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[IC] Enervation, 2020

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Date: 23:15, 23rd of Second Seed, 3E 415

Location: 710 Slums St, Imperial City, Waterfront District, Cyrodiil

Weather: Overcast, High Humidity, Slightly Cold

Moon/Tide: Masser Full, Secunda Full, High Tide

It's a humid night in Waterfront. The bugs are biting and even the thieves are staying in their shacks tonight. The water splashes against the rock filled coast, the docks floating on the high tide as the Slaughterfish nip at the last sailors boarding their ship, leaving the harbor to sell their trading goods.

A lightning bolt strikes, yet there is no rain. Probably just some naive mage practicing a new spell. However something dark has happened, darker than the usual petty crimes this area is known for. An imperial legionary stationed on the half circle squints his vigilant eyes where the strike landed, and decides to go investigate.

Character Intros:

*Pending

Hyacintho Quietus's picture
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Framis head back into his shack after investigating the thunder-strike.

"What was it Fram? Dem wizzerds again?" Alessia asks as she heaves the iron supper pot off the hearth. She's a stocky, impressionable fishmonger's daughter, lured away by promises of wealth-beyond-measure.

Framis doesn't respond. He just stands there, shirtless and glistening in the humid air, staring. It's almost predatory, and quite terrifying, but it does happen often enough that Alessia has sought outside help.

Sobashi, the old Khajiiti fortune teller set up near cannery row, insists it's a spiritual malady, Daedric infestation; though Alessia can never afford the 10 ducats she charges to find out which . For his part, Framis disdains all head-shrinkers, leech-wranglers, or bone-readers. He insists its just scutum-shock, a little parting gift from his lizard-friends in Arnesia.

"Fram?"

"Fram!" this snaps him back to attention.

"Pelinal's sheet-metal-cock, Aly!" he curses back in response "the fuck is your problem?"

Alessia doesn't bother arguing. Not tonight. It's too goddamn muggy and buggy tonight to be getting any welts or shiners. "Suppers ready." is all she says as she ladles out a bowel of the thick gruel for Framis before serving herself.

Framis takes a seat at the table. He stares at the steaming mess of mashed rice and unidentifiable fish parts. He was hungry, sure, starving even, but he craved red meat; not this stewed tidewater. Disgust creases his face. After a moment, Alessia looks up from slurping down a lump of claw-meat.

"What?"

"The fuck is this?"

"It's Dreugh congee. It's your favorite!"

It's too muggy to be giving her any welts or shiners. He stands abruptly and plods over to the coat rack to collect a shirt and weapon.

"The fuck are you going?"

"Out." he says, slipping on a dark gray chiton and strapping a broad-bladed kukri to his waist. "Don't wait up."

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Temple District, Imperial City

 

A fair-skinned, light-haired Bosmer steps into the humid, night air. The streets are rather empty this time of night, not that she expected a great deal of onlookers. Ven preferred to travel under the cover of darkness and out of view of prying eyes.

 

Raising an arm in the air, Clairvoyance is cast. As a small orb of energy begins to coalesce in her palm, a stream of blue energy illuminates the path in front of her, guiding her to her destination.

 

Time to go. She has an errand to run, and as luck would have it, it isn’t very far away. Venari tucks her long, platinum-haired braids into her cloak, raises its crimson hood, and makes her way into the night.

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“Shh,” she says aloud. “Not now. I’m trying to think.” Her hand bats at the voices as if they are bugs in the air. Ven continues to reminisce as she walks. 

 

When she had first left the Valenwood province at a young age, she had gotten her start with a band of thieves, stealing priceless trinkets, or so she thought. She soon came to realize that the soul was the most precious possession someone could own, and so she began to steal those instead. Stalking her prey was exhilarating. Plus, certain people pay really well for those types of souvenirs.

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Waterfront District, Imperial City

 

Two dark eyes with no visible sclera survey the surroundings. It’s usually pretty quiet, but something seems different tonight. No matter. She just needs to avoid the legionaries.

 

Luck, an old friend, seems at play once more: she whispers in Ven’s ear, just as others occasionally do. This won’t take long at all. She was given an easy mark. Her prize, a nobleman, is at the end of the street. Venari puts on her Shadowmask and continues her hunt.

