My mother always said I was obstinate. "Stubborn as the day is long," she would say, which is a simile that has never made much sense to me. The length of a day is quantifiable - twenty-four hours. Stubbornness is not. There is not, as far as I can tell, a way to compare the two things in any meaningful way.

 

Anyway, I digress.

 

I had what few possessions I could call my own back. I was free from the pit of hell, against all (officially reported) odds. The Plan, Mark Two (which was, to refresh everyone's memories, to gain power so I would never be a victim again) had suffered some setbacks but was ready for a reboot. The Plan, Mark Two Redux!

 

If you're familiar with how well reboots usually fare at the box office, you will have some inkling about the success of my own attempt. It began, of course, with me ignoring common sense. In fact, it began with my ignoring the exact same fucking common sense that had been badgering me the last time the plan went off the rails.

 

Let me lay out the general scenario - tell me if it sounds familiar: I took a job in Markarth for money. The job was for a desperate man I had just met that involved doing relatively simple investigative work.

 

I hate it when my mother is proven right. I can hear her laughing at me from across the cosmos.

 

In my defense, I had limited options. I had no money and no food. None of the smiths in the town were hiring and I had no other useful trade skills. My options were begging, whoring, stealing, or leaving and hoping I found food before I starved to death. I took option E - accepting an offer to help a Vigilant of Stendarr.

 

He was standing just off the street asking everyone who passed by if they knew anything about a nearby house. It was actually pretty amusing to watch, since he kept getting the same answer: no. No one lives there. It's abandoned. It's always been abandoned. I watched his frustration mount with every fruitless query. I finally approached him myself.

 

"You, there!" he said, desperation in his voice. "Do you know who owns this house?"

 

I gave him my most winning smile. "What's it worth to you to find out?"

 

"What?" He flushed red and started stammering. "I...I don't...what do you want?"

 

"I want many things, but most of them are beyond my reach. I'll help find the owner for a mere five-hundred gold." There, that ought to get me my money back.

 

"Five-hun...now, look here!" He started to puff up. "I am a Vigilant of Stendarr! We keep the world safe from Daedra!"

 

I blinked. "I don't see what that has to do with anything, but whatever. Bye!" I tossed him a little wave and started to walk away.

 

"Wait!" His voice actually cracked. I stifled a laugh and turned back with my best quizzical expression. "Well? What is it?"

 

"I...I have two-hundred. It's yours if you help me."

 

I sighed. "What kind of negotiation is that? Haven't you ever haggled before? That's not even half of what I asked for."

 

His earnest face looked near to tears. "Two-fifty. Please! It is truly all I have!"

 

I tilted my head in consideration. He seemed to be telling the truth, at least as far as I could tell. I made a big show of sighing and pretending to consider his offer before relenting. He handed over the coin with such relief I started to feel bad for him.

 

"You know," I said as I put the coins in my little satchel, "you should have insisted on paying me afterwards, or at least only part up front. What if I were to run off now?"

 

He froze. "You...but..." His hand fell to his sword, but I laughed and held up a forestalling hand.

 

"Don't worry. You got lucky - I'm not that kind of person. But you really should learn to be less naive."

 

He blushed again. "You're not the first to say so. I don't know - to me, people are kind-hearted, the majority of them anyway. My first instinct is to trust them."

 

Oh my God. "What tiny village did you grow up in? People suck as a general rule."

 

"How did you know I grew up in...oh." He fell silent for a moment, then rallied himself. "Anyway. Back to business. What do you know about this house?"

 

"Not a damn thing."

 

"What?"

 

His look of outrage was priceless. I started laughing as he reached for his sword again.

 

"You said..."

 

"I said I'd help you find out who the owner was, not that I knew."

 

"Oh." His hand dropped as he blushed yet again. This guy, oh my God!

 

"Look, it can't be that hard. What have you done to try to learn the owner? Watch to see if anyone enters or leaves? Look up old records? Hand out coins or drinks to the local beggars to find out what they know?" Thank you, myriad of crime shows I have watched.

 

He looked poleaxed. "I...no. None of those things. I just...asked the people who passed by."

 

Jesus. I'm fucking Sherlock Holmes compared to these people. "Well, have you tried investigating the house itself?"

 

"Investi...you mean, go inside?" His voice cracked again.

 

"Well, yeah. Have you?"

 

"Well...no! I mean...it's not...I'm not...besides, surely it's locked."

 

Hard to argue with logic like that. "Only one way to find out." I stepped past him and reached for the door.

 

"Hey, wait!" He reached out a hand, but too late - the latch turned and the door opened on quiet hinges. I glanced back, one foot in the threshold, beaming and holding out a hand to him, secure in my own cleverness and wit, blissfully unaware of the trap of blood, death, and untold pain that had already been sprung.

 

Don't feed the bastards - they'll just want more

 

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