The Initiation

Wooding Place

“…Join the Guild or face the consequences…”

The words echo in Lazare’s mind as he reads the letter for the fifth time today, folding up the now well-worn parchment and tucking it in the pocket of his cloak. There was no going back now. As much as he wanted this, the prospect of drawing the ire of the Thieves Guild was not a pleasant one. This job had to go well.

He was to steal a pair of casual pants. The thought elicits a snort of derision, and not for the first time. Increasingly absurd questions come to mind. Was this some kind of joke? How would he be able to tell one pair of pants from another? Would any pair of casual pants do? At what point does a pair of pants go from casual to formal? He thought he’d left this pedantry behind him at the Imperial Court!

This whirlwind of thoughts plagues Lazare’s mind as he walks beneath the bright midday Sun into Wooding Place, a quaint Glenumbrian village set in the lee of surrounding hills. Greeted by the lowing of oxen and the smell of chimney smoke, he follows the dirt path towards the town center, the seasonal frost worn down to bare earth by the weight of passing wagons.

A young Imperial maiden, clutching a basket and dressed in a fur-rimmed cloak emerges from a small house set astride the street, the ends of her blonde tresses cascading down her front. Clearing his throat, Lazare catches her attention.

The dialogue system of Daggerfall is a step-up from its predecessor. With the “Tell Me About” tab you can inquire on various topics of note including the various factions in the game as well as leads on work and local news. With “Where Is” you can ask for directions to all the local shops and guildhalls in your current location. With “Tone” you can try a different tack depending on who you’re talking to. Although there are exceptions, high-born nobles generally prefer a polite tone, while peasants and layman appreciate a blunt approach. The Etiquette and Streetwise skills help determine your success with each, where taking a neutral “Normal” tone will check your base Personality attribute.

Following her directions, the thief takes stock of the Yeoming residence, an unassuming home near the Northeast boundary of the village. It would be foolish to try and enter in broad daylight, so with his target marked, he retires to the local tavern, the Knave and Dungeon. Over a steaming helping of peacock pie and a mug of spiced ale, he cracks into his lifted copy of “Confessions of a Thief” to pass time until nightfall.

Pants of the Casual Variety

His sigh of relief plumes in the chilly night air as the locked door to the Yeoming Residence clicks open. He closes it gently behind him as he creeps through the threshold.

The interior is modest, the furnishings simple. The sitting room sports two armchairs in front of a crackling fireplace. Much of the available wall space is taken up by bookshelves, myriad tomes of various topics arranged haphazardly. An opening in one corner of the room leads to a small kitchen and dining room, clean tin dishes and cutlery set for two on a lacquered wooden table. A short corridor off the sitting room leads to another door, which he quietly pushes open, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.

Within is a bedroom, the four-post bed across from the doorway is unoccupied and neatly made with woolen blankets. The scene is innocuous, but he is increasingly tense, nonetheless. The set table with no one eating, the crackling fireplace with vacant armchairs, the empty bedroom, it all raises Lazare’s hackles. With a steadying breath, he stifles his nerves. There is a job to do.

More books lay tossed and discarded in the corners of the room nearest the bed. To his right, past a body-length mirror, is a slatted closet door. Cracking it open, he’s dumbfounded by his good fortune.

On the floor sits a rather casual looking pair of pants, neatly folded in the center of the otherwise empty closet. On inspection, one pocket crackles with the sound of parchment. On the note is scribbled a name and location, “Peristark Hawkham, Blackway Wood.”

With the item and its intended recipient in hand, the burglar of breeches makes to leave. The hairs of his arm stand on end as the room suddenly fills with a thrumming static energy. He instinctively throws himself backwards as the slatted closet door explodes in a sea of splinters and sizzling ball lightning.

A stentorian roar erupts from the door to the room, “THIEF! I’LL TEACH YOU TO STEAL FROM A WIZARD."

Leaping to his feet, dagger already drawn, Lazare drops into a fighting stance to face his attackers, a man and woman, both Imperial, block the doorway dressed in robes and armed with staves. Not keen to face another magical attack, he runs and kicks off the bed, sailing through the air and quickly closing the gap. Using the dagger defensively, he lashes out with a series of kicks and punches with his free hand. Today at least, he was a thief, not an assassin.

