He had been noticing this Khajiit for a couple weeks now, conversing with Erikur and during that time it seems thievery has been on the rise in his home of Solitude. Erikur was a pompous ass so he wouldn’t put it past him to align himself with the rising Thieve’s Guild for his own self interest. 

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Training Sentence Starters - (Not Accepting)

 The altmer throws an irritated look behind her, giving the battered dummy a short reprieve. Her most recent errand had led to...a ruin of burned useless books, a flight of bandits attempting to rob her blind on the road, and being chased by a rather determined goose who woke up on the wrong side of her nest. 

Needless to say, even for one of the Volkihar clan, she has some stress to relieve, hence the pounding of bruised knuckles clenched white, and the sad burlap figure that had clearly seen better days.

@byoblivion

          Their brow knits into a look of shame and anger as they look up at the Sharmat. “Uncle.” they start once they feel they can breathe again. “You disappoint yourself. I had no part in that.”

‘HOLD’ ---- a crash of thunder rattles the tower in time with the spell.  Any life, from the miserable rats, gnawing on leather bindings, to a manic author, sat studiously at his cluttered desk, comes to a standstill.  Time itself feeling at an apparent halt as the rain continues to pelt against a solitary window.

Moonlit eyes gleam wildly as the Madgod twirls her staff idly in hand ; once, twice --- before another morphs crudely into shape.  Her previous staff with its pallid eye & gnarled wood fading into a misshapen rose.  She doesn’t seem to notice until a thorn pricks her palm ; scrunching her nose irritably she regards her staff with slight distress ... & humor.  With a childish shake the petals fall to the floor, leaving a trail as she approaches the desk, peeling back until at long last only Wabbajack remained ; grinning coyly up to its master.  There were more important matters at hand than reprimanding a staff, which would never allow her to forget what she’d done to its predecessor.  Wabbajack could wait.  This new chapter could not.     

The ink still drips from his quill as she settles onto the desk --- nudging a pile of books aside with a knee & accidentally sending a flurry of paperwork cascading with a flick of her wrist.  She’d tidy it before she left.  Or so she tells herself.  For now she crosses her legs & scoops up the author’s latest draft.  Eager to become enthralled by his written word she --------- oh.  It comes in an instant.  A shiver up the spine & bristling instinct putting her on alert.  The draft is quickly abandoned as she tenses instead, regarding the murk with vile scrutiny.