back home. Innkeep, how much do you charge for a tankard of beer?'

'Two Septims.'

'One for me then. Initiate?'

The boy nodded.

'That's two. And you, Falrielle?'

'Hjaalmarch is beer country and so, I'll have beer,' Falrielle raised a finger. 'One for me and keep the froth.'

'Three beers and- Wait…' The innkeeper paused and narrowed his eyes. 'Falrielle? A knife-ear?' he continued with a sneer. 'Get out. We don't want your kind over here.'

'My kind?' Falrielle said, pointing at herself with a pout.

'Elves. Thalmor spies, the lot of you.'

'I see but…' Falrielle trailed off as she unfastened the pouch on her belt and dropped it on the table, which made an audible thud. 'I am a Thalmor spy with money and we'll pay for your services in advance with a small bonus to looking the other way of my status.'

The innkeeper froze and licked his lips. Falrielle could hear both his breathing and heart quickening. When she chanced a peek at the man, she saw green lights, the essence of greed dancing around his head. As the saying went, money opens all doors.

'Thr-three beers then?' the innkeeper said, tone more pleasant. 'Would masters want something to go with the beer? We've black bread and goat cheese if you'd like?'

Falrielle perked her ears and sniffed. The bread smelled staler and harder than their hardtack biscuits and the cheese was moving. While she knew she would be fine if she ate it, Gideon too, the Bretons ate far stranger cheeses – poor Sven would die of a ruptured stomach if he tried.

'Nae,' Falrielle said. 'We'd like something warm to keep the chill away. Does my nose lie or do I smell something boiling? Like crab and fish?'

'A keen nose you have there and that we do. It's our house special: Crabber's Soup.'

'Crabber's Soup in the Crabber's Den. How much for a bowl?'

'Three coins each.'

'Thrifty,' she said dryly. 'Then one for each of us.'

'Will that be all?'

'We seek some lodging for the night.'

'That'll be twenty a room.'

'How about ten for the commons?'

'Fine. If that'll be all, pay up,' the innkeeper demanded.

'Here you go,' Falrielle said, clinking coins into the innkeeper's hand. 'Fifteen for food and drink, ten for lodging, and five as a tip. Dinnae take too long now.'

The innkeeper stuffed the coins in his pocket and turned to the kitchen. As he did, Falrielle could hear him mumble an indistinct curse, no doubt at having to serve an elf. Falrielle herself paid no heed to their hatred; it was just another fact of life here in Skyrim.

Falrielle took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, then pulling a dark phial from her belt and laid it on the table. She spun the phial between her fingers, Falrielle knew she had delayed this for far too long but she would rather do anything else, even suffer the consequences than deal with it.

She pulled her hood closer in hopes of the cloth muffling her ears but she still heard and smelled it all. The wind blowing against the Den, the windows rattling with a ferocity of an irate poltergeist. The other patrons' breathing and whispers seemed to grow louder. The pair who sat by the fire spoke of things such as 'when she's a sleep' and 'hide in the marshes.' Falrielle heard thundering footsteps outside the Den although no one else acknowledged it. Gideon continued smoking, adding another pinch of snuff into his pipe, and Sven nervously and unrhythmically tapped his foot.

When someone entered the Den, the creaking door made such a shrill sound that Falrielle immediately removed the cork with her teeth and downed the phial.

She sat still or as still as she could, her arms shaking and her knuckles clenched white as her nerves seared with white hot pain. For a dozen heartbeats, the world flashed in a blinding light before dimming to a numbing grey. Sven recoiled and pointed at Falrielle; a grimace of terror contorted on his face. Falrielle gritted her teeth and smiled – she knew how she looked. After drinking the phial, Falrielle's face would take to the colour of chalk as black pulsing veins bulged out of her skin.

When the innkeeper served the soup and the beer, Falrielle wasted no time, not even to bless the food which so graciously given to them by the Gods, to snatch the earthen tankard and drained it in one, fierce motion. The beer was truly of Hjaalmarch – the innkeeper had watered it down so much with marsh water that it had a distinct tinge of moss, algae, and dirt but Falrielle didn't care. It at the very least, tasted better than the phial.

