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You make a terrible thief, boy. All lead feet and pork hands. I could have tracked you down in the dark. And you chose your - set that down. I'd kill you where you stand if you tried and you know it. Give it to me, boy. That's a good lad. Now where was I? Ah yes, you chose your mark poorly. Didn't look past the grey hair or the good clothes to see the muscle tone. Or that I saw you three godsdamned times before you made your move. You don't need to have worked the Market District your whole life to recognize an escape route when you see one.
Still, not a bad fighter for a boy your age. No, not bad at all. Pretty impressive what you did to that guard - you should look at him. Nasty gash on his arm, and that kick will leave him bow-legged for a while. Made damned fools of the other four, too. Would've gotten away with it in spite of everything if it hadn't been for me. You're completely undisciplined, of course - Imperial Guard ought to be ashamed of a spectacle like that. Still, very promising. Raw, but promising. What's your name? Eh? G-G-Garyn what? Who's your father, boy? 'Fraid I didn't catch that. For gods' sake, speak up. None of this hemming and hawing and erming and ahring - talk plain and direct, you'll get further with people. I ask you who's your father, you tell me.
Hrm. I thought as much. Perfect. Don't you go anywhere, boy, I'm not done with you yet. Ah, there you are. Why thank you Officer, I think I'd rather deal with this. Oh, how foolish of me. What's the fine? Hmm, yes. Could you give us a moment? Thank you.
This isn't a bad sword, boy. Where'd you get it? I know that, you little s'wit, I mean from who. Thought as much. That's a naval cutlass. You may not know it, but that isn't such a bad choice for a boy in your position. Light, easy to use, good in tight spaces. And you seem to know how to hold it at least. Yes, I'm coming to that. Give me a minute, officer.
The way I see it, that fine's well above what you can pay. So you're looking at at least five to ten in the dungeons, and that's if you're lucky. Even for us Dunmer those years don't go quick. And good luck surviving when you get out. No friends, no money, and no skills worth a damn. Don't interrupt me, boy, I'm not wrong and you know it. You are fucked, and you haven't a prayer of righting yourself. You won't last five more years living a life of crime.
Now, as it happens, I've a little problem of my own. I'm a Fighter's Guildhall leader of some importance, and a man of - let's say, reasonable means. Certain...circumstances have arisen which prevent me from having heirs of my own. And I'd rather burn the damned guildhall to the ground than let Marcus Prelius's damned fool of a son have it! I made that Guildhall what it is today, I'm not going to let some pathetic, mewling little whelp ruin what I've built. And yet I've no alternative. None that I can trust, anyway.
Which is what brings me here - to adopt and groom a successor, or to find a father willing to apprentice his son. I've looked at dozens of young men. Not a damned one of them has been any good. Even I couldn't mold them into anything useful! And the ones that are useful - well, most fathers tend to be less than willing to part with their favorite sons. But you, you don't have that problem. And frankly, I'm running out of options mys- why yes, that is precisely what I'm asking. Well done. Interrupt me again and I'll tan your hide.
Yes, as you may have guessed, I am offering you the privilege of beocming my apprentice, and my legal heir. I cannot guarantee your success - if you fail to live up to my standards, which are quite unreasonably high, you will not inherit a godsdamn thing. There's just a few things I can guarantee: You will grow to hate me very quickly. There will be times when you wish you were in prison. But it'll make a proper mer out of you. You'll be doing real work, dangerous work, the work of mercenaries and soldiers and adventurers. You'll learn how to fight with a sword and move in armor. How to repair your equipment and dress your own wounds. And you'll learn how to work until you can't any longer. And as I said, it comes with no guarantees of advancement or inheritance. But it's the only chance you'll ever get to pull yourself out of the sorry mud-sucking subsistence that is your miserable little existence. You can stand on your feet or you can keep crawling. It's your choice.
Or, you can keep stammering. That works, too.
Excellent. Congratulations - you are now my son. Grab your sword and get your ass in the back of the carriage. Quickly, before I change my mind.
Still, not a bad fighter for a boy your age. No, not bad at all. Pretty impressive what you did to that guard - you should look at him. Nasty gash on his arm, and that kick will leave him bow-legged for a while. Made damned fools of the other four, too. Would've gotten away with it in spite of everything if it hadn't been for me. You're completely undisciplined, of course - Imperial Guard ought to be ashamed of a spectacle like that. Still, very promising. Raw, but promising. What's your name? Eh? G-G-Garyn what? Who's your father, boy? 'Fraid I didn't catch that. For gods' sake, speak up. None of this hemming and hawing and erming and ahring - talk plain and direct, you'll get further with people. I ask you who's your father, you tell me.
Hrm. I thought as much. Perfect. Don't you go anywhere, boy, I'm not done with you yet. Ah, there you are. Why thank you Officer, I think I'd rather deal with this. Oh, how foolish of me. What's the fine? Hmm, yes. Could you give us a moment? Thank you.
This isn't a bad sword, boy. Where'd you get it? I know that, you little s'wit, I mean from who. Thought as much. That's a naval cutlass. You may not know it, but that isn't such a bad choice for a boy in your position. Light, easy to use, good in tight spaces. And you seem to know how to hold it at least. Yes, I'm coming to that. Give me a minute, officer.
The way I see it, that fine's well above what you can pay. So you're looking at at least five to ten in the dungeons, and that's if you're lucky. Even for us Dunmer those years don't go quick. And good luck surviving when you get out. No friends, no money, and no skills worth a damn. Don't interrupt me, boy, I'm not wrong and you know it. You are fucked, and you haven't a prayer of righting yourself. You won't last five more years living a life of crime.
Now, as it happens, I've a little problem of my own. I'm a Fighter's Guildhall leader of some importance, and a man of - let's say, reasonable means. Certain...circumstances have arisen which prevent me from having heirs of my own. And I'd rather burn the damned guildhall to the ground than let Marcus Prelius's damned fool of a son have it! I made that Guildhall what it is today, I'm not going to let some pathetic, mewling little whelp ruin what I've built. And yet I've no alternative. None that I can trust, anyway.
Which is what brings me here - to adopt and groom a successor, or to find a father willing to apprentice his son. I've looked at dozens of young men. Not a damned one of them has been any good. Even I couldn't mold them into anything useful! And the ones that are useful - well, most fathers tend to be less than willing to part with their favorite sons. But you, you don't have that problem. And frankly, I'm running out of options mys- why yes, that is precisely what I'm asking. Well done. Interrupt me again and I'll tan your hide.
Yes, as you may have guessed, I am offering you the privilege of beocming my apprentice, and my legal heir. I cannot guarantee your success - if you fail to live up to my standards, which are quite unreasonably high, you will not inherit a godsdamn thing. There's just a few things I can guarantee: You will grow to hate me very quickly. There will be times when you wish you were in prison. But it'll make a proper mer out of you. You'll be doing real work, dangerous work, the work of mercenaries and soldiers and adventurers. You'll learn how to fight with a sword and move in armor. How to repair your equipment and dress your own wounds. And you'll learn how to work until you can't any longer. And as I said, it comes with no guarantees of advancement or inheritance. But it's the only chance you'll ever get to pull yourself out of the sorry mud-sucking subsistence that is your miserable little existence. You can stand on your feet or you can keep crawling. It's your choice.
Or, you can keep stammering. That works, too.
Excellent. Congratulations - you are now my son. Grab your sword and get your ass in the back of the carriage. Quickly, before I change my mind.