School Supplies.

[Clark]

The skinny Breton crouched in a cluster of blue mountain flowers. Shaggy black hair fell across his eyes. Nimble fingers pinched blossoms off of stems quickly and cleanly then carefully placed them in a pouch at his belt. He eased back until his rump bumped the ground, brushed his hands off on his robes, then tucked his hair back under his hood.

"Well," he said to himself. "That should be enough mountain flowers."

He pulled his instructions from the sleeve of his robe, grabbed a bit of charcoal, then unfolded the paper.

Clark,

Retrieve these items for your next lesson:

Mountain Flowers (Blue)
Butterfly Wings (Blue)
Wheat

Return to me when you have at least 6 of each.

~Colette Marence


Clark put the parchment against his leg and gently scratched the charcoal over the first item on the list until nothing remained of the words but a large black smudge. He raised his head and looked around. Right! He was in Solitude, making his quarterly report to Esilif about his progress at the college. He still needed to get up there to the palace, but had gotten distracted by the flowers. He looked up the road towards his destination when something else blue flitted by his eyes.

"Ah! A butterfly!" He laughed and snatched at the insect. The wind his snatching motion created wafted the delicate creature beyond his reach. The College Novice got to his feet and tried again. Still the butterfly eluded him. Its erratic flight pattern, combined with Clark's good-natured over-eagerness kept the butterfly out of his reach until at last, he lunged.

"Aha!" He shouted as his hands finally closed over the bug. "Got you! Whaooa!" the aspiring mage felt the ball of his foot slip on a pebble and tip him forward. "Oof!" He found himself cheek-to-thigh with some random passerby.

Not wanting to give up his catch, Clark attempted to part with the stranger without the use of his hands. Rather than get back on his feet, he found his face in the dirt instead. Disoriented and spitting dirt, Clark looked about somewhat more frantically than usual until his eyes met those of the person he bumped into.

"Sorry. Slipped. Would you--uh, could you? Help me up? Please?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway Sharr blinked in disbelief at the sight which sprawled before him, and then at his trousers and boots.

Dirt.

Dirt on his good, clean, trousers, besmirching their pristine, pale rose fabric, and that just had to be spit-laden mud sprayed onto the smooth, supple leather of his exquisite traveling boots. What sort of filthy, good-for-nothing, careless, clumsy imbecile would just fall into him and dirty his trousers? The Khajiiit's lips pursed as he tried not to bare his teeth, and then the offender looked up at him.

It was a boy. A grubby, dirty boy in robes. Robes with a hood. Ill-fitting robes with a hood, and no necklace to set it off. Oh, Skyrim was in greater need of the great Calloway Sharr than he had ever imagined. Forgetting his pants momentarily, Calloway sighed, then reached down to take the boy by the arm and help him back to his feet, dusting his paw off on his now-dirtied trousers after doing so.

"I hope you're happy, young man. Now I'll have to change outfits before I get into Solitude," the Khajiit huffed, his head held high as if he were some sort of nobility. The carpet-bag held in his left paw was evidence enough, however, that he was not. "I mean, can't you watch where you're going? You could have knocked me over, if I'd been a step to the left." His tail flicked with agitation, more so than he truly should have for the minor affect Clark had made upon his wardrobe. But, what a wardrobe it was.

An impeccably tailored three piece suit in pale rose velvet, trimmed in raspberry satin, with a pale celedon and seafoam satin waistcoat beneath, with a shirt the shade of pale mint cream. The gold medallion about his neck hung neatly beneath a celedon crevat, setting off the small golden rings in his ears, and the jeweled rings upon his fingers. Tawny fur expertly brushed and glistening with a hint of the finest perfumed oils, the Khajiit, could not have possibly stood out more on the road if he had tried. Had Clark any experience with Khajiit in the past, he would know that Calloway little resembled his race-bretheren. Slight of build, he appeared almost effeminate with his tight trousers and distinguished manner, but still there hung a saber at his hip, gleaming in its silvery scabbard wrought with gold filigree, while a polished ebony buckler overlapping it.

[Clark]

Clark smiled and bowed, hands still clapped together. "I am happy, actually. Not about your clothes! It's just--" He gestured with his hands. "I finally caught a butterfly for my alchemy lesson!"

The novice looked at the Kahjit's pants. "Does the dirt come out easily?" he asked as he returned his attention to the butterfly in his hands. Clark closed his eyes and whispered the spell of Calm. A faint emerald light shone briefly in his hands, and he opened them. The young Breton couldn't help but chuckle. Magic was so fun! Next he shifted the butterfly into his left palm and did like Colette showed him: he pinned one wing down under his left thumb, then lifted the other wing with his right index finger. Carefully, slowly, he pinched the delicate wing right against the insect's thorax and pinched hard with just his nail. he pinched again on the other side of the insect's thorax, but squished the insect's body in between his fingers. Clark sighed. It would have been fun to study the insect's body. At least the wings were in tact. The student brushed the bug guts on his pants, then put the butterfly wings in his apothecary's satchel.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway watched, his face shifting through no less than four shades of horror. First that this young man had no understanding of how difficult it was to clean velvet in the wild, then at the use of magic right before him. In Cyrodiil, magic was practiced, but the Khajiit had always seen it done in more ceremonious manner, by men and women in stunning robes. To witness it performed by a rag-tag youth out amongst the trees seemed almost wrong, in a sense.

He had little time to ponder on the subkect, though, as he cringed, watching this lad pluck the wings from the living creature, and then he nearly retched as Clark not only squished the insect's body, but he wiped the mess on his pants! It was filthy, it was disgusting and base and barbarian and, well, downright rude! Lost for words, the tawny cat stammered momentarily before he could speak.

"But, you, but, that's... don't you even possess a kercheif?" He finally managed. "And don't you know it's much easier to catch butterflies with a net?"

[Clark]

Clark shrugged. "I used to, but it got so filthy I threw it away. I suppose a net would be nice. I don't have a lot of money, though, so I'm having to do things the old-fashioned way." He smiled. "It's ok, though. I get to see the insects up close."

The student idly looked around, hoping to find more butterflies nearby. "What brings you to Solitude?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Oh, the wistful, carefree days of youth... how they were wasted upon this lad. Calloway sighed, brushing at the dirt on his trousers, hoping it would dust off, but there was no such luck to be had. He would have to change, no doubt about it.

"You can wash kercheifs, you know," he said, his voice slightly exhasperated. A quick glance at the boy's scruffy appearance, made him roll his eyes. "Though, that would imply you knew about washing in general..." he muttered under his breath.

The walls and towers of Solitude, visible just above the tops of the trees ahead brought him back on track, just as a whiff of the stables drifted his way as the winds so unpleasantly changed direction. Wrinkling his sensitive nose, Calloway straightened his posture and announced, "I am Calloway Sharr, perhaps you've heard of me?" When that failed to elicit even the most remote spark of recognition, he continued, "I am the greatest tailor Cyrodiil has ever seen, come to this far-flung province to enlighten and embellish the wardrobes of the most noble and worthy, and to teach these Nords what fashion truly is. I have come to Solitude to seek an audience with the Jarl, so that I may ply my serives and greatly improve their appearance. The clothes may not make the man, but they can make the man, or woman, better."

He gave a tug at the base of his waistcoat to straighten it, proud of his own work as he puffed out his narrow chest. "But, I wouldn't expect a boy like you to know much of anything that goes on in courts of nobility, so my trade is likely meaningless to you," he harrumphed.

[Clark]

"Lady Esilif manages the affairs of the Hold, and for now the affairs of skyrim as a whole. She meets with her advisors to discuss trade, cops, dealings with bandits and other rogues, and lately..." Clark paused and his expression soured, "the civil war between the Imperials and Stormcloaks." His expression turned merry again. " She's also providing for my education at the College of Winterhold."

He gestured in the direction of the Blue Palace. "I need to make my quarterly progress report. We can go see her together!"

[Calloway Sharr]

The Khajiit's eyes went wide, then blinked owlishly at such a revalation. This boy was in contact with the Jarl? Could get him into the court without needing an invitation? Well, that would certainly save himself a lot of work impressing the townsfolk, or forging an invitation dated some several months earlier that the Jarl might have "forgotten" about. Gears and wheels turned inside Calloway's head as he began to smile.

"Yes, see her together. That sounds like a splendid plan, my good lad," he found himself saying without even thinking about it first.

Another blink snapped him back to reality, and his smile vanished in an instant. "Though now I will certainly need to change, first. Why don't you... find yourself another butterfly over there while I duck behind the stables, here?"

Without giving Clark a chance to object, Calloway hitched up the carpetbag in his paw and made a swift escape to the semi-privacy offered by the back wall of the stables. After a few minutes of rustling cloth and slipping buttons, the tawny Khajiit emerged once more, this time in a suit of pale yellow, his jacket cropped a bit short as to show off the brilliant red and rose striped silken sash girdled about his waist, a spotless white shirt with pale pink trim above it, and a red silk cravat about his neck to match his beltlike sash. The gold medallion was still there, and his boots had been hastily cleaned and polished, and all-told he looked no less foppish than he had in his pink velvet suit.

Running a comb through the front of his longer headfur to set it just so, he smirked and said, "There. Now I look ready to meet a Jarl, I believe. Shall we go, my good lad?"

[Clark]

Clark was plucking butterfly wings when Calloway returned. "Of course," he said. The pair walked together up to the gate. The guards shifted uneasily. Between Clark, who looked every inch a wizard, and Calloway, who of course was Khajit, it was a few seconds before they spoke to either of them.

"He's not allowed in the walls," one of them said to Clark. Clark looked over at Calloway. "Why?"

Clark had met Khajit before, travelling with his parents as a child. He thought the way they spoke was funny, but never thought more of them than that. He later learned that many of them traded in illegal goods, and were sometimes hired as assassins.

"He just wants to sell clothes."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway stood unfazed by the guard, having experienced such racism many times since coming to Skyrim. But his mouth fell open at Clark's last words.

"Clothes? I dont't just sell clothes, I sell the finest garments this Reach has ever seen!" he balked. Straightening his posture, he lifted his chin, looking down his muzzle. "I am Calloway Sharr, the greatest tailor in all of Cyrodiil, and I have come for an appointment with the Jarl!" he stated.

Tail flicking in agitation, he continued, "And if you are going to stand there and tell me that I, a world-renowned artist, am not welcome in your city soley because of my race, then sir, you leave me no choice but to prove my worth to you as an equal!"

The guards both reached for their swords as Calloway slipped a paw into his jacket, but they eased back as he withdrew a gold seal set with lapis and amber, mounted to a leather pad. "This, my good men, is the grand seal of Zenithar, marking me as His ambassador! If you refuse me, you refuse His blessing! Is that what you truly wish for your city? For your forges to go dark, your shop to shutter, and your port to go empty? Think carefully, my good men."

[Clark]

"At any rate," Clark put in quickly, "fine garments aren't illegal, and I don't think he would tolerate his outfits to suffer the grisly consequences of wet works."

The magician turned his palms down. When he turned them up, they held the potential energy of a Calm spell. "No need for curses or hard-nosed stubbornness."

The guards backed up. "Whoa whoa WHOA! Watch the magic! We meant no harm! Just doing our duty! He can enter, but you better watch him!"

The young mage turned his palms over and the magic vanished from his hands. "Thanks, fellas!"

The gates opened. Clark waved his new acquaintance inside. "It's a direct path from here to the Blue Palace!"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway's eyebrows had fallen, flattening the tops of his eyes into a displeased melancholy at Clark's display. His words should have been enough. The cheap, gold-plated seal he'd made in jewelery class should have been the icing on the cake. Now he owed someone. Calloway hated owing people. People typically wanted to collect on it in the end.

Still, the gates were open, and he was being allowed inside. At the moment, that was enough.

Pocketing his seal once more, Calloway marched into the city, head held high, ignoring the gasps and shocked expressions of those around him. It wasn't every day they got to see fashion like his, so he would let them stare uninterrupted upon his magnificent handiwork. And in return he would gaze upon his new place of business. Each passerby was a possible client, every one of them with their own unique personality and style. Even the beggar who claimed to have been in some war, once, had a way about him that could be made more convincing if only he were to allow Calloway to ply his trade upon him. Influence was also taken from the types of businesses that were most prominent in town. First was a tavern and inn, which made sense by the gates, then some clothing shop called Radiant Raiments - ha! he would be the judge of that! - followed by an alchemist's shop and a general goods store. Overhead he could hear the clanging of a smith's hammer, and the stripping of feathers for fletching, marking those two merchants as being located up the hill, near the barracks. Solitude ran in two separate circles, then, one for soldiers who lived above the common man, and the other for people living out lives of what appeared to be luxury. All told, it worked in his favor, as it meant a wider breadth of his talents could be showcased, presuming people had the coin for it.

And then there were secrets. A divided society ran on information, but did not freely disseminate it amongst themselves. There would be intel known to one side that the other might pay well for, or to keep secret. A good tailor dealt in more than just needle and thread, after all...

Regular patrols of guards walked the streets, marking it as a society of law which covered an innate distrust of each other. That too, could hold promise for his coinpurse, should he learn just why that distrust fomented in the first place.

But of trust, Calloway was most thankful, and most suspicious of Clark. First, he didn't know the young wizard's name, nor his true intentions, and he had been willing to stand up for Calloway at the gates, not even knowing him. Was it innocence? Was it good nature? Or, was it as he suspected, a way to get Calloway in his pocket. Goodness knows the lad needed a tailor's help; those robes were atrocious. Still, Clark had helped, and for that Calloway was grateful, smiling the whole way to the doors of the Blue Palace - which to Calloway's surprise was actually blue. Sort of.

[Clark]

"Well, here we are!" Clark exclaimed. "Lady Esilif is inside and directly up the stairs. The guards will let us in; they know me by sight."

They entered together and ascended the curving stairs to Lady Esilif's court. Clark waved lightly at the court wizard, Sybille Stentor, and patiently waited for Erikur to finish his debate with Falk Firebeard. For Clark, waiting usually meant mentally checking out--keeping an ear or eye open only for something that directly addressed him, like a gesture or his name. As a child, he daydreamed about all manner of things. Now that he was older, he would mentally rehearse history, names, alchemical formulas, and other more useful things. At the moment, he rehearsed his list of items to gather for Colette, and brought to mind the spells he was still practicing.

So far, he mastered Candlelight, Calm, Flames, Oakflesh, Healing, Conjure Familiar. Clark could already perform basic enchantments with instructions. Soon, he would learn Soul Trap, and then he could really get started on his enchanting training.

As Falk and Erikur's debate continued, Clark only really registered the hard "C" words: "clash," and "collection," and "coraling," and "curtailed."

All the while, Clark reviewed his spells.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway, on the other hand, paid a great deal of attention to the chamber about him, while under the guise of not doing so at all. While he looked down, adjusting the fit and fall of his clothes, his ears swiveled about, catching any conversation which sounded even remotely relevant. An emory file worked its magic upon one of his claws as his eyes scanned the room and its inhabitants. Advisors, politicians, nobles with vested interest, and military representatives, each of them appeared to line the court chamber in equal number - a good sign as that meant no one party truly dominated. That was important, as it meant Calloway had four sources of clients, each of whom would wish to out-do the other, and looking good was always the first step in doing so.

But then there was more to learn than just who his best clients might be. Easing the file along his clawtips, sharpening and polishing simultaneously, Calloway trained his ears on the conversation between Erikur and Falk, finding them to be the most immediately relevant among those in the chamber. They spoke of war, betrayal, and tactics to oppose their enemies. Numerous negative references to the Stormcloaks indicated that this was a city firmly on the Imperial side of the coin, which meant Calloway could stress his connection to the Imperial City in Cyrodiil as a selling feature while in Solitude. And goodness did these people need his help.

Mismatched colors or fabrics abounded, among styles at least ten years out of date. Everyone tried to look their best, but Calloway outshone them all with ease. If these garments were what that Radiant Raiments shop had to offer, Calloway would make a killing in the cliffside capitol. And, of course eyes did turn his way, some because of his impeccable worksmanship on his suit, but most because he had ears and a tail. People eyed him with distrust, and he could see the movements of lips as they would whisper to each other, all asking how a Khajiit had come to enter the Jarl's court.

A glance at Clark revealed the lad lost in his own thoughts, and so Calloway's eyes returned to the empty throne before a door opened and an honor guard made his way through, Jarl Elisif behind. All went quiet as the Jarl took her seat upon the throne, and Calloway could not help but measure her up with his eyes. Thirty-two, twenty-six, thirty-four. Not absolutely ideal, but he had dealt with far worse and still found success. Jarl Elisif would make a most glorious canvas for his handiwork.

[Clark]

Clark snapped to when the Jarl entered. Hearing her name announced reminded him of the trouble he had had with it over the last two or so years. "Elisif," not "Esilif," he muttered to himself. He always got it wrong.

"Hello, my Court," the Lady Jarl said with a gesture that included the gathering in the room. "And of course, honored guests."

She inclined her head towards Clark. "What interesting company you keep, Clark."

Clark bowed. "Oh, yes, my Lady. This is Calloway Sharr, a the finest tailor from Cyrodil. He wanted to sell his wares here in Skyrim. He needed to speak to you or the Steward about a shop, and wanted to arrange an audience. I, uh, promised the guards I would watch out for him."

"Such generosity to show a stranger, and an outsider!" Erikur piped up, his voice full with false admiration.

"No more than the Lady showed me, when I was a stranger," Clark replied.

Half the court hid their smiles--partly because Clark's rejoinder stung Erikur's pride, and partly because Clark had no idea what he had done, apart from being honest. Erikur tried to hide his consternation--he was not as oblivious as Clark to court intrigue.

"My Lady," Clark pressed on, "We will be happy to speak with you when your duties allow."

"Oh, Clark, I always have time for you," Elisif smiled. "Come, show me what you've learned during your first three months."

Clark stepped forward into the center of the room. "First, I suppose, will be Healing. It only works on me, and has to be channeled for the effect to last."

No doubt Elisif knew most of what Clark was saying from Sybille, but having repeated it all in his mind, couldn't help but repeat it out loud. Clark turned a palm over, and when he turned it face up, he was holding an orb of tinkling light. Clark concentrated, and swirls of light spun around him, wreathing him in the spell's power.

Clark demonstrated Oakflesh next. "It's like a magic shield," was all he said as he prepared the spell. A second later, a loud clashing sound erupted from Clark's hand he was covered head to toe in a deep green sort of light.

Conjure Familiar generated a ghostly wolf in the middle of the court.

For Flames, Clark pointed his hands at the vaulted ceiling and loosed a gout of red fire. Elisif actually clapped for that one, as though she had never seen it before.

Calm was the hardest one to demonstrate. "Why not use Erikur?" Falk half-laughed.

"I am not a Skeever, Firebeard!" Erikur snapped.

Sybille walked over to Clark and pressed a vial into his hand. "To give you a boost, Dear."

Clark looked at Elisif, who nodded slightly.

Erikur sputtered, "I object!"

Clark swallowed the vial's contents, aimed the Calm spell at Erikur.

"I OBJE--!"

Clark released the spell. Erikur's face relaxed and his arms returned to his sides. No signs of anger showed in his expression or posture.

"Erikur, my Thane," Elisif addressed him, "How do you feel."

"Calm, my Lady."

"Like it says on the cover," Clark answered.

His demonstration done, the novice wizard gestured to Calloway. "Will you be seeing him as well today?"

[Calloway Sharr]

From the sidelines, Calloway watched with guarded interest. He was genuinely impressed, having little experience with magic, himself, but he had to appear as if he'd seen a great deal of it, as to establish a false history with Clark. At least Calloway now knew his name, even if he'd overstated the Khajiit's intentions in Solitude. Opening an actual shop might be a bit much, but he was there to work.

Of all Clark's spells, the Calm spell troubled Calloway the most. He had always felt in charge of his emotions, and the idea that someone else may be able to change them at will felt disturbing, though Calloway doubted Clark would use such trickery on himself. Still, Calloway awarded the lad's display of magical prowess with soft applause, like most of those gathered in the court did. And then it was his turn.

Standing at attention, Calloway looked to Jarl Elisif, awaiting her desicion. He could see conflict on her face, and he knew that look well. It was the same look he always received from those who did not know him: the look of distrust and skepticism of him purely due to his race. But, with a look to Clark, Elisif relaxed, nodding.

"Yes, I would see this Khajiit, if only out of curiosity," she answered.

A small storm of whispers erupted through the chamber at such permission, but Calloway paid it no mind as he stepped forth to the center of the room, facing the Jarl directly, and set his carpetbag by his side. With one paw over his stomach, his other arm sweeping out to the side, the tawny cat gave a deep, elegant bow before righting himself, tail swaying just slightly.

"My Lady, I must first offer you my deepest thanks for allowing one such as myself inside the walls of your fair city, furthermore inside the gates of your palace, and most of all, I thank you for allowing me this audience with your eminence," Calloway spoke, his voice clear and almost musical as he stressed his Imperial City accent.

Those gathered in the Jarl's court went silent as Calloway spoke, a collective shock washing over them. None had ever heard a Kajiit speak with such elegance or refinement, and in that moment all began to forget his race and focus on Calloway as an individual.

"What young Master Clark spoke is true, to a point," Calloway clarified. "I am a tailor, and I am of Cyrodiil, and while I am here, visiting your beautiful Reach and your splendorous city, my ambition is not to set up a permanent shop, but merely to drape and dress the finest of your people while I am here. I need not a storefront, but simply a place in which to do my measurements and work for as long as I am within your walls. I specialize in the highest, most current fashions, and my works have adorned the highest nobles in Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, and Morrowind, to name but a few. I have traveled great distance at my own personal peril, now, to come to you, and offer you my services before any other in Skyrim, as I believe you to be its most noble leader, Lady Elisif."

The silence in the room held, as all waited for his next words.

"If you would permit me, my Lady, I would show you samples of my work, so you may see the that I make no idle boasts, and my work and skill is that of a master," he asked, sweeping a paw down to his carpetbag.

Upon her throne, Jarl Elisif arched one eyebrow, quite curious about this extrodinary Khajiit. At last, she nodded. "Yes, I would see your handiwork, Mr. Sharr."

The courtroom whispered among themselves as thier Jarl addressed a Khajiit as if he were a normal man, with a normal name. Calloway failed to register their reaction, at lest visibly, and he knelt to unfasten the buckles on his bag. From his inside jacket pocket he produced a pair of crystal spectacles on a thin silver chain, and he perched them upon his muzzle as he looked into the bag. In but a moment he withdrew a hard-sided slipcover box that was far too long to have fit in the bag, but he simply carried on, standing as he opened the box.

From it flowed out a full-length gown of radiant silver and ivory silks and satins, its corset shimmering in woven brocade, while trim sparkled with tiny cuts of brilliant crystal. The seams were flawless, and the whole garmet seemed to radiate with etherial cold light as he drew it out to its full length. "This, my Lady, I call the Starlight Walk, perfect for an evening party, where you would appear so radiant it would seem one of the stars had fallen from the heavens to walk among we mere mortals."

From the side of the room, two Altmer women glared at Calloway, and the dress, with seething jealousy before silently making their exit.

[Caethras Maur]

The sparkling gown held the entire court spellbound - so much so that most of the assembled luminaries hardly noticed the echoing crash of the front doors bursting open, nor the ensuing parade of hardened boots clattering over the marble floors and up the stairs toward the throne. Falk Firebeard was the first to come to his senses, and with a strained face he leaned to whisper in his Jarl's ear.

"M'lady, there is a scheduled audience today, and it sounds like they've just arrived."

Elisif did not take her eyes off the shimmering dress. "Who's just arrived?" she asked.

"A delegation from the Thalmor Embassy, come to discuss security in the Hold."

"Well, they're going to have to wait their turn," the Jarl said.

"They may not appreciate that."

The first of the delegation appeared at the head of the grand stairs, a slender Altmer woman in brilliant gold armor, followed by two staid Justiciars in solemn black robes, and finally, half a head taller than the tallest man in the court, a towering elven warrior in full ebony plate. He was kingly in his bearing, but his pale eyes were cold and his lips curled with disdain as he assimilated the strange scene before him.

"Lady Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude and Regent of Skyrim..." The woman in the gold armor spoke in a clear, proud voice, but hesitated for a moment when half the court glanced gormlessly between the Thalmor procession and the Khajiit with the silver dress. "I present to you Lord Caethras Maur, High Justiciar of the Thalmor."

The elven warrior stepped past his gilded emissary, regarding the tailor and the queen with equal dispassion. "I do hope we are not interrupting."

"Lord Maur," Elisif said graciously, "we welcome you to our halls with open arms. But - and I do apologize - as you see, we are currently enjoying an exhibition of fine craftsmanship. Please, join us. We will hold audience with you in just a few moments."

Caethras Maur stood with his lips parted, his face blank like a statue of alabaster. "My Lady," he said, "will you set aside the security of your Hold to examine dresses?"

Falk stiffened where he stood at his Jarl's side, but Elisif was unmoved. "This is the people's court, Lord Maur," she said, "and even in troubled times, life goes on. I'm sure the security of the Hold will not be harmed by a few minutes' indulgence. Please continue, Mr. Sharr."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway endured the rude interruption with a mask of pleasantness he had learned from his mother. It was no secret that almost any man of the Imperial City loathed the Thalmor, and though Calloway had been but an infant when the Aldmeri Dominion attacked, and sacked the Imperial City in Cyrodiil. He had been found in one of the temples, a crying infant wrapped in rough cloth, likely left there to the will of the Divines after his true parents had been slaughtered outside the city walls. He had grown up with a healthy hatred for Altmer, and their Thalmor thugs, but his father's line of work had helped temper his hatred, focusing it in a manner that could be beneficial instead of destructive, and in such a manner Calloway responded to his party crashers.

"Thank you, my Lady," he said, bowing as he reclaimed the floor. Lifting an eyebrow at the tall, plate-armored fellow, the tawny cat spoke, "If you wouldn't mind?" He then ticked his head to the side, indicating that Caethras and his band of not-so-merry men should clear the center of the room and join the others in the audience. When Caethras did not do so, Calloway cleared his throat and ticked his head again, that time gaining the desired effect.

"Now that I have reclaimed that which was so rudely taken from me," Calloway announced to the court, "I shall continue. Oh, but one moment. Madam?"

Calloway stopped the gold-armored emissary in her tracks, calling her back to his side. "Thank you. Now, please be a dear and hold this while I get another," he said, pressing the shoulders of the dress into her hands, and raising them so that she held the gown up, displaying it while he reached into his bag for another box.

"Of course, any tailor can make a pure flight of fancy, but it takes someone like myself to make even everyday wear just as stunning," he called out, his voice still musical and carefree. Opening the second box, he withdrew a beautiful dress of simple materials, but its cut, color and finish made it appear to rival the Starlight Walk, and it was made even more splendid when he layered a close-fitting crimson robe over it, with ornamental quilt-stitching throughout to create a flowing, regal design into the surface of the woolen fabric, its collar and cuffs lined with mink fur. "I see no reason a lady should ever have to look less than her best, no matter what she is doing. Or men, for that matter, though I doubt you would find my jerkins and trousers as much to your liking, Lady Elisif," Calloway said with a coy smile. "Though, if you should have pressing matters of state, as this gentlman has insisted upon, I shall choose to yeild the floor to him, if you would be open to a private viewing of my wares, or should you wish to try on some of my works for yourself, my Lady."

Folding the robe and day dress back into their box, he slid it back into his bag, followed by the exquisite gown in its own box. Giving a deep bow, Calloway then took up his carpet bag and backed to the edge of the crowd, not turning his back to the Jarl. Giving a nod to Caethras, the Khajiit smiled, "You may take the floor, sir, I am done with it."

[Clark]

Clark stifled a whistle. No one he knew ever used a member of the Aldmeri Dominion as a coat rack. Altmer were dangerous, his parents had said so. They were now nestled deep in the affairs of the Empire thanks to one treaty or the next. The White-Gold Concordat? He wasn't too smart about events that weren't present-time or centuries old.

"Are you sure that was wise?" Clark whispered as the Jarl began her meeting with Caethras. "They're some of the most dangerous people in existence!"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway simply smiled, removing his spectacles and putting them back in his inside pocket. "Perhaps not wise," he whispered back to Clark, "But it was beautiful, wasn't it? I mean, there we had an armored warrioress holding a lovely gown; it made her look feminine even in all that plate. And not to mention, it made me look fantastic. If I can command Thalmor to hold a dress, now the Jarl must be imagining what else I can do. I don't think I could have asked for a better interruption!"

There was no shortage of giddiness in the Khajiit's voice, and he continued smiling, only then starting to listen to what the Thalmor had to say.

[Caethras Maur]

Caethras chose not to acknowledge the Khajiit at all, nor even his gold-armored emissary whose cheeks reddened as she stepped back into the company of the Justiciars, but considered the entire court as he took his place before the Jarl's throne.

"Lady Elisif," Caethras said in a voice like poisoned honey, "the Thalmor extend their warmest greetings of peace and friendship to you and your court. We grieve for the unrest that troubles your lands and your people, and for the untimely death of High King Torygg, the rightful ruler of Skyrim. We will not rest as long as his murderer, Ulfric Stormcloak, runs free, nor while lawless rebels continue to sow discord and destruction in his name. On that, you have my personal assurance."

Elisif sobered at the mention of her husband's death, and where she had delighted in Clark's spells and Calloway's handiwork just moments before, she now appeared stiff and uncomfortable on her throne. "We are gladdened by the friendship of the Thalmor," she said, "but General Tullius and his legions are already pursuing the High King's murderer."

"A task which I have no doubt the good general and his men are pursuing with the utmost of Imperial efficiency," Caethras replied. "I know better than most how dogged a bloodhound Tullius may be. But he is a soldier. He is trained to counter threats from without, not from within. When Ulfric betrayed Torygg, he was an honored guest of the court."

Caethras's pale, blue eyes slid momentarily toward the tawny Khajiit before he continued.

"And following this heinous crime, one of your own guards knowingly allowed the murderer to escape. We are troubled, My Lady, that Ulfric should have confederates so close to your own person."

"Roggvir acted alone and in haste," Falk Firebeard protested. "The full measure of his guilt will be determined at his trial, and not before."

"Does the Jarl allow her steward to speak for her?" Caethras asked.

"I trust my advisers to speak the truth," Elisif replied. "There is no evidence that the guard in question has any connection to Ulfric or his rebellion."

"Evidence will not present itself unsought," the elven warrior said. "The Thalmor wish to examine Roggvir for ourselves."

An outcry arose from the court, from both Nords and Imperials alike. Little could unite the rival factions of Solitude like an exercise of Thalmor authority.

"You can't possibly consider handing one of our own to the Dominion!" Erikur bellowed.

"We don't need the Thalmor interfering with our investigation," Legate Rikke countered.

"Order! Order!" Falk roared. "Ladies and gentlemen, please!"

As the chaos died away, Elisif fixed Caethras with an unwavering glare. "Roggvir's fate will be ours to determine," she said. "We do not need the assistance of the Thalmor in this matter."

"With respect, Lady Elisif," Caethras replied, "this matter concerns not only your Hold but the peace of Skyrim and the integrity of the White-Gold Concordat itself. If Roggvir is found to be a person of interest in the affairs of Aldmeri security, the Thalmor Embassy may order you to hand him over to us. I hope to avoid such unpleasantness. We could interrogate him here, in the dungeons of Castle Dour, with an Imperial representative present, should you desire it. Otherwise I fear the issue will be taken out of your hands entirely."

"I appreciate your candor," Elisif said. "But until such time as that order arrives, my answer is 'no.' Our justice for our people."

Nods and murmurs of approbation rose from all around the court; a few applauded before they were quieted by a cautioning glance from Falk Firebeard.

"Did you have any other business to discuss with us, Lord Maur?" Elisif asked.

"Not today, Lady Jarl," Caethras replied.

"Then, please, enjoy the hospitality of my court before returning to your lodging. And please excuse me; this talk has made me weary. Falk?"

Lady Elisif rose from her throne, and, with her steward and housecarl, disappeared into the private quarters of the Blue Palace.

[Clark]

Clark's every attempt to check out was thwarted by Caethras' voice. During a pause in his speech, Clark could think about something, anything. But when the Dark Elf spoke, it shattered the young mage's train of thought like maces shatter bone. It was jarring, and Clark didn't like it. When at last Caethras left, Clark let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"I am very glad they're gone!" Clark said to Calloway. "Just being around those guys is bone-chilling!"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway waited for the last of the Thalmor to be out of earshot before he spoke, and chose his words carefully. "Well, there goes what could have been a really lovely sale."

Crossing his arms, the lanky tailor huffed as he leaned against the wall. "There I was, making a brilliant pitch, and then those jackboots had to show up. Not only that, they completely killed the mood. You had done a perfect job of warming up the crowd, and I could tell that the Jarl was deeply into my work, and then we have to talk about death and interrogations. Let me tell you, nothing takes a woman's mind off of a dress than interrogations. Pirates? No, still want a lovely dress. Plague? No, you might want to be found wearing something gorgeous. Famine? Well, a good dress can always be taken in. But Interrogations? Forget fashion, all you really want is a nice piece of pie. Or maybe a sweet roll. And you certainly don't want to drip either of those on your favorite gown, let me tell you!"

Behind him, Calloway's tail whipped back and forth in frustration, his golden eyes narrowing as he waxed ridiculous about what had been done to his sales pitch. "And if I can't get the Jarl of Solitude to buy from me, then who in this Divine-forsaken land would? It's a top-down market, son, it always is!"

[Clark]

Clark nodded absently. Already his mind was far away to spellbooks, Elisif's discomfort, and the Aldmeri Dominion. He wanted to study.

"Well, Calloway, I'm sorry you didn't sell your dress. But I'm sure later, when the Lady Jarl has had an opportunity to refresh herself and consult her court, she may return to what you were doing before the Altmer arrived." Clark looked off towards Sybille's rooms where she did her magecraft. "I think I'm going to go attempt some research."

Without waiting for Calloway to say good-bye, the student meandered into Sybille's room, found a book, then read in the corner. Having spent a great deal of his childhood reading, the Breton veritably devoured the first three volumes of the history of the Empire, but his restlessness remained.

"Sybille, teach me a spell."

The unnaturally young-looking and exceptionally prickly mage looked at the young man with unusual patience and nodded. "Very well, I will teach you a spell. From what school would you like to learn your spell?"

Clark shrugged.

"Well, here are the spellbooks I have with me. Look through them, and we'll go over it together."

Clark leafed through the tomes with bright, excited eyes--every inch the child in the sweetshop.

[Calloway Sharr]

Like any party where the star host left before the night was over, the court of the Blue Palace fell into small clusters of people trying to start conversation, yet failing in sad, subdued manner. And unlike a good party, there wasn't any food.

If I were a Jarl, I'd always have food in my court. He thought to himself. People just don't understand the importance of a good spread. Food keeps people around, keeps them in your good graces; they can talk about the food when there's nothing else to talk about, until an actual subject comes up. That, and nobody leaves to go get dinner, saying they'll be back, but they don't come back.

But, Calloway didn't have much longer to think as two of the ladies of the court approached him, interested in his work, and more so in the strange carpetbag he had which seemed to hold more than it should be visibly able to. A smile coming to his face, the Khjajiit greeted the two Nord women with a sweeping bow and kisses to the backs of their hands, then proceeded to speak at great length about his skills and the variety of styles he could offer, while ignoring the subject of the bag entirely. In little time, more members of the court were drawn to him and the tailor flourished with an audience once more. Garments were produced from his bag, for both men and women. this time, none so ostentatious as the Starlight Walk, or his own rather loud suit of pale yellow, with its tight trousers. He spoke of fabrics soft as the down of a baby chick, yet strong as leather, of styles and cuts that would entice and arouse anyone's partner, or attract the one they had always desired. He went on at length of the need for personal style, how clothing should reflect the woman or man who wore it, not make them feel out of place. All of it was practiced patter, leaving gaps for someone to ask a question at the right moment, and distracting with a new style when someone was about to ask something he did not wish to answer. In the span of an hour, Calloway sold several items from his pre-made stock, promising to properly fit them to their new owners the following day. So good was his sales pitch, that those gathered even managed to forget he was a Khajiit.

Another half hour went by, and slowly his pitch wound down. Masterful as he was at his craft, Calloway could only keep up a sales pitch for so long, especially on an empty stomach. Taking down the names and addresses of those he would need to fit the following day, Calloway packed up his carpetbag and bid the court a good night, as he required dinner. Clark remained vanished somewhere, and as much as Calloway did not wish to bother him if he were busy, he also didn't want to go getting himself in trouble for ditching his "valet" for the sake of a meal.

The Blue Palace was a lovely place, but unfortunately it was also a large one, so Calloway quickly became lost, winding up in areas he shouldn't have been and more than once being escorted back to the main courtroom by the palace guards. At long last, his sensitive ears picked up a familiar voice, and Calloway peeked his head into the doorway of Sybille's private room.

"Terribly sorry, is the young wizard Clark in here?" Calloway asked, even though he'd heard Clark's voice.

[Clark]

Clark held the latent power of a Detect Life spell in his hand. He raised the hand to eye level and cast the spell. Everyone in the Blue Palace glowed faintly--even the ones behind walls. He knew exactly where everyone was, if not what they were doing.

In the other hand, he held a Detect Dead spell. Every time he cast it, nothing really happened. Once, he could have sworn he saw a flicker just outside the door to the Pelaguis Wing, but couldn't be sure. He had cast both spells every ten minutes or so for the last hour.

"I see living people and dead people!"

Clark shook out the spells. "Is it time to go?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway took a moment to study the rooom for scorch marks, ice blasts, or other such signs of magic, but was relieved to find none upon the floors, furniture or walls. Opening the door futher so that he may fully stand in it, the Khajiit replied, "Not if you're not ready. The Jarl is still in seclusion, and I've rather exhausted my salesmanship for the evening, though."

He looked to Sybille for a bit, studying the court mage's robes, and found them ill-fitting and simply the wrong color. Were he better at enchanging, he would have to go into the mage robe business, someday, to save so many of these magical fashion-inepts from looking like they were wearing a some form of overwrought dressing gown instead of proper robes. Maybe something with a high collar, or perhaps Akavarri sleeves...

Snapping himself back to reality - a visible process on his face - Calloway continued, "Also, I don't know about you, but I've not yet had dinner, and I don't entirely know my way around this town. Wondered if you had any suggestions."

[Clark]

"The Winking Skeever," the mage immediately replied.

Clark thanked Sybille for the lesson and left with Calloway. "Directly back the way we came, right across from the Ravishing Raiment. Corpulus runs a great place, despite the odd name. He named his inn after his pet! Can you imagine, a skeever for a pet, let alone naming your inn for it?" Clark laughed. "I have never seen such in my life, and I've been almost everywhere!"

[Calloway Sharr]

"Winking... Skeever?" Calloway said, his face twisted in unsure repulsion. "That's seriously its name?"

The Khajiit could see it was true, and that Clark was actually recommending it. Taking a deep breath, he sighed and nodded. "Well then, the Winking Skeever it is," he announced, tugging at the base of his jacket. "I don't know about you, but I've been ready for dinner for hours."

With a brief stop to inform the guards where he was going, Calloway took to the main road back toward the gates, and found Solitude to be a very different place by night. In the light, so many of the homes had looked light and cheerfull, but in the dark, illuminated by torchlight, they appeared as oppressive, forbidding castles and fortresses, each looming over those who dared to walk the streets. Guards came out in pairs, by night, a testament to security, but Calloway was unafraid. His step light, his boots making little noise upon the cobblestones, the Khajiit made his way back to the market district, and toward the ill-sounding "Winking Skeever."

Sure enough, there was the wretched name emblazoned upon the tavern's wooden sign, boasting proudly of the apparent lunacy of the owner, but as he had seen no other taverns in Solitude, Calloway swallowed his pride and entered through the front door.

Or at least he would have, had a large Imperial not stepped in his way. "Where do you think you're going, cat? The boy can come in, but not you. It'd disturb the guests."

Calloway took a step back, appalled, then looked down over himself before pouting his lower lip as he looked down his muzzle at the Imperial. "Now see here, my good man, but things are not as they appear. I am an Imperial, such as yourself, from the Imperial City, no less! I only look like this due to an unfortunate altercation with a mage who has cursed me under an illusion spell! As you can so plainly tell by my voice, and my dress, that I am not one of those filthy, flea-ridden thieves, and I demand you let me in, sir!"

The Imperial paused, standing slack-jawed as he studied the cat before him. Surely he looked as real as any Khajiit he'd ever seen, but this man was right. No Kajiit wore clothes like that, and none spoke with such clarity, nor so true an Imperial accent. Conflicted, he remained where he stood, but as Calloway was not backing down, the Imperial sighed and finally stepped aside. "My apologies," he said. "And, I hope that curse wears off soon. I can't imagine how horrible it must be to look like that."

"You get used to it after a while," Calloway spoke through thin lips, pushing on into the tavern, holding the door for Clark. So upset by the encounter, Calloway did not even notice the two Thalmor who sat outside, each with a cup of wine to enjoy with the impromptu show.

[Clark]

Clark grimaced when Calloway denied his own blood. Lying about what you were? Where you came from? It wasn't right. Clark's travelling as a child and the free-flow, accepting atmosphere of the College was different than the rest of Skyrim. Most of the suspicion and prejudice Clark got for being a mage was balanced out by the fact that no one wanted to upset him, for fear that he'd turn his powers on them. Skyrim's mages had a history of abusing their power, or making things go horribly wrong for those without mastery of the arcane arts. Magic was frightening, so he understood why people treated him with caution. But the Khajit? Maybe their way of speaking was odd, and perhaps they were shrewd and cunning, but that wasn't any real reason to hate an entire group of people.

Clark almost didn't notice when Calloway entered the Winking Skeever ahead of him until the door was nearly shut again. He grabbed it before it latched shut and let himself in. Of course, there was more staring. The novice mage stepped beside his Khajit companion and pointed out an empty table in the corner.

"How about there? Let me know what you want, and I'll order from Corpulus."

[Caethras Maur]

"Excuse me -- Mr. Sharr?"

A clear voice with an aristocratic accent emerged from the clamor of tankards, singing, and jokes of questionable taste that filled the Winking Skeever on any given night. Behind the Breton and the Khajiit had approached a slender Altmer woman (http://s4.photobucket.com/user/stormfyre/media/Thalmor-girl2_zpsd8412e91.jpg.html) in the armor of a Thalmor guard, but now she carried her winged helmet under one arm, revealing a gentle, ivory-hued face and flowing tresses of long, golden hair. Far from the arrogant disdain that Caethras had worn like a cloak, she seemed reserved, perhaps even nervous. Her slim, pale fingers curled and uncurled around the lip of her helmet.

"I saw you in the Blue Palace - that is, I held your dress for you. I'm sorry, I don't wish to bother you. I was only wondering if I might be able to see more of your work?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway was reaching for his chair, ready to pull it out when she spoke. Ears perking, he turned around, but was not prepared for what he saw. The armor stood out first, causing the Khajiit to tense, but as he looked up to the Altmer's face, he relaxed. She was... strangely beautiful, and Calloway found himself smiling, then doubly so as she revealed she had been the one to hold his dress. Thalmor or not, she had sought him out for his work, and he would certainly oblige. The fact that she was also stunningly gorgeous and he knew only Clark in the area helped, too.

Pulling a chair out for her, Calloway took her helmet and placed it on the table, his bag down next to where he sat himself. "But of course, madame," he said, still smiling. "I hope I didn't cause any friction between yourself and your superior for that little stunt, but it really wouldn't have looked right had a man been holding that dress, you know."

Taking a quick moment to scan the menu, Calloway found the tavern's fare to be a notch or two above what he had expected to find, and made his selection in his head before speaking again. "I'm afraid you missed my friend's display, though. Clark, here, is a studying mage, and he put on a splendid exhibition of magic before I took the floor. Your superior officer really ought to be more punctual, next time. Never know what you'll miss if you show up late. Now, what manner of wear are you looking for, Miss....?"

His words had been smooth, motions refined, and his golden eyes sparkled in the light of the candle on the table. If a Khajiit could ever look suave, Calloway did so at that moment.

[Caethras Maur]

"Oh, I don't mean to intrude--"

The Altmer looked down at the proffered seat and, not knowing what else to do, sat down. She glanced at the table setting before her and realized it had about ten fewer utensils than she was used to.

"Tannwyn," she said, coming back to herself. "Subcommander Alauriel Tannwyn of the Third Ring of... that... doesn't really matter. It's a pleasure to meet you both. I really hope this isn't a bother. It's just that I've never seen anything like that dress before, even on the Summerset Isles. I never thought I'd see something so beautiful in Skyrim, of all places. Er... no offense," she added in Clark's direction.

[Calloway Sharr]

"You'd be hard-pressed to find anything like it even in Morrowind," Calloway replied. "Unless, of course, it was other work I'd done for Altmer or Bosmer clients, that is."

Pulling his crystal spectacles from his jacket pocket, he straightened their fine-braided silver chain before placing them on the bridge of his muzzle, then opening his bag. "Now, I should warn you, a dress like that one - while absolutely stunning - does not come cheap, and, I don't mean to insult, but typically those in military service do not have overflowing coinpurses, so I presume you desire something a bit less grandiose, but no less original, is that correct Miss Tannwyn? And likely something you would be able to pack with you, as I take it your unit is often on the go? Off to somewhere else after Solitude, that is"

From his carpetbag, the Khajiit pulled a thick, leatherbound book with golden corner guards and a gold lock. A key was produced from his pocket, and the book's lock clicked open, allowing him to open it to reveal page after page of drawings. "This is but a small sample of what I can offer," he explained, "And, colors can always be changed, and items customized, so please don't feel you would be bound to one of these designs as they appear on the page. I do so enjoy custom work."

As he spoke, the waiter arrived, and Calloway ordered the night's special - horker loaf with mashed potatoes and a snowberry sauce - while allowing the Altmer and Clark to flip through the hand-drawn and watercolored pages of his womens' wear catalog, the design ranging from the conservative, to casual, to classy, though some were also risque, while others seemed downright lewd, yet had a certain charm to them.

[Clark]

Clark shrugged at Tannwyn's comment on Skyrim. Skyrim's beauty wasn't in the sunsets or flowers or trees--not in their appearance, anyway. Skyrim was a marvel for how it carried on (almost in spite of itself). The history of the Nords was fascinating. Their will to survive the cold of the land was their greatest strength. But, it seemed to Clark that that very ironclad will could manifest itself in some truly self-destructive ways. The current war between the Imperials and Stormcloaks stood testament to that.

He kept silent as the female elf and the tawny tailor talked. He glanced at the sketch book now and then. His view put the sketches on their sides. It was nearly all women's fashion. His mind worked quickly to try to notice the kinds of things he thought Calloway noticed when putting the items together: how the seams and lines guided the eyes. How the colors complemented each other. Clark rather enjoyed finding the patterns in things: it was what made him stand out from his peers on College excursions.

"So, would you use a darker color with these dresses to, uh, reinforce? No, um--" Clark swallowed a morsel of moist bread--"Make her hair--" he sighed. "More golden?"

[Calloway Sharr]

"Oh, you certainly could, Clark," Calloway agreed, "And your notice of that marks your keen observation." As he spoke, he rummaged through his bag once more, then pulled forth a bolt of blood-red crimson velvet a yard wide that would be the envy of any rose. "A deep red, would be ideal, making Miss Tannwyn's hair absolutely radiant, while also emphasizing the warmer tones in her skin. However," he slipped the bolt back into his bag and drew out a fold of pale, ice-blue satin, run through with the occasional thread of glittering silver to make it glisten and shine like glacial ice. "A cool tone, such as this, can add elegance to her form, without taking away from her lovely hair. Surely she already knows red to be her color, but this... this would allow her to stand out from her friends and competitors, elevating her through exclusivity in tone among those of her race. I would wager few Altmer could pull off such a look."

Removing his spectacles, Calloway pocketed them once more, but kept the fold of ice blue out on the table, clearly a trimming from a larger piece at one point. As a slight interruption, their food arrived, forcing Calloway to slide his sketchbook out of the way. for the moment. In it had been reflected most every race - even the orcs, often garbed in more severe styles with a sort of brutal beauty about them - save for the Khajiit. Imperial, Breton, Nord, Altmer, Dunmer, Bosmer, Argonian, Orc, all were displayed, the pinnacles of beauty by his own hand, but none of his own blood. True, this was just the womens' book, and there may be Khajiit in his the menswear line, as clearly he designed for himself, but their lack in this volume was evident.

Taking up his knife and fork, Calloway asked, "What would you see yourself in, Miss Tannwyn? Or, Clark, what would you find most appealing upon our guest?" Punctuating his question with a bite of horker loaf from his fork, the tailor quirked an eyebrow, finding the meat far more tender and subtly flavorful than he had expected of such a wretched looking beast.

[Clark]

Clark felt good about Calloway's compliment. As he considered the Khajit tailor's question, he realized he could only see the top half of Tannwyn's body. Not knowing how to look at her without making himself feel like a lecher, Clark focused on the elf woman's face. "What about her eyes?" he asked.

[Calloway Sharr]

Swallowing, Calloway washed down his mouthful with a sip of wine. "Personally, unless the eyes are a very striking blue, I tend to let a woman's eyes do their own talking. Make them a treasure for a man to discover once he begins speaking to her, not something that must be broadcast across the room. As blue are more difficult to hide, I may take those into account, but often I worry more about skin tone and hair than the eyes."

Cutting away another bite of horker, the Khajiit added, "Though, body shape and structure can make a difference, as some colors are better suited to certain physiques. As the lady is currently in plate armor, I would not deign to guess at what her shape may be, but instead suggest a private fitting at what point may be most convenient for her to be out of uniform."

[Caethras Maur]

Alauriel's large, golden-orange eyes moved from drawing to drawing with wonder and zeal, occasionally darting up to one man or the other as they discussed her fashion possibilities. She took a moment to play the brilliant fabric samples through her long, dexterous fingers and was sorry to see them disappear back into the tailor's prodigious carpet bag.

"A private fitting?" she said, surprised. "Oh, yes, of-- of course. We're stationed in Solitude for the time being, but I'll have to fine out the rota. Your work so beautiful, I'm not even sure where to begin. Something to remind me of the summer, perhaps... Where did you learn to do this? You're nothing like any Khajiit I've ever met."

[Calloway Sharr]

While it might not have been gentlemanly, Calloway worked at his meal with great speed, knowing half of his dinner time would be taken up by talking, and he was quite hungry. Still, his ettiquite was impeccible, and not a single crumb or drop fell upon his crisp, white shirt as he ate. Another drink of wine cleared his throat before he placed his cutlery down and replied.

"Well, I'm not exactly like any Khajiit I've met, either, though that isn't saying much, as I've had scant opportunities to really meet with my own race," he said. "I grew up in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City, no less, in the aftermath of the Aldmeri Dominion's sacking of the city. I am in the understanding that my real parents were slaughtered outside the gates, and that I, but a mere infant at the time, was brought inside and left in a temple. My parents who raised me were Imperials, who could not have children of their own, and so they adopted me after finding me there, alone. My mother was a weaver and seamstress, and my father was a tailor, among other professions. I learned much of my craft from them, but even they said I had my own particular vision about style. I do credit much of my current ability with my experiences in such a metropolitan city, after the Empire took it back, of course. Many said I was lucky to have been too young to remember the war, but I know that without it, I would not be the man I am, today, and I certainly wouldn't be sitting here at a table with one as lovely as yourself, or my companion Clark, here."

After another drink of wine, Calloway added, "Clark is a mage, you know. And I'm given to the understanding that the Thalmor, among the Aldmeri, are more likely to enlist those of the magical arts. Perhaps the two of you may know some of the same spells. I've never been too good at magic, myself. Often make a right hash of things, so I stick to my needle and thread."

[Clark]

Clark nodded. "Magic is inherently volatile," he said. "Toldfir says it takes concentration and caution to use magic responsibly."

Clark pulled the flagon set for him close and sipped some of the strong Nord mead.

"Still, I bet you could learn Candlelight. It's the first spell I ever learned, and I learned it when I was ten. It's just a little light that hovers over your head for a time. Might help you if you had to be up late. Save you a few septims on candles and lantern oil."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway had no idea who Tolfdir was, but he presumed it was a Nord. Tolfdir sounded like a Nord name, or perhaps a small, funny looking variety of deer that lived on the tundra and made a cute squeaking noise so endearing that no hunter would kill one. Calloway suddenly wanted a Tolfdir, and a pain opened in his heart knowing he would never have one.

Again came that visible snap back to reality, and he took up his cutlery once more, sawing off another piece of horker loaf. "We'll see," he said. "I do see quite well in the dark, but color is certainly skewed in low light. A bit of magic actual light would be quite handy, I would imagine, yes. Well, that and I suppose it would also give me a bit more flair when presenting my work." Spearing that piece of horker on is fork, he swept it through some of his lumpy mashed potatoes, then the snowberry sauce, and for some reason he felt like assembling furniture from flat pieces. Banishing that random thought from his mind, he then sighed and said, "I do wish I'd been able to get a private meeting with the Jarl. I've traveled all this way to meet her, and I really wanted to give her a private showing, so he could fully understand my mission in life. I'm not leaving until I can see her without an audience to interrupt me."

With that, he jammed the forkful into his mouth, and chewed intently.

[Caethras Maur]

Alauriel shifted her eyes away as Calloway spoke about the Imperial City. One didn't have to venture far in Skyrim to meet someone who had either fought in the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion or who had lost friends and family in the fighting. The Imperial City in particular was a personal tragedy to many men and mer alike - the horrific sacking of the Imperial City by the Dominion was rivaled only by the Battle of the Red Ring, wherein the Imperial armies retook the city, slaughtered every last mer inside, and hung the body of Lord Naarifin from the citadel tower for thirty days before, according to legend, he was carried away in the claws of a flying Daedra. Such battles tended to be wrapped over time in shrouds of myth and song, but meeting someone whose life had been fundamentally altered by them made the uncomfortable history between the Dominion and the Empire impossible to ignore.

"I've never had much magical talent myself," the Altmer woman confessed, trying to keep up with the pace of the conversation. "Just enough for a healing spell, some flames for starting a campfire. Otherwise I'd be wearing robes instead of armor. But I want something pretty for evenings when I'm off-duty, something where I don't have to feel like a soldier."

She looked down at the carpet bag by Calloway's feet where the sketchbook and the fabric scraps had disappeared to, and where just hours before she'd seen several long dress boxes - longer, in fact, than the bag itself - emerge. "That's not all your stock there, is it?" she said. "I mean, surely your entire business couldn't fit... in..."

Alauriel frowned as if she were trying to work out a particularly complicated riddle.

[Calloway Sharr]

"In one bag?" Calloway completed her question for you, then grinned, shaking his head. "Of course not, my dear girl," he laughed. "This is just my samples bag, made slightly more practical by an enchantment I paid a pretty penny for. I can stick a few large things in it, but its limit is far from endless. Think of the capacity of a large trunk, in a size you can carry. Certainly it is handy, and convenient, but as it cost me half a year's income just to get that level of enchantgment, I couldn't imagine what it would take to afford a bag large enough to fit my whole stock!"

The Khajiit descended into giggles, holding up his paw to beg Clark and Alauriel's indulgence before he could continue. Sniffling a touch, he tried to pull a straight face, but was still clearly bemused. "No, my whole stock would easily fill a room, and is en route here by wagon, hopefully to arrive here tomorrow, or the day after."

Leaning down to close the latch on his bag, Calloway then nudged it closer to himself with his footpaw as best he could, hoping that would be enough to remove his bag from the night's list of curiosities. "And, speaking of tomorrow or the day after, before I can settle on a particular design for your dress, I will still need to meet with you for at least a measuring. I do recommend it be somewhere we have privacy, and likely I would suggest here, as I belive this tavern's inn is where I will be quartered for the duration of my stay. Tell me, have you ever been professionally measured, before, Miss Tanwynn?"

[Caethras Maur]

"I... no, I haven't," Alauriel said, finally taking her eyes away from the bag. Her golden-hued cheeks suddenly looked a little rosier than before.

[Calloway Sharr]

"Ah, I see," Calloway nodded. He folded one paw over the other, looking as professional as possible while he lowered his voice. "Well, for some it can seem to be an... intimate experience, but I assure you there is nothing scandalous or impolite in its actual function. We would arrange a time for you to come meet me behind some closed door, and I would have you undress - not completely, mind you, but just enough so that I may measure what is actually you, and not what is cloth. I generally recommend a client disrobe to their undergarments, but I can work with whatever level of modesty you prefer."

Seeing the look he was getting from Clark, who was clearly imagining the whole scene in his head, Calloway reached into his sleeve and from it pulled a long, waxed fabric measuring tape. Looping it around his wrist, he raised his arm as to display what he was doing. "From there, I take measurements of your body, and mark it down in my notebook," he explained, demonstating the length of his forearm, followed by the circumference of his neck before setting the tape down. "And from those measurements I will be able to adjust my dress form so that it takes on your shape, so that I may craft a garment perfectly suited to you, and only you, accentuating your best features while playing down any elements of yourself you may wish to not be noticed. The whole process takes a bit less than a half hour, though it will require me to touch a fair amount of skin in the process, as a natural side-effect. Though, if you wish, I can wear gloves so that I don't tickle."

The Khajiit smiled lightly at that, wiggling his fuzzy fingertips. "And, once I have my measurements, it shouldn't be more than a day or two before your dress is finished and you can be the envy of Solitude."

[Clark]

Clark watched some of the locals. They were getting pretty kind of loud. "I see a good opportunity for practice," Clark said. "You two make your arrangements, and then meet me outside. We can practice that Candlelight spell."

The mage took his mead and a sweetroll, placed a few septims on the counter near Corpulus as he stepped outside. The door shut. Several pale green flashes of light filled the windows and the cracks around the door, then suddenly it was quiet, except for the sound of stifled laughter.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway tried to raise a paw to object, not wanting the man who vouched for him to get into trouble that would wind up getting both of them kicked out, but it was too late. Ah, but for the eagerness of youth, he thought, his paw going back down while Clark headed out the door.

"As I was saying, I'll likely be quartered here, so when-" the Khajiit stopped mid-sentence when the flashes of light began to pop outside. Biting his lip, Calloway sighed. "I'm terribly sorry, we will have to continue this at another time. Please come see me tomorrow, and it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Tannwyn."

Getting up from his seat, Calloway offered a paw to help the Thalmor emissary up as well, no longer thinking of her for her title or affiliation, but as a customer. "Have a pleasant evening."

His dinner nearly finished, Calloway supposed it was good enough, though he did stop to finish the last of his wine before picking up his carpetbag. Money enough for dinner, his drink and a room for the night were given to Corpulus, and once Calloway had his room key, the tailor braved his way out into the street to see just what trouble Clark had gotten himself into, though he curiously fished his spectacles out of his pocket along the way.

[Clark]

Clark sat on the stones in the middle of the square, watching the people attempt to continue their argument under the magical compulsion of the Calm spells. Unable to raise their voices, let alone their fists, the townsfolk went to their homes. The mage, on the other hand, didn't look like he was laughing anymore. He shook the spells out of his hands and greeted Calloway with a smile that seemed a little tight.

"You wanted to learn that Candlelight spell?"

[Calloway Sharr]

The square cleared, but despite the excessive use of Calm, it still felt like a tense, trying place, and Calloway did not manage a smile at all as he pocketed his spectacles once more. Clark had done what he thought was best, attempted to dispel an angry crowd so that no fight would beak out, and no one would get hurt, and for that Calloway could sympathize with the young mage's intentions. But he did not believe the results were finished quite yet. The townsfolk could not argue, yes, but they could still think clearly, able to plot and plan through the night, now, to carry out whatever retribution they had intended on those they argued with. Calloway just hoped that in their forced calm they would also find a way to forgive and forget the night's hostilities.

Stopping near the stones, Calloway watched them go. "You don't look very happy," he said, bypassing Clark's question at first. "Not exactly the result you expected?" Setting his bag down Calloway tightened his cravat, then pulled his jacket closer in the rapidly cooling night air. "But, yes, that Candlelight spell would be lovely, if I can manage to actually do it."

[Clark]

The tense smile faded entirely. "They were arguing about..." Clark seemed to try to catch his breath to finish the sentence. "That damn war."

Clark shook his left hand, summoning the power of the Candlelight spell. "Magic is in everyone," he said. "Channeling that power requires no small amount of willpower. You summon it up, and then you maintain your focus to control it. It helps to have a trigger or a trick to help you with that. And then--" Clark put his hand over his head and opened his fingers. The spell made a fwa-womp as it was released. The ball of light in Clark's palm now floated over his head. "Once the spell is released, it will last until it fades. How long it lasts depends on you."

Clark shrugged, and his regular smile slowly came out of hiding. "Hold up your hands. It'll help to see where the magic is going to be channeled to."

The mage shook out his spell and pointed at his stomach. "The theory is that magic begins somewhere in here. When I first started learning to control the magic, I put my hands on my stomach and drew them upward as I focused on summoning the magicka within me." He showed Calloway as he spoke. "It may help you, too, if you're having trouble visualizing the flow of energy."

[Calloway Sharr]

"In time, they will see that their petty quarrel here in Skyrim between the Empire and the Stormcloaks is meaningless compared to the greater war which still plays out, its embers smoldering until they find the fuel they need for the flames to rage again," Calloway said, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

He then watched and listened as Clark demonstrated with ease how the simple spell worked, and the Khajiit's eyes narrowed from the glare of the bright new light. "Impressive," he remarked. The Tailor then looked at his own paws, studying them intently. Much magic had already come from them, in the form of exquisite garments, deft movements and other creations, but never had true magic been unleashed with any form of success through those fingers. Still, he studied them as if trying to find some sort of hidden mystery which had been hidden there all his life. Instead he just found a smudge of snowberry sauce on one of his fingers, which he licked clean before it had the chance to dry into his fur.

"Magic begins inside me, eh?" Calloway mused. His paws were lowered to his trim stomach, and he closed his eyes, trying to feel the magic inside him. At first there was nothing, followed by more nothing, and then minor twinges of nothing. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the Khajiit focused once more, trying to block out the outside world as he searched for the source of his magicka.

Seconds passed, and nothing. Calloway was ready to give up, but just as he started to let his paws fall, he froze. There was something. A tremor, a feeling of warmth. Was that it? Was that the magic forming inside himself. Pursing his lips, the tailor squeezed his eyes shut tighter, focusing upon that warmth, feeling it build and build. Tail twitching in anticipation, he raised his paws slowly, feeling the pressure rising up through him. He was going to do it! He was going to erupt in a glittering light-show that would no doubt leave every previous incarnation of Candlelight in the dust, thanks to his superior sense of style. Fingers trembling with the sheer power he felt, Calloway let his eyes open as he released that power with all the force he could muster, and what came out was an incredible, powerful, and unforgettable... belch.

It echoed off the stone walls, reverberating as Calloway clapped his paws over his mouth, turning at least three shades of pink beneath his fur. When at last he uncovered his mouth, he gave a sheepish smile. "Heh, I think I accidentally channeled that horker I had for dinner, there."

[Clark]

Clark laughed heartily--so much so he nearly fell down! He wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. "Oh, that was too funny! I broke wind the first time I tried to channel my magicka! Apparently it's a rite of passage for young mages."

His genuine smile back in full bloom, Clark got back to the task at hand. "You're a tailor, Calloway. Why not think of channeling your magicka like it were a needle and thread? Imagine summoning the magicka was like threading the needle, then channeling and casting the spell like sewing with that thread."

[Calloway Sharr]

Clark's admission of mage-based flatulence, brought a slight smirk to Calloway's face, but did little to restore his dignity. Shaking out his paws, the Khajiit tried to clear his mind, though his tail snapped back and forth in agitation.

Once focused, Calloway tried to let his creative juices flow, sensing the movement his arms and paws wanted to do naturally. Paws raised, Calloway watched with awe as he began to see the faint glow of magicka form in his palms, then extend torward his fingertips. He was doing it! He was making magic! He.... didn't know any spells!

In an instant, the glow popped, then fizzled out. "Uhh, shouldn't I probably learn the words to this spell, first?" he asked.

[Clark]

Clark started bouncing on his toes as the magic formed in Calloway's paws. The second the tailor lost control, the student mage rocked back onto his heels. When Calloway asked for words, Clark shrugged. "There's not really any words. You can chant if it helps you concentrate, or simply say the name of the spell you want to cast if it helps you form your intent. but magic is pure will. Not many true mages need to use words to shape a spell."

"It may be an oversimplification, but maybe it'll help; one of my fellow students says that in order to cast a spell, you have to really want it."

[Calloway Sharr]

What Calloway really wanted, at that point, was to not look like a fool again in the town square. Especially when customers might see him. Still, he now new the difference between magicka and a good burp, so there was that problem settled. Now he just had to sort out what he supposed light felt like. Funny, he'd never really thought of it, before, and he glanced to the glowing orb above Clark's head for some sort of inspiration.

Color, shape, placement, those things ran through Calloway's mind as the subtle glow of magicka formed at his fingertips. Thinking as a tailor, he stitched together the elements required for the spell, driven to make it the best, most powerful Candlelight spell this mage had ever seen, and once he had it set, Calloway grinned. "Here we go, one Candlelight, coming- Euaagh! Get away get away!"

As he spoke, Calloway was accosted by a large owl which had swooped down from the roof of Bits and Pieces, mistaking his fuzzy fingers for some sort of tasty treat. This particular owl had never gone after anyone else's fingers, before, but then again, it had never had a resident out and night with furrry, glowing fingers that looked like lit-up mice. Unfortunatley, they were fingers, and magic ones at that, and the owl wound up getting far more than it had bargained for.

Calloway channeled all his energy into the owl, driving it back with both hands, and simultaneously - and accidentally - released his spell. A brilliant, glowing orb burst from his paws, and latched itself right onto the bewildered owl. The whole scene went rather surreal as the new "mage" wildly swung his arms to drive the bird away, and the owl, bathed in magical light, flew away with his spell like a hooting wisp, to go perch upon a far roof, still glowing brightly.

Shaking, the tailor then balled his fists. "Okay, that's it! That's more than enough magic for one night! What in the bloody hell? That owl stole my spell! It's... it's luminous!" Picking up a small stone, Calloway reeled back and flung it at the owl, though his throw came woefully short. "Stupid, near-sighted, thieving bag of feathers! You try that again and I'll make a hat out of you!" he shouted, tail puffed out and lashing behind him. The small-framed Khajiit was so irate it was almost adorable.

[Clark]

Clark was veritably trembling with suppressed laughter. "That may have been a Magelight, rather than a Candlelight," Clark finally managed. "Magelight sticks to things. It goes out after a while. We'll have to watch, and see." With that, the Novice sat down on his rock again and took a pull at his mead.

Most of the time Magelight lasted maybe five or ten minutes, but this one wasn't going out. "I...don't think it's going to go out." His mead gone, Clark tapped the empty bottle musically against the stone. "Well, That's enough of that. Bed time, I think! We'll try again with the Lady Jarl Elisif tomorrow."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway was more than ready to call it a night. His day had not gone as planned, and in the last fifteen minutes he had embarrassed himself twice in the public square, saved only by the grace of nightfall causing it to be mostly empty of onlookers. Taking up his carpetbag once more, Calloway let his other paw hold on to the edge of his jacket. "Yes, I think a good night's rest is certainly in order," he nodded. "Good night, Clark. I'll see you tomorrow."

But as the Khajiit turned to head back into the Winking Skeever, he noticed Clark following, even as he entered through the door again. "Are you rooming here, as well?" Calloway asked. The look Clark gave him told all.

"Oh. I see," Calloway answered his own question. "Well, I do suppose I owe you for that nice warmup for the Jarl, so, of course you can room with me." Heading up the stairs to the tavern's inn rooms, Calloway drew the key from his pocket, and prayed that he had somehow managed to score a room with two beds, or at the very least one quite large one. As the door creaked inward, and the light from the hallway poured in, the tailor breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of two headboards. "I'll take the one on the left," he said, then set his bag down on the room's small table before bringing a candle out to light it from the hallway lamp. In short time, the room was lit well enough to be serviceable, but not so brightly as to hurt the eyes. Slipping his jacket off, Calloway folded it neatly and placed it on the table next to his bag. "I must say, after so long on the road, a real bed will feel quite heavenly."

[Clark]

Clark nodded. "Thanks, Calloway. Tomorrow, we'll definitely get you a second opportunity to talk to the Jarl."


***

The next morning, Clark and Calloway stood once again in front of the court of Jarl Elisif. Clark was still wearing his novice's robes. Like most residents of Skryim, Clark only had one change of clothing. Before he headed up to the frozen College of Winterhold, he would bathe and wash his robes. Until then, he would wait.

Calloway, on the other hand, was wearing yet another outfit. Without words to describe it, Clark could only pun about it. "Khajit Chic," his mind repeated every time he glanced at the tailor.

When Elisif entered her courtroom, she smiled at them both. "Ah, Mr. Sharr. I was hoping I would see you again. Clark must have encouraged you to come so early in the morning. It was wise; there is nothing on my schedule for the next few hours. I would love to see your clothes again."

[Caethras Maur]

"What did you learn last night about the Khajiit tailor?"

Lord Caethras Maur stood before a mirror of polished moonstone, very likely the only one of its kind in all of Skyrim, which he had brought from the Thalmor Embassy into the chambers set aside for the Aldmeri delegation in Castle Dour. The Altmer general stood in a loose shirt of white silk and linen trousers as a pair of Dunmer servants dressed him for the day's dalliances in Jarl Elisif's court. Other than the mirror and a chest of his own personal belongings, he had brought nothing to adorn the stark, black granite walls and floors of his palatial bedchamber. He had not even deigned to use the large, ornamented wardrobes his hosts had furnished, each one crowned with Nordic knots and rampant bears and the heads of wolves carved in stained pinewood. Were it not for the mussed sheets on the stately, four-poster bed against the back wall, there would hardly be any evidence the room had been used at all.

Alauriel Tannwyn stood at attention in her own golden armor while her superior was dressed. "He said he was orphaned outside the Imperial City when Lord Naarifin's armies were marshalled around it. Someone took him inside to the Temple of the Divines, and he was adopted by an Imperial family. Tailors by trade. Then he took up the family business, m'lord."

"And did he speak of his business in Solitude?"

"Only that he wishes for a private audience with the Jarl," Alauriel replied. "He said he wanted her to fully understand his mission in life."

Caethras raised his arms as his Dunmer attendants lifted his padded undercloth vest over his head. "And did he say what his mission was?"

"No. I mean, not directly. He only talked about his work." Alauriel's eyebrows pinched together, troubled. "M'lord, his work is extraordinary. Far too elaborate to be a simple cover."

"Is it, Subcommander?" Caethras said. "I remember a tailor called Sharr in the Imperial City. The shop was abandoned in the invasion, of course, but the master returned during the occupation to continue plying his trade. Uncommonly talented. Lord Naarifin himself purchased a suit from the man. He was fit two weeks before the Battle of the Red Ring."

His ice-blue eyes shifted toward Alauriel's, who instantly looked at the floor. There was not an Altmer alive who did not have reason to curse the Dominion's first and greatest defeat in the entire Great War, but Lord Maur had more reason than most. Naarifin had been like a father to him, a low-blooded soldier from Skywatch, and, deprived of the honor of dying alongside his mentor, Caethras appeared hell-bent on pursuing every coincidence, no matter how slight, that might have contributed to Naarifin's downfall.

The Dunmer began buckling on Caethras's enormous ebony-and-steel cuirass. "What of that bag of his? Did you get a closer look at it?"

"In passing," Alauriel said. "I asked him about it, and he only said there was an enchantment upon it that increases the space inside. He said the rest of his stock is coming to Solitude by wagon in a day or two."

"Assign a guard to the city gate with instructions to review the manifest of every wagon seeking entry into Solitude," Caethras ordered. "Anything addressed to Mr. Sharr, or any large shipment of clothing and textiles is to be thoroughly searched and scried for enchantments."

"It will be done, m'lord," Alauriel replied.

"Will you be seeing Mr. Sharr again?" Caethras asked.

The gilded soldier hesitated, open-mouthed, and blushed as she answered, "He's to take my measurements this evening, m'lord."

The Altmer general laughed, though there was no mirth in his voice. "See what else you can learn about his mission, Subcommander. But do take care not to be too charmed by his talents. Embarrass me again, and you'll be on the first ship back to the Summerset Isles."

Alauriel's blush turned pale, and she nodded. "I hear and obey, m'lord."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway had slept well, eminently thankful for a proper bed instead of his bedroll, and further glad that once he was up, he did not have to pack away said bedroll, a tent, and all the other items he typically set up for a night's sleep on the road. The extra time had allowed him a thorough brushing of his fur, and even a chance to iron his suit for the day. This time it was pale green linen, lined with deeper green velvet and embroidered in key panels with deep green thread with the occasional thread of gold to make it sparkle. A mint-green silk cravat rode perfectly across the collar of his crisp, white shirt, and he had even changed out his saber for the simple hang of a sheathed glass dagger at his hip. About his head sat a gold and emerald circlet, which he personally thought was a bit too matchy-matchy with the suit, but it seemed to go over well with his clients, so he continued to wear it, and his gold medallion still hung down upon his narrow chest.

Giving a deep bow, tail curling in respect, the Khajiit smiled. "And it would be my pleasure to show you once more, Lady Elisif," he replied. "I have even brought along a selection of gowns and dresses that I believe should be near to your size, if you should like to try them on for yourself. Any improper fitting I can adjust with ease, naturally."

It was not as strong or flashy of a pitch, this time, as he had already captured the Jarl's interest. Now it was simply a matter of finding out how much of his product she wished to purchase and what more he might be able to sell her on top of that. Accessories were always the money-maker in fashion. But, as he stood there, his eyes casually took in the room, studying its contents. Unlike the night previous, hardly anyone stood in the court that morning, but the light left a great deal to be desired, the sun still too low at that hour to filter in through the side windows properly over the exterior wall.

Before the Jarl could reply, Calloway smiled again, tilting his head to one side, and added, "Though, if you should like to try anything on, I would suggest we set up in m'lady's private quarters, as you would be most comfortable there, I believe."

[Clark]

Clark watched the court proceedings. Every so often his eyes roamed the Blue Palace, waiting for an opportunity to go track down Sybille and borrow more of her books.

Lady Elisif stood and motioned down the stairs towards her chambers, Clark bumped Calloway lightly with the back of his hand (so as not to dirty the meticulous Khajit's shirt), and said in low tones, "Keep the door open or a handmaid with you. The housecarl may not be in view, but he's always nearby. If he thinks there's any sign of foul play, you better believe the last thing you'll see is his axe. I don't really want to see your funeral garb today."

[Calloway Sharr]

In hushed tones, Calloway huffed, "I'll have you know, my funeral garb is fabulous." Picking up his bag, the Khajiit spoke up a bit louder. "This might take a little while. I'll come find you when I'm done, likely in the court mage's quarters, again?" A nod from Clark set the tailor on his way, quickness in his step as to catch up with the Jarl and her guards.

At the door to her bedchamber, Calloway paused, setting down his bag so that he might unfasten the leather and gold-thread cord that held his glass dagger about his waist. Wrapping it neatly, he smiled, offering it to a guard. The guard did not appear wholly satisfied, and to that, Calloway gave a wry smile, asking, "Must I surrender my sewing scissors and serger, too? Knitting needles, perhaps? Have my pins and needles checked for some sort of virulent poison?"

The Jarl herself could not help but giggle at the Khajiit's comical listing of "dangerous weapons." Despite her husband's recent death, she did not find much of anything about this tailor threatening. "Oh, relax, Heinvar," she said. "I'm just going to try on a few dresses, I'll be fine." The guard hesitated still, but in the end obliged, stepping back to allow Calloway past him, and into the Jarl's private quarters.

Assisted by a handmaiden, Lady Elisif was seated upon a comfortable chair, while Calloway was directed to set up his wares before her. Box after box was withdrawn from the bag, and in short time he had produced nearly a dozen dresses, each dynamically different, but all speaking volumes to his skill and attention do detail. Elisif looked each over, selecting those she was interested in, while Calloway put away those she did not care for, replacing them with others from his seemingly never-ending supply. And they were not just dresses he presented; riding clothes, sleepwear, daywear, and everything between. A box was set out that he invited the Jarl to look into at her own discretion, and he turned his back so that she may view its contents - mostly lacy underthings - in relative privacy. Well over an hour was spent picking through his designs, until at last Elisif had laid aside no less than five outfits she wished to buy regardless, and three more she wished to check the fit on. To Calloway's dismay, the Starlight Walk had not been among those she had chosen, but he was certain it would find the proper home eventually. Perhaps in Markarth, he imagined.

Dismissed to the hallway while the Jarl would change, Calloway gave a bow at the open doorway, then softly closed the door behind himslef. A padded bench sat longside the hallway wall, and Calloway took a seat upon it next to the guard, who said nothing, and didn't even look his way. Calloway sat quietly, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, then adjusting his circlet as he seemed incapable of simply sitting still. "Lovely place," the tailor said after a minute of silence. The guard didn't respond, or even bat an eye. Knowing a tough crowd when he saw one, Calloway went back to his antsy fidgeting.

When the handle of the door rattled, the tailor bolted back up to his feet with such spring that he had to stop himself from bouncing. But his elation quickly soured as it was just the handmaiden stepping out on her way to get a glass of wine for the Jarl. Calloway slowly sank back to the bench, trying not to slump as the handmaiden walked with heavy step down the hall, and he heard the door click shut a short time after. Now all there was to do was wait until he was called in to check the fit, and he let his fingertips drum upon his thighs while he studied the hallway's crown moulding, as he had already taken in every detail of the wall before him. The guard continued to remain silent, pointedly ignoring the Khajiit, it seemed. How some women took ages to get dressed, Calloway would never understand. His suit had far more pieces to it, and he could strip and re-dress in a minute or so, if needed, so a dress should have been an absolute breeze - especially on a race with no fur to muss up.

At last he could hear the rustling of cloth, and he knew that meant she must be approaching the door to let him in and inspect his handiwork. But no call to the door came, and Calloway's ears perked, a muffled shuffling sound accompanying the rustle of fabric. But before he could call through the door to ask if everything was okay, Calloway's ears were flattened by the sound of a blood-curdling scream - and it came from inside the Jarl's chamber!

Without thinking, Calloway launched himself off of the bench, nearly slipping on the polished marble floor, before his paws caught the door latch. Wrenching it down, the Khajiit lunged inside, his circlet bouncing off of his head to clatter onto the floor as he went. His worst fear ran through his mind. There was only one reason a woman would scream like that: he'd missed a pin in the dress, and she'd found it!

His nightmare playing out before him, the tailor raced to try and catch Lady Elisif as she tumbled to the floor in a faint, and he dove to barely reach her in time to keep her head from striking the floor. How could he have been so careless? He asked himself, trying to prop the Jarl up on her knees as he sat up on his own. One pin and all his sales might be ruined!

But as he looked down to a spreading pool of red upon the soft blue of the dress's fabric, he realized it had been no mere pinprick. Frantically he looked for the source of the blood, only to see his dress deeply dorn from neck to shoulder, and then he saw the gash that skipped across from Elisif's neck to her collarbone, bleeding profusely, though not enough so as to have hit her jugular. Without time to worry about how it happened, Calloway clamped his right paw over the wounds, feeling her hot blood seep into his fur, and he shouted, "Help! Help, guards! Help! The Jarl has been attacked!"

And, while booted feet raced down the hallway to the Jarl's chamber, there was one guard who remained still. Seated on the bench outside, the quiet guard did not move a muscle. Or, more aptly, he could not move a muscle, thanks to the needle stuck into the side of his neck. A needle laced with deadly paralysis poison. And in his panic, Calloway did not see his fallen circlet lift up into the air, then vanish from sight completely, the door buffeting just slightly before the guards rushed in.

[Caethras Maur]

The first of the guards seized Calloway around the shoulders and threw him to the marble floor, pinning him there with the haft of a spear. Two more drew their weapons and began searching the perimeter of the room for hidden assailants, throwing open wardrobes and closet doors. Behind them came the steward Falk Firebeard and the housecarl Bolgeir Bearclaw, both of them wracked with an all-too-familiar brand of shock and helplessness.

"Elisif!" Falk cried, and he rushed to his Jarl and fell at her side, pressing his hand against her still-flowing wound. "Send for a healer, immediately!"

"Clear out, you fools!" snarled an imperious voice, and Caethras barreled into the room in his ebony armor alongside a thin male Altmer in long, black robes. The robed justiciar knelt beside the fallen Elisif and probed her wound with a faintly glowing hand. The glow revealed a sickly brown taint that shimmered over the surface of the Jarl's blood like a slick of whale oil on the ocean. The same color spread in branching veins beneath her pale skin.

"It's a shallow wound," the Thalmor mage said, "but it's been poisoned. She doesn't have much time."

"Can you cure it?" Falk asked with desperation in his eyes.

Caethras reached inside the pouch in his belt and pulled out a small, milky white vial, which he tossed to the steward. "Get that down her throat, and quickly. What in Oblivion's name happened here?"

The guard who held Calloway captive spoke up from beneath his domed helm. "We heard Lady Elisif's scream, and shouting voices from her chambers. This Khajiit was crouched over her with his claws on her throat."

The Thalmor mage turned his glowing hand toward Calloway, and all eyes turned to follow except Falk's, who was carefully pouring Caethras's elixir into Elisif's delicate mouth. When the pale light struck the tailor, it revealed the same sickly brown stain on his paw and claws.

"Gutless son of a skeever!" Bolgeir roared, and three guards had to restrain him from butchering Calloway on the spot.

[Calloway Sharr]

It was not exactly the hero's welcome Calloway had been expecting for trying to save the Jarl's life. Thrown to the ground, the hard crack of his skull against the marble floor still rang in his ears and blurred his vision while confusion about the entire situatiuon washed through his brain. By the time he realized what was going on, his golden eyes went wide, ears flattening in fear.

"I didn't do it!" he shouted, voice cracking as he tried to defend himself by curling up into a ball, only to find himself wrenched out flat again, a booted foot pinning his arm to the floor, right paw up and exposed.

Heart beating out of control, Calloway could feel his veins tingling with too much pressure, breath coming so fast he nearly hyperventilated. "I swear I didn't do it!" he squeaked. "I was outside! She was trying on a dress! I hear her scream and I rushed in! Ask the guard! Ask the guard! He was out there with me!"

[Caethras Maur]

Falk looked up from his ministrations and nodded at one of the guards, who slipped outside. Caethras surveyed the state of the room - clothes on hangers spread across the bed, draped over the chair by the writing desk, hanging from the studs of the weapons rack by the mantel.

"It seems she was trying on an awful lot of dresses," the elvish warrior observed. "Did your stock arrive just this morning?"

The guard burst breathlessly back into the chamber before Calloway could answer. "Heinvar's dead," he said. "Sitting on the bench, stiff as a board. There was a needle stuck in the side of his neck."

"Poisoned, I believe you'll find," Caethras said. "How long were you alone with the guard outside, Mr. Sharr?"

[Calloway Sharr]

The Khajiit tried to pull his paw back, then winced as the guard standing on his wrist applied more pressure. "Ow!" he whimpered, tail curling up between his legs.

Very slowly, Calloway began to realize how much trouble he was in, as he recognized the tall elf from the day before. Ugly, yet perceptive, Caethras had noticed the sheer amount of clothing in the room, and the tailor tried to think quickly of a way to explain it. A momentary reprieve from that question came when news of the guard's death in the hallway was announced.

Looking up to Caethras, Calloway looked pitiful. "Off and on, I'm not sure how long. He's been out there for an hour, and I was sitting with him for a few minutes before I head Lady Elisif scream. That's when I rushed in! It was just a bit after the handmaiden left to get the Jarl a cup of wine!"

[Caethras Maur]

"Pass the word for Greta," Falk ordered. "We'll find out what she saw. You, elf... is this potion working? I don't know how to tell!"

The robed mage knelt over Elisif once more and passed his hand over her injury. The veins of disease that had been creeping through her like wildfire had broken and were fading away, and a healthier color was stirring in the Jarl's cheeks. "The wound still needs tending," the mage said, "but she'll survive."

"We've finished sweeping the room," another guard reported. There's no one else here."

Bolgeir, his eyes boiling with fury, pointed at Calloway and said, "Take this dandy cat to the dungeon in Castle Dour, and hold him there until we come for him. I promise you, Khajiit, we will find out your part in this, and if you meant to harm one hair on Lady Elisif's head, there'll be nothing left of you for the headman's block."

As the guards wrestled Calloway off the floor and toward the hallway, Caethras stooped over Elisif's body and took the mage's wrist, turning the light of his spell toward Falk. The oily brown stain was on the steward's hands, too, but the Altmer general said nothing.

[Clark]

Clark only just registered the rush of boots by the mage's chamber. Sybille, however, was more keenly interested.

"Clark!" She barked. "Come! There is a problem!"

In a flurry of motion, Clark's book went airborne. He nearly fell over trying to get out of the chair. Sybille was already in the hallway when Clark finally got himself together and could run without tripping. When he arrived at the Jarl's chambers, he saw Calloway pushed out the door in binds, and the leader of the Aldmeri standing over the Jarl.

"What happened?" Clark asked. "The Jarl's been hurt?"

Clark took a few deep breaths. He was of age. He would maintain control of himself. "Why is Calloway being dragged off?"

"

[Caethras Maur]

"Sybille!" Falk gasped. "Thank the Divines, we need your help!"

Grim-faced, the Breton woman knelt beside the Jarl, discussing her condition in low tones with the Thalmor mage. Caethras turned to face Clark and considered simply brushing off the boy's questions, but he was apparently a fixture in the court, and he knew the accused. Divines knew how.

"Someone has made an attempt on the Jarl's life," he said, "and your tailor friend was found alone at the scene of the crime. How well do you know that Khajiit, boy?"

[Clark]

Clark leaned around the Thalmor commander and looked at Lady Elisif on the floor. His mind took in everything and within a couple seconds, Clark responded. "I know him well enough that he wouldn't ruin his own handiwork. I got a small smudge on his pants when we met yesterday, and he had to change clothes. I will never love a woman as wholly and deeply as Calloway loves his own clothes. To not only tear, but stain one of his dresses would be asking too much. He'd probably rather eat his own toenails than do that! Besides, clothes fitting can be a somewhat private matter. It's not surprising Elisif would be alone in her room with Calloway. I think..." Clark's voice trailed off as he looked around, counting the people in the room.

"I think..." Clark tried to start his sentence, but let it drop again. "Is everyone in the palace accounted for?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway was not given a chance to respond to Clark as he was hauled past the young mage in the hallway. Everything seemed wrong, and his head spun from the confusion. The Khajiit scarcely felt his feet shuffle and drag over the marble floor, then the cobblestones of the street outside as he was handled without grace or mercy. There had been no one else in the room, he was sure of it. And no one had entered or left while he waited by the door. How had it been done? The memory of his circlet escaped him for the moment, the buildings of Solitude going by him in a blur as he was hauled out to Castle Dour.

"Ow, my paw..." he mumbled, the words escaping his mouth without him realizing he'd said it. Only then did his brain connect the throbbing, pricking pulse at the end of his right arm, and he looked down at his bloody paw. Immediately his body tensed, and he nearly doubled over in pain, causing his handlers to stumble and ram him into a doorframe on their way down to the dungeon. The rest of the way into the dungeon was a reeling series of unfocused images until Calloway felt himself thrown harshly into a cell, the door slamming shut behind him.

"Water!" he cried out. "For the love of Zenithar, I need water! There's poison on my paw!"

[Caethras Maur]

"The kid's got a point," Bolgeir growled. "You guards, with me. We're locking down every way in and out of the Blue Palace."

"If the assassin got in without your noticing, you won't be catching him now," Caethras replied, but the housecarl lumbered off anyway with three guards in tow. The elf narrowed his eyes at the precocious young mage. "So in your capable estimation, would Mr. Sharr be more likely to ruin one of his dresses or to murder a head of state?"

---

The guards who had manhandled the ailing Khajiit into the cell grumbled something indistinct as they left the prison block. But moments later they returned with a shallow basin of water sized to fit through a horizontal slot in the door.

"Enjoy the mercy of the Divines while you still can, assassin."

[Calloway Sharr]

With great care, Calloway managed to pull off his jacket, getting blood only on the lining of its sleeve, and he rolled back his shirt cuff as well. Already his fingers were numb, and he found himself unable to expose or retract his claws at all on his right hand. That numb, painful tingling threatened to work its way up his arm like the slow coils of a great serpent, squeezing and squeezing the life out of it. Dizziness swam through the Khajiit's brain, causing his heart to race and his breath to become quick, both actions only allowing what poison had seeped into his skin to act faster. Taking a deep breath, Calloway held it, closing his eyes as he began to work on his heartbeat. Slower, slower slower, there, he could feel a calm returning, his pulse dipping back to normal, only to spike again a he was given the water he had pleaded for.

A quick drink was taken before Calloway jammed his paw into the basin, rubbing and scrubbing at his right paw as best he could, forcing his claws to expose themselves so he could wash away any residue there. When at last the reddened water could do no more, he stood, left paw frantically working at the buttons on his fly. Why did he use so many buttons, he asked himself, and why were they so small? Cursing his own attention to detail, Calloway at last managed to get it open, then pulled the cravat from around his neck before wincing, then urinating on his affected paw. It was hardly a pleasant experience for the typically fastidiously clean cat, and he almost whimpered as he shifted to wetting down the silk of his cravat before winding it around his paw and tying it off. It wasn't much, but at least the acids and toxins in his urine would help a little at battling the poison. Doing his fly back up, he finally allowed himself to breathe normally, and take stock of his situation.

There had been an attack on the Jarl, by an assassin, no doubt. But Calloway - despite his keen eye - had seen no evidence of another party, nor smelled nor heard them. He had been found with his paw at the Jarl's neck, and despite his attempt to staunch the blood flow, there was little doubt that anyone would think he hadn't just used one of his claws on Elisif. Especially if they were to actually inspect the caws upon his now warm and stinking right paw. The guard had been killed in the hallway without his notice, too, where the two had been left together, and that damn Thalmor officer showed up immediately after it all happened. Sitting himself on the cleanest bit of straw he could find, Calloway could only replay the whole incident over and over in his mind, and wondered who had actually attempted to kill Jarl Elisif.

And how did they know to beat him to it?

[Clark]

"I think Calloway would rather lay in the road and die if the only way to save his own life was to crawl through mud," Clark replied. "I also think he wouldn't do anything to damage his reputation. He wants his clothes made famous across Skyrim. How would assassinating a Jarl further that end? I suppose the only way he would consider assaulting a Jarl would be if that Jarl insulted his clothes. Elisif was very taken with what he offered."

"I just..."

Clark couldn't figure it out. What was bothering him about this so badly?

"The only people who could have seen anything are Elisif and Calloway. Let me talk to him. Maybe a friendly face will be better than torture."

[Caethras Maur]

Caethras narrowed his eyes at the audacious young Breton. "It may surprise you to learn that torture is not the first resort of the Thalmor," he said. "I suggest you return to your studies, and leave the investigation to those who are actually qualified to perform it."

"And who says you'll be performing it?" Falk asked bitterly. He, Sybille, and the Thalmor mage had lifted Elisif onto her bed, where Sybille continued to attend to her, drawing the last of the poison from her wound and rubbing it with healing salves.

"An attempt on the Jarl's life is very clearly an attack on the security of Skyrim itself," Caethras replied, rounding on the steward with a sweep of his jet-black cloak. "This falls eminently within Thalmor jurisdiction. Just weeks ago one of your own guards aided and abetted a regicide, and now one of your court guests may have attempted another. I see little reason to trust your own constabulary forces."

"And I see little reason to let you run roughshod over our laws in our city!" Falk fired back. "If you're going to question the Khajiit, I'm going, too!"

"Why not bring the boy along and make it an after-school social?" Caethras deadpanned.

"Why not indeed?" Falk replied. "He has as much right to be there as you do."

The elf drew back like a cobra. "You're joking."

"We'll give Sybille time to do her work," the steward said. "Make certain Lady Elisif is on the mend, and give that cat some time to cool his paws. Then we'll go down together."

---

Evening fell over Solitude, not that anyone in the dungeon block beneath Castle Dour could tell. The outer gate swung open with a ponderous groan, admitting Falk Firebeard, Caethras Maur, and, to the elf's bewilderment and disgust, Clark.

"He asked for water when we brought him in," one of the attendant guards said as they marched together down the stairs. "Washed off his paws and then - no joke - he pissed on them. Like a filthy animal. He asked for more water after that, heh, we told him we saw what he did with the last bowl. He's been quiet since then."

"Have some water brought down for him now," Falk ordered. "He'll be needing his voice."

The three unlikely inquisitors fanned out in front of Calloway's cell as the guard pushed another basin of water through the slit in the bottom of the door. "Rise and shine, Khajiit," the steward said. "We're here to ask you a few questions."

[Calloway Sharr]

Robbed of sunlight, the dungeon in Castle Dour held only torches for lighting, depriving its captives of even the basic ability to tell the time of day. Calloway sat in his cell, perched upon what pile of clean straw he could muster together, his jacket hanging from a nail on one of the wooden beams of his cell. As his right paw dried, he removed the ruined cravat which wrapped it, tossing the offending garment into the corner. While vile, his treatment against the poison had done its work, feeling returning to his fingertips.

Still, he felt disgusting, but more than that the Khajiit was worried. How had someone gotten to the Jarl before him? How had he not seen or heard them? Was he so distracted by his work that he was blind to an assassin? Would he be blamed for an act he didn't commit? Question after question ran through the tailor's head until he felt both nauseus and exhausted. Using his clean paw to spread the straw out into a thin mat, Calloway curled up on his side, careful to keep his right paw as far from himself - and his clean clothing - as possible. In time, sleep came to the cat, though it was neither deep not restful.

As a guard's cudgel raked across the bar of his cell, ringing the iron bars with a resonating caucophony, Calloway's ears fluttered, then folded down. Certainly not the best way to be woken, he grumbled to himself. Rolling over, his golden eyes cracked open, then blinked firmly as he tried to focus. The only indication of how much time had passed was the empty feeling in his stomach, which was a sizeable enough rumble to let him know he'd missed more than just breakfast, but likely lunch as well, and dinner bells did not seem to be very far in the future. Rubbing his eyes with his left paw, Calloway sat up, then stood, brushing the straw from himself in an effort to look dignified despite his surroundings. Then he saw Clark. Most definitely not what he had expected, but that likely meant there would be at least one voice to speak to his innocence.

"Ah, good, more water at last," the Khajiit said, his voice a bit dry as he stepped up to the basin. His ears wilted and his lower lip pouted slightly as he looked back up to his jailor. "What about the soap? I said I also needed soap. Lye, coal tar, charcoal fat, I don't care what kind, but this isn't coming clean with just water!" Calloway held up his offending paw with disgust. When no soap was provided, he grumped and lifted the basin with his left paw, taking a few measured drinks from it, then set it on the floor and knelt before it. Dipping his right paw in, he began to wash it with the aid of a handkercheif drawn from his pocket, careful not to let his left paw touch his right directly. "Have you managed to catch the killer, yet?" he asked while scrubbing meticulously at the fur of his fingers.

[Clark]

Clark watched Calloway with bemusement. The meticulous Khajit couldn't bear filth or grime, and even now the tailor's behavior cemented his innocence.

"No, we haven't, yet," the novice wizard admitted. "But Falk and, um--" Clark gestured at Caelthas,"the Thalmor officer think we can find the assassin if we can get some information about what happened."

Watching Calloway scrub himself so keenly moved the young Breton to feel a deep swell of pity for the imprisoned Khajit. Summoning up a little magicka, Clark cast Candlelight to help him see better. The light proved more illuminating than the torches, and in more ways than one!


Clark pointed at his forehead. "You had a circlet on earlier, but it's gone now. Calloway, where's your circlet?"

[Calloway Sharr]

At the mention of his circlet, Calloway looked up, as if somehow he could see the top of his own head. Ears waggling to test feel for the circlet's normal weight, the Khajiit then shot his left paw up, fingers desperately feeling about his bare head, yet finding nothing. "Where is it?" he asked himself.

Standing up, the tailor spun about, eyes darting across the floor before he began sifting his booted footpaw through both the clean and dirty straw, but never once did the singing clink of gold sound across stone. "It must have fallen off!" he gasped. Calloway's eyes than narrowed, and he turned back to charge up to the bars, glaring at Falk. "Or one of your men took it! I swear, if I find out it's been stolen, I won't be the only one down in this dungeon! That circlet pulled my whole outfit together!"

[Caethras Maur]

"You're in no position to be making accusations, cat," Falk said sternly. "As to your last question, there is no killer, because Lady Elisif is making a full recovery. I just spoke with her minutes ago."

The steward scrutinized the Khajiit tailor with narrowed eyes. "I'd think that should concern you more than a lost piece of jewelry."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway's eyes widened, ears perking straight up. "She's alive?" he gasped. His face lit up with a smile as he stood once more, shaking the water from his mostly-clean paw. "That's excellent! She will surely be able to clear me of all of this."

He hesitated, eyes narrowing at Falk. "And if you spoke to her just minutes ago, she did clear me, right?"

[Caethras Maur]

"She says she never saw her attacker," Falk replied. "Says he came at her from behind while her dress was over her eyes. She felt claws grabbing her arm, and then her throat was torn." He folded his arms and glowered at the Khajiit. "She welcomed you, gave you an audience, gave you business out of the kindness of her heart. Do you even care that her life was in danger?"

"How is your hand, by the way?" Caethras interjected. "The one that was poisoned. Steward Firebeard got some on his hand, and he had to be tended by the court mage. I do hope you didn't suffer any permanent damage."

[Calloway Sharr]

"Of course I care!" Calloway snapped back, his ears flattening back against his head as his tail puffed up and lashed behind him. It seemed there was no hiding this Khajiit's emotions. "I'm the one who caught her as she fell! I helped to staunch the blood flow! I'm the one who called for help! In those few seconds, what more do you think I could have done?!"

His furious outburst was tempered only by Caethras's question, and thinking upon it brought Calloway down from the rage high he had let course through his veins. Tail still lashing, he straightened his posture, and his ears as he took a deep breath, using it to calm his nerves.

"It still aches a bit and my claws are stiff in coming out, but I'll be fine," the tailor answered. He then glared at Falk, speaking through his teeth. "I would have been better if I'd been given the soap and water I asked for, though. My means of dealing with the problem - while effective enough - were less than desirable, and a proper clean with lye soap afterward would have likely done me even better. But I'm fine, no thanks to the representative of the court, who apparently knew exactly what I was going through. I'll be lucky if I can do more than darn socks by tomorrow night, at the rate my dexterity is returning."

[Clark]

The young mage sat thinking about all he had seen and heard. Falk and Caethras continued questioning Calloway about his paw, causing the Breton to check out. Something was bothering him. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. None of what was going on made sense. Clark finally stood.

"Master Firebeard, Officer Maur, I still don't think Calloway did this. His 'plan' if you can call it that, makes no sense! You won't stop teasing him for being so concerned for his clothes, which he won't even allow to get dirty, even in this place! Yet, you choose to ignore that when it comes to the dress Lady Elisif was wearing when the attempt on her life took place. Secondly, look at his injured paw. Why would a poisoner poison himself? Calloway is a tailor! If he were in fact an assassin, why use his claws to deliver the poison? After all the trouble he went through to get Lady Elisif to try on his clothes, why not just poison a needle instead and prick her when he was adjusting the clothes she liked to be taken in? He could pack his things and go, and then when he was gone, the Lady Jarl would just pass away? That way he wouldn't be affected by his own poison!"

Clark took a moment to give an aside to Calloway, "It was good thinking on your part, by the way."

The mage returned his attention to the officials. "The Blue Palace is still locked down, right? Sealed tight by the guards and the Thalmor? Gather everyone in the foyer and when everyone is accounted for, keep them there while we look for the poison, a weapon, and Calloway's circlet. I think it's a good bet that if it didn't get kicked under a table or nightstand, it's likely in the possession of someone who knows something about what happened."

Clark looked Falk right in the eye. "No one wants to hear that Skyrim justice is sloppy and haphazard." He looked at Maur. "And are you really going to allow people to say that Thalmor are lazy investigators?"

[Caethras Maur]

"Steward Firebeard, I think we've heard quite enough, haven't we?" Caethras said.

The red-haired Nord sighed heavily and laid a meaty hand on the mage's shoulder. "Clark. Could I have a word with you, please?"

Falk guided Clark toward the back of the dungeon, where the flagstones were rougher and slimier still and the darkness seemed to sop up the torchlight like a sponge. For all its sparseness, Calloway had inherited one of the best cells in the place, if only because the guards preferred to avoid the worse ones. "Listen, son, I know you're trying to help," the steward said. "But do you honestly think we haven't thought of these things already? Of course there are things that don't add up, but that doesn't make him innocent, any more than it makes him guilty. Bolgeir is already questioning everyone in the Blue Palace, but until he finds something, Mr. Sharr is the closest thing we have to a witness to the crime, and it's plain to everyone that he's hiding something. We're not going to find out what that is by letting him off the hook."

---

Lord Maur elevated his chin as he stared down the indignant tailor in the cell. "Well, that's one thing we can rectify," he said. "Guards, fetch more water, and some soap. Whatever you happen to use, if you use any at all. Perhaps some shoots of yellow mountain flower as well."

The two guards shot incredulous looks at the elf, then trundled off up the stairs, leaving Caethras alone with the accused. The Thalmor general stepped closer to the iron bars, towering over the Khajiit.

"That was an impressive collection you had arrayed before the Jarl," he said. "Especially considering you entered the palace with nothing more than a carpet bag. I'm curious - how on Nirn did you manage to bring in so much clothing without anyone in the palace noticing?"

[Calloway Sharr]

The pleasant smile which had begun to work its way up Calloway's muzzle at the thought of getting actual soap and water was dashed as the elf proved he had not forgotten about Calloway's bag. Ears flattening, the tailor sat back down on his little pile of clean straw, and let his tail wrap around his ankles to keep as much of it off of the floor as possible. Caethras was no fool, he knew Calloway was more than he appeared, but he did not know how much more, and that knowledge kept the tailor at the advantage for the time being.

Flexing and unflexing his right paw, the Khajiit shrugged. "I thought it was rather obvious, really," he answered. "I explained it to your liutenant, last night, rather surprised she didn't come report it to you, right off. It's enchanted. Cost a right fortune, but it beats having to hire someone to haul my wares for me. I can fit a great deal of my wares into my bag, providing they are packed correctly, but it is far from limitless. If you want such an enchantment, go see the mages in the Imperial City. They're the ones who did it up for me. Bring me the bag and I can even show you how it works, if you want. Not like I'm doing much of anything else, here." Calloway waved his left paw around the emptiness of his cell. "At the very least, someone could bring me a book to read, or something. It's dreadfully dull, down here. No wonder prisoners wind up rioting so much, or beating or raping each other, if they have cellmates. Nothing else to do."

[Clark]

Clark understood what Falk was trying to say. Maybe it was Clark who didn't understand what he was trying to tell Falk. The young mage scratched an itch under his novice's hood and took a deep breath.

"But there's something..." Clark trailed off. "Wrong." Why did this eat at him so?

"I'm sorry, Falk," he said at last. "I promised I'd watch for him. Vouch for him. I need to see it all with my own eyes. He was allowed into Solidtude on my honor. If he did attempt to assassinate Elisif, then this is just as much on me as it is on him. And something about all this does not add up for me. I'm going back to the Blue Palace and make absolutely sure there's nothing wrong or missing from this picture."

Clark turned, walked directly past Caethras and Calloway and their hushed conversation, then up the stairs and out of Castle Dour. Clark fidgeted on the way, shaking out his hands and manifesting one spell after the other.