Falrielle slammed the chipped tankard on the table, belched, and demanded another.

'What was that?' Sven said. 'And what did you drink?'

'My curse,' Falrielle answered with a weary smile. 'You dinnae stay long in this line of work without picking up some curses or scars. Enough about that, let us pray.'

From Gideon and Sven's expressions, maybe the Vigilants should've prayed harder. The main course, the famous Crabber's Soup of the Crabber's Den tasted like salted water with bits of cat feed thrown in for flavour. Sven soaked his hardtack in the soup while Gideon, his beer. The Breton shot Falrielle an incredulous tone when he took his first bite, practically saying, 'How could you drink this stuff?' Falrielle answered with a wink, biting through her biscuit with a crunch that sounded like bones snapping.

Though her senses have been dulled, she was still an elf, thus they were still keener than a human's. She could still hear her companion's breaths and even their heartbeats, if she chose to. She could even pick out everyone in the room by scent alone. Her senses have saved her at least half-a-hundred times and this time, her ears perked up again when she heard the newcomer, who was dressed in a hooded cloak, mention the word, 'Vigilant' to the innkeeper.

While she didn't see, it was too dark for her to see much of anything anyway, she heard the distinct sound of coins falling on wood. The innkeeper stood up and discreetly shooed the other patrons away, leaving only the Vigilants, the innkeeper, and the hooded stranger in the Den.

Falrielle said nothing, content with sipping her beer as the stranger approached.

'Greetings, weary travellers,' the stranger said. 'May I join your table? Drink does taste better with company.'

Before anyone else could say anything, Falrielle wore a smile and said, 'Aye, that be true. Come pull up a seat. Gideon, make room for our new friend here and friend, I see that you are without drink and that won't do. Innkeeper! Four tankards of Hjaalmarch's finest, please.'

'Not for me,' Sven said, face turning green.

'Nor for I,' Giden added, puffing a ring of smoke in the air and then leaning back. Falrielle could feel the very air tingle as Gideon prepared a spell which she shot down with a look.

'Then only two beers, not four.' She smiled at their new friend. 'And you're paying for this round, right? It is only proper.'

'Certainly.'

Everyone waited silently as the innkeeper returned with their drinks. The man hastily placed the tankards on the table, spilling some froth over before retreating to the backroom. Without demanding for pay even.

Falrielle raised her cup high in a toast and then took a sip. 'To what do we owe the pleasure, Steward Aslfur?' She wiped the froth from her lips with her sleeve.

'Steward? Most flattering of you but why ever do you think I'm the Steward?' The stranger took a sip from his tankard and gagged though he had the grace to not spit.

'Please…' Falrielle said, leaning on the table with her free arm. 'You smell far too noble to be smallfolk and the Crabber's Den is far too dull for slumming. Your men, all five of them are much too well-trained to be common thugs, thought this one-' She knocked the wall behind her and sniffed. 'Has the flu. Hey, you. You hear me! Make sure you drink plenty of warm lemon juice with ginger before you sleep tonight. Add in honey for taste, it'll clear your nose right up in the morning.'

The steward lightly clapped his hands and leaned back. 'Very impressive, very impressive. I expected nothing less from Senior-Vigilant Falrielle, Master of Combat, the Revenant of the Ancient Stone, the Silver Bloodhound, Stendarr's Executioner, Thane of Riften, the Shrike, amongst others.'

'Well done.' Falrielle raised her tankard in salute. 'You truly are the Eyes and Ears of the Hjaalmarch. How did that saying go again? The one with the mudskipper and the toad.'

'Ifa toad so much as eats a mudskipper on the banks of the Hjaal, I will hear of it. A flattering description of my capabilities but in truth, an exaggeration for if it were true, I wouldn't be here to ask: What are the Vigilants of Stendarr doing here in Morthal? Why have you come?'

'Simple,' she said, reaching into her satchel and pulling a roll of parchment. 'You asked us too.'

'Ah.' The steward grunted, skimming through the roll. 'I remember scribing this missive. Tell me, Vigilants. Tell me what do you know.'

'Is this an interview?'

'Yes.'

