PoTM: Chapter 40, Debt Repaid

• Posted by Karver the Lorc March 16, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Mixed - #Straag Rod  #Lissette  #Karver  #Practice of Magic  #Grulmar  #Telvanni  - 1,571 views

  

  Banker´s Bet

  by Porbert Lyttumly

  It was a perfectly ordinary day at the main office of the Bank of Daggerfall. Normal transactions took place: deposits were deposited, withdrawals were withdrawn, house mortgages were collected, letters of credit were golded. When a teller named Clyton J. Wifflington saw the little old lady approaching him, dragging two large sacks, each nearly as large as her, he changed his mind. It was not to be a perfectly ordinary day at the Bank of Daggerfall after all.

   

  "I would like you to take the thirty million gold pieces I have in these sacks and open me an account," croaked the little old biddy.

   

  "Certainly, madam," Wifflington said, eagerly. He counted the gold in the sacks and found that it was thirty million gold exactly.

   

  "One moment, sonny," the little old lady chirruped. "Before I open the account, I would like to meet the man I'm trusting it to. I'd like to talk to the president of the bank."

   

  Wifflington wanted the president to know that he was the teller who had taken the largest single deposit that year, so eagerly sent word to the president's secretary. As it turned out, the president was equally eager to meet such a wealthy woman, so the old lady was brought to his office that very day.

   

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, milady. I am Gerander P. Baggledon," said the president, Gerander P. Baggledon.

   

  "My name," said the little old lady. "Is Petuva Smuthworthy." That was, in fact, her real name. "Thank you for seeing me. I like to conduct my business in a more personal way."

   

  "I can certainly appreciate that," said Baggledon chucklingly. "It is an appreciable sum of gold. Would it be rude of me to ask how you came by it?"

   

  "Not at all," said Mrs. Smuthworthy.

   

  "How came you by it?" asked Baggledon.

   

  "I'll let you guess," replied Mrs. Smuthworthy, with a trace of unattractive girlish flirtation.

   

  Baggledon was a man of enormous imagination, for a banker. He guessed inheritance and longtime thrift, but Mrs. Smuthworthy coyly shook her head. Perhaps she had sold a large, old mansion? No. In a moment of chumminess, Baggledon asked if the gold came as a result of plunder or thievery. Mrs. Smuthworthy took no offense, but said no. Finally, he admitted defeat.

   

  "I'm a gambler," she said.

   

  "In arena fights?" he asked, interested.

   

  "No, no, dearie. Different things. For example, I'd be willing to wager twenty five thousand gold pieces that at this time tomorrow morning, your testicles will be covered with feathers."

   

  Mr. Baggledon was somewhat taken aback by the old woman's words. Could she be mad? Could she be a witch? He eliminated the latter possibility, for he had a sense for such things. If she were mad, she was still a rich madwoman. And he could use twenty five thousand gold pieces. So he took her wager.

   

  For the next twenty-four hours, Mr. Baggledon obsessed over his testicles. He checked his pants so often that afternoon, his subordinates feared the worse and suggested that he not touch anything and go home for the rest of the afternoon. He spent the night seated, his pants around his ankles, his beady banker's eyes focused on his scrotum. Every time he started to doze off, his vision was filled with images of Mrs. Smuthworthy plucking feathers from his balls, cackling.

   

  Mr. Baggledon arrived at the bank late the next day -- only moments before Mrs. Smethworthy's arrival. Accompanying her was a lean, bespeckled fellow she introduced as a barrister from the court. Her son, it turned out. Young Mr. Smethworthy always accompanied his mother when there was money involved, she explained.

   

  "Enough banter," she crowed. "Our bet, dearie?"

   

  "My dear, dear madam, I can tell you that your gold will be quite safe at the Bank of Daggerfall. I hope it will not cause you distress to discover that your gold will be safer here than in your own hands. My family jewels are quite, shall we say, featherless. And you owe me a sum equally twenty five thousand gold."

   

  Poor Mrs. Smethworthy's face fell when she heard this. "Are you sure?"