 

An alleyway. Her prey was easy to find: he is loud, obnoxious, and as stupid as they come. But he is smart enough to bring bodyguards — a large man walks a few steps ahead and the other trails behind.

 

Drawing her twin daggers, she ambushes the men. One of the bodyguards turns to confront the optically-camouflaged Bosmer while the other takes hold of the baron in an attempt to flee. Venari slashes quickly at her assailant’s chest and neck, carving his flesh as blood sprays violently. His body collapses.

 

She turns. Quickly scaling the side of the building, she makes her way across the rooftops, attempting to flank the others. 

 

She draws her bow and nocks an arrow. Breath. Release. The arrow finds its mark, embedding itself in the back of the baron’s skull, protruding from his eye socket. The second bodyguard takes off running in a fit of Hysteria.

 

A gust of wind, a purple swirl of energy engulfs the baron’s body. A low rumbling hiss pierces the night. His soul is torn out and cast back toward Venari.

 

She allows herself to smile, slightly. Her clients will be pleased at her success. The hunt is complete. Her prize is secured within its black crystalline prison.

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The Waterfront Benevolence nested snug and windowless between a tannery and a fish-sauce brewery on the waterfront's west-end. The smell was, at times, unbearable, and the flin was definitely watered down. But the Basso gang ran the joint, so Framis always enjoyed a steep discount. The scenery was also decent.

The front entrance is a rotting, once-upon-a-time white-washed wooden portico styled to evoke of the grander fanes of the temple district. As Framis approaches the holey ground he's greeted by Oglithir, the older of two Bosmer doormer uniformed with Alessian-style tabards and rusted naginatas.

"Hey! Fishfood! Yah gettin' lonely?"

"Nah," Framis pats him on the shoulder "I just came from ya mudda's tree-house. She was so dry, I'm parched!" They share a gale of laughter, though the younger door-elf, Gwaino, is utterly stoic.

"Who's the new guy?" Framis asks.

"Gwaino. My cousin's kid. He just came up from the Vale yesterday."

"Cheer up, kid!" Framis slaps Gwaino on the shoulder as well, though he just about snarls in response. Framis responds with a stony glower.

"Wassa matta, kid, you no speaka Siradilic?"

Not wishing to cause a further scene, Oglithir hurriedly opens the door for Framis. "You'll wanna hurry," the older wood-elf beams with blistering enthusiasm "they've got that new Moreech girl dancing tonight; everyone's crowding her offertory."

Inside, the place is dead. The "offertories" are all closed. These are small octagonal tables with just enough surface-area and perimeter to permit a crowd of parishioners to provide alms to poor, downtrodden women so destitute that they cannot even afford proper smallclothes.

Framis saddles up to the bar, or "font", a solid piece of grahtwood furniture worn absolutely cornerless from 2 centuries of constant use and humidity. Hastur, the incredibly old barkeeper, hobbles up with a bottle of flin.

"Flin?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"I said yeah!"

Hastur quakes tremendously as he pours a few fingers into a small glass, getting more than a few thumbs of it all over the counter. Framis lays down a wedge of a dead-emperor's face.

At the other end of the bar, Hildelock Oaken-Leg, a career mendicant dressed in nothing but stringed-together clam shells and a featureless oak prosthesis, looks up from her own flin.

"And gimme a plate of horse-ham."

"What?"

"Plate of Horse-Ham!"

"Kitchen's closed."

Framis waves the decrepit publican off, mumbling something like just-die-already. His stomach is eating itself. He knocks back his Flin just as Hildelock slides down to him with a lot of awkward noise.

"Hey handsome." She tries to pull off coquettishly.

"Hey Hildly. Pretty dead."

"I'll say. And, y'know, first of the mo-"

"Is Nino in?"

"Haven't seen 'em. But like I was saying, first-"

"What about Noodles?"

"No, the firs-"

"Two Teeths?"

"No! Look, first of the month is coming up. Rent's due. We're having a bad season, I've got nothings to eat!"

"Yeah?"

"So how 'bout some alms?"

Framis looks her up and down.

