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There is a moment, when Garyn steps outside in Ald'ruhn, that he almost wonders if the guild guide had sent him to the wrong place. Ald'ruhn scarcely feels like it's in the same province as Vivec, much less the same island. Gone are the verdant blues and greens of the seas and islands that surrounded Vivec, the city he was still getting used to thirty seconds ago. Gone are the tall, splendid cantons, the pleasant weather, and the smell of the sea.
The air is dry here. Something smells wrong about it. In the distance, dusty red clouds clouds billow and froth. The winds howl in strange tones, seemingly in every direction at once - over, above, around, and through the rounded crescent-shaped buildings of the city. None of them hang high above the ground, save one - a great dome that towers over the rest of Ald'ruhn to the north. It looks almost like a mudcrab's shell.
As Garyn has been wont to do the past few days, he stares a little too long. An armored guardsman barks at him to move along. There's one sure sign he hasn't left Vvardenfell, at least.
"Storm's coming, outlander," the guardsman says. "Best get to shelter. Rat in the Pot's got beds to rent for to weather it over."
A stroke of luck, if a small one. He's hoping not to have to say any part of his mission here out loud. It's always better not to announce your purpose when you're looking for your quarry, even if you aren't known in town. Garyn thanks the guard for his directions and heads for the tavern.
Only as he nears the Rat in the Pot do the specifics of his mission rise to the top of Garyn's thoughts. Teleportation will do that to a mer. So will not wanting to think about it. He doesn't want to kill Tongue-Toad if he can help it. Even if he can't, not without some answers first.
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The Rat in the Pot isn't a big place. Food and drink upstairs, room and common area downstairs. A little crowded on a night like this, but not a hard place to find someone either. This suits Garyn just fine. He'd rather not have to do the "complete stranger asking everyone if they'd seen his good friend Tongue-Toad" routine.
He takes in a cup of mazte and makes a quick survey of the dining area. No Argonians here. He finishes his drink quickly, pays the bartender and makes his way downstairs.
And there he is. Well, an Argonian, at least. A well-dressed one at that, seated at a corner table in the common room. Garyn decides to take his chance here; he slides in across from him.
"Tongue-Toad. Ruheeva."
The Argonian's tail darts beneath the table as he turns his head suddenly.
"...I am he. Who are you?"
Garyn's hand slides carefully toward his scabbard as he leans forward. "Right now? Your best friend in the world. And as your friend, I would advise you to keep your voice low and pay very close attention. You are in danger."
Tongue-Toad rises in his seat. His head is still, but his eyes are bulging, twitching from side to side as he scans the room for an exit.
Garyn lowers his voice and beckons the Argonian closer. "Not from me. And not right this moment. Though the Fighters Guild did send me."
"The Fighters Guild!? Why would they want me -"
"Not so loud. Someone from the Vivec chapter sent me to silence you, one way or another. I don't know what it is you're saying that's got them bothered, but something tells me it's something I'm not meant to know either."
Tongue-Toad's cartilaginous lips are as pursed as an Argonian's ever get. "If you're Fighters Guild, you either know already or will soon enough. I have clearly said too much already."
"I'm afraid you might be right," Garyn says. "I don't suppose you've a place to go?"
"Would you let me go and tell them I've fled?"
"Seems a sensible solution to me."
"Then I will go," says Tongue-Toad. "Thank you, stranger."
"You're very welcome."
Then, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard by the nearest patrons: "Remember, Argonian - not another word about the Guild."
Tongue-Toad nods his head as Garyn walks away.
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He had meant to spend the evening at the Guild hall itself - either in Ald'ruhn or in Vivec. No sense in paying for something you get free with your monthly dues. But he's not even across the main plaza when the air stops being air, and the winds grow thick with ash.
Garyn turns his head, fighting through a choking, wheezing cough as he strains to see his hand in front of his own face. The wind burns him now. The night has turned red. Will he even be able to make it back?
He finds a wall and slides fumblingly across it until he finds a door handle. Gods, please let this be The Rat in the Pot. He opens the door...
The air is dry here. Something smells wrong about it. In the distance, dusty red clouds clouds billow and froth. The winds howl in strange tones, seemingly in every direction at once - over, above, around, and through the rounded crescent-shaped buildings of the city. None of them hang high above the ground, save one - a great dome that towers over the rest of Ald'ruhn to the north. It looks almost like a mudcrab's shell.
As Garyn has been wont to do the past few days, he stares a little too long. An armored guardsman barks at him to move along. There's one sure sign he hasn't left Vvardenfell, at least.
"Storm's coming, outlander," the guardsman says. "Best get to shelter. Rat in the Pot's got beds to rent for to weather it over."
A stroke of luck, if a small one. He's hoping not to have to say any part of his mission here out loud. It's always better not to announce your purpose when you're looking for your quarry, even if you aren't known in town. Garyn thanks the guard for his directions and heads for the tavern.
Only as he nears the Rat in the Pot do the specifics of his mission rise to the top of Garyn's thoughts. Teleportation will do that to a mer. So will not wanting to think about it. He doesn't want to kill Tongue-Toad if he can help it. Even if he can't, not without some answers first.
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The Rat in the Pot isn't a big place. Food and drink upstairs, room and common area downstairs. A little crowded on a night like this, but not a hard place to find someone either. This suits Garyn just fine. He'd rather not have to do the "complete stranger asking everyone if they'd seen his good friend Tongue-Toad" routine.
He takes in a cup of mazte and makes a quick survey of the dining area. No Argonians here. He finishes his drink quickly, pays the bartender and makes his way downstairs.
And there he is. Well, an Argonian, at least. A well-dressed one at that, seated at a corner table in the common room. Garyn decides to take his chance here; he slides in across from him.
"Tongue-Toad. Ruheeva."
The Argonian's tail darts beneath the table as he turns his head suddenly.
"...I am he. Who are you?"
Garyn's hand slides carefully toward his scabbard as he leans forward. "Right now? Your best friend in the world. And as your friend, I would advise you to keep your voice low and pay very close attention. You are in danger."
Tongue-Toad rises in his seat. His head is still, but his eyes are bulging, twitching from side to side as he scans the room for an exit.
Garyn lowers his voice and beckons the Argonian closer. "Not from me. And not right this moment. Though the Fighters Guild did send me."
"The Fighters Guild!? Why would they want me -"
"Not so loud. Someone from the Vivec chapter sent me to silence you, one way or another. I don't know what it is you're saying that's got them bothered, but something tells me it's something I'm not meant to know either."
Tongue-Toad's cartilaginous lips are as pursed as an Argonian's ever get. "If you're Fighters Guild, you either know already or will soon enough. I have clearly said too much already."
"I'm afraid you might be right," Garyn says. "I don't suppose you've a place to go?"
"Would you let me go and tell them I've fled?"
"Seems a sensible solution to me."
"Then I will go," says Tongue-Toad. "Thank you, stranger."
"You're very welcome."
Then, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard by the nearest patrons: "Remember, Argonian - not another word about the Guild."
Tongue-Toad nods his head as Garyn walks away.
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He had meant to spend the evening at the Guild hall itself - either in Ald'ruhn or in Vivec. No sense in paying for something you get free with your monthly dues. But he's not even across the main plaza when the air stops being air, and the winds grow thick with ash.
Garyn turns his head, fighting through a choking, wheezing cough as he strains to see his hand in front of his own face. The wind burns him now. The night has turned red. Will he even be able to make it back?
He finds a wall and slides fumblingly across it until he finds a door handle. Gods, please let this be The Rat in the Pot. He opens the door...