   

  "Quite, madam."

   

  "Not even one feather?" Her voice suggested doubt. Mr. Baggledon could tell she thought he might be lying.

   

  "Not one, I fear, madam."

   

  "It's not that I don't trust you, Mr. Baggledon, but it is quite a lot of gold. Might I -- would you -- could I possibly see for myself?"

   

  As he knew he was soon to be a twenty five thousand gold pieces richer, and he was still a bit punchy from lack of sleep, Mr. Baggledon merely smiled and dropped his breeches to the floor. Mrs. Smethworthy examined his testicles very carefully, under, to the left, to the right. At last, she was satisfied that there was not so much as a down feather anywhere in the region. While she was looking under them one last time, Mr. Baggledon heard a thwacking noise across the office. Young Mr. Smethworthy was banging his head against the stone wall.

   

  "What in the Lady's name is wrong with your son, Mrs. Smethworthy?" he asked.

   

  "Nothing, dear," she said. "I merely bet him one hundred thousand gold pieces that by this time I would have the president of the Bank of Daggerfall by the balls."

   

  24th of First Seed, 4E 204

   

  Mogrul walked out of the vault under his house, closing the trap door behind him, and he reached for his Snaga. He smiled as he did so, always surprised with how clever that work had been. He touched the butt of the shaft and twisted, the end of the wood clicking, and he pulled out a key from it. He locked the trap door and then pulled the rug over it, putting the key back into the flail’s handle.

   

  It was time. He knew that.

   

  When he put Glover ‘out of business’, he had expected the profit Raven Rock was making to slow down. No smith to smelt the raw ore into ingots, no shipping out - or shipping out the raw ore which would earn Raven Rock less money. But Morvayn acted more quickly than he anticipated, hiring one of the miners to do the smelting, and to Mogrul’s surprise the fellow actually knew what he was doing.

   

  And now it came. Everyone had paid their debt, everyone except for Morvayn, who owed the largest sum, but the Orc knew it was only a matter of time before the last payment would be made.

   

  His little kingdom was crumbling. His power was taken from him. But the only constant was that Mogrul was now a very, very rich Orc, his basement literally full of gold. If he decided to move back to the mainland he could be something. But did he want to go back to Morrowind? No, not really. He was thinking about Skyrim, about its civil war. With that much money, he could buy a whole lot of weapons and sell them to both sides, making even more profit. When he started his business on Solstheim he didn’t have much, and then he got the Telvanni to invest a certain sum. With that and only that, he earned almost thrice as much. How hard could be doing the same in Skyrim?

   

  Yes, it was a good idea, but he couldn’t leave just yet. He still waited for the profit from Kolbjorn Barrow and it was getting really frustrating that he hadn’t heard from that Sedarys fellow in a long time. He knew he had to pay the Dunmer a visit, very soon.

   

  He heard a knock on the door to his bedroom and grunted. The door opened and Slitter peeked in. “Boss? Morvayn summons you.”

   

  “Summons me? Someone’s grown a pair,” the Orc snorted. The Councillor certainly started acting like he had advantage over Mogrul and maybe he even did, which was something Mogrul had to grit his teeth over. Everyone was more brave now, showing very little respect towards Mogrul, but he always reminded them in detail how they cowered before him before. Maybe it was time to do the same with Morvayn now. “Alright, I’ll indulge him then,” he murmured and headed towards the door. He handed his flail to Slitter which surprised the Dunmer.

   

  “Just carry her for me for a moment. And be nice to her,” Mogrul chuckled, shaking his head. “Wait for me outside Raven Rock. We’re going to drop by that excavation at Kolbjorn after this nonsense. Maybe speed things up a little.”

   

  “Sure, boss,” Slitter nodded, following Mogrul outside. As soon as the Orc set his foot outside into the cold air he could feel people staring at him. Mostly guards, but a few people walking by threw him a look and then quickly averted their gaze increasing their pace. Though the air was chilly one could almost feel the hot breath of tension blowing in Mogrul’s direction. He exchanged looks with Slitter and then motioned him to go on ahead.

