The First Job

Introductions

To an outside observer, the headquarters of Daggerfall’s Thieves Guild is just another slum house, albeit one of peculiar interest to the local bird population. But within the unassuming interior, with its ramshackle corridors, warped floorboards that squeak with each step, and yellowed wallpaper peeling to the floor in small piles, a veritable throng of activity takes place.

In the attic, Lazare takes a moment to observe the flurry of motion before him. Birds of many sizes and shapes fly in and out of the windows, thrown open to the last despite the seasonal chill. Those not clutching a small item in their beaks or carrying a slip of parchment tied to their talons fly up to the rafters and sills above, the squawking of ravens and the tittering of pigeons and doves converging into a cacophony of noise.

On the many tables dotting the room, several sporting dubious piles of spackled white, sits a treasure trove of coins and stolen goods scattered amongst piles of logbooks, maps and correspondence.

In this mess, Lazare makes acquaintance with several key members of this guildhall, most of them Breton aside from Carolyvyra, a slight Dunmer woman that owns this cover house. Led about by Elyn, a fellow apprentice, he is introduced to Uthistair, operative and trainer, and Mordyn, the fence. At the far wall of the attic, he spies the familiar face of Peristair Hawkham, which he learns is truly an alias for Andistair, spymaster of the Guild.

On the ground floor, he is shown into a small kitchen and dining room where sups the cook Mordastyr, and his elderly brother Rodistyr, the master of operations in Daggerfall City whose lofty brows and large blue eyes give a look of permanent surprise.

Eager to get started, Lazare asks the wizened Breton for a job, who thumbs through a worn green logbook. Tracing a gnarled finger along a certain page and mouthing words indistinct to anyone but him, he closes the book with a snap and mischievous smile before presenting the apprentice thief with his first job on the Thieves Guild payroll.

He was to collect a stolen emerald of great value from an operative at the Howling Helm Inn in Cromwych Hill, a modest town several days journey to the North. Time was of the essence, as the town guard had already located the thief and had the tavern under full surveillance, only held back from a full-blown raid by the request of the innkeeper, a Thieves Guild contact and a man of some repute to the locals. Others may also be watching.

Having been wounded in the theft, the operative had no chance of getting out unseen, but another thief posing as an innocent traveler could potentially get in and out without notice. Wasting no time, Lazare gathers some supplies and sets out.

Journey to Cromwych Hill

The road North to Cromwych Hill passes through hard, untamed wilderness. The warmth of Sun’s Dawn has yet to lay dominion here, and bitterly cold winds cut through the plains and hills still dressed in deep snow.

The days pass without much incident, and Lazare has seen little in the way of travelers or even animals save for the occasional bird or hare since leaving the outskirts of Daggerfall City.

Near Dusk on the third day, he spots a fortress some distance off the road. He makes to approach, thinking to find a warm bed for the night, but a cold breeze carrying with it the cloying scent of death stops him in his tracks. He moves on, putting some distance between himself and the keep before finally making camp for the night.

The Handoff

Loathe as he is to leave the roaring fire of the Howling Helm Inn behind him, Lazare is here to get the emerald and get out. With a hand signal to the innkeeper, he is given a passphrase to be let into the room where the operative is holed up.

As instructed, he ascends the stairs on the far side of the rowdy common room, the sound of clinking mugs, lutes, and the bawdy shouts of the patrons following him up as he goes. He knocks gently on the door nearest the landing, a gruff voice calling from within “who is it!?”

“An ugly son of a sload.” Lazare replies. A moment of silence, and then the sliding of a bolt. As he lets himself through the door, he spies movement out of the corner of his eye. Further down the hall, a swarthy goateed Imperial exits another room carrying a serving tray. The two lock eyes, the stranger offering him a toothy grin as he closes the door behind him.

