“You? Truly? I could never imagine why.” Her words carried an edge of dry sarcasm as Fienelef turned her attention to him. “What do you intend to do about it?”
“I know! I mean, a beating from the guards or even a roughing up by some hired thugs I take as an occupational hazard, but this is too much.”
Claudius flung himself into the nearest chair, hiking his boots up onto the table as he rubbed his forehead in a pensive manner.
“I was hoping I might stay here for a little bit,” he said, as he tugged at his collar, the velvet stuck to his neck by sweat.
With that, he shrugged off his pack and set it on the table, bulging at the very seams with gold, gems, and jewellery. The opening had been forced shut with two arrowheads, and a candlestick poked through the top like the tip of the White-Gold Tower pokes through the clouds in Cyrodiil, even the slightest movement sending a few coins, or a flawless amethyst, or a silver necklace, spilling out onto the floor - quickly scooped up by Claudius as quickly as the hounds in Understone Keep wolfed down their meat. It was becoming slightly clearer as to why he was marked for death.
“I can cook, or clean, or… rearrange your books, if you like.”