Elves and Khajiiti, being so sensitive and all, got three and four more respectively. Let me explain: there're seventy-one prime pain centers in an average fella's body. So many things what was better in the past ain't around no more, just 'cause people today prefer ease of use to what works right. friend who needs to be taken away is weak also, like this Prince. "That's what I'm interested in," said Haballa. Just a couple fellas, a bag, and a club." We bagged the boy, dropped him off deep in an old ruin, and that was that. "Of course you didn't, that's the point," Jomic shook his head. "I had no idea!" the young woman whispered. That's when me and my boys got hired on, to make it look like the first prince got took off by the Underking or some such story." Anyhow, this prince was heir to the throne, which his parents wasn't too thrilled about, but then the Queen she squeezed out two more princes who looked a lot more fit. "Weedy, feeble fella called Arthago, the King and Queen's first born.
"Really?" Haballa's eyes glistened with interest. But the truth's that he had two elder brothers." "Everyone knows that King Lhotun had an older brother Greklith what died, right? And then he's got his older sister Aubki, what married that King fella in Daggerfall. This is back afore the time of the War of Betony, remember that?" It's been - by Arkay, I can hardly believe it - more 'n twenty years, and no one but me's alive who had anything to do with the job. "Awright, I'll tell you about an old job of mine. "You want discreet?" the man paused in his counting. "Before we talk details, I want to know that you're a professional, and you won't harm this person very much. "Just a moment," smiled Haballa, shaking her head. As he did, he asked, "Who d'you want removed?" He looked at her for a moment and then poured the gold out and began counting. Haballa quietly took out another purse of gold and then another, placing them at the man's elbow. "One of them friends don't know what he's talking about," grumbled the man. "A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend."
"Who you been talking to?" asked Jomic dully, returning to his drink. Not harmed, you understand, and that's why I need a professional. You could take off your cuirass and dance bare-breasted on the table, and no one'd even spit," the man smiled. "No one cares about nobody else's problems but their own here. She did not turn away, but merely asked, "Is it safe to talk here?" "Sure it be," snarled Jomic, and met her eyes again. "My name is Haballa," she said and pulled out a small bag of gold, placing it next to his mug. The young woman took the seat next to him. The stout, middle-aged man with a face older than his years looked up and nodded. As it were, the strange figure, out of place in an underground cellar so modest it had no sign, blended into the shadows. If anyone were less otherwise occupied, the sight of the young Redguard woman in a fine black velvet cape might have aroused surprise.
No music played in the Nameless Tavern in Sentinel, and indeed there was very little sound except for discreet, cautious murmurs of conversation, the soft pad of the barmaid's feet on stone, and the delicate slurping of the regular patrons, tongues lapping at their flagons, eyes focused on nothing at all.
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