"Yeah, okay."

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Because she doesn’t want to appear so heavily armed, Ven carefully stashes her bow and quiver of arrows in a shallow culvert and wanders toward the west-end of the Waterfront District. The night is still young, and she has no reason to head back just yet. 

 

Glancing around, she notices a real gem of a place called The Waterfront Benevolence. As she approaches, she sees two Bosmer stationed at the door.

 

“Hey! You know of a decent place a mer can get a drink around here?” she inquires sarcastically.

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The Bosmer "paladins" exchange uncertain glances for a moment.

Gwaino leans into his cousin to whisper "She a naked-dancer-lady?"

"We just call them them dancers. And no."

"Well, what does she want? Sex...time?"

"I gotta teach you about girls too?" Oglithir sighs wearily "your mother ruined you."

"Sorry, uh, sex-y time?"

"She's probably just a clueless little hick boytch like you; poor thing thinks this is a real benevolence. Watch and learn, junior."

Oglithir leans his naginata against the wall and steps forward "Uh, you fresh off the boat, sister? 'Cause this ain't no temple but, uh, I think there's a green-sap millet judge that lives just a few blocks east of here. Good mer, name's Maergoth, he can get you set up with a good workhouse" here Oglithir pantomimes driving hob-nails into boots "y'know, work, make shoes?".

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Ven sighs. Certainly not the brightest of my kin. Then again, I’m pretty sure they weren’t hired for their brains. 

 

“Your house of worship must have quite the congregation since it’s willing to turn down additional offerings,” she quips. “Here I thought you’d be a little more progressive.” Ven wasn’t even sure they knew what that last word meant. 

 

She quickly produces a few coins and hands them off to the two Bosmer. “Doin’ a great job, boys,” she says sardonically. “Keep up the good work.”

 

Ven turns and begins to walk away.

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Waterfront District, Nibennium

A corpse lies face down on the docks.

Crime scene notes: DB lies splayed south-southeast at the end of an unassuming wharf. Male. Elf by the ears. Right hand hangs limp over the water, hand still clutching an invisible bottle of Surillie Brothers Vintage 379. Clothes are threadbare but otherwise of middle class airs: shirt, trousers, and a coat to stave off the chill in the night air. Missing a boot. Looking a bit disheveled but otherwise no signs of a struggle. This particular wharf hosts schooners The Merchant Beggar and The Pier Plow. Local faire, approximately ten moorings south of the Bloated Float. If there were any witnesses, they're long gone.

Utter stillness lingers for a moment on the humid night air. Then, from the Aether, a lightning strike splinters across the night sky followed presently by a roll of thunder. A gaggle of startled laughter echoes from the Bloated Float.

As if summoned, the corpse stirs.

This city is rotten...

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Gwaino takes the drakes hesitantly.

After a moment, he leans back in to his cousin "Who's Gresiv?"

"What?"

"She said we're Pro-Gresiv; I though we worked for Noodles?"

Oglithir's face is entirely within his palm.

...

Framis leaves the benevolence privy with a swagger in his step, fresh grease in his hair, and a large stain on his chiton.

"Hey-o, Fishfood!" a voice calls to him.

He turns to the source, a garishly dressed yet elegantly coifed Breton poking through the door to the backroom. He beckons Framis to follow him back.

In the backroom, amid stacked cases of Flin and rice ale, they seat themselves at a small table where Noodles had been going over his ledgers by whale-oil lamp-light. A still warm skooma pipe sits idly besides the ledger. The Breton gestures to it.

"Want some fog?"

"Nah, just had a big meal; What's going on?"

"We're bleeding fucking drakes, Fish. I pump serious emperors into these dames. I pay for the baby-barbers. I pay for the ticklebritch pills. I pay their goddamn rent!" Working up a huff, Noodles picks up the skooma pipe. Framis' eyes explode with panic, though this goes unnoticed.

"And then they run off on me! Mara's Saggy Tits! You've seen the floor, it's a graveyard out there!"  He ignites a piece of straw in the oil-lamp before deftly dipping it into the sugar-bowl. Clamping his index down the choke, a noxiously sweet odor fills the air as a bright red masser combusts in the pipe. Fishfood feels very queasy.

