ACT I
CHAPTER VI
SCOUNDREL'S FOLLY
{MARCELLUS' POV}
The Pros and Cons of Being a Petty Criminal.
I'm not much with a quill, but someday, I will sit down and write that book.
(Really. I bet it'd be a hit with the 'street rats that have no respect for the law or authority of any kind'.)
I'm mulling over a clever pen-name (how about Marcellus Miremoss, or Angstangstangst?) alongside the typical dejection as I'm dragging myself off to those big double doors. For my autobiography, favorite hobbies include: waking up grouchy, getting myself fired, and skipping town. It's really-quite thrilling, in fact, especially when you owe money to one of the scariest fetchers in the entire city.
And he's a gold-grabbing Argonian.
Eyes are following me big time as I drag a small cart through the Plains District, trying to get out as fast as humanly possible before someone starts demanding things of me. I spent half the morning giving away every Septim I own to some local contacts of mine. And, no, no, no, not because I'm generous, of course (what kind of guy do you think I am?), but because I'm seriously good at racking up debt.
Flashback, and I tried to sell off my stolen junk to get my finances decent for on-the-road living. However, fences don't like me because I treat them like louses, so I never get great deals - especially when I owe each of them coin as well. Now, I'm stuck with a daunting zero balance, a flock of angry criminals, and a momentous desire to get as far away from Whiterun Hold as my half-elf-feet can take me.
Maybe I'll move west to Markarth, I think wistfully, and join up with the Forsworn. Quite the setting for my sequel, in a place where savages worship Hagravens and extract mortal hearts. It's promising, but I scratch it when I decide Delynn might catch me while visiting her parents. (Or was she born in Falkreath?)
Be that as it may, Riften becomes an option when I see the Drunken Huntsman archery shop in my periphery. Interesting word association from everyone's favorite drug addict. It's forbidden ground anyway, though, when I remember why I left there in the first place. Five-star sewer life! (A prequel might be in order.)
I briefly consider the capital, but I'm almost at the gates when a tall, armor-clad green man - or should I say reptile? - stops me in my unfeasible aspirations. Curse you, bad luck. It's Lizalfos, the scary fetcher I mentioned before, although he mostly goes by Spike since it makes him seem tougher (or, in my opinion, dumber).
I grit my teeth. This reminds me of getting bullied by village brats as a kid. Of course, they liked me a whole lot better once I started paying them off with potions and gold - which I eventually grew out of - but only Sheogorath's beard knows I can't do anything like that right now.
Not saying I'm one for religion, but I send a quick mental prayer to any old Divine when Spike hisses at me, asking Akatosh or Mara or whoever to hopefully save my hide - and stop me from laughing at how ridiculous hissing Argonians are. (Just imagine a bipedal lizard in human-plus-size. There you go.)
Marshy scales glisten in the afternoon sun, and he speaks in that usual hoarse tone:
"Word is... you're leaving town."
I don't need to utter them to know my lies aren't convincing.
"Leaving?" I say emphatically. "What? Who said that?"
YOU ARE READING
Pale {The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim}
Fanfiction"I am destiny's most lethal weapon." ~♦~♦~♦~ Running from her problems has never quite been Astrid's style, so skipping her home country to escape an arranged marriage is definitely something out of the norm. Something else out of the norm: dragons...