'Vigilant Gideon,' Falrielle said into her cup. 'If you will.'

'On the eve of First Seed,' Gideon began. 'Two woodcutters; a man, Vilovaar Wide-Feet and an elf, Baranil disappeared one day and never came back. Vilovaar was found half-eaten in a ditch a week after, not too far from where they worked. Officially, Vilovaar's cause of death was murder with a bounty for Baranil's head at three-hundred Septims. The state of Vilovaar's corpse was attributed to scavengers – dogs, wolves, chaurus, corvids, and the like.'

'Months later in the Ides of Mid Year, three pitch diggers; Botrppr Hairy-Toe, Brylror Rich-Toe, and Glarthir went missing and were found in similar circumstances. Half-eaten in a ditch, a mile or so away from where they worked and the elf officially charged as their murderer and a bounty of three-hundred Septims for their head.'

'A month ago, a party of hunters went missing and need I repeat myself?' Gideon sucked on his pipe and blowed an uneven ring.

'And two weeks ago,' Falrielle added, smiling nastily. 'A pair of elven woodcutters were lynched in the village of Skorro.' She sipped. 'What to make of that?'

'Aye, their blood be on our hands,' the steward said slowly, looking ashamed. 'May the Gods curse us but we say that their deaths are unfortunate but a necessary evil.'

'A necessary evil?' Sven said. 'How are the deaths of any innocents necessary?'

Falrielle smirked and emptied her tankard. She whistled at the innkeeper, demanding a refill.

'When it prevents a greater evil,' the steward answered with a cold edge to his voice. 'What do you suppose holds the realm together? Friendship and brotherhood?' He shook his head bitterly. 'If only.'

Sven shrank, as if looking guilty for saying too much and an awkward silence came at the table. It was Falrielle who broke the silence with a hearty belch and a question, 'The elves, they were missing, weren't they?'

'Aye. We've never found where the elves went. It was as if they vanished like smoke. But if you think we've been sitting quietly,' he added quickly. 'Then you be paying us an insult. For the past few months, we've been increasing the Marsh Patrol and they've returned with the heads of chaurus, spiders, and trolls but that didn't seem to stop the attacks. The Marsh Patrol however don't venture deep into the Drajkmyr Marsh, for that we've hired sellswords.'

'Live for coin, die for coin,' Falrielle said.

'Aye and those who ventured into the heartland either return empty handed or they don't return at all.'

'Anything special about them?' Gideon said, slowly.

'No, just your regular motley party of adventurers.' The steward fell silent for long moments. 'There was that one party from two weeks ago. In fact, we hired them on the very day we found the missing hunter. They were Raeaf the Wild, a 'Knife', Clauiel Jendine, Skanskar, and Aenriath. Yes, this one was interesting because they called themselves 'monster hunters' and demanded an extortionate fee for their services.'

'How much?' Falrielle asked.

'Three-thousand Septims, the greedy bastards.' The steward grimaced. 'Half up front and half when the job is done.'

Falrielle whistled. 'And?'

'The Marsh Patrol wheeled in five corpses the next morning.'

'So, the elf isn't missing?'

The steward shook his head. 'Oh, the elf was missing. Four of the corpses belonged to the party although the Priests of Arkay had a hard time trying to figure out what limb belonged to who. The fifth… we don't know who or rather, what it is and where it came from.'

'And so, you've hired the Vigilants.'

'And so, we've hired the Vigilants. We've called for two with a payment of four-thousand Septims and to my surprise, I see three before me.'

'Young Sven,' Falrielle began. 'Is an Initiate, nae a fully-fledged Vigilant. He's here with us for his Proving, his rite of passage if you will and if all goes well, he would be judged worthy to join our ranks. To the business at hand, allow me to repeat what we know. People have gone missing in the Drajkmyr and are found half-eaten soon after. The elves however remain missing with nary a trace. You've nae knowledge of what's been attacking them and a recent incursion has left you with five corpses, one a mystery corpse.'

'You speak the truth of it.'

'What did your court mage say?'

