Member
SphincterSphinx
Quest Abandoner
Sir Lurksalot
op2024
Noctis
Alfhedil
ScreenAcne
Sharmat
AlteredTundra
Lemons
Certainly, a fair point made by the Reachman, there were more minds at play than the one who had sprung them. Finch wondered how long they had been planning this move, or if it was simply upon a whim. Regardless, Finch had made it to behind the barracks. It was away from all the fire and swords and blood – his stash was kept safe. Nobody would think to look on the outside. Finch buried his fingers in the dirt and shoveled it away until his nails scratched stone bricks that partly made up the barrack’s foundation. It was loose, loose enough for Finch to get the tips of his fingers in and haul it out of the ground. A small burrow was revealed. A little hidey hole, an empty space in the lazy workmanship – or so Finch would argue, when in truth he had prepared this spot before ever stepping foot into town. Inside this hole was a deer skin blanket, wrapped around a hastily tied up rucksack of burlap. Inside it were Finch’s belongings, which were nothing more than a few sentimental mementos, lock picks, a small stash of septims, and the book.
That precious little book that had gotten him into so much trouble. Finch knew exactly which house he was snooping in, they were some wealthy clothier or something. Were they a noble, Finch knew not, only they wouldn’t miss whatever Finch would take. At least, they wouldn’t miss anything Finch thought he would find. He hadn’t the slightest clue that this sort of contraband still existed before that night. Finch had never even heard of Sithis. The sound of the very idea was frightening. Ironically, it shined a light on the Brotherhood of old.
Blasted! This is not the time to be having his head in the clouds! Finch scrambled to collected his items. Behind the sack was a small crossbow with a little crank on the side. The crank itself was optional, but was easier on Finch’s back... at the expense of making a bit of noise. Littered about were spilled bolts, which Finch had scooped up and poured into a long wooden canteen, which he had personally refashioned so that it was secured to the fore-grip of his crossbow. Meaning, he whittled a little hole or two in it and tied it around the crossbow’s stock with a string. The rucksack had a leather band that was threaded through a hole in the crossbow’s butt. He propped the weapon onto his shoulder, and went through the back of the alley to make it into town.
On the bright side, now he didn’t look too much different from the bandits that were burning everything down.
He entered the jail where the others had gone. Some of the others had already gotten their belongings – he wondered if he would be the last to meet by the road. Perhaps they were not counting on him to appear; perhaps they were secretly wishing he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter either way to him. Normally Finch would do what they were probably hoping he would and buzz off, but one of the Reachmen’s words was echoing around in his head. There was still a chance that helping the noble would mean life. There was still a chance for him, if he were to run, that he were to die.
A chance at life was better than a chance at death. There was potential for death either way, wasn’t there?
In the barracks, he had no belongings that were here. But if he had to invade a castle, he mustn’t be too conspicuous. He kicked open a trunk and inside were a set of clothes that the guards wore off-duty. He figured that, given the circumstances, some of them weren’t coming back to wear them. With the case of these men being grown and muscular – appropriately so, they were guardsmen – these clothes would swallow him... but it was better than what he had. He tucked a linen shirt and some breeches under his arm and scampered out of the barracks and onto the road out of the village. By the gate, the other prisoners were already congregating. Some of them were even arguing with one another, maybe even about to come to blows. He felt... small and incapable standing next to them. If there was anything he had over them though, well, Finch had a knack for going unnoticed.
He watched as the both of the Reachmen, the elf, and the orc fought with one another. Finch couldn’t say the same for any of these four.
Finch sighed. On top of that, religious arguments always bored him. The fact that the Vigilant was also an Altmer made his hair stand on end.
“What does it matter?” Finch dryly muttered to himself. ”Neither the Daedra or Divines has our backs at the moment...”
That precious little book that had gotten him into so much trouble. Finch knew exactly which house he was snooping in, they were some wealthy clothier or something. Were they a noble, Finch knew not, only they wouldn’t miss whatever Finch would take. At least, they wouldn’t miss anything Finch thought he would find. He hadn’t the slightest clue that this sort of contraband still existed before that night. Finch had never even heard of Sithis. The sound of the very idea was frightening. Ironically, it shined a light on the Brotherhood of old.
Blasted! This is not the time to be having his head in the clouds! Finch scrambled to collected his items. Behind the sack was a small crossbow with a little crank on the side. The crank itself was optional, but was easier on Finch’s back... at the expense of making a bit of noise. Littered about were spilled bolts, which Finch had scooped up and poured into a long wooden canteen, which he had personally refashioned so that it was secured to the fore-grip of his crossbow. Meaning, he whittled a little hole or two in it and tied it around the crossbow’s stock with a string. The rucksack had a leather band that was threaded through a hole in the crossbow’s butt. He propped the weapon onto his shoulder, and went through the back of the alley to make it into town.
On the bright side, now he didn’t look too much different from the bandits that were burning everything down.
He entered the jail where the others had gone. Some of the others had already gotten their belongings – he wondered if he would be the last to meet by the road. Perhaps they were not counting on him to appear; perhaps they were secretly wishing he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter either way to him. Normally Finch would do what they were probably hoping he would and buzz off, but one of the Reachmen’s words was echoing around in his head. There was still a chance that helping the noble would mean life. There was still a chance for him, if he were to run, that he were to die.
A chance at life was better than a chance at death. There was potential for death either way, wasn’t there?
In the barracks, he had no belongings that were here. But if he had to invade a castle, he mustn’t be too conspicuous. He kicked open a trunk and inside were a set of clothes that the guards wore off-duty. He figured that, given the circumstances, some of them weren’t coming back to wear them. With the case of these men being grown and muscular – appropriately so, they were guardsmen – these clothes would swallow him... but it was better than what he had. He tucked a linen shirt and some breeches under his arm and scampered out of the barracks and onto the road out of the village. By the gate, the other prisoners were already congregating. Some of them were even arguing with one another, maybe even about to come to blows. He felt... small and incapable standing next to them. If there was anything he had over them though, well, Finch had a knack for going unnoticed.
He watched as the both of the Reachmen, the elf, and the orc fought with one another. Finch couldn’t say the same for any of these four.
Finch sighed. On top of that, religious arguments always bored him. The fact that the Vigilant was also an Altmer made his hair stand on end.
“What does it matter?” Finch dryly muttered to himself. ”Neither the Daedra or Divines has our backs at the moment...”