Noodles releases the choke and he sucks down a good volume of smoke. He exhales and is almost immediately despondent, his reddened eyes listly scanning the whorls and knots of the rapidly deteriorating ceiling.

Framis has to cover his nose and mouth with his chiton to avoid the worst of the stench. His stomach convulses. He feels saliva welling up in his mouth. The compulsion to hurl up his supper is overbearing. He gags. Several times.

Noodles' attention returns to Framis. "You okay, Fish?"

The skooma smell has dissipated enough that his stomach calms down.

"Yeah. I'm good. So Whadda wanna do?"

"I dunno, man. Probably just...hell, just put the scare in these girls. Yeah, yeah. I'll give you the address of the new girl, the Moreech. Her name's Saveri Hlaalu. Go pay her a visit. Just a scare job though, flip a table, drown her dog, no arena shit though; last thing I need is her face gettin' uglied up."

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Well, that certainly didn’t go according to plan, remarks a voice inside her head.

 

Thanks for rubbing it in.

 

The Waterfront District might prove to be a fertile hunting ground, but setting up a more permanent establishment here in the Imperial City itself was going to be a bit more difficult than she originally thought.

 

On a whim, Venari had hoped to expand her contact network by convincing a few of the girls in The Waterfront Benevolence into sharing some information. There was little doubt that the girls saw and heard all sorts of interesting things that could be useful, but if she wanted to establish herself here, Ven would have to go about things in an entirely different way.

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Sat at a table in the dubiously fresh air outside one of the waterfront's less deplorable flin joints, Clovis swelters under the summer's evening. The wavering horizon casts the dying sunlight in a splendid array of colors, but at such a terrible cost to one's physical comfort. A recently bloated fly sails drunkenly off into the sky and he scratches his neck. "How much longer, Reggie?"

His bodyguard seems impervious to the elements. He continues his stoic observation of the nearby street and rooftops as he answers: "He is now over half an hour late, sir."

Clovis sighs theatrically, and sips his brandy. Bluebloods. Some were decent enough fellows, but any man born to riches will believe he owns the world and it seemed the esteemed Prince Roland of Hulfast had yet to grow out of it. Keeping an honest trader of his stature waiting. On a night like this! "I shall give him to the end of my next course." He signals a waiter. "And if he is not here by then we shall depart. I will have Darby deliver a sternly worded note to his estate in the morning."

A crack of thunder splits the air and halts the glass at his lips. He narrows his eyes. "I do not like the feeling in the air tonight, Reggie. It will be a VERY sternly worded note."

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Three days later...

A very short Argonian, about the height and build of your average toddler, tugs on Lorhechador's coat.

"Hey buddy" he rasps deeply, evidently not a child "You Lorhechador? The Rent-a-Spook?"

He spits a juicy wad of chewing tobacco onto the street cobbles as a mean of punctuation. This is definitely not a child.

"If yuz is, I gots a message fer yuz. Cost yuz 20 clams, though."

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Market District

Lorhechador frowned down at the diminutive Argonian. The High Elf had been loitering in the shade of an awning in the Market District, leaning against a pillar and fanning himself in the humid, stagnant air of the city. With his free hand he reached into his inner coat pocket and produced a few coins.

"Twenty clams, then," he said tersely, "What do you have have for me, skink?"

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The Argonian takes a quick nibble of each and every alm to test the metal. Satisfied, he deposits the coins in a wide pocket on the belly of his sleeveless tunic before withdrawing an envelope. Standing up on the very tips of his hind-claws, he can just barely put it in the High Elf's hand.

"Dunno, Goldenrod, but it sounds reaaaal urgent." he says with a snigger before waddling off to sun himself in the reflecting pools overlooked by Reman's Obelisk.

The envelope is a rough, pulpy affair, and unpleasantly damp to boot. The red dreugh wax seal appears to have been previously broken and lazily repaired by a second application of an entirely different shade.