'Court mage? What court mage?' the steward sneered. 'We've no court mage since the last fool walked into the marsh alone and unprotected. We found him weeks later or at least what we thought it was him – just a ring that he wore in a pile of chaurus dung. That was three years ago. Ever since then, we've been sending the College a pigeon every month but they've yet to reply. Pox on them.' He lifted his tankard up but stopped short of touching his lips. A frown formed on his face when he realised just what he was about to do. 'Not from the College,' he continued, 'But there was a hedge mage who wandered into Morthal earlier today. Strange man, that one.'

'How so?'

'For one, he's a Redguard. A Redguard mage and if there was someone who hates magic more than we do, it's the Redguards. Secondly, he asked if he could inspect the bodies. To help he said. I insisted no but my wi- the Jarl agreed. Thirdly, he requested no pay. In his words, his curiosity with the corpses was an "academic" not a financial one.'

'Where is this mage and may we see him?'

'Yes, but not tonight.' He rose. 'The presence of the Redguard makes the townsfolk uneasy and the Jarl has taken precautions to ensure his safety.'

Falrielle finished her drink and flipped over the cup.

'And I take, this interview be over?'

'Yes.' The steward rose. 'You will see the Jarl herself after breakfast,' he said. 'As you have come to Morthal under invitation, you are welcome to sleep under the roof of Highmoon Hall.'

'Is there a bath?' Falrielle asked.

'We can have the servants draw one.'

Falrielle stood up, smiling. 'Then what are we waiting for?'

Guild-Master Garibaldi,

I have done as requested and with the gracious assistance of Jarl Hrafnar and his court, have finished my full assessment of the economic status and capabilities of Morthal. A full, detailed report can be found attached to this letter but in any case, I shall speak of the key points of the report.

Morthal is a city with a population of an approximate 10,000 inhabitants. The population subsists on a staple of cabbage, catfish, carrots, cucumbers, clams, cranberries, crabs, flounders, mullets, mussels, oysters, roots, rice, and rye, most of these they do not export. Meat and cheeses are rare and considered a luxury in Morthal with supplies of the commodity being imported from the neighbouring Holds, in particular Solitude and Whiterun Hold.

Morthal is kept in existence through its exports of raw goods such as clay, herbs, furs, lichens, lumber, mushrooms, salt, peat, pitch, reeds, and resins. Historically, Morthal and Hjaalmarch boasted many iron mines but most of these mines have dried up by the onset of 4E, leaving only a handful of mines, a large number of which are owned by the various mining clans and guilds of Solitude. Though Morthal and the surrounding land are highly undeveloped as a result of the settlement's geographical conditions, Morthal does have a significant, though small industrial base. In terms of processed goods, Morthal exports dyes, fibres, leathers, medicines, and potteries.

Other than resources, Morthal also features a seasonal adventurer economy. Every now and then when another hidden passage in the Labyrinthian is discovered, or the Drajkmyr Marsh spitting out a long-forgotten ruin, hordes of adventurers from all over Tamriel would flock to the city, greatly stimulating commerce. During these short periods, usually months at a time, archaeological goods, both of magical and non-magical nature would flood the market but because of the diligent work of our brothers of the Imperial Mint, the Nine bless them, we need not worry of the inflation of the Septim.

However, barring the importation of provisions, Morthal buys very little from beyond its borders. This trade deficit for importers have traditionally made Morthal a largely unpopular target for foreign investors, and as a consequence, stagnated the economy. While this may make Morthal seem like a fruitless venture on our part, I must note that I was not alone in the delegation to Jarl Hrafnar. Whilst here, I was accosted by representatives of Clan Goldbane, the Ricavicci Bank, and the Free Gildsmen of the Bankers of Skyrim.

Guild-Master, act as you see fit with the information, I've given you here. But as Chief Auditor, I must ask you to strongly consider opening a branch in Morthal. Through my courting with Jarl Hrafnar, the Jarl hinted an interest in revitalising the economy of his Hold and to the banker who would finance such a project, the returns, both materially and politically, would be highly desirable for our cause.

May Zenithar smile upon our endeavours,

Korir Kovirsson

~ From a letter by Korir Kovirsson, Chief Auditor to Saffirio Garibaldi, Guild-Master of the Imperial Guild of Bankers