   

  The Dunmer left and Mogrul slowly walked towards the Council Hall.

   

  He was thinking about the Telvanni while he walked through the ash. He hadn’t seen or even heard about the Orc from Tel Mithryn in a while and that was, in its own way, a good thing. The money Varona invested was safely locked in his vault and the Telvanni didn’t seem to have the guts to try to collect it again - which basically meant the money was Mogrul’s. It was only a shame Mogrul most likely wouldn’t get another shot at messing up that annoying little piece of shit that stole from him. But you can’t have everything. Sometimes you just gotta let some things go to earn more.

   

  He approached the Council Hall and the guard stationed at the door immediately opened it for him. The Orc strode inside and narrowed his eyes when he looked around the room.

   

  Morvayn was there, sitting in his chair, feeling full of himself. Captain Veleth was to his left and Adril Arano to his right, both frowning. The good Captain had his hand resting on the pommel of his Daedric sword and Mogrul raised his eyebrows at that, grinning. The captain shifted his weight, far from comfortable with the Orc calling him on his stance with a simple look.

   

  “The tension here’s so thick it could be cut with a knife,” Mogrul said out loud, walking towards Morvayn. Veleth took a step forward, his hand now grasping the hilt, in a clear warning that Mogrul shouldn’t come any closer. “Damn, this looks official. Someone die?” the Orc snorted.

   

  Morvayn waved his hand and a pair of guards brought a chest in front of him, moving back to their places. Mogrul tilted his head, his eyes on the wooden chest. It seemed heavy. Very heavy. “Ah,” he smiled. “Now I get it.”

   

  “This is the last payment,” Councillor murmured. He then cleared his throat, as if trying to sound more representing and official. “The last payment and with it Raven Rock’s debt is paid in full. Every single coin in there paid by the blood and sweat of Raven Rock’s people.”

   

  “Is it now?” Mogrul raised his eyebrows. “I certainly hope the gold’s not sticky from all that sweat and blood,” he added and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at Morvayn. They thought they got him, it was obvious, but he would have to curse himself if he gave his skin so easily. And so he just stood there, stared at Morvayn and the moments began stretching with the silence slowly becoming unbearable.

   

  The Councillor clenched his jaws and frowned, while the Arano cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to collect your money?”

   

  Mogrul grinned at that. “Ah, Arano, I’m so glad you asked. No, I am not going to collect my money just yet.”

   

  More silence followed.

   

  “Why?” Veleth growled in frustration and if Mogrul was born more empathic he would certainly feel for the poor captain. But he wasn’t born that way and so he didn’t give a damn about it - actually, he was quite enjoying it. So much fun could be had at vexing poor Veleth.

   

  Mogrul shrugged. “That is the question, right? I think it’s kind of ironic. I mean, you people summoned me here, thinking: ‘Great, we’ll give the Orc his money and then pack him out of Raven Rock with first ship that docks.’ Am I right?” he grinned, enjoying how Morvayn averted his gaze. “But the thing is, my dear Councillor, that you can’t just kick me out. I own a house in this poor piss of a town. I’m Raven Rock’s citizen. And I haven’t broken the law-”

   

  “You blackmailed people!” Veleth growled, taking another step forward, now a mere step away from Mogrul. “You hurt people. The Three knows how many you have actually even killed!”

   

  Mogrul grimaced at that, moving his shoulders in a denying manner. “Well...I would be willing to agree with the first two accusations, but the third is kind of sketchy, captain. Do you have any witnesses? Just think about it for a second. People disappear everyday, throw themselves into the sea and such. Certainly I can’t be blamed for that.”

   

  The captain bared his teeth and his sword partially left the scabbard when Mogrul raised his finger, clicking with his tongue. “Now now. I still haven’t accepted the last payment, have I?” he pointed at the chest with a grin. “Certainly you don’t want to push your luck. Or your purses, right?” He leaned closer and whispered to Veleth’s ear: “Now be a good dog and heel.”

