Courting the Underworld

Welcome Back

You didn't think I was done, did you? We've got a lot more Elder Scrolls to go. I apologize for the lengthy delay and lack of communication between posts while I was dealing with some computer issues (resulting in a complete re-format of my PC), and a bunch of real-life obligations. I’ve overshot my goal of resuming in early April, but here we are at last.

Daggerfall is now re-installed with a brand-new load order. Given the lengthy break from the game, I re-created Lazare and started a fresh playthrough, updating the previous posts with some new screenshots and location names for consistency as I caught myself back up to where we previously were and beyond. With several posts in the bank, hopefully we can avoid any further delays. Now, without further ado, let's get back to the story!

A Dream Realized

In his youth, Lazare had had dealings with the Thieves Guild. There was not one lowly urchin, crafty pickpocket, or keen-eyed beggar plying their trade in the dimly lit alleys and waterfront slums of the Imperial City who escaped the notice of that ubiquitous criminal underworld. While the Guild often employed children for one-off tasks like deliveries, lookout jobs, and the occasional dropping of eaves, they rarely became full members of the organization until adulthood, if they lived that long.

In those days marked by hunger and squalor, Lazare had seen no brighter future than to join the secretive order of thieves and finagle his way into comfort and luxury, mastering his craft under the watchful eye of the legendary Gray Fox. Such fancies faded away when his life changed forever under the protection of Emperor Uriel Septim VII. But circumstances had once again changed, and on this night, in the streets of the quiet village of Whiteham, it is time for the dreams of a desperate orphan to at last be realized.

The Targets

After his meeting with Lady Brisienna, Lazare books a room at the Thirsty Huntsman. Within his chamber, he reflects on his next course of action. Even here, several days travel from the capital, the Thieves Guild would have eyes and ears everywhere, and a burglary of sufficient notoriety would be sure to attract their attention. With that in mind, he has no desire to rob some downtrodden shopkeeper out of house and home. There should be someone here who could afford to lose a few septims. After a quick meal, he takes to the snow-whipped streets of Whiteham to assess the local economy.

The seasonal cold fits his task well, just another cloaked and hooded figure walking the streets. Over the next few hours, he visits the various shops and stalls dotting the village. Not seeking to arouse suspicion, he purchases a bit here, a bauble there, his keen grey eyes taking notice of any potential details that might aid his task. He is disappointed. Most of these shops are of no interest to him, either holding little value or the ramshackle trappings of the shops themselves betraying a desperation he had no wish to further. But his diligence is eventually rewarded, and by the end of his wanderings, he has two targets.

The first is Peryctor’s Used Merchandise. He wrinkles his nose as he enters the sweltering hot confines of the shop, merchants tended to be a miserly lot, and pawnbrokers most of all. Aside from a clear space in front of the roaring fireplace, every inch of the shop is packed with clutter. He can hardly walk without tripping over some dusty relic, rickety chair, or piles of garishly colored fabrics and yarns. The owner, Peryctor he presumes, is a sour-looking Breton of aging years, a shock of wispy white hair seated atop bulging eyes, surveying this kingdom of junk with all the predatory avarice of a dragon his hoard. Lazare recognizes the Breton’s shabby appearance as a façade, this was a wealthy man, one to whom the endless acquisition of money was a pursuit in and of itself, and the thought of sharing it or putting it to use was akin to cutting off one’s own arm. He had met the type before.

Even so, would there be anything of actual value here? Or would it all be in some bank vault well out of his reach? He prepares to write the shop off as a loss when the chiming of the rusty brass bell chained to the front door catches his ear. At first, he sees no one enter, a sagging wooden shelf obscuring most of the foyer. From around the shelf steps an urchin girl, no more than five or six. He can’t place her as Nord, Breton, or Imperial, most of her features obscured beneath a layer of dirt and grime. With nary a look at him she picks her way over to a pile of knick knacks stacked in one corner of the shop. Looking through the pile, she finds her prize. A dirty sack-cloth doll that she holds and hugs with a familiarity that suggests this ritual has happened before.

With a twitch of her head, the child ducks under an iron skillet that whistles through the space she occupied a moment ago, slamming into the shop wall with a thunderous crash. She drops the doll and scampers out the door as the red-faced Breton roars “I TOLD YOU BEFORE, STAY OUT OF MY SHOP YOU PENNILESS RAT!” Lazare grits as his teeth as he recalls scenes from his youth much like this one, and contemplates wringing the old codger’s neck, but he relents. He’ll get his comeuppance tonight.

On the opposite side of the village sits his second target, Adventurer’s Gemstones. Compared to Peryctor’s this shop is positively immaculate. Precious gems and jewelry sit snugly behind tastefully placed glass cases, watched over by the proprietor, a sharply dressed Breton of middling age and a stern expression. He softens a bit when Lazare purchases a simple pewter ring for his “beloved.”

His targets acquired, Lazare returns to the Thirsty Huntsman for a meal and rest. Retiring to his chambers early, he waits patiently for nightfall.

