[i]Meanwhile, during `The Blunders of Burkswallow`...[/i]

If ever there was a more infamously crime infested, eminently unlawful hole on Nirn than “The Snake-Eyed Skeever”, then Burkswallow had neither heard of it, nor would he ever want to. 
The legends that abounded the place were as fantastical as they were farce, and there came a time in every professional thief’s life in which they would sit down and hear them all. 
“It’s the place where piracy was born!”, some had said, “It was a naval bar, and they all went sour!”
“It’s where the black market starts, and ends,” say others, “If ever an item entered circulation, it started and ended in the Snake-Eyed Skeever, I guarantee!”
“The wenches there’ll steal your heart… and everything else that isn’t nailed down!” 
And, the all-time favourite, “Nocturnal and her Nightingales drink there: One even tends the bar!” 

Yes, no matter where you stole, how you stole or what you stole, if you were a thief, you’d heard the mythos and learnt the lore. 
They said that, in the Snake-Eyed Skeever, if nobody saw it, it was legal: If someone did see, then they’d want a cut. 
It’s even been theorised that Torradan ap Dugal, the “Scourge of the Abecean Sea”, the “Terror of the Gold Coast”, and the “Cutthroat of Hunding Bay” had once been a mop boy, there: And his crew, the dish washers. 
Some even dared to suggest that, unbeknownst to the thieves guild of Skyrim, the true crown of Barenziah lays within the Skeever’s walls, and the one they possessed was only an expertly crafted, but totally worthless, replica… 
Most concurred, however, that it was a bar patronised solely by liars. 

All this and more was promised in the thief’s sagas: And all of it behind one door. 
The Snake-Eyed Skeever, nestled somewhere within the heart of Hammerfell’s uneasy political capital: Sentinel.

Inside, spectral streams of pungent rotgut danced idly between the erosion and corrosion of the bar stool legs, too heavy to hover more than a few inches from the unaired must of the dark planked floor, and too thick to be dissipated solely by the movements of patrons. 
The main room was dusky, and dank, as it lacked the windows with which to permit even the most basic levels of light to enter: It offered only a rapidly degenerating bar, a series of stools, and a small cluster of ring-worn, blotched and discoloured tables, some very literally standing on their last legs. 
The walls had been abraded by the countless decades, eaten away by the chemical stains of bar-fights passed: And on those parts where the wall was still whole, they often still bore scars in the form of smashed lanterns and tattered portraits. 

But by far, the most tragic blight this watering-hole was ever wrought with was most of its patrons.
Small, beady creatures in most respects, with eyes as glazed and milky as spider eggs, and long, spindly limbs with which to complete the illusion. 
Their clothes reeked of the devil’s nectar, and their faces were uncouth, and often gaunt. 
It would not have been irrational, nor erroneous, to wonder if they’d never seen daylight at all. 
And, scattered sparsely amongst them were the few and the fortunate, with features that were more reminiscent of men than monsters: But despite their appearance, they were the most savage and treacherous of The Skeever’s frequenters…
The pirate heads. 

All was quiet, all was still: It was only on occasion that men would wander from one table to another, and often only for as long as it took to retrieve a drink. 
They spoke in hushed tones, if they spoke at all: Exchanged legends, information and, should their companions ever face the likes of the sun again, advice. 
It was only those healthy few who occupied the back tables like toothache who bothered to speak any louder than a whisper, and even then they deemed their plans- of marauding and heists- to be of such importance that they did so barely. 
The only thing that moved for any longer than a moment at a time was the dust in the air, which hung like a weighted billow throughout the entire establishment- as if perched atop the liquor’s virulent vapours- and drifted lazily from side to side, without cause or direction. 

[i]Bang[/i]
With a sudden, explosive clatter, the door- some mottled old oaken thing, ancient and thicker than bone- flew open, and soared across the barroom floor, before shattering into an innumerable myriad of thorns, of splinters and chunks. 
And like the red sea, all the dust, the vapour and shade that had collated over the sub-rosa decades in which the tavern had stood here, parted in one glorious wave-like motion, to be replaced instead by a single fierce, triumphant beam of radiant, golden light. 
A sweeter smell swept in with it, riding upon a tropical breeze and dissipating the sour stench of moonshine almost as soon as it’d arrived. 

And in the heart of this newfound light, there stood a slender figure, tall and in a distinct, and familiar, leather armour: The kind of armour these men susurrated about in flights of fancy, whenever it was they dared to suppose they’d spotted it before, in brief glimpses through the ceiling tiles, and when they’d heard the rattle of footsteps upon a village’s rooftop grates…
[i]Nightingale[/i] armour.
His face was obscured by the tenacity of the sun’s rays, save for the darker features, such as the light but undeniable presence of facial hair- which occupied his jawline, and faintly outlined his mouth in the process- and the flowing curls of his hair. 
In one hand, he wielded a jade-green scimitar, which almost seemed to glow as the light passed through it. 
When he spoke, he did so in a tone strict and clear: Which, to ears so used to secrecy, must have sounded thunderous, “Tell me where Harding is.”
It was clear, at this point, that his patience had run dry.

"My, aren't we demanding." a woman's voice came from behind him. The speaker sat at a table, feet propped up on the surface with several men and some women who appeared to be her crew mates, evidenced by a red bandana tied somewhere to their bodies, sitting around her. She was a Breton looked to be about thirty with short, chin length red-hair that was as straight as the dagger she was using to clean her nails out with. Her leather armour covered a white bodice, both unclasped at the front, giving a rather generous view of her cleavage, which may have distracted from the mace at her hip, or the trio of throwing hatchets on the other. She was rather comely, save for a long scar that ran from under her left eye, cleaving her lips, and down to her chin. It was almost as hard and unnerving as her green eyes and smirk, which conveyed a sense of menace under her mirthful gaze. Her tanned skin and calloused hands more than hinted at a demanding life. 

"What's a lost pup doing in the old Skeever, eh?" she asked. "Nice armour, did your mum sew that up for you? Here's a tip, since you fancy being a thief enough to try and look like one of those Nightingale fellows; lose the outfit. You'll draw less attention that way, and maybe actually find some friends." her crewmates around her chuckled, staring down Burkswallow with predatory gazes. One of them was even busy sharpening a cutlass. "But aye, I'm Harding. You found me. Usually the only men who come a-calling me name are the fucks who want to fuck me, the fucks who think they deserve a part in me fleet, or the dumb fucks who think that I wronged them. I ain't seen your face before, and I certainly ain't invited you to my sheets, so shall we call it the third?" she challenged with a grin. "You fancy yourself a sailor boy, do ya? A length of rope in your hands, the sun lickin' your flesh like a feisty wench, the taste of steel in your hand as you drive it into another man's heart and takin' all he cares for? Out with it, pup. My drink is only gettin' warmer while my heart grows colder."

Following Harding’s introduction, there was a brief moment in which this newcomer’s silhouette, still basked in the keen and unwavering glare of the tropics, was motionless, save for the turning of his head. 
He simply stood, resolute, and stared her down: His eyes obscured by day’s flare, but their presence apparent all the same, as if sensed by some deep, primal instinct, which told one man when another was scouring his form.
For weakness… for a solitary chink in the metaphysical armour which, when exploited, might bring a juggernaut to his knees. 
But with what intensity he examined her was imperceptible, cloaked in daylight. 

Then, he took one solitary step forwards and, transitioning from the gleam of day, stepped abruptly into Harding’s world. 
Forsaken by the light, shade overtook him, and in doing so, unveiled his features as though it was his natural habitat. 
His features, contrary to what Hammerfall’s day might have suggested, were dark as opposed to pallid: His skin was olive by nature, but baked a shade of light umber by the persistence of Magnus’ brilliance, and his hair fell in complimentary locks of chestnut brown, although betrayed hints of having been darker, before the sun’s rays had bleached it. 
Only one feature betrayed this, and that was his eyes: A pale alabaster blue, which gave- almost- the impression of sightlessness. 
Furthermore, his countenance was of sharp and defined features: High, pronounced cheekbones, and a firm jaw, which- whilst not the most rugged, by far- held well enough in width to maintain a respectable short beard, were both the most noticeable of them. 

And when he spoke, they were all the more apparent. 
“I’d trust a pirate to make that mistake,” he upbraided, with the gentle shaking of his head, “A thief can wear whatever he likes. I don’t need to worry about drawing attention,” he took another step forwards, and gave her a warm, comfortable smile, as though completely disregarding the presence of her somewhat foreboding crew, “Because I’m only seen if I want to be.”
He reached forwards, and slowly dragged the chair opposite of Harding backwards, withdrawing it from her table.
Then, he paused.
“Friends…” he mouthed, almost as though she’d triggered some faint memory. Then, he nodded- to himself- and turned towards the door, before whistling sharply in its direction. 

Then, without any seemed precedent, the earth beneath The Skeever’s foundations began to quake, rumble and churn: Planks groaned beneath an invisible weight, and what few (unlit) lanterns remained whole shook, and threatened to topple unceremoniously to the ground. 
Following this was a total eclipse of the noon, as some inhumane spectacle, some massive, tightening congregation of muscle and leather, forced its way gracelessly through the aged wood of the bar’s doorframe, before lumbering to the first figure’s side, with rigid, stiff movements.
She towered above him, and indeed, everyone: Her skin was as pallid and wan as moist chalk, but of such a coarse texture that it better resembled stone.
Her face was a battlefield, marked by the presence of dappled, calico scars, and deep, ink-reminiscent bruises, and her hair- which she’d, for whatever reason, taken the liberty of tying back- consisted of clotted curls, stained with all different shades of blood. 
Her body- which, truly, looked as though it would have better matched the likes of a firedrake in its girth, muscularity and leathery exterior- was a spectacle all of its own. 
“This would be Bethalda Leatherhide. I tell you this with words, because she speaks her with fists.” 

Following Bethalda’s arrival- which, upon completion, allowed light’s intrusion upon the Skeever’s interior once more- came another body, decidedly more slender than the last. 
He, too, was a taller gentleman, although my no means did he reach the threatening- and frankly, unhealthy- size of Bethalda. 
What he lacked in height, however, he made up for in armaments.
His body was clad in a leather not dissimilar from the figure that’d greeted Harding first: However, his was adorned with all manners of sharpened knives, elongated stilettos and blades. 
A bladed chakram hung loosely from the belt that travelled thrice around his waist, accompanied by a series of throwing jambiyas. 
And on his back he bore two sabres, seemingly bejewelled and- as one particular man well knew- deceptively dangerous looking, despite the terrible materials that they’d been crafted from. 
Facially, he was not massively different from any Nord of his type: Long, shaggy black hair, blue eyes and pale skin were his most notable features, excusing his lazy eye, and a braided string he dared to call a beard. 
“And this is Vingard. He’s… resourceful.”

Finally, a third and final shadow ventured across the threshold, her hips rocking lightly as she journeyed to her supposed leader’s side. 
She was slightly shorter than the rest of the troupe, and although still humanoid, was decidedly a hint scalier, to boot. 
Her skin was a dark verdes, reminiscent perhaps of a deep sea green, and her form was wrapped in tan bodice that rivalled Harding’s, although it offered far less in terms of her thorax. 
A long amber skirt concealed the rest of her body, save for her goatskin boots, which- perhaps- betrayed the presence of further armouring beneath. 
Her tail, notably, penetrated the back of this gown, and swayed impatiently from side to side as she eyed Harding up, as though she considered her a potential threat. 
“And of course, Sweeps… harmless looking, isn’t she?”

He turned to face his reptilian companion, which spurred her to snap her fingers, and generate- seemingly from some invisible plane of Oblivion- some massive, twirling flame, which danced eagerly atop her fingertips, before dissipating the moment she grew weary of it. 
“… but she has her uses.” 
Sweeps growled: He chuckled to himself. 

“But of course, I didn’t bring them along to fight you! What madman would want another fight, in times like these?”
He happily took a seat in the chair he’d withdrawn earlier, and slid himself to Harding’s table again, trusting that Bethalda would be enough of a deterrent for her crew’s threats. 
“I’m here to discuss neither, nor… I’m here to talk business, Harding. I’m here to talk survival,”
he explained, leaning across the table.
Then, he grinned playfully, “And hey… don’t make rash judgements. Give it an hour, and you won’t be inviting me to your bed… you’ll be begging me.”
He extended his hand to her, with a sportive wink, “They call me Burkswallow.”

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that, but I’ll also take that you aren’t much for brains.” Harding replied, staring at the Breton across the table, ignoring his companions and his offered hand. “So you brought a half-ogre woman, a Nord who seems more content to show off his shite goods than use them, and an argonian wench.” She raised an eyebrow at his last crude comment. “And you have lofty aspirations, as do most narcissists, Burkswallow. You look more feminine than you’re two companions. I’m sure Burk isn’t the only thing you’ve been ingesting.” She said boorishly, continuing to pick at her nails. “I won’t point out who is who, but let’s say that one of the men at this table’s made a hobby of chopping off gabby fuckers’ lower jaws as trophies, and another is quite fond of pinning people by their hands to the rail of a ship with ice spikes. You can picture how that turns out when the ice dissolves.” She said, leaning forward to bury the dagger in her hands into a well-notched table with a heavy thump. “So let’s not compare cock sizes when it’s an obvious enough sight for a blind man to see that you do not want to fuck with me. Mine's bigger, me thinks.” She said.

“So, survival is it? It’s not as if me crew and me haven’t been doing that well enough our own.” She grabbed a tankard off the table, dunking two fingers into the wine before pulling them free, running a thumb through the liquid that cling to her flesh when she withdrew them. “Darad, the cheap fucker. What kind of grimy shite does he think we drink?” she said, tossing the tankard casually over her shoulder, landing with a loud clatter. “Survival’s the least of my worries, pup. Ain’t a man on these waters who has bested me, and they ain’t about to start. Didn’t think you noticed, but the deep elves ain’t exactly sailors or brigands. They’re too busy worried about the land rats nipping at their heels than those of us who make the sea our home. Notice how you managed to get here without delay? That’s because they know if we’re causing problems out there, we don’t add to their own in the lands they claimed as their own. They could, at any moment, march their silly armoured troops down these docks and into this tavern to stop us. But they don’t because us pirates are like the slaughterfish that guard their castle moat. Whatever fool wants to cross into their lands by sea has to run the risk of running afoul those of us who would cut their throats and steal their cargo. Because there’s a war on, people are more desperate than ever for supplies, which I’m all too happy to provide at the expense of someone else’s honest work for quite the mark-up. Business has rarely been better, pup. So why in Oblivion would me and my men be worried about survival?” she asked.

Burkswallow’s smile didn’t waver, although it took near all his effort to resist its attempts to twist and become derisive. 
“If I was you, wouldn’t mock a soul on Nirn for what they ingest, Harding,” he said simply. 
He made the motion of withdrawing a pen, and began scrawling across an invisible piece of parchment, “Hello, Kettle? This is pot: You’re inconvenient to have in an inventory. Also, you’re black.”
He placed his intangible quill neatly behind his ear, and leaned against his palm as she spoke.
Occasionally, he would nod in response to her threats, and muttered “Mhmm”, just to assure her that he was definitely, most certainly not paying attention. 
“Well, it’s nice to have hobbies I suppose,” he muttered, mordantly, eyeing her crew, “Don’t worry boys, keep compensating, I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, he reached forwards, and- with minimal effort- unsheathed her dagger from the table wood.
“Oh, you [i]think?[/i] That’s a nice trick,” he observed, before laying her dagger gingerly down on the table, “Don’t wager on it, though. I wouldn’t advise using your crew for reference,” he chuckled softly, tauntingly almost. Then, he slid the dagger back to her, and locked eyes, “My tongue might be my weapon, Harding, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t the sword to run you through.” 
Sweeps cleared her throat. 
“But enough of idle threats.” 
She sighed, irritably. 

Burkswallow said no more, for that time: He simply turned around, and gestured for Vingard to approach him. 
As Harding expressed her disgust towards her beverage, Burkswallow uttered some unheard order, and the tradesman nodded right away. He began rummaging through his bag, and Burkswallow returned his attentions to Harding. 
“You’re underestimating them,” he explained, shaking his head softly, “Have you ever seen a Dwarven ruin? They were built eras ago, and they [i]still[/i] make most of Skyrim look like it was constructed by one-armed, cock-eyed giants. Give it time, they’ll build something. Luck’ll only get you so far: Take it from me, mine ran out a while ago.”
He smiled wryly, as some indignant cough made itself known in the deepest depths of his subconscious. 
“You should be worried because war never ends. They’re starting with the people who’re antagonising them now: But what happens when they’re gone? That leaves you.” 

He paused, and then waved a dismissive hand, “But let’s not make any choices just yet,” he suggested, gesturing towards the drink Harding had thrown away, “This is a bar, not a courtroom.” 
Vingard leaned over Burkswallow’s shoulder, and rested a pair of translucent green bottles betwixt the two debaters. 
Burkswallow picked one up, and gestured for Harding to touch hers to his, “Firebrand Wine, courtesy of The Thieves Guild. By which I mean, annexed from The Thieves Guild.”

Harding snorted. "Skyrim's still constructed by one-armed, cock-eyed giants. Why do you think I'm out here instead of over there?" she shook her head. "And no, I have not had the distinct displeasure of crawling through some festering hole in the ground to marvel at the work of dead men, and I don't see why any bastard would. You may have a reasonable point about them inventing something to overcome their apparent fear of going for a swim." she took her feet from the table and looked forward. "And you ain't me, pup. I make me own luck."

The pirate grinned. "You ain't seen how these lands work, have you Burkswallow? So long as the deep elves wander around like pompous cunts, there will be someone who wants to take 'em down a peg of three. If they were so untouchable, so unstoppable, then why in the fuck did they get so desperate all those thousands of years ago to just," she snapped her fingers and slammed her palm onto the wood. "Disappear, probably because they fucked up. They can have all their fancy toys they want, but look where it got them before, look where it got them now. Notice how the only reason we know about what's inside those ruins of theirs is because people went in there and out again? That's because people fear what they don't understand, and they don't realize that for all their fancy self-propelled murder devices and elaborate contraptions that they still can be overcome. Ever see a deep elf cast a spell? Didn't think so. The rest of us got by just fine without trying to emulate what we saw them do. The Alyeids didn't conquer Tamriel with metal spiders, I'll tell you that much, and Tiber Septim certain didn't create his own Empire from fancy trinkets, either. 'Course everyone's shitting themselves, they ain't seen this shit before. That'll pass. The deep elves will find themselves in deep shite once people get used to seeing their automations, that's a damn guarantee pup." she drank heavily from the goblet before her, draining it on a single breath. The metal tankard slammed onto the table. "Plus, it's fucking hard to catch something that don't stay still. Ocean's a big place with more places to hide than a few measly ports. And Talos forbid Tamriel suddenly finds itself even more hostile to my kind than it is now, well I hear Akavir is lovely this time o'year." 

"This is a tavern, aye." she agreed, plucking the offered bottle. "Stealin' from thieves, eh? Always found the bastards a bunch o' spineless cunts, if y'ask me. If you're going to take from a man, have the guts to look him in the eyes before you do it." she knocked bottles and threw hers back, drinking heartily. "'Course, I usually kill 'em right after, but manners still count for something. I like you, Burkswallow. You may be a terrible negotiator, but you aren't bad as far as company goes. Might buy you a favour or two, if you ask nicely and the prize sparkles brightly enough for me liking." she said.

"Hard to hear you're not so fond of thieves," he took a long, indulgent swig of his ale, before wiping his upper lip, "But I don't steal because I need to, and I can't make an honest coin: I do it for fun. For the thrill," he put his bottle down, "Life's a lot more interesting that way."
Then, he glanced back at Sweeps, "I even stole a woman, once. Bad choice, don't do it."
"Hrmph!"
"And if you do, endeavour to leave her attitude behind, at least. Nobody likes a perfectionist."
The Argonian huffed, folding her arms across her chest bitterly: Burkswallow shrugged, and retrieved his bottle again.
"And that's because negotiating is for politicians. I'm a different kind of crook," he chuckled, "And yes, I've heard enough cheap ale makes me much more tolerable. Like me now? Give it a while, you'll [i]love[/i] me," he laughed again, with a sort of dry mirth, "Of course, we'll be drinking a lot before I start asking nicely. A gentleman's got to have his pride, no?"

"And so, you're a dishonest bastard. I can respect that." Harding said with a grin, enjoying the playful and almost affectionate banter between Burkswallow and the argonian woman. She clasped her hands together, rubbing them quickly a couple times. "I'll tell you what. We're leaving tomorrow before first light, playing the role of some smugglers this time around. We have some cargo we need to offload, and we have some contacts in the East that are offering some pretty substantial coin and other forms of payment for it. You'll have a couple days, at least, to convince me that I should put me and me crew in danger for your silly cause, but if not, the people we be selling to seem to share your hopeless idealism. You'd more like find a sympathetic ear there than here, aye?" she asked, raising an eyebrow almost flirtatiously. "Hard to say no, aye?"

"Harding, my dear, you piqued my interest at 'sympathetic ear', but had me at the eyebrow," he assured her, swigging the last lees of his wine, "I say we put Bethalda in a crate marked 'warning: bear' and be off, then!"
Burkswallow then climbed out of his seat, kicking it back a few inches in the process, "Zaveed gets a war to fight, and I get a cruise... [i]Gods[/i] I love my job."