Opening the envelope should reveal a short note, also damp. It reads, in an unpracticed hand:

"Deere Mister Chador,

Yew dont no mee but I live on the waterfront and need yoor help. My husban has ben missing fore three days. Im worryed sick. But becuze of who his frends are I cant go to the watch. We cant be seen together eyther so pleese meat me at the feed bag in the marcet distrik after sunset. Ask to use the 10 drake privy Delos wil no wat you meen.

I can give yo wun thowsand drakes if yew takke the job.

Sinseerly, Alesia Peloris."

 

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Lorhechador thumbed the letter a bit after he had finished reading, seemingly caught up in an aberrant thought, before frowning and stuffing the letter into one of his inner pockets.

Missing persons

The so-called Imperial City devoured its inhabitants. Missing persons cases were common, as there wasn't a night that went by that another victim was claimed by the ugly marble ogre. Despite the drama you would read in some of the novelettes you find passed around the city's parlours, missing persons cases were anything but thrilling. Most such cases were solved by hitting the docks and inquiring about any floaters the fishermen had recently drug in with their catch. A few drakes passed around and you'd get a shaky, young greenhorn to paddle you out into the Rumare and point where they last saw the corpse; the older fishermen too superstitious and too wise to go out and finger a dead man, even from a distance. If this line of inquiry produced no results chances are the missing would just show up of their own accord days, weeks, or even months later, sometimes with very little to offer as to what had kept them occupied.

Probably just taking a few days to get away from the missus, Lorhechador thought hopefully, flicking the fan at a higher tempo as a bead of sweat rolled down from the part of his hair to bridge of his long nose. In this city it was little more than a futile hope though. If Alesia's husband kept the kind of company she implied, he had little doubt he would be fishing a floater out of the Niben with a meathook in a few days time.

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The Feedbag was busy for a Sundas evening. Fairly respectable crowd too. Alessia feared that she might miss Lohre Chador in the noise and press.

Nevermind that now thought, got to focus; if she dips another tray Delos will dock her. She forces a rigorous smile and hefts a  laden tray over to her 2-top, two Colovians. Guild Syffim, contracted out as house-guards for one of the many battlemage palazzos, if the embroidered chasubles and dai-katanas were any indication.

"So I says to the old mary, I says, you call that a bleedin' fire hex or are just trying to tickle me balls?"

"What'd he say?"

"Dunno. Stabbed him afters. Lungs too full of blood to be properly understood."

She sets the tray down "Alright gentleman, sorry for the wait - so you the dumplings?"  she offers a plate of steaming western-style dumplings to the C'lover on the left. He accepts greedily and immediately starts shoveling the little morsels into his mouth, not even taking the time to dip them in the thoughtfully provided ramekin of sour cream.

"And you had the slumgullion?" she offers the other a bowel of chunky, mud-brown stew.

"I did, honey-rump." The Varangian says out of a slimy smile as he takes the bowel. To her further disgust, he knocks it back, taking a heavy slurp of indistinguishable vegetables and unidentifiable meat.

"Well, can I get you gentleman anything else? Top off your tankards?"

"Fancy you'd join me in the 10-drake-privy, love? "The Stew-drinking C'lover pipes up. His partner pauses from stuffing his gob just long enough to get a good snigger in.

Any other night, she might actually be tempted. Not for for her own sake, of course, Colovian body-hair and manner reminded her of the dancing trolls that get paraded  around during carnival season; no, the first of the month was here in just 4 days and without Framis to help out it was going to be a struggle to keep herself indoors and in rice.

But she needed to keep the 10-drake open so that she can talk with Mr. Chador. If Noodles, or Jahnny Boy, or Sten-forbid Nino Basso found out she was talking to a rent-a-spook, she'd end up just another bloated, headless crow-ship slowly floating down to Topal bay.

Best way to keep out of the drink though, is to keep your bridges unburnt.

"Lemme fill up those tankards," she offers with false sweetness "no charge."

 

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After Magnus finished his journey twil and dipped below the horizon, Lorhechador left his office-apartment in Elven Gardens and made his way back towards Market. The city had livened up in the absence of the stifling heat, freshly energized in small celebration at the end of day. And although such merriment might have tickled some levity out of your average urbanite, Lorhechador allowed for himself no such pleasures.

