Where is the Crown of Barenziah this is a reward for completing the no stone unturned quest in Skyrim. Great start of a story. But......... ©opy right SHOW SPOILER!!!!!

[quote][i]Wherein the hunter Jarrod discusses his circumstances and meets a warlock that wants to talk about Mercury.[/i] [b]People down in the City[/b] always have the same reaction to a Ghost hovering over someone’s shoulder: “Greetings, Guardian,” they say, usually followed by some variation of, “good luck out there.” I haven’t been “out there” in almost a year, but they don’t know that; no one down here knows that. No one down here knows that the Guardian they see walking through the Gray District has been prohibited from entering the Tower. The Vanguard would have taken my Ghost away from me, I am sure, if such a thing were possible. [i]/When can we go back?[/i] The eye-aperture of my Ghost pulses blue as it floats in front of my face. It asks me the same question, at the same time, every day. “I don’t know,” is always my reply, “maybe tomorrow.” The gaudy, blinking, blue and white neon sign of [i]Ghosts & Spirits[/i] comes into view at the end of the street. I push through the canvas flap and see that my customary seat at the end of the bar is empty. I sidle up and take my place as the bartender – an exo with an orange head named Buush-6 – pours my first drink. This is the only frontier left for me, it seems, as I down a shot of the strongest, most gut-wrenching alley-grog the dive has to offer. My body is fortified with Light, however, and so it may as well be water. “Hey son,” Buush-6 starts, his voice tinged with electronic distortion, “back for more?” He thinks we’re friends; I think he keeps me half-tossed. He can believe whatever he wants so long as he keeps pouring the swill. “Every day,” I respond, nodding for him to pour another shot and leave the bottle. This is his cue to leave me be, a cue he understands even if the motivation behind it eludes him. The only thing down here that knows who I am and what I’ve done is my Ghost. I prefer to keep it that way, as I’m not sure how regular folk would respond to being in the company of a damaged Guardian. Tales of the dark deeds of Dregdan Yor still circle the Last City, a cautionary tale about the dangers of upsetting a Guardian on the wrong end of the Light. I have not fallen anywhere near the depths that Dregdan Yor did, but the less said of that the better. They don’t need to know why I’m down here; my simply being among them is more than enough, or so I tell myself. After the year-old nightmares have gone away upon waking, I take some solace knowing that the people feel safer just having me around. I take another shot. I notice that the bottle is now half gone and reach for it, but something stops my hand. I have a feeling, a sudden sense that something around me has changed. When a Guardian notices that something has changed it probably isn’t good. My left hand silently moves to the cord-wrapped hilt of my blade, while my right casually wipes away a smudge from the shot glass. My enhanced sight is able to discern a figure in the faint reflection, quietly walking toward me from the entrance. Nothing that tries to sneak up on a hunter is up to any good, or so went my mentor’s favorite saying. My blade leaves its sheath as I hop off of the stool and turn to look my target in the eyes. These eyes burn with radiance, orange and yellow, like no normal being should possess. “Careful, Jarrod,” says the mouth below the eyes. Dark-blue skin is pulled taut at one corner of the mouth, forming a smirk. “I’m not here for that.” I let my knife-hand appear to relax as I mentally adjust the levels of adrenaline coursing through my body. “You’re not taking me in. I haven’t caused any trouble down here.” The warlock raises his hands, fingers spread, palms out. The gesture causes my left hand to microscopically tense for action. Be wary of a warlock with hands outstretched in peace, went another saying. “Like I said, I’m not here for that. I just want to talk.” I quickly look him up and down: his robes say Praxic, but his bond is strangely out of place. Hard to tell what Order he belongs to, but it doesn’t much matter. A warlock is a warlock, my mentor always said, differing only in the books they’ve read. Too many sayings. I sheathe my knife and materialize a small chunk of glimmer on the bar. Buush-6 nods but makes no move to collect. “Not interested in talking,” I finally reply, moving around the other Guardian towards the exit. “Are you interested in Mercury?” I stop, my hand on the canvas flap. Mercury… Vex. The Vex, Venus, my fireteam, my friends. Dead, all dead. The Fallen, Dregs, hanging so many hanging so much blood. The Violet Mist, thoughts sheared by a mental storm a storm of time a storm of place a storm within storms with so much shadow the Light fading away as I slip through the miasma and there are so many corpses the City is gone the Tower is gone gone GONE I blink, once, then again. I shake my head, cobwebs of black, unwanted thoughts shaking loose. “I’ll take that as a yes.” The warlock sits down at the bar, retrieves a second shot glass, and pours two shots from my bottle. “Let’s talk, Jarrod.”[/quote]