The room smells of stale ale and sweat. The operative, a middle-aged Redguard with balding pate, lowers himself down to the bed with some pain, cradling his bandaged right arm as he goes. “If you intend to leave quickly which you should, best do it soon. The town gates will be closed shortly.” With his good hand, he produces a small pouch from his shirt pocket, tossing it to Lazare. Catching the pouch, he opens it to inspect the contents. Within, a brilliant emerald the size of his fist twinkles in the candlelight.

Stashing the satchel within his cloak, Lazare inquires, “How do you intend to get out of here once I go?” The Redguard chuckles, “I won’t. The guards will get impatient and barge in here eventually, but if they can’t find the stone, they won’t hang me. I’ll do some time and be out by Second Seed.” He leans back with a groan. “The same won’t be said for you if you’re caught with it. Stealing from nobles is a death sentence in Daggerfall. Best be on your way.” He closes his eyes in dismissal and is asleep by the time Lazare slips out the door.

Red Moon, Red Snow

With urgency in his step, he manages to slip through the town gate a moment before it slams shut with a boom and the rattle of chains from the gatehouse. Breathing a sigh of relief, he adjusts the straps of his back before setting off down the road, but the sensation of eyes boring into his back stops him.

“Hand over the stone, and I’ll let you go unharmed.” The goateed Imperial from earlier leans against the town wall, now dressed in plate and armed with a war hammer. The toothy grin from before is gone, his jaw now set in stern confidence. He takes a few steps forward. “Be reasonable friend, I take no quarrel with you, I just have an obligation to my employer to return the gem.”

“As do I,” Lazare replies. Not a guardsman then, good. None would bat an eye to another dead mercenary, but killing a guard would put every town watch in the province on high alert. He unhitches his cloak and pack and tosses them aside, loosening his shoulders as he draws his wakizashi.

Steel glints in the moonlight, Masser lighting a solitary crimson vigil in the stars above.

“So be it,” growls the Imperial. Gripping the hammer in both hands, he charges without hesitation.

Dodging an overhead swing, Lazare twists to the side as the hammer crunches into the hard-packed frost to his right. He stabs at his opponent’s face who leans out of reach, deceptively nimble despite the heavy armor. With his momentum, the Imperial rips the hammer upwards into a backswing which Lazare narrowly avoids, the face whistling upwards past his nose.

Catching their breath, the two close again.

Hands gripped wide, the Imperial makes a series of short swings, alternating attacks with the head and haft of the great weapon, keeping his quarry at bay. Lazare returns some attacks of his own, but each time the warrior catches the light blade on the hardened wooden grip of his hammer. After one such strike, the blade sticks for a moment too long. The warrior kicks out, catching Lazare in the stomach who doubles over in pain. With a quick twist of the hammer, the blade flies free, landing somewhere out of sight.

Still recovering, the thief is thrown on to his back as the Imperial smashes the grip of his hammer into his chest. Adrenaline spiking, Lazare rolls out of the way of another brutal overhead strike, drawing his dagger from his boot and stabbing into the vulnerable knee joint of the Imperial’s greaves.

Roaring in pain, the Imperial lashes out with a mailed fist, punching Lazare square in the face. He feels his nose break and his head snaps backwards into the snow. Vision swimming, he kicks out hard, catching the Imperial in his wounded knee which buckles. Scrabbling to his feet, Lazare drives his knee into the face of his kneeling quarry, sending him scrawling backwards, the dropped hammer thudding into the ground.

Straddling the warrior, Lazare drives his dagger up through the chin of the Imperial, warm blood soaking through the leather of his glove. Their gazes lock as the fight leaves the warrior, his eyes alight with the peculiar glint of the soon-to-be-dead. With a final gurgle, he goes limp, another ghastly visage of death to haunt the dreams of this former assassin.

Rising slowly, the battered Breton wipes his blade clean in the snow, collecting his wakizashi nearby. Shouldering his pack and cloak, the weight of the pocketed emerald a reassurance, he slowly makes his way down the road back to Daggerfall.