The Feedbag was the oldest drinking establishment in Market, changing ownership over the course of generations but never location. This was probably due to the fact that it lay so embedded within the district, curled like a cat around the terminus of a short alleyway away from the main thoroughfares, that the property was deemed suboptimal for any prospective merchants looking to set up shop. The Feedbag thus garnered and fomented a reputation as a local watering hole and a more "relaxed" establishment away from the prying eyes of regular guard patrols.

Busy tonight, thought Lorhechador as he stepped through the broad doorway of the tavern. Inside the humid chill of the night air was washed away by a dry warmth emanating from a large hearth opposite of the bar. Heavy wooden tables, almost all of which were occupied, filled the space in-between. The Feedbag was filled with the hum of human activity - an excellent atmosphere to drown out more subtle exchanges.

"Delos," Lorhechador said, motioning the barkeep as he cut his way to the bar between a large Nord woman and a surly-looking imperial bureacrat, "Delos, I hear you have a pretty fancy privy? 10 drakes says I've sat on fancier."

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Venari had made some progress over the last few days, but now was not the time to reflect. Her feet hurt, and her head was pounding. She needed to sit; she needed a drink. She removed the crimson hood from her head and walked into The Feed Bag.

 

Business must be good. The tavern is packed, and most of the tables are occupied. As she walks toward the bar, she notices the barkeep in the midst of a converstion, so she veers off in a tangential direction.

 

As she pushes past the patrons, she grabs an orphaned tankard and makes her way to the back corner of the bar. Ven finds one of the few, empty tables and sits down with her back to the wall, keeping an eye on the front door.

 

Taking the end of her cloak in her hand, she wipes out the last few remaining drops from the inside of the pilfered mug. She produces her milkskin from under her cloak, uncorks it, and gives it a quick sniff. Satisfied, she begins to pour the thick, cloudy liquid into the empty tankard. Ven takes a few sips, rests the back of her head against the wall, and closes her eyes.

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Delos returns a knowing wink and a wide smile.

"Well, sounds like a decent ante to me, sir! So that'll be through the curtain here, down the hall, 3rd door on the right The attendant will be along shortly with a selection of mints, colognes, and preservatives. You can pay them your sawbuck."

Delos leans in close for the next bit,

"And make sure you put the oilskin down on the cot. That bugger is impossible to clean!"

Behind the indicated curtain, Lorhechador should find a rather dank and untidy hallway that stretches for some distance into total obscurity. A single candle-sconce casts a flickering light over the crumbling stonework, the motion seeming to reanimate the dead of several centuries past who have left their mark on this place, the several libraries worth of graffiti and old crumbling posters that line the walls from floor to ceiling.

A solitary ancestor has become enchanted with the sconce. Its fluttering has only heightened the flicker. The hallway is a zoetrope.

The third door on the right has been plastered over, jamb-to-jamb, with about 3 inches of old posters advertising everything from the end of the Red-Diamond war to Hassildor's patent tooth-powder.

Past that, Lorhechador should find a small, square room that is entirely too red. A red glass lantern hangs from the ceiling by a dainty chain, casting everything in a bloody sheen. Not much furniture, just a bleach-bitten cot, a hook-rack hung with oilskins, and a rough stone washbasin set in a simple wooden frame. The walls are plastered in 8 inches of old posters, and some of those appear to date back further than Tiber the first.

Not a second later, the door swings open again, but  very acutely, allowing a squat, dark-skinned Nibenese girl to squeeze in. She quickly closes the door again and does the bolt. Her curly, coal-black hair is frizzy and unkempt, showing equal parts humidity and stress. Turning about shows off her slumgullion-stained apron and soot-stained bare feet.

"Took your sweet time, eh?" she asks pointedly, her mouth nearly in a roar-shape, her dark eyes flaring.

Then she allows herself to exhale.

She closes her eyes, taking a moment to tidy her cumulus of hair back into a messy ponytail. "Sorry," she says with softened features "This has just been a really stressful time for me."

Then she offers her hand to shake.

"Mr. Chador, is it? I'm Alessia Peloris."