   

  “Captain,” Morvay said, his face a much darker hue as it was clear he was trying to suppress his own anger. “Please.”

   

  Veleth grunted and took a step back, clenching his jaws so hard it seemed he would crush his teeth.

   

  “I mean, you could kill me of course. Or throw me in prison,” Mogrul continued. “But once the representative of the Deshaan Syndicate shows up and sees that the last payment wasn’t officially accepted, how are you going to convince him - or maybe her, eh, Veleth? - that you actually paid? I mean you’d need quite a strong argument for that and I still have my doubts. You’d have to pay double. DOU-BLE. Isn’t that just beautiful? Just the sound of it, right?”

   

  They all seemed to lower their heads in defeat and shame and Mogrul rubbed his chin. “Here’s the deal. I’ll pack my things and leave Solstheim. Eventually. I still have some business here I need to attend to, but once that business is finished, I will be more than happy to leave you idiots to squabble in your shit hole. That’s how nice I am, right? Pretty much doing it just for you, to see the smiles on your faces that you finally get to be rid of me. Am I not the best Orc in Tamriel?”

   

  And to Mogrul’s surprise, Morvayn smiled at that. Smiled with a smile that wasn’t betraying  defeat. It was a satisfied smile.

   

  “You think you are better than we are, don’t you, Orc?” Morvayn narrowed his eyes, rising from his chair. “You think you are so clever. Always a plan, always a way out.” The Councillor stepped towards the chest and leaned against it with his leg. “The Redoran has had enough!” he growled and pushed against the chest, overturning it.

   

  The lid slid open and Mogrul’s feet were covered with pebbles.

   

  He stared at the small stones at his feet, not understanding what was happening. Something went wrong. Awfully wrong. He looked at Veleth’s smirk and Arano’s satisfied grimace. He looked at Morvayn who stood straight, looking the Orc right in the eye with no fear and no respect. All Mogrul could see in their eyes was contempt.

   

  “What is going on?” he growled in a dangerously lone tone, putting as much anger into his voice as he was capable of mustering.

   

  Morvan smiled. “Your rule has ended, Orc.” He looked back at Veleth and nodded. The captain motioned to the guards who went to Mogrul and pushed his hands behind his back.

   

  “What are you doing, you idiots?!” he yelled in anger and confusion, trying to fight against the guards, but they held him firmly. “Deshaan Syndicate-”

   

  “Deshaan Syndicate!” Morvayn hissed, interrupting him. “Deshaan Syndicate,” he repeated and shook his head. “We know the truth,” the Councillor regained his composure and closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. Arano then handed him a piece of paper and Morvayn opened it. “This here is a letter from Mournhold, bearing the seals of Mournhold’s Magistrate and Arch-Canon Llyvis of the New Temple. It is a reply to an inquiry made by Venhen Ules, the patriarch of House Ules. An inquiry to investigate that Syndicate of yours. And what did they find?” He leaned closer to Mogrul, narrowing his eyes. “The Deshaan Syndicate does not exist.”

   

  Mogrul’s eyes narrowed and he forced himself to breathe as he suddenly felt unable to do precisely that. Everything just spiraled down into Oblivion, all his work, all his effort, just gone. The money no longer his. His life? Most likely taken from him too.

   

  “There are not really any words to express how we and the people of Raven Rock feel now,” Morvayn continued. “You have made fools of us, of all Redoran. You stained our honor with so much shame that we won’t be able to repent for that. And we made others terribly suffer for it, good people. People who actually did good for Raven Rock. An outsider, a hero who asked nothing of us in return, who by the Three, espoused more of the true Honor of House Redoran than we, as true Redoran did. And for this alone, there is but one way for us to regain at least a bit of our dignity back. Your death, Orc.” He looked at the guards and nodded, waving his hand in the air in dismissal. “Throw him behind bars. He will be executed in the morning.”

