Because of your choices, your virtues have changed:

You are much more curious about your surroundings

You feel more sympathy to those who resist the Empire

You have grown more ruthless

Because of your choices, your interpersonal relationships have changed:

You have made an enemy

ENTRY #3

The first morning as a free woman! Would I not spit in the face liberty if my first action was to bend knee to the Emperor? I owe him for my pardon, but he cannot lay claim to my will. Of course, I will deliver the parcel given to me… in time. I am not ungrateful for this second chance. But I must make it known that Lolethys Aryon is not to be taken advantage of!

I started my day with a stroll around town. What a sty. Seyda Neen appears to be an Imperial bureaucratic checkpoint carved out of a bog. The smell of mud and fungus lays heavy in air, which every poor fool who lives in the blasted town wears like a cilice – atoning for the abominable sin of inhospitality, that is, making any reason to attract a traveler to this disease riddled, damned cess pit of a town.

If that sounds harsh, then forgive me. I must admit that I encountered the most excruciating Bosmer this morning and recounting our exchange is fueling the vitriol. He made me long for the hard labor camps I was destined for, just so that I could imagine his face were the stones broken by my pickaxe! I had no idea that I was even capable of such anger and agitation from such seemingly little provocation! For the sake of a full account of my time here on Vvardenfell, I will attempt to describe what took place… despite my intense desire to never think about that swit again.

After leaving the inn, I happened across a friendly looking Imperial man who offered me advice on discounted travel to Balmora – coincidentally, where Cosades lives. Just as I was about to ask him for further advice, the shrillest voice imaginable rang out above the croaking frogs of the swamp.

“Stranger, stranger over there!” he called out to me. I had turned my head to the noise and dismissed him with a flick of my wrist. But as I turned back to my Imperial man, he had already begun to retreat away from our conversation. No doubt wanting to rid himself of the oncoming pest despite my charming presence. Unfortunately for me, the Bosmer approached with unnerving quickness, and I, unaccustomed to walking through an inch of mud, found egress impossible without outright fleeing the man mid sentence.

“Are you the one of the passengers of that boat?” said he. His voice was something uncanny, like a toad that had developed mummy rot. Before I was able to dismiss him further, he continued. He obviously had no interest in my answer, only wanting to create a facade of interest so I would feel obligated to return the interest in him. “I hope the Imperials treated you okay.”

“Quite fine,” I retorted, or attempted to before he cut off my two-syllable response.

“I swear, they took my ring,” he said in a disgruntled tone. His voice was leaving the range of a frog and now sounded like a parched Guar being bludgeoned. “I had it last week before their weekly ‘Let’s shake down Fargoth’ ritual’.” And so I learned the horror’s name. It was at this time he noticed on my finger a ring I had found as I was being processed through Census and Excise. It was a rather ordinary looking ring, though it did have some sort of engraving on it. It had seemed discarded; the glint of its metal had caught my eye. It was obscured from plain sight by way of a broken wine bottle and some overgrown plants. “MY RING!” he exclaimed. “Give it to me! Give me back my ring!” He stamped his foot like a child.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, this ring has been with me for years,” I lied.

“Do you take me for a fool? Everyone knows that was a prison boat you came off of,” snarled Fargoth. He then, with a screech that could shatter glass, called the guards.

“This is not your trinket, Bosmer,” I asserted as the guards came into earshot. It occurs to me now, that it is quite possible that this ring does belong to that little mer, but no matter now. I was not about to just hand over something I found to the first person who claimed It was theirs, especially one as bothersome and presumptuous as Fargoth.

“What seems to be the trouble, here?” said the most lackadaisical sounding guard I have ever heard. Fargoth, seeming to be so angry that he could not even form sentences, merely pointed at my hand and made an accusatory shout. The guard let out a sigh. “Fargoth, you lost your ring swimming. No one stole it. Leave this woman alone before I take you in for disturbing the peace.” Tears began to flow down Fargoth’s face and I admit, I started to feel sorry for him.

“Family heirloom,” he sobbed, still looking at the hand that held the ring. “Give it to me!”

“Alright, that’s enough from you,” the guard had said as he hoisted Fargoth up by the collar of hit shirt. “You’re causing a scene. Let’s go, let’s go. Sorry, Ma’am.” Fargoth struggled against the guard’s grasp, kicking and screaming for all to hear.

“I’LL GET YOU. I’LL GET YOU AND MY RING BACK!”

I still have a headache from his voice.

After that particular episode, I decided to head back to the inn for a drink in hopes that I would be able to drown the developing headache. At first I tried to browse the tradehouse, but the keeper was some sort of cohort of Fargoth’s who had heard the commotion and threatened to send me back to the mainland the way I came. So I instead, settled down to the bar. Almost as soon as I sat down, and oafish Nord – and I say oafish even on the understanding that Nords are by nature oafish – plops his overstuffed frame next to me. “Looks like you could use a friend, outlander,” he says to me through ale stained breath. (Is everything in Vvardenfell egregiously offensive to the senses?) “Perhaps I can be your friend,” he says to me, leaning in closer. My hands already start to burn, preparing for a flaming touch spell. It is typical that drunken Nords, upon spying young elfen women such as myself, will recall rumor and hearsay that we are easy enough to bed that the mere mention of sexual relation leaves us in such a frenzied state that we are eager to oblige the first warm body capable of relieving us of such physical anguish. He perhaps noticed my disposition, no doubt due to prior experience, because he quickly continues, “I’d like you to help me recover some gold.”

My coin purse was feeling rather light and for someone in my position – recently released from prison, homeless, and in a foreign place – it would behoove me to take any opportunity to make a few drakes that I can. “Out with it,” I said as my hands began to cool.

“That’s right. See, I had a bad run of luck playing Nine-Holes, and –” he started.

“Spare me the story,” I interrupted, “And get to the point.” My headache had not improved sitting next to the Nord. He smelled as if he bathed in musk.

“One of the locals has been light on his protection money. I need you to find where he’s squirreled it away.” Oh great, I recall myself thinking. This Nord is so stupid that he cannot even run a simple racketeering job in some backwater town. “He’s a short little, guy, Bosmer by the name of Fargoth.”

“I’ll do it,” I answered before he had time to open his mouth again and assault me with his breath. He smiled a black-toothed grin. Anything to make that Bosmer squirm.

“Great!” he said. “I know the little fetcher’s got a hiding place somewhere in town. Just not sure where yet. I’ve already gone through his whole house, so I know he’s not hiding it in there. Find the spot, I’ll give you a share of the wealth.” This Nord was even dumber than I initially gave him credit for. What is to stop me from leaving town, like I was already planning on doing, once I found the gold? Oh, I do hope that Vvardenfell is filled with such folk. Terrible for company, but good for my coinpurse, that is for certain. I agreed to his idiotic terms and shooed him away, hoping to find some decent company to share words with. Unfortunately, none was to be found though I did pick up on some rumors; a tax collector by the name of Processus Vitellius had gone missing. Had I been pressed for a reason, aside from the obvious murder, my guess would have been suicide by way of the lighthouse in an effort to escape his post. Though I have no personal stake in Seyda Neen or its people, I did need something to occupy my time until nightfall when I would be stalking Fargoth for his hiding spot. With no obvious suspect for murder, I decided to start my investigation at the lighthouse. From there I followed the water’s currents and in no more than one hour discovered the body of one Processus Vitellius, tax collector. On his person were his tax records and what I can assume were his collected dues, totaling 200 drakes. Because is corpse has not been looted, I was inclined to believe my original explanation of suicide.

For a moment, I wondered what I should do about these particular findings. With the sun still burning high, I decided that what better way to waste time than at Census and Excise, where I could at least report the death of one of their own. It also gave me a convenient excuse for not moving to deliver the package I was given immediately. And so I returned to Socucius Ergalla. He did not seem terribly shocked at the death of Processus. In fact, he handled the news with starkly even tone and temperament, as if I had delivered the weather report to him. Ever the bureaucrat, I suppose. Figuring I had done my good deed, I was ready to move along but Ergalla had more questions for me, namely, whether or not Processus had been found with his collected dues on his person. After all, they still needed to be collected.

Voting has ended! The results dictate that Lolethys will keep the collected tax for herself.

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