Michael
The Enchanter held his hands behind his back as he watched the guards train on dummies and targets, his lips set in a straight, indifferent line. It seemed that his enchantments were providing some use to the city, as he watched frost, fire, and lightning sparks whirl around the arrows, and strike their marks with lethal precision, and even more lethal elemental effects. 

His hands were behind his back as he nodded to himself. Captain Aldis had come to him when Varis had made a name for himself among the city's elite, and had comissioned a partnership with the city guard, to ensure they had exceptional weapons to defend the streets with. Varis was all too pleased to do so, as he saw it as a way for the non-magical of the city to become more familiar with the powers of the arcane, versus whatever nonsensical children's tales these nords had spoon fed each other since birth. 

Varis turned his head, looking around the courtyard of the Castle Dour and crossed his arms, tapping the claw-like accessory on his ring finger to his chin, as he pondered where else he could improve upon the city. He had already provided enchanted ice cabinets and stoves to some of the populace, and now weapons for the guard. Did he believe that these guards actually deserved such weapons of brutal devastation and destruction? No. Not at all. But, having them in his pocket was merely another piece falling into his web. 

The devotee of Mephala smiled as he placed his hands behind his back and started to walk back to the Winking Skeever, mauling over a few conjuration theorems he had been attempting to formulate for the past week. His life was devoted to the study of magic, and acquiring power along the way. Such was the way for a Spellwright of House Telvanni, even in foreign lands.
Timothy
Sütcleff never enjoyed traveling by boat, but the most affordable way to get back to Skyrim from the ashlands of Morrowind was to board a series of cargo ships. First landing in Solsteim, the Imperial took a handful of days to fend off his initial bout of seasickness before boarding a vessel headed for the docks of Windhelm. He despised this city for what it had taken from him, and his brows furrowed in scarcely-contained disgust as he walked the ancient cobble streets. 

Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. No matter how many times he reminded himself of this, Sütcleff couldn't fully void his thoughts of that detestable, would-be usurper whilst surrounded by the walls of the city that Nord once governed.

*Son of Skyrim. Bah.* Sütcleff snarkily thought, pulling his cloak tighter against his body. He hardly felt the cold, but swathing himself like a shivering babe helped him to forget where he was if for but a moment.

A carriage just outside the gates would take the Imperial's coin in exchange for a ride to any of the Fatherland's hold capitals. However, Sütcleff had a prior engagement with the sanctuary of the Eldergleam.

Though her body was cremated and her ashes scattered throughout her homeland of the Reach, Sütcleff sister Ashura has requested her blade be put to rest within the sequestered grove of the Eldergleam mother tree. "For it was where we became kin," She had told him.

In all his centuries of wandering Nirn, Sütcleff had only felt true rage consume him a scant number of times. Once was when he was turned, the second had to have been when his wife's murderer was absolved of their wrongdoing, and this time...

Sütcleff stared blankly at the grass in which Ashura's weapon had previously rested. The grass was still yellowed and displaced from where it pressed down against the earth. It had been stolen. Sütcleff clenched his hands into fists with such force that his nails pierced his flesh and his knuckles turned white.

After he had done his best to calm down, he began to formulate a plan to retrieve the misplaced blade. Before her death, Ashura had commissioned an enchanter to work magic into her weapon. Catching fire or drinking the blood of its victims were of no value to Ashura, and she merely ordered a tracking spell to be attached to the sword in the event it was lost or stolen whilst she was still alive. And while the blade's wielder was long gone, the magic injected into it had no reason yet to dissipate.

Sütcleff required the expertise of an enchanter to tap into the lost sword's magic, and he knew just where to begin looking. Solitude was a veritable metropolis of the finer walks of merchantry.

A long and bumpy carriage ride saw him arrive at the gates of Solitude in due time. Sütcleff stopped in at the Winking Skeever inn, sitting at the tavern bar and ordering a tankard of wine before asking the innkeeper for directions to the nearest enchanter doing business in Haafingar Hold.
Michael
It seemed Sütcleff's request would be granted in record time, as the barkeep glanced toward the man, prepared to answer, and then glanced toward a side-entrance to the tavern, primarily used by the staff and long-term residents. In through that door came a Dunmer man, covered in Daedric Runes and Mage Script, his amethyst-tone skin blending with the darker ink, and all of it serving as a dark tapestry to his vibrant eyes. They looked like luminescent crystals lost in an ebony mine, peering at the world with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. 

The robes he wore were silk and fashioned in the style of Eastern Morrowind. For Sütcleff, this Dark Elf likely seemed as though he had been spliced out of the homeland and reappeared, with no context, in the middle of the Nordic Fatherland. 

And it seemed Varis did not mind. He walked with a posture that exhibited a bit of exhaustion, but with a confidence and assurance in oneself that could only belong to a devout Dunmer aristocrat. However, even with such a presence, the barkeep told Sütcleff that the mer lived in the suit upstairs, paid well, and sometimes unnerved the other guests with the sounds of his magical experiments. 

However, as Varis took a seat as far away from the music that bard was playing as he could, in a table lurking in the depths of a candlelit corner, the barkeep assured Sütcleff that he was an enchanter willing to discuss or help with any arcane related matters.
Timothy
Following the innkeeper's instruction quietly, Sütcleff chills his drink with a subdued Frostbite spell and gulps it down. He sets a handful of septims down on the counter to pay for the wine and steps up from his seat at the bar.

Sütcleff's status as an undead spawn of Molag Bal afforded him a useful array of boosted senses, albeit ones he did his best to hide as warrior instinct or mercenary intuition. For instance, he could practically smell the magicka flowing through a person's veins almost as clearly as if it were their blood. This Dunmer stunk of it, to be blunt. While not all enchanters had experience (or even talent) in the other schools of magic, Sütcleff had long since discovered that those with expertise in arcana that bled beyond imbuing inanimate objects with the power contained inside a Soul Gem were especially potent and useful, albeit quite dangerous and difficult to trust.

Approaching the individual identified to him as Varis, Sütcleff rested one hand atop the table the enchanter was occupying.

"My apologies for bothering you in your free time, but I'm looking to hire an enchanter. Mind if I talk shop now, or should I wait until dedicated business hours?"
Michael
The Sorcerer raised his eyes up to Sütcleff and tilted his head. A hand was brought up to the wizard's facial hair as he stroked his mustache thoughtfully, before he whisked his hand and said in a voice befitting a grumpy old man, versus a rather young Dunmer, "Depends on the task."

He sat up in his seat and whisked his hand, a chair pulling itself out from the table, an invitation. Varis placed his hands together in front of him and smirked as he inspected the man. The man was thin, and tall. Not an all too odd mix, but he could tell that he was not a Nord. The man fit more into the description of the Southern Men, the Imperials. Though, he had to admit, there was an...*Age*, to the young looking man. His words were smooth and easily spoken, not the broken Tamrielic he had come to expect from mannish commoners. 

Varis raised his chin and said, "Though, before we continue, a name would be useful to me. I like to keep a list of clients, for categorical purposes." Something about this man implied that he quite literally kept a ledger of names somewhere in the inn.
Timothy
"Castor," The Imperial answered without so much as a stutter. He was used to using cover names, a habit that had initially begun as a way to conceal his identity had in later years evolved into a neutral introduction. His "Real" Name was saved for those he trusted.

Sūtcleff, going by the alias of Castor, sat in the offered chair and silently noted the Dunmer's use of what he believed was the Alteration school's Telekinesis spell. He detaches his sword and its scabbard from its perch upon his back and places between himself and Varis atop the table. This gesture, while some in the modern era might view it as a threat, was in truth a Second Era mannerism meant to show hospitality. It would be harder for a swordsman to pull the blade from its sheath if it no longer rested on his back, after all.

 "I'll give you the details before we speak of payment. It would feel dishonest to haggle on price when you have no idea of what I will be requesting."

Sütcleff shrugs, then pushes his hair back with one hand to get it out of his face.

"My younger sister's sword has been stolen. It was enchanted with a tracking spell in the event something like this were to happen, but I don't have much knowledge of the craft myself. Do you think you could assist me?"
Michael
Varis seemed indifferent toward the man's name, and placed his hands together. Though he was an exceptional wizard, and a member of House Telvanni, he did not notice *Castor's* *Condition*. However, the glamour that hid his features was not lost on Varis. The wizard could feel these changes and shifting films of illusory and altering magic, but he did not mind. He did not need to know the truth behind the visage, for it was the task that mattered, and what would be offered in exchange. 

When he finished his opening line, Varis raised an eyebrow. "Hm. A tracking spell. That sounds... Hm. Well, if it was made utilizing her blood, we may be able to utilize your's. If not, then we may have a problem. First, it might be useful to know who the enchanter was that placed the spell. Otherwise, if you have the schematics for the enchantment, I may be able to recreate it. Any sort of... Semblance to the wielder, or the sword, would be useful. Otherwise, I may have to send a few *Retrievers*, to find out more. Unless, the enchantment is more... Intricate. And, exceptional. Older enchanters utilized more sophisticated, complicated measures in their craft, versus the soul gems and tables of the modern day."

Varis leaned into his chair and placed his hands over his stomach, intrigued and willing to hear more. It seemed he was interested.
Timothy
"We weren't related by blood, so using mine would likely be of no avail. Hmm... Something related to the sword or its wielder, you said?"

Sütcleff leaned back, scratching at his neck. He thought back to how he and Ashura had met to try and glean any bit of useful information from it.

Ashura was of Reachman blood, a daughter of a clan of Forsworn who had uncovered a cache of Blades equipment and Akaviri relics. Believing the discovery to be an act of Divine providence, Ashura's kin had decided to cast aside their adherence to the old ways and build for themselves a new identity inspired by the artefacts they had unearthed.

Reborn from the near-cold ashes of two dying ways of life, Ashura's clan distinguished themselves as nomadic warriors within the Reach that would attack and conquer bandit camps and Forsworn settlements alike without discrimination. 

After a short few years of terrorizing the marauding tribes of the Reach, the few scattered survivors of Ashura's clan's rampages banded together and virtually wiped out the Reachman blade masters, leaving Ashura the only known survivor.

In attempts to rebuild her clan, the solitary Ashura would accost those she saw potential in with hopes of defeating and forcefully adopting them as her new family. Sütcleff was one such target, and one of the few who survived Ashura's attacks long enough to impress the savage sword-maiden. Their battle began in the Eldergleam Sanctuary, and lasted for three days and three nights. It was the vivid memories of this event that gave Sütcleff an idea.

"Might a scar inflicted by the weapon work?"
Michael
Varis leaned against his chair, offering nothing as he listened. The two were not bound by blood? That certainly made things trickier... But, it also made the relationship all the more abstract within his mind. Varis' people were not very brotherly, at all. Blood drenched the streets of Port Telvannis, fueled by the feuds between noble houses and apprentices seeking higher positions. Thus, he had no friendship such as what he elluded to, and was not particularly intrigued by the idea... But it did bring an air of nuance to the man's request. 

All things had to be taken into account. 

He allowed Castor to think for a moment, before he said something of value. The wizard's eyebrows rose as he nodded, appeased. "That would do. The fresher the wound, the better. The more preserved a wound, even better." He nodded, and placed his hands together. "Now that I believe I may be of assistance, my payment will come at the end of my work. This seems like a simple procedure, but, I dare not throw caution to the wind."

He sat up and placed his hands on his knees. "My equipment is upstairs, so, would you like it done now, or do you wish to partake in a few pleasures before the work begins?" He gestured around the tavern. An offer to do it now or later. Whatever the man chose to do, it did not seem that Varis would mind. While he may have taken a seat in a corner, seemingly to remain undisturbed, he had no plate of food, or mug of ale. He was ready to go at a moment's notice.