Catching a strike from the man’s stave on the flat of his blade, he twists aside, avoiding a jab in the midriff from the woman, then kicks out, catching the man across the shoulder and driving him back. With a glint of steel, the woman draws a dagger of her own and brings it plunging down towards Lazare’s head. He catches her wrist, the tip of the blade a hairs breadth from his face. He twists forcefully and disarms her, the tip of the dagger sinking into the floor.  

Pulling her injured hand close, she hisses with a snarl of rage “That is our favorite pair of pants, it fits us both perfectly. You will die for taking them!”

The male wizard recovered and readying a spell, the orb of his staff beginning to glow with a coruscating light, Lazare has no time to laugh at the absurdity. In one smooth motion, Lazare rips the fallen dagger from the floor and throws it, burying it in the foot of the caster, the light of his staff winking out as he howls in pain. With a leap, Lazare drives his knee into the man’s jaw, putting him down. With only the woman remaining, he twists about, delivering a vicious kick into her stomach before she can retaliate, then raps the back of her skull with the pommel of his dagger, knocking her unconscious.

She’d wake up hurting, but she’d live.

Taking in deep lungfuls of air, adrenaline still flooding his veins, Lazare dashes out the door into the cold of night. He keeps running, not daring to look back until the village lights can no longer be seen.

Welcome to the Guild

With a shout from within bidding him to enter, Lazare opens the door to the home of Peristair Hawkham, his contact with the Guild. In exchange for escorting an elderly priest to the Temple of Kynareth at the edge of town, he had been directed to this house on the East end of Blackway Wood. The old priest had told him that Peristair works abroad and is rarely in town, keeping odd guests on the rare occasion he is home.

The walls are of the house bare and unfurnished, the dust covering the floor marred by recent footprints. He finds Peristair awaiting him in the attic, a middle-aged Breton with sandy hair and beard sporting a green tunic, his matching eyes boring into Lazare from the moment he crests the ladder.

“Do you have the item?” he asks in a reedy voice colored with a bored tone. From his knapsack, Lazare produces the pants, looking even more casual in their currently rumpled state. Nodding, Peristair tosses him a single coin with a dry “Payment for your services.”

A smile crooking the corner of his lips at Lazare’s nonplussed expression, he continues “You will find us in every major city in the province, and many of the smaller towns and hamlets as well. You can identify our guild houses by this symbol…” Kneeling down, the Breton sketches a diamond shaped symbol in the dust with his finger, then a circle set within the angles of the diamond. Standing and dusting his hands off he adds “It’s best you report to headquarters in Daggerfall City first. That is all. Welcome to the Guild.” With no hesitation, he brushes past Lazare towards the ladder, leaving the casual pants in the dust behind him.

The veins in his forehead fit to burst in frustration, Lazare shouts “Is that it!? What of these pants? Are they enchanted or otherwise valuable? I could have died acquiring them!”

Already descending the ladder down to the ground floor, Peristair pokes his head back up and peeks over at the dusty pants, narrowing his eyes in assessment before looking back to Lazare with a sincere grin. “They are most certainly worthless, but you might consider keeping them, they look like they’d fit you well!”

Daggerfall City

While humbled by the sheer scale of Tamriel’s capital, Daggerfall City is immense. Massive stone walls ring the border, the many grand structures within expressing the very peaks of Breton Architecture. Throngs of humanity pack the markets, mercenaries and adventurers of every calling visit the various guilds and taverns looking for work, scholars and academics bustle their way to the libraries, and various diplomats and dignitaries line the thoroughfare to the palace seat of King Gothryd, son of the late Lysandus.

Far from the hubbub of the city center, Lazare is made aware of the coming Spring as he kicks through the ankle-deep slush in the slums near the harbor in the Northwest end of the city. As he waits for a passing shepherd to drive his flock across the way, he spots it. The symbol of the guild scratched on a pig pen connected to an unassuming house.

The way clear, he lets himself through the pen gate and makes his way over to the door of the home, the hairy pigs rooting through the freshly thawed underbrush paying him no mind. He knocks, and after a few moments is rewarded with the distinct sound of a sliding bolt. Closing the door shut behind, Lazare enters the Thieves Guild of Daggerfall.