The Robbery

After midnight, he silently departs the tavern into the cold moonlit streets of Whiteham. The village is derelict at this hour, save for the few patrolling guards, clearly marked by the light of their torches. He evades the patrols with little difficulty, his leather boots padding silently on the fresh snowfall.

First, the pawnbroker. With no guards in sight, he sidles up to the front door and goes to work on the lock. His fine tools had gone down with his ship upon arriving in Daggerfall, but he’d been able to craft a rudimentary pick and rod. They’d have to do. After a few minutes of tension, the lock clicks open, and he enters.

Silently picking through the chaos within, he sorts the wheat from the chaff, and his patience is rewarded. Starting with a worn but sturdy pack, he’s able to replenish some of the travel supplies he’d lost. He adds several items to this pack, a needle and thread, a whetstone, a flint and tinder box, some small bottles of horn glue and oil, and a pair of gloves which he quickly dons, thick but flexible. He finds the iron skillet Peryctor threw earlier, laying exactly where it fell, which he packs away securely wrapped in cloth to deaden the noise. Forgotten on one shelf lies a particularly fancy embossed copy of “Confessions of a Thief.” “How fitting,” Lazare thinks as he adds it to his pack. He is confident it could fetch a nice price to the right buyer. Lastly, he ties a canvas tent to his pack, which sports some holes but is not irreparable. Satisfied, he makes to leave, but catches a glimpse of the sack cloth doll on the floor. He pockets it on his way out.

Now for the main prize. The front door of Adventurer’s Gemstones proves too much for his improvised tools. Looking around for another option he spots a window on the second floor, slightly ajar. It is high up, but not out of reach for a good jump. Setting down his bow and pack against the wall, he braces and jumps, stretching his arms up as he goes. His fingers barely catch the lip of the windowsill while he cringes at the resulting creak. Muscles burning, he slowly pulls himself up and wedges himself through the gap.

Within he finds a small workshop which is mercifully unoccupied, the reek of lye and vinegar from freshly cleaned jewels stinging his nostrils. Het lets himself onto a small landing, with a few doors leading to what he presumes to be bedrooms, and a set of stairs leading down to the shop floor. He takes the steps gingerly, testing each step for squeaky boards before committing.

He breathes a sigh of relief as he steps on to the ground floor and in the process, the tail of a sleeping cat.

An ear-splitting yowl cuts the silence as the cat darts upstairs, knocking over an urn in the process which hits the ground and shatters. Immediately he hears a door thrown open and the pounding of descending footsteps. There was no time or place to hide. From upstairs comes the same Breton jeweler from earlier, the light of a candle revealing shock and concern in his stern features, his once-immaculate curls disheveled by sleep. The jeweler takes note of the hooded figure standing in his closed shop, and immediately retreats upstairs, shouting for the guards or anyone else who would hear.

“Damn it all!” Lazare snarls as he strides up to the nearest jewelry case, punching through the glass, all pretense of stealth gone. As quick as he can he snatches up all the gems and trinkets he can carry, stuffing them roughly into the folds of his cloak, bits of glass skittering by his ankles. Pulling his hood down further to protect his face, he dives out the nearest window, smashing through the glass. He strikes cold snow with a roll and pops up into a full sprint without delay, snatching up his pack and bow as he goes. He dashes for the tree line on the outskirts of the village, doubting any guard would pursue him much further than that. The sack-cloth doll falls out of his pocket as he runs, and he takes no notice. The shouts of guardsmen follow him, but the torchlight of his pursuers quickly fades away as he breaks the tree line, and soon he is alone in the wild.

The Doll

Back in Whiteham, a dirty urchin girl awakens to the sound of breaking glass and the shouting of the town guard. Rubbing her bleary eyes, she crawls from the small hollow she has made to sleep beneath the porch of a small cottage near the town square, its owner none the wiser. Following the commotion, she sees some guardsmen near the entrance to the woods on the edge of town, none seeming too eager to enter their dark depths. As she turns to go back to her shelter, she sees something on the ground, and is amazed to find her favorite doll from that nasty old man’s shop. She clutches the damp doll to her chest and smiles.

Stokwell Derry

Lazare awakens in his cozy bed in the Mole and Djinn, a rather posh tavern in the town of Stokwell Derry. After his flight from Whiteham, he had trudged through the dark forest without daring to light a torch, his only guide the light of Masser and Secunda cutting through the canopy overhead. Near dawn, he finally came upon the road leading to Stokwell Derry and the inn, nearly collapsing with exhaustion on his arrival. Since then, he has lived in relative luxury for the past few days, having sold off the bulk of his ill-begotten gains to the local merchants. While initially skeptical, his posing as a desperate sob selling off the dowry of his future wife was enough to seal the deal.

After a breakfast of hearty stew simmering from the night before, he steps out on the street, his boots crunching in the morning frost, closing his eyes with a luxurious stretch. On opening them, he is startled by a one-eyed beggar he did not notice before, inches from his face. Smiling mischievously with his two intact teeth, the beggar places a note in Lazare’s palm before hobbling away. Unfolding the crisp parchment, Lazare smiles as he reads the letter. The Thieves Guild had indeed taken notice, and they had a job for him…