Pale {The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim}

Chapter VI: Scoundrel's Folly {Marcellus}

ACT I

CHAPTER VI

SCOUNDREL'S FOLLY

{MARCELLUS' POV}

The Pros and Cons of Being a Petty Criminal.

I'm not much with a quill, but someday, I will sit down and write that book.

(Really. I bet it'd be a hit with the 'street rats that have no respect for the law or authority of any kind'.)

I'm mulling over a clever pen-name (how about Marcellus Miremoss, or Angstangstangst?) alongside the typical dejection as I'm dragging myself off to those big double doors. For my autobiography, favorite hobbies include: waking up grouchy, getting myself fired, and skipping town. It's really-quite thrilling, in fact, especially when you owe money to one of the scariest fetchers in the entire city.

And he's a gold-grabbing Argonian.

Eyes are following me big time as I drag a small cart through the Plains District, trying to get out as fast as humanly possible before someone starts demanding things of me. I spent half the morning giving away every Septim I own to some local contacts of mine. And, no, no, no, not because I'm generous, of course (what kind of guy do you think I am?), but because I'm seriously good at racking up debt.

Flashback, and I tried to sell off my stolen junk to get my finances decent for on-the-road living. However, fences don't like me because I treat them like louses, so I never get great deals - especially when I owe each of them coin as well. Now, I'm stuck with a daunting zero balance, a flock of angry criminals, and a momentous desire to get as far away from Whiterun Hold as my half-elf-feet can take me.

Maybe I'll move west to Markarth, I think wistfully, and join up with the Forsworn. Quite the setting for my sequel, in a place where savages worship Hagravens and extract mortal hearts. It's promising, but I scratch it when I decide Delynn might catch me while visiting her parents. (Or was she born in Falkreath?)

Be that as it may, Riften becomes an option when I see the Drunken Huntsman archery shop in my periphery. Interesting word association from everyone's favorite drug addict. It's forbidden ground anyway, though, when I remember why I left there in the first place. Five-star sewer life! (A prequel might be in order.)

I briefly consider the capital, but I'm almost at the gates when a tall, armor-clad green man - or should I say reptile? - stops me in my unfeasible aspirations. Curse you, bad luck. It's Lizalfos, the scary fetcher I mentioned before, although he mostly goes by Spike since it makes him seem tougher (or, in my opinion, dumber).

I grit my teeth. This reminds me of getting bullied by village brats as a kid. Of course, they liked me a whole lot better once I started paying them off with potions and gold - which I eventually grew out of - but only Sheogorath's beard knows I can't do anything like that right now.

Not saying I'm one for religion, but I send a quick mental prayer to any old Divine when Spike hisses at me, asking Akatosh or Mara or whoever to hopefully save my hide - and stop me from laughing at how ridiculous hissing Argonians are. (Just imagine a bipedal lizard in human-plus-size. There you go.)

Marshy scales glisten in the afternoon sun, and he speaks in that usual hoarse tone:

"Word is... you're leaving town."

I don't need to utter them to know my lies aren't convincing.

"Leaving?" I say emphatically. "What? Who said that?"