“This seems highly inappropriate, Brynjolf,” he stammers, “and that’s comin’ from me.”
The thought briefly crosses his mind as he pushes the door to the Cistern open and walks the short distance to their Guild Master’s bed that it might be a tad inappropriate for him to be going through his leader’s things, but it is quickly scrapped in favor of searching his pockets for the hidden seam he keeps his lockpicks in. Brynjolf kneels down and makes quick work of the chest set next to Pax’s bed.
“Bryn, think about this. What would she be keeping from us? It can’t be anythin’ too important.”
“Better safe than sorry,” he says, throwing the lid open. He and Delvin lean over the rim, peering at the contents. There’s a moment of silence where they just look, before Delvin whistles and Brynjolf lets his hands rummage through.
Dragon scales and bones, first off. They’re weighty, but he’s careful to set them down gently. Plenty of books, the majority of which are fairly rare – including some book titled Annals of the Dragonguard – and a stock of potions that could last the whole of the Guild several months. Scattered around are septims and various gemstones, stolen jewelry and ingots. His eyes catch on a particularly well-kept book under a pile of scales and gold and, acting on instinct, he fishes it out. The book is large and weighty, with a leather-bound cover that belongs to most journals. When he flips it open, he finds that the book is, in fact, written in Pax’s handwriting. “Her journal,” he thinks aloud, leafing through what must be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pages. “What’s this? ‘Arngeir knew the name of the Shout, "Dragonrend", but could not teach it to me. However, he has agreed to show me the way to reach Paarthurnax, the Greybeards' leader, who lives at the top of the Throat of the World. Arngeir says that Paarthurnax is the only one who may know this Dragonrend Shout.’ Delvin, you don’t think she’s…?”
“She can’t be,” Delvin responds, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “From what I’ve heard, the Dragonborn’s some girl by the name Dominique. Maybe she’s an admirer? A fellow student with the Greybeards?”
Brynjolf snaps the journal shut, tossing it carelessly back into the chest and slamming the lid down. “I doubt that.” He stands. “How long ago did the lass leave?”
“Can’t have been more than an ‘alf hour.” Brynjolf feels Delvin’s leer of suspicion on his back as he walks over to the ladder leading up to the graveyard. He hears the old Imperial call after him, “Ay! Where’re you goin’?”
Whether Delvin hears him or not as he goes hardly matters. “The Throat of the World!”
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timeasmymeasure
Brynjolf/F!DB, "Peace" [2.3/?]
Date: 2012-11-17 08:23 am (UTC)The thought briefly crosses his mind as he pushes the door to the Cistern open and walks the short distance to their Guild Master’s bed that it might be a tad inappropriate for him to be going through his leader’s things, but it is quickly scrapped in favor of searching his pockets for the hidden seam he keeps his lockpicks in. Brynjolf kneels down and makes quick work of the chest set next to Pax’s bed.
“Bryn, think about this. What would she be keeping from us? It can’t be anythin’ too important.”
“Better safe than sorry,” he says, throwing the lid open. He and Delvin lean over the rim, peering at the contents. There’s a moment of silence where they just look, before Delvin whistles and Brynjolf lets his hands rummage through.
Dragon scales and bones, first off. They’re weighty, but he’s careful to set them down gently. Plenty of books, the majority of which are fairly rare – including some book titled Annals of the Dragonguard – and a stock of potions that could last the whole of the Guild several months. Scattered around are septims and various gemstones, stolen jewelry and ingots. His eyes catch on a particularly well-kept book under a pile of scales and gold and, acting on instinct, he fishes it out. The book is large and weighty, with a leather-bound cover that belongs to most journals. When he flips it open, he finds that the book is, in fact, written in Pax’s handwriting. “Her journal,” he thinks aloud, leafing through what must be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pages. “What’s this? ‘Arngeir knew the name of the Shout, "Dragonrend", but could not teach it to me. However, he has agreed to show me the way to reach Paarthurnax, the Greybeards' leader, who lives at the top of the Throat of the World. Arngeir says that Paarthurnax is the only one who may know this Dragonrend Shout.’ Delvin, you don’t think she’s…?”
“She can’t be,” Delvin responds, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “From what I’ve heard, the Dragonborn’s some girl by the name Dominique. Maybe she’s an admirer? A fellow student with the Greybeards?”
Brynjolf snaps the journal shut, tossing it carelessly back into the chest and slamming the lid down. “I doubt that.” He stands. “How long ago did the lass leave?”
“Can’t have been more than an ‘alf hour.” Brynjolf feels Delvin’s leer of suspicion on his back as he walks over to the ladder leading up to the graveyard. He hears the old Imperial call after him, “Ay! Where’re you goin’?”
Whether Delvin hears him or not as he goes hardly matters. “The Throat of the World!”