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"I understand," Lorhechador replied kindly, not bothering to correct her. He took Alessia Peloris' hand, his long fingers wrapping around it like a spider, and shook it gently. "Still I would like to apologize for any tardiness, Mrs Peloris. The city keeps me a busy mer."

The high elf released her hand and gestured to the cot.

"Please, have a seat. I need to prepare my things."

Reaching into the pockets inside his coat, Lorhechador produces a leather-bound journal, an inkwell, and a quill which seemed to quiver slightly in his hand. He opened and set the inkwell down on the wash basin, dipping the quill and scratching something out on the pages of the journal. He then glanced over its pages and stared at Alessia Peloris for a long moment before speaking:

"Tell me about your husband, Mrs. Peloris. When exactly did you last see him? And did anything of note precede is disappearance?"

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"Well, we're not really married. Not yet." Alessia confides, sheepishly.

"Framis says next summer...Framis says next summer every summer.."

She casts her eyes down at the damp flag-stones. Been forever since this place has been scoured. She tucks her feet up under her on the cot,  then snaps back to attention.

"Yeah. His name is Framis. Framis Ramistan. I don't actually know how old he is, but, he's uh, oldah. Regulah old Nibenaiz. 'Bout two heads shortah and widah than than you. Skin's like mine. He's got dark hair on top, gray on the sides. Kinda like wings, I guess. He works..."

Her eyes drop floor-ward again. She covers her face. This next part is delicate subject matter, and Alessia was never really deft of tongue, having spent just two winters at the lyceum. Worse, the red light is making it hard to concentrate.

Finally, she blurts the uncontentious "He works the wuddafront. Not on it. If you catch my meanin'. Like I said in the lettah, he's got friends who ain't so nice. 'Cause of them we gots to meets in this pork-closet."

She breathes easier now. The rest just flows.

"Last seen him 3 days ago. We was at home, Wuddafront favela, of course. It was late. I was cookin' Dreugh congee, his favorite. Then there's this thundah. Big boom. Framis storms out 'cause there ain't been no rain or nothin', and we've been having these wizzerd kids, university brats, comin' down late recently. The get really loaded and start throwin' hexes around. Set our neighbor's house on fire. Poor Mr. Dog-Tooth. So, like I said, he storms out, gonna give them kids a talkin' to, maybe smack 'em around a little."

"So he's gone something like an hour. Real long time. Then he just comes back, and, uh, well...he just kinda stares at me. First I thought it was just his old brainbug flarin' up, shield-shock he calls it, but I gots other opinions. Anyway, I give 'em the congee, his favorite I'll remind ya, and he just stares at that too, like I tried to feed him out the shit-pot. Then he just storms off."

"He done that before, 'specially after a brainbug-out. I figgered he just went to the Benni, had some flin, caught a skinshow, and that'd be that. He'd even done that before and not come home for one, two days before. But never three. Never three."

If not for the light, Lohrechador would see how blushed and puffy the light sprinkling of tears has made her face.

"I'm worried Mr. Chador. This isn't normal."

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Lorehechador paused in writing to place a finger on his temple, although the quill kept scratching away on its own accord. Well, that was an odd coincidence.

"I was on the Waterfront three nights ago. I thought the lightning was just part of my imagination."

He then grabbed the quill again and dipped it in the ink, tapping it slightly on the rim of the ink well.

"Is there anything you can tell me about Framis' "not very nice" friends? And where can I find this Mr. Dog-Tooth?"

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"Fram's friends are, well...y'know, not nice, sometimes. But not like we're Seth-freaks, sauntering around with Dee-dras. Y'know?" Alessia's eyes seem to spark. This subject is a definite fuse, and a short one "Look, Mr. Chador.  we're decent people okay? We pay most our taxes and we look out for our for own. Just hard to make a drake when the Emp'rur cares more about his Moreech ebony-mine, wassit called, Wardenfull,  half-a-world-away then he does his own folk. Y'know the horsehairs  been roundin' waterfront folk up, pinchin' us for spittin' or leavin' fish-guts on the docks just so's they can put us the boats bound there."

A moment passes, the fire tames. Alessia directs her gaze at Lohrechador's shoes in shame, not fashion. "Sorry, Mr.Chador...that's just been, well..." there's a long silence, then she blurts quickly through a pained and clench-eyed face "Framis worked...works for "Noodles" Valtieri, what who runs the Wuddafront Benevolence. Him, he works for Nino Basso."

Alessia opens her eyes and quickly changes gears.

"And well, Mr. Dog-Tooth has been dead for half a year." she says matter-of-factly, obviously rather more comfortable with this line of inquiry "Got it in the fire. Guess he had a lot of loot under the floorboards. He was tryin' to pry 'em up when a beam fell on him. It was too heavy, we ain't got a brigade down there, so he burned to death Dunno what happened to the loot."

...

A familiar young bosmer saddles awkwardly up alongside Venari at her obvious don't-fucking-talk-to-me table. His breath stinks of very sour wine and very fresh meat.

"Exsh-cushe me: am I an angel?" Gwaino starts in with a self-assured grin totally at odds with the red sick-stain on his tabard "Be-causshe I fell from heaven."

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Eyes still closed, Ven presses her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, squeezing slightly. Her eyelids slowly open.

 

Even if he were sober, he probably wouldn’t be very useful. Now, being drunk, probably even less so; however, she motions to an empty chair and invites him to sit.

 

“Yes,” she begins, “you are certainly a benevolent angel straight from the Waterfront. How ‘bout a drink and you tell me about yourself?”
 

With a twist of her wrist, Charm is cast.

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Gwaino takes the charm the on the chin. His pupils, already huge in the dim light go absolutely planetary while the lids droop. He seems to be enjoying himself but then the swaying starts, much more than before anyway. He has to grab onto a wall-sconce since the floor insists on spinning so.

"Exsh-cse me a moment"

He staggers off, nearly colliding with a large Nord alewife double-fisting flagons. He perseveres though, pendulously, and arrives at the potted ficus in the corner. Without skipping a beat, he vomits a good volume of reddish sick into the pot, thanks the ficus profusely for its assistance, then staggers back to Venari, seating himself casually as if nothing was amiss.

"Sho anyway, My name ish Gwaino, I'm from Meadow Run. I like long walksh in the beech treesh and kin-licking dinnersh. How 'bout you? Eaten anybody inshtereshting lately?"

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“Don’t worry. No one you’d know,” Venari said with a slight smile.

 

She raises her mug to her lips and takes another long sip of her jagga. She continues, “Meadow Run, you say!? We were practically neighbors. Growin’ up I spent a lot of time in Elden Root. What brings you all the way up here? And how did you end up working at The Waterfront Benevolence?”

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His stomach empty, Gwaino was pretty starved. He needed meat, like the MLTs his mom used to make - mom, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, where the mom is nice and lean and the tomatoes are ripe. It's all so consuming that that he barely hears Venari's question.

"Huh? Yeah, the Benny. 'Ndrangheta runsh that place."

Gwaino wonders if Venari was a mom. From the look of her probably not. Shame. In his experience, no other green-sap can really compare to the flavor of a womer-of-a-certain-age who's had a few litters. Savory is the best word he can command to describe it. He starts to wonder if that all-hours 'Authentic Bosmeri' goblin-gurney down the way stocks moms.

Nah, probably all monkey-meat. Ugh. Gwaino couldn't stand the taste of kollopi. Hmm. Delos doesn't seem busy. He should ask if he's got any moms hanging up in back.

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At this point in the conversation, Venari can clearly see it has reached its end. She drains the contents of her mug and stands. Snapping her fingers, she gets the Bosmer’s attention one last time.

 

“You’ll have to excuse me. I feel as if I’ve been mostly dead all day. I have an early morning. It has been a pleasure.”

 

Ven walks toward the front door and exits The Feed Bag.

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"Do not worry, Ms. Peloris. I am no priest of Stendarr. My job isn't to judge."

Lorhechador made a last few scratches on his journal before snapping it shut and returning his things to his pockets. He was only passingly familiar with Valtieri, whom was generally known for the Benevolence but little else. Nino Basso, however, was a name very well known to the detective.

Just another black name among many carved into the foundations of this cursed city.

"Do you have any personal affects of Framis? Something that he held dear or held constantly? It may help me in locating him."