Chapter Text
"Everyone's saying there's trouble in Kvatch.”
Demivah nodded wearily. In the crowded-but-contained community of the Waterfront, no one knew of her work with the Blades. But everyone had an opinion on the assassinations, the daedra, what it meant for the simple price of a cabbage…
“The whole town destroyed!”
Demivah nodded again, lips tightly pressed. She needed her bed. Two out of four books collected for Jauffre, and oblivion gates were ravaging the countryside around them.
“Only a few survivors."
She had done her best. Those who had never met her called her a hero. Those who had knew she was first a mercenary, then a thief. Not a very good one, apparently, since she found herself in the Imperial dungeons. And that Demivah, failed-thief-Demivah, was all her neighbours knew of now. Best it stayed that way, even if it meant hearing Jair’s thoughts on Cyrodiil’s current affairs for the seventeenth time.
“Just terrible.” He shook his head. “You take care now.”
“And you,” Demivah murmured.
On she trudged past the few moored ships in the bay, keeping her eyes to herself should any of the less savoury sailors decide they’d like to end their day with a brawl. Demivah could hold her own in an honest fight, but she’d already had a number of those today and her body couldn’t take one more. And who trusted a pirate to fight fair?
The stairs that led through the wall and into the patch of shacks on the shore were the toughest opponent she’d fought yet. Her motivation to keep going was doubled when she noticed Uzul gro-Grulam approaching from behind, knowing he would love to give her his thoughts on Cyrodiil’s current affairs as well. Her thighs screamed, but she made it to the other side, staggering a little onto the soft mixture of mud and sand.
“Please, I-”
Demivah tossed the woman a coin. A reflex from living in the city for so long. Someone was always looking for a little help and giving out a septim a day wasn’t what kept her in her creaky shack. She was… somewhere in between. She had the coin to spare one for the beggars but not the coin to ever afford to live anywhere that wasn’t a neighbourhood of thieves and skooma dealers. Mercenary work was inconsistent, and she’d reached a particularly quiet season when she’d resorted to trying her hand at theft. It wasn’t something she’d intended to make a career out of. She’d been struggling.
Not that any of it mattered if they didn’t get the oblivion gates closed. There would be no rich, no poor, no souls to speak of such things.
“Blessings of Stendarr upon ye.”
Demivah nodded her thanks and kept walking.
Then, something stopped her. Despite her exhaustion, the tremors wracking her muscles, the desperation for her hard, straw bed, she glanced back.
This beggar was new. Usually Ancus held that spot, tucked into the low brick wall that circled the graveyard, then pressing himself up against the back planks of Methredhel’s house at night when it rained. This was an Imperial woman. A beautiful, young, Imperial woman. What in Anui-El’s name was she doing begging on the Waterfront? She didn’t look to have been on the streets long. She didn’t look like she belonged on the Waterfront at all if you ignored her shabby clothes and shoes.
Demivah kept on her way - half the beggars in Cyrodiil weren’t even really destitute, just working as lookouts for the Gray Fox. With every septim thrown their way Demivah was either feeding the poor or protecting her own squat home from a man who could steal the cloak off Adamus Phillida’s back. Just because she was out of the game didn’t mean she was free of the other players.
She needn’t give this beggar any more attention than any other. Although, if she had the energy to be honest with herself, she already had.
⁞
The woman remained seated by the steps the next morning, and Ancus was most unimpressed.
“-and he said this is my area,” he was huffing and puffing. His faux croak was missing today - Demivah had long had her suspicions he only put it on for those that might pay him for the performance.
The woman was flustered, collecting up her bedroll and a tiny purse that looked to be stuffed with radishes. “I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t-”
“Present yourself to the Gray Fox if ye want to beg in Cyrodiil,” Ancus sneered. “Otherwise you’ll need to take up a naughty habit if you want somewhere to sleep.”
“I don’t-”
“Move.”
The woman scuttered to the side and Ancus plopped himself in the space. Upon seeing Demivah he called out, “Spare a coin for the infirm?” with a tickle to his tone.
“Ancus,” Demivah sighed. She should not be getting involved. Had she learnt nothing from her trip to the Imperial City prison? Stealing one amulet had put her on the path of being dragged through oblivion gates. The world of the Thieves Guild was not meant for her.
“It’s my spot!” he bleated, defensive. “Armand said so.”
“Haven’t you any sympathy for a fellow-”
“No. She can go to the Thieves Guild and get assigned a spot like anyone else.” He looked Demivah up and down with a sneer. “You know how things work around here.”
Unfortunately, she did.
“I don’t know where to find the Gray Fox,” the woman whispered. As though he were a scamp that might leap out of the shadows out at her if he heard her call his name. “And… I don’t want to be involved in… that.”
Ancus gasped as though struck and Demivah snatched the woman up by the slim arm.
“Come,” she grunted. Over her shoulder, she gave Ancus a dark look and he looked away with a cruel grin.
She dragged the woman and her bed roll to the edge of the mound that the Waterfront residents called home. Out of ear- and harm’s- way, Demivah released her. They stood at the edge of Lake Rumare, behind her house, sandy grit beneath their shoes. The woman was clutching her things to her chest and trembling.
“You cannot talk about the Gray Fox like that here,” Demivah hissed.
The woman cried, “I don’t want to be a criminal!”
“You don’t have to be,” Demivah reminded her on a weary groan. “But at the very least don’t offend the criminals!” Most were still in their sacks at this time in the morning, but that didn’t mean word wouldn’t get around. Demivah rarely had trouble from any of her infamous neighbours and that came from years of keeping her head down and knowing when to be quiet.
The woman nodded. “I’m sorry.” Her bottom lip trembled and a tear slid through the muck clinging to her cheeks. Her hair was filthy, too. It was probably once a gold or copper colour. Underneath the superficial dirt, however, there were signs of a story other than that of a destitute beggar stumbling into taken territory. Her nose was straight as an arrow, as were her teeth - and not one missing. The crown braid, though dirty, hinted at a lot of hair that would have broken off long ago without a decent diet and somewhere soft to lay her head. And finally, sun marks. Around her neck and fingers the soot that had coated her was two toned in the outline of an amulet and rings. If she weren’t wearing long sleeves, Demivah would bet her wrists were the same. This woman was newly impoverished. And clueless, which was worse than being poor on the Waterfront. Everyone was poor on the Waterfront.
“And… don’t take Ancus’ advice,” she said with a sigh. This woman needed good counsel more than coin.
“What’s that?”
“About picking up a skooma habit. Sure, the dealers will let you sleep in their den but only so they can get you hooked.”
The woman fiddled with her ragged sleeves. “I wouldn’t know where to find skooma.”
Demivah was tempted to point out exactly which Waterfront shack offered skooma - and a place to rest after taking it - but the woman’s puffy, innocent eyes told her she would regret it.
“You should try to find work in one of the manors,” Demivah said softly. “Somewhere that includes room and board.” She shrugged and her armour clanked loudly and awkwardly. “It won’t pay well but it’s better than this.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll be sure to do that.” She was lying, but that was none of Demivah’s business.
“Clean yourself in the lake, leave your bedroll behind my shack, and spend the day petitioning yourself to the stewards.” Demivah stepped back to leave. “And get yourself a roof for the night. A storm is due.”
“Thank you.” Before Demivah could get more than three steps away, she added, “May I ask your name?”
Demivah hesitated, letting the lapping water fill the silence for a moment. “Me? Demivah.”
The woman smiled. Very pretty. “I’m Nebia.”
“Nice to meet you, Nebia.” Demivah turned away again, this time she would not be halted. “I hope you understand why I say I hope we don’t meet again.”