#ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. | (Ɪᴄ)

[bxynjolf]

》》 starter for @ariveth

The hammering of hooves on frozen ground thundered over the path; the breakneck speed in which the horse galloped left his cheeks flushed from cold, his breath no more than a puff of steam in the passing wind. By the Nine, Brynjolf loathed riding, but it was the only way he’d be able to shake the sharp-eyed peer of his. Mercer’d not seen him ride in nearly a decade. Old bugger would never reckon the auburn-haired thief would take to mare snatching, but, well, times were changing. Aye, if he was going to pull a heist of a century, he’d have to leave the pissin’ half-pint back home. Poor lad. With enough honeyed words and hefty coin, the Second of Thieves knew he’d be able to soften the other’s fury once he returned.

From there, he’d plucked up some wet-eared sod outside of Oakwood. Through a letter to the Guild, he’d told them he’d a new recruit he’d be bringing in, that travel would be slow due to weather and an alleged movement of Imperialist troops. Of course, the farmer’s boy he’d paid as a ‘guide’ was none the wiser to such a proposal, let alone his own true identity. In fact, the gawky thing initially knew the strapping Nord as a merchant named ‘Brynjar’ who’d unfortunately been robbed of his caravan and simply needed guidance to the town over. That was all till they reached a humble stable. They were an old trade partner, the boy claimed, and would likely be able to help the stranded salesman. A dagger to the throat later, the boy was given a new tale: a bandit, Brynjolf called himself, pressed the poor thing to bind up his own wrists while he made off with his horse. The boy would be found, surely, and from there would prattle on all the false sob stories he’d told him, leading both foe and friend all over Skyrim.

He rode hard through the night, avoiding much of the main roads and sleeping little in the rugged wilderness. Roughly a few days walk from Windhelm, he came across another stable. There, he sold his stolen prize for a handsome sum. After all, without the Guild’s contacts at his fingertips, his resources were limited. Not that he minded. What was life without a bit of challenge? One couldn’t be the best in business if he did not adapt, no? Truly, the whole journey had left him remarkably spirited, a feeling that persisted as he finally stepped through the wintry gates of Windhelm. Brynjolf had penned his (potential) partner only a week prior. Written honeyed words had told of a grand scheme, yet no details had been put into ink as to not risk their whole operation before it ever even began.

Nodding to the passing guardsman, he couldn’t help but smirk at the polite greeting returned. Aye, he supposed he looked a proper Nord by now. Snow-dusted leathers were well-worn from travel. The Ebony blade he typically strapped to his side was covered in a simple sheath of hare-hide and string; most did not carry such fine weaponry. Better to appear no more than a passing soldier-for-hire, especially in these turbulent times, than a man of the shadows. In fact, the crest of his Guild was buried deep under furs and pelts. As a token of luck gifted by their dear Treasurer, he'd be a fool to not carry it. Auburn hair had been braided tight and pulled back from his roguish features, which now sported the fine beginnings of a beard. Emerald eyes were the same, naturally. Alight with mischief and renewed vigor, he had foregone the hood of his mottled cloak so as to not spurn suspicion of passerby. No time to waste, he promptly reached out and rapped a gloved hand to her door; a rhythmic knock followed, the sound simply spelt out safe, a humble code spoken only between those with a penchant for crime.

[bxynjolf]

ALSO ❝ i’m not scared . i’m scared for you . ❞

(this turned into a drabble, rip) // @ulfhrafnx

He’d done his best to survive—for her, for Delvin, Shor’s Beard—for the whole lot of the scruffy bastards that made up their motley crew. He’d bled for them before. He’d gladly do it again too. Time and time, Brynjolf had spurned safety for the chase of good coin, good coin that’d keep their bellies full and their pockets lined enough for a taste of mead here and there. He’d taken the bile of Mercer’s betrayal with bitter grace plus its consequences. He’d turned his blade on one of his own, the most loyal Karliah, under perversive magic and deceit. In those tunnels, he’d bled, wept, and sweated out some of the very worst moments of his life for those were his consequences, his rewards, his LIFE he would chase. 

Yet, those dreadful hours were not his worst nor the worst he’d suffered. 

There’d been bouts of starvation so cutting he’d thought his own stomach had ripped itself apart. There’d been cuts down to the bone, lockpicks so haphazardly pushed they’d splintered and pierced now well-calloused fingers, and guardsmen whose blows had left behind battered flesh that’d taken weeks to fade. The worst, though, he’d recall was his very first shanking. It’d been by a nasty little slash. Not too deep. Not too shallow. Done by the hand of a razzled beggar he may or may not have had a falling out over some potentially misplaced Septims. Truth be told, he thought little of it then. Those following days, however, he soon realized his error. 

A fever broke over him soon after. Thoughts turned hazy, cloying, suffocating from delirium. His throat, parched from wheezing coughs and gasping breaths, made eating all but impossible. He’d withered. Unable to move from the measly cot he’d collapsed upon, time trickled on. Eventually, hands would come to relieve the pain. Whose, he’d never know, but they swept over him, tipped a sour serum to cracked lips, and let the remedy purge that ailment. Those same hands had rinsed his hair, taken away soiled linen, and even spoon fed him tasteless mash. He’d once thought Gallus, but truly, it very well could have been that old bugger Delvin. Lad always had a knack for popping in when needed most. 

But not now. This one moment that drudged into hours now dredged well into the second day of whatever this affliction was. There was no such care here. No kind, calloused touch to relieve this. It’d been no scrap of metal to cause this either. In its place, there had been nails—garish yet simple in their talon-like origin–that had raked across his chest upon his struggle. Blood, his and that vile creature’s, soaked through padded leathers. She’d been a pretty hen, the slag who’d done it. All sunny hair and snowy features. There’d been something in those sharp eyes that’d unnerved him ever since he’d caught her prying glance. He knew the look. It’d been no daring hunger for a romp in the hay…..it was primal, savage. Brynjolf rarely felt a twinge of apprehension, but that second she’d flashed him a coy smile, his own roguish grin had disappeared. She’d lifted a hand. She’d called him over, he thought, or at the very least beckoned him close—but he’d held fast against the churning urge to follow. He’d never lain with the lass before, let alone ever even recall such a fine face, and his intuition pricked him the wrong way about it. Besides, he’d long since halted other affairs since he’d met his lovely. Aye, she was the sapphire that outshined the rest. Why settle for shells when one possessed a diamond far fairer, no? 

He’d left the Bannered Mare swiftly, donning his hood and slipping into the night without so much as a smirk towards the odd woman. The stars were hidden. A vast, dark sky had been shrouded by a thick layer of clouds, leaving not even a trail of moonlight to illuminate his path. Not that he’d need it, of course. A Nord trained in the shadows needed no light. He’d resigned himself to simply breaking into Lira’s rather than cause mischief elsewhere. Oh, how he adored her company when she was a wee bit riled. Besides, what did a better job of that than a huffy guardsman puffing about the dignity of Whiterun? Suppose he could drop a stick in her covers again—

When he’d been struck, the swiftness was disorientating. There’d been no telltale rush of breath like when a human lunged for an attack. No footsteps had padded along after him. No cry or insult or demand of his satchel had pre-empted the assault either. In only a blink of an eye, he found himself spinning on his heel, one hand reflexively clutching at the torn plate of his armor as the other grasped the hilt of his sword. 

It was blank after that….or was it? There’d been motion, movement.

His legs had moved. There’d been three steps, no…more? There was a disorientating haze of memories after she’d crooned something, a saccharine smile dripping with poisonous intent. There’d been that feeling again. It was that perverse, nauseating pull of magic he loathed so much all over again. Like with Mercer. Like with that damn key. Yet, it was warm, welcoming, an embrace by the fire at the end of a wintry stroll, unlike that betrayal so long ago.

Brynjolf blinked, his vision swimming with some muddled clarity. He was here. He’d gotten here….a cavern? Something, no, the stonework was too well-cut. A chamber of sorts, somewhere under somewhere. Others had apparently fallen before him. Evidence of such was littered all about the dingy space. Crusted with red viscera, empty cages were propped open along the East wall. Close was a coffin where a few more bodies rested. Those fallen lay rotting, faceless and forgotten, drained and battered, only a handful of feet away. Perhaps he was next. No, she’d whispered, not you, not if you’re strong.….time…sometime back. 

Back. 

She was here. 

Her words were beyond him, for he’d been somewhere between consciousness, but they’d imprinted a feeling of longing, of fear, of confusion. A craving was writhing within him, a thirst that water seemed unable to quench and a fever that only seemed to worsen in her capricious absence. Soft fingertips had grazed along his jaw, a palm cupped his cheek, and more words were seeping into his skull. There was a desire, a need. Repulsion, HIS repulsion met the creature’s—Kolfinna’s—heady promises, her demands. 

  There’d been noise above him suddenly. Those charming crimson eyes narrowed at the interruption, and quickly, she was gone again. Alone. There was thudding of boots and scraping of furniture that echoed deep, but he dare not scream. He couldn’t….or shouldn’t? The razor’s edge that had lodged itself in his throat spurned a series of hacking coughs whenever he attempted even a word. She’d also hate it, wouldn’t she? Naw, it matter not what a saber of a wench had to pipe on about his self. The fog was lifting, and fastly, the ferocity that had dimmed under the churning pull of sickness and pain was returning. More footsteps, a few pairs, in fact. His vision was swimming, fading fast, but he steeled himself. 

Another scream sounded somewhere above. As the door to the upstairs slammed open with a wail, he heard that thing’s—Kolfinna’s— cry that no she needed him—

He shrugged off the nagging itch to come. Wasn’t even certain he could move had he even the desire to trudge up to the wicked slag. The footsteps following were fast, desperate, and heavy….too heavy. 

His head slumped back, eyes closing as he gritted out another breath. He’d not been able to see much anyway. Truly. All he had was his ears, ears which would never betray his senses. Another shaky breath tore through him. Every agonizing second was searing to him, every moment so acutely overwhelming in its sensitivity. He thought himself feverish, for sure, as it was so akin to that time he’d been a novice footpad, bedridden by that wee shiv. But, still, he was cