Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-7262318-20170128213721/@comment-5543592-20170202001612

The attic hatch swung open, as Nightingale dropped through the roof, into his base of operations for the Imperial City. It was no Twilight Sepulcher, but it was functional.

“I hope you had a fun time out.”   Timkins said. The thief, who really didn’t look it in his fine, rich clothes, sat at the long table, legs kicked up onto it’s top, halfway through an issue of the Black Horse Courier.

“I did.”   Nightingale said, pulling his mask down and his hood to his shoulders, allowing the skin on his face to breath. With the mask gone, his voice no longer had a muffled, mysterious quality, and instead sounded like what you’d expect a man his age to. “Made a friend.”

“You? A friend?”   Timkins asked, glancing over top of the paper, before looking back to it. “Well I suppose anything’s possible.”

Nightingale stared at the Master Thief, about two decades older than himself. Timkins’ hair was done in a comb over, as he was balding, but what was left of it was a dirty blond color. He had the soft, round face of someone who ate well and regularly and a neck to match. His figure wasn’t plump, merely pudgy, and he had a bit of a belly, but that was more from age than diet. Timkins only stuck around the attic for two reasons. One, he had gotten rich so young in his life that he had nothing better to do. Nightingale believed that stealing just got too boring for Timkins, and that he was now living vicariously through Nightingale. And two, in the few moments when they’d first met, as Timkins had been Nightingale’s contact in the city, had deduced Nightingale’s identity. The man, although he didn’t look it, was highly intelligent. Besides, this was Timkins’ house Nightingale was using. The attic with its secret exit was an old vestige from his thieving days, and Nightingale found that the large amount of space in the attic coupled with the quick way to come and go made the perfect place to run his operation in Cyrodiil from.

“Someone you’d be familiar with.”   Nightingale said, walking over to the map table, cape swishing behind him. “The Gray Fox.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”   Timkins muttered. “What’d he want?”

“She.”   Nightingale corrected, pulling out the map of Bruma county from the basket beside the table and then laying it out, putting the paper weights at its corners. “And she wanted to help.”

“Oh, you must be excited. Someone to help with your mission. And she even wears a mask. Perfect.”

“I gave her one of the vials of Dalacon’s chemical. Maybe her people can learn something from it that we couldn’t.”

“Doubt it.”   Grunted Timkins.

Nightingale said nothing as he scanned Bruma, cupping his jaw with one hand.

“What is it?”   Timkins glanced over.

“I recognized the sigil on the back of the amulet they had in the cellar. It belongs to a clan in Cyrodiil, immigrants from Skyrim.”

“How could you have known that?”   Timkins asked, disbelieving.

“I make it my business to know.”   Nightingale replied, leaning over the map table.

“Here’s what I think.”   Timkins said, rising with a groan and setting his newspaper aside.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t ask what you thought.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Here’s what I think.”   Timkins repeated. “You recognized the sigil, yeah?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Nightingale nodded, not taking his eyes off the map.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, if you recognized it, what makes you think the mercenaries didn’t recognize it too?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I know they did.”   Nightingale told him, standing up straight and folding his arms. “Their leader clearly knew the sigil was important.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“So then why don’t you ask him? Or follow them there?”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t want to get him involved. And, if they are headed there, I’d prefer to get there first.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“You can’t do this entirely alone. This is bigger than one man.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not one man, I’m two.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Timkins rolled his eyes. “Your clever answers aren’t going to help you against Goriyn Mortis.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“No.”   Nightingale agreed, turning his attention to the map again. “But words are the last thing I have for him.”

<p class="MsoNormal">He tapped the area south of Bruma city. “The Ice-Fists have an estate here.”   Nightingale said, rolling up the map. “One of the scions of their clan went missing recently. I’ll bet there’s a connection.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Are you going to go there alone?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Nightingale shrugged, dropping the map into the basket. He walked over to the ladder that led up to the hatch.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Who knows?”   The Nightingale said, pulling his mask up over his face and his hood over his head.

<p class="MsoNormal">He glanced back at Timkins, his eyes glowing white again now that the enchantment was active. “Maybe I’ll bring a friend.”   He climbed the ladder up to the hatch, and then stepped through, before kicking it closed behind himself.

<p class="MsoNormal">Timkins pursed his lips at the hatch, before going back to the paper. He didn’t worry for Nightingale, that man knew what he was doing—he was one of the best fighters and thieves Timkins knew, perhaps the best in either category—but the he wasn’t invincible. He had his limits. Nightingale just hadn’t reached them yet.