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Vivec is a maze. Every canton, every corner of the place is designed specifically to frustrate locals and baffle outsiders. Or so Garyn assumes. He can think of no other justification for why this city exists.
There are no streets to speak of outside the doors of the plaza; only a single wide concourse that encircles the whole canton. Nonetheless it is choked with life - rich and poor, beggars and vendors, drummers and street preachers, Dunmer and foreigners. In the full heat of the day there is scarcely any space not occupied by some poor soul or another; they swim past him on either side.
"Stand aside or move along, outlander."
Garyn turns to find himself startled by a stern-faced golden mask with a mer inside it.
"Apologies, sera. I'm looking for Hlaalu canton."
The masked mer glares. "Then find a gondolier and stop clogging our streets, f'lah. Move. Along."
Garyn quickly nods his assent - he can see the guards won't be a help to him - and forces his way to the edge of the concourse. He leans against the parapet and looks for the city beneath him, hoping to get a sense of it.
Instead he sees a watery labyrinth, a criss-cross grid of sea and stone. The cantons - each a stone ziggurat as big as a village and a hundred feet high - stand alone in the sea as artificial islands linked by narrow stone bridges. On the sides of each canton stand ramshackle wooden shacks and scaffolding, most of them off the edge overhanging the canal itself. Some are even stacked one atop the other. But they all leave room for the boats to pass underneath.
The gondolas are difficult to make out from here, the topmost level of the Foreign Quarter. But Garyn can just about make them out. From the look of it, there are at least two more levels beneath him. He can see where he needs to go. Now, to find a way down...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shaking the orc down is easy enough, once he flags down a boatman, finds his way up the Hlaalu canton, and asks every day-drinking stranger at the nearest cornerclub if they know an orc named Nar gro-Shagramph. When you're looking for a needle in a haystack, you don't worry about what you're going to sew with it once you find the damn thing. Garyn knows what to do with this one - stand tall, talk tough, and flash the steel just enough to let him see it. Nar was pretty quick to pretend he never wanted the ring in the first place.
Three hours of legwork culminating in a thirty-second confrontation where he didn't even have to draw his blade. If this isn't mercenary work in a nutshell, Garyn doesn't know what is.
By the time he makes it back to the Guild, the sun is a good deal lower in the sky. Lorbumol, meanwhile, is at a whetstone sharpening a knife. He hardly seems to notice Garyn as he arrives.
"What? Oh, you. You're finally back with that ring?"
Garyn might point out that he just found a perfect stranger in an enormous city that he just arrived in today using nothing but his own determination and investigative skills. But he desperately needs this money, and just as desperately needs to not piss off the mer giving it to him. He tosses the ring to Lorbumol.
"Right here, boss."
"Good. Here's a hundred drakes. Easy money." Lorbumol throws him a small bag of coins. "I'll let Sjoring know you're a full member now. Don't let the promotion get to your head, Apprentice."
Garyn weighs the coins in his hand and purses his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. That first job was barely work. I'm giving you a second today so's you can show me what you're really made of."
"I'm ready," Garyn says. No Guild member ever turns down paying work if they expect their bosses to assign them more. If the Guild says jump, you say "how much?"
Lorbulg picks up his knife and begins to fiddle with it. "There's an Argonian in Ald'ruhn who can't keep its mouth shut. Go to the Rat in the Pot and silence him, and I'll give you 500 drakes."
Garyn blinks. His first job had been a questionable one to start with. But he hadn't expected his second job would escalate to...whatever this is.
"...What do you mean by silence him, boss? What's he saying about us?"
"A lot of things he shouldn't be saying, Apprentice. You're gonna shut him up for good or I won't pay you. Now go find a Guild Guide and get to Ald'ruhn, before I hand this job to someone else."
Garyn shuts his eyes and nods. "Consider it done."
There are no streets to speak of outside the doors of the plaza; only a single wide concourse that encircles the whole canton. Nonetheless it is choked with life - rich and poor, beggars and vendors, drummers and street preachers, Dunmer and foreigners. In the full heat of the day there is scarcely any space not occupied by some poor soul or another; they swim past him on either side.
"Stand aside or move along, outlander."
Garyn turns to find himself startled by a stern-faced golden mask with a mer inside it.
"Apologies, sera. I'm looking for Hlaalu canton."
The masked mer glares. "Then find a gondolier and stop clogging our streets, f'lah. Move. Along."
Garyn quickly nods his assent - he can see the guards won't be a help to him - and forces his way to the edge of the concourse. He leans against the parapet and looks for the city beneath him, hoping to get a sense of it.
Instead he sees a watery labyrinth, a criss-cross grid of sea and stone. The cantons - each a stone ziggurat as big as a village and a hundred feet high - stand alone in the sea as artificial islands linked by narrow stone bridges. On the sides of each canton stand ramshackle wooden shacks and scaffolding, most of them off the edge overhanging the canal itself. Some are even stacked one atop the other. But they all leave room for the boats to pass underneath.
The gondolas are difficult to make out from here, the topmost level of the Foreign Quarter. But Garyn can just about make them out. From the look of it, there are at least two more levels beneath him. He can see where he needs to go. Now, to find a way down...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shaking the orc down is easy enough, once he flags down a boatman, finds his way up the Hlaalu canton, and asks every day-drinking stranger at the nearest cornerclub if they know an orc named Nar gro-Shagramph. When you're looking for a needle in a haystack, you don't worry about what you're going to sew with it once you find the damn thing. Garyn knows what to do with this one - stand tall, talk tough, and flash the steel just enough to let him see it. Nar was pretty quick to pretend he never wanted the ring in the first place.
Three hours of legwork culminating in a thirty-second confrontation where he didn't even have to draw his blade. If this isn't mercenary work in a nutshell, Garyn doesn't know what is.
By the time he makes it back to the Guild, the sun is a good deal lower in the sky. Lorbumol, meanwhile, is at a whetstone sharpening a knife. He hardly seems to notice Garyn as he arrives.
"What? Oh, you. You're finally back with that ring?"
Garyn might point out that he just found a perfect stranger in an enormous city that he just arrived in today using nothing but his own determination and investigative skills. But he desperately needs this money, and just as desperately needs to not piss off the mer giving it to him. He tosses the ring to Lorbumol.
"Right here, boss."
"Good. Here's a hundred drakes. Easy money." Lorbumol throws him a small bag of coins. "I'll let Sjoring know you're a full member now. Don't let the promotion get to your head, Apprentice."
Garyn weighs the coins in his hand and purses his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. That first job was barely work. I'm giving you a second today so's you can show me what you're really made of."
"I'm ready," Garyn says. No Guild member ever turns down paying work if they expect their bosses to assign them more. If the Guild says jump, you say "how much?"
Lorbulg picks up his knife and begins to fiddle with it. "There's an Argonian in Ald'ruhn who can't keep its mouth shut. Go to the Rat in the Pot and silence him, and I'll give you 500 drakes."
Garyn blinks. His first job had been a questionable one to start with. But he hadn't expected his second job would escalate to...whatever this is.
"...What do you mean by silence him, boss? What's he saying about us?"
"A lot of things he shouldn't be saying, Apprentice. You're gonna shut him up for good or I won't pay you. Now go find a Guild Guide and get to Ald'ruhn, before I hand this job to someone else."
Garyn shuts his eyes and nods. "Consider it done."