   

  “Wait!” Mogrul shouted as the guards began dragging him towards the door. “Just wait. We can make some deal, right? You can have all the money back, let’s just talk this through-”

   

  “Shut up!” one of the guards growled and hit the Orc’s stomach, ending his tirade. But he was still willing to bargain, not prepared to just give up his life. He opened his mouth but then he got hit in the face, which made him just grin and laugh out loud. That was a clear provocation and they have taken the bait. They dropped him on the ground and punches and kicks were literally raining down on him and he kept laughing all the more. At least before the world went dark.

  

  There were many sayings about revenge, each contradicting each other depending on who wrote them. The bards could be very poetic about the concept of revenge, making it prominent in most of the famous tales and songs. The hero loses something, he sets out to enact his revenge on the one who wronged him, but it was the ending which mostly varied - even though in its own essence, revenge had only two sides mostly portrayed in stories and songs. Whether the hero had the guts to go through with the plan or not, eventually showing mercy towards his or her nemesis, thus proving themselves better than the evildoers.

   

  ‘While seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself,’ was often used to describe the second kind of revenge, implying that revenge eventually consumes you too, strips you naked of everything you were before and makes you the same as the ones who had wronged you. And while ‘Revenge is best served cold’ implied that vengeance in its concept was just, it actually didn’t matter in the end.

   

  Just or unjust. It only made things muddy. What mattered was that it was impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it.

   

  Sapphire watched the Orc in his cell with narrowed eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek. Thinking. Considering. Is it time? she wondered.

   

  The Orc twitched, his eyelids flickered and he opened his eyes with a groan. It was closely followed by a chuckle as he began feeling all the bruises the guards so graciously gave him. He was lying on the ground, in the ash, and now he forced himself upright with a hiss of pain. That hiss was beautiful music to Sapphire’s ears.

   

  The Orc looked around and chuckled, almost as a person chuckling to an unsuspected pleasant turn of events. He then looked towards the bars, noticing Sapphire and his face lit up with a bloodied grin.

   

  “Hah. For some reason I expected you’d show up. Like a bad omen, with all those prophecies of my impending doom. So what? You came to finish the job, little Mallory?” he mocked her, trying to get under her skin. She just bared her teeth, silently staring at him. “Or maybe you don’t know what to do now? Funny thing about revenge, isn’t it? Fuels you for so long and when the moment comes, you’re actually not sure if you want to do it.”

   

  “I very well know what I want to do,” she growled, because, yes, he was getting under her skin. Not with the exact meaning of his words, because he couldn’t be farther from the truth. She was bent on killing him. Eventually. She was just wondering if this was the right time. She wanted him to lose everything first and then kill him. Make him suffer while doing it. Which was why she was so frustrated he lost everything and yet was imprisoned, put out of her reach. Getting him executed wasn’t her plan.

   

  But Neriila made her go through that plan. And Sapphire hoped the beautiful Dunmer had another plan, because she wasn’t inclined on letting someone else kill Mogrul. It had to be her.

   

  “Do you now?” he snorted, pulling himself to the wall of his cell, leaning against it with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. So what’s your master plan, eh? Because the way I see it, the bars could be a sea dividing us right now. And they’re going to execute me tomorrow. Are you sure that’s your plan? I remember you promised me something completely different. Something more painful, right?”

   

  She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. “Did you think about where you made the mistake?” she asked.

   

  “It was something about me begging you to kill me, that’s how much suffering you promised me,” Mogrul said as if he hadn’t heard her, ignoring her question on purpose.

   

  “That letter, right? Screwed up all your plans,” she continued.

   

  “But first I had to lose everything. Is that it? I’m just wondering. I certainly could imagine a worse fate than this.”

   

  “Doesn’t happen often for you to underestimate others.”

   

  He frowned at that, and then snorted. “That old Dunmer piece of shit just won’t stop haunting me, it seems. Let me guess. He saw through me right at the moment we met and sent the inquiry to Mournhold, pulling the strings. The letter came here, but he was killed by that dragon before he could do anything about it. Wouldn’t be too surprised if he was about to pretend he’s the representative of the Syndicate, taking advantage of knowing the company doesn’t exist. And when you freed the little bitch she led you to the letter and you gave it to Morvayn.” He laughed out loud then. “Please, even a child could brag about things others have done for it. You didn’t make me lose everything, you’re just along for the ride. I expected more from you, you know?”

   

  “I’m going to rob you of all the gold,” she said with a smirk.

   

  “Please,” he shook his head, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “As if you could do it under Morvayn’s nose. And even if you could, you can’t get into the vault, there’s just one key. A very special key-”

   

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a perfect copy of the key to the vault, which made the Orc shut up. He clenched his jaws and hatred flashed in his eyes, which warmed Sapphire’s heart. “Can I kill him now?” she glanced over her shoulder.

   

  One of the shadows in the jail peeled off the wall, revealing a Dunmer girl with one arm, who now walked to Sapphire, standing by her side. “Not yet.”

   

  Sapphire narrowed her eyes. “Why?” she hissed.

   

  “The game’s not over yet.”

   

  Mogrul grinned and bursted out laughing. “Here she is. The mastermind. Sapphire, dear, did you tell your friend it was you who cut her arm off?”

   

  The Nord bit her lower lip and looked at Neriila. The Dunmer seemed completely unphased by the fact and Sapphire forced herself not to smile. There was nothing the Orc could say to drive a wedge between them.

   

  Neriila pulled at her sleeve and motioned towards the exit. It was time to go. Sapphire looked at Mogrul, feeling the urge to kill him now, but a part of her knew that if Neriila had a plan, it would be much sweeter to wait and savor her revenge. A better opportunity would arise, she was sure of it. She snorted and without giving Mogrul another glance, she followed Neriila outside.

  

  Mogrul watched the two bitches walk away, hearing the door close behind them and he all the while he was gritting his teeth. That’s my money! Mine! I hauled my ass to earn it, you damn bitches!

   

  Everything seemed like it was over. He was so close, but maybe it was his greed that was his ultimate demise. He waited too long, he should have grabbed the money and sailed back to the mainland before the last payment. Should have, should have… It didn’t matter now. What mattered was that everything was being taken away from him at the last moment right before his victory. And that stung like Oblivion being shoved up his green arse.

   

  But locking him up in prison? Idiots. All of you.

   

  He grunted as he got up, his whole body sore from the beating and he promised himself that he would make each and every one of them pay for that. Pay for everything. He walked towards the bars and looked around the room outside of his cell. There was a table right in front of his cell, with chairs for the guards who were assigned to prison duty. Right now, there was no one, but someone would come very soon.

   

  He then turned back, narrowing his eyes at his cell. A simple bed, a table, but what was really out of place was the hearth taking up most of the left side of the cell. Back when the Bulwark was constructed, very few people could imagine that a small town such as Raven Rock would need a prison, so this part of the Bulwark actually served as a pantry and, more importantly, a kitchen for the barracks. It was much later that iron bars were added to turn this room into a cell.

   

  So when Mogrul woke up in this cell, he couldn’t help himself but chuckle. The Dunmer were so stupid sometimes.

   

  He glanced one more time at the guard and then walked towards the hearth, sweeping away the ash and cold coals from the iron grate at the floor level of the hearth. He shook his head in disbelief as he took the grate and lifted it, pushing it aside. He stared into the darkness below the hearth, his eyes glinting.

   

  One of his Reavers once stumbled on a cave and when it was explored, Mogrul learned that it lead directly under Bulwark, into this very cell. An escape route built in the days after Red Year, when no one suspected this very room would become a prison cell one day.

   

  This isn’t an over yet, he thought, giving the room one last look before lowering himself into the darkness below. Mogrul was already thinking through his next steps as he stumbled in the dark, mulling over the best approach to it. But then he shook his head, realizing that the time for subtlety had ended.

   

  He would find Slitter. He would gather all the Reavers, using Kolbjorn Barrow as a camp. And he would take Raven Rock back by force, taking back what was his.

   

  Everyone who stood in his way would be doomed to burn along with Raven Rock.