Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-7262318-20170128213721/@comment-5543592-20170129225625

Nightingale rested his elbows on his raised knee, the other pressed into the rooftops. His cape was draped across the back of his body, shielding most of from prying eyes, but from the chest up was visible. He wasn’t worried about being the target for an archer up here. One thing he liked about the Imperial City is that the buildings were tall.

The chemical in the blood had come to nothing. It was strange and different than anything he’d ever come into contact with, so he was ignorant of what it might do, and without anything to test it on he’d likely never know.

The name ‘Bliz’ had come to nothing either. None of his informants—the beggars and thieves of this city—knew anything of it. Not even after he’d paid them.

Nightingale tucked at his mask, eying the inn. The mercenaries were ridiculously easy to find. They were loud, numerous, and stuck their heads in important business. He figured it a miracle Goriyn hadn’t killed them all yet.

Slipping his enchanted ring on, he got a good view of people inside the inn, and watched them for some time, until the Dunmer Nightingale had marked as the social outcast came stumbling outside, and fell in a pool of his own vomit.

He slipped the ring off, to get a view of the man in the flesh without the enchantment fogging his eyes, just as something came fluttering out of the sky and landed on the elf.

Nightingale narrowed his eyes and traced a path up from Tarshal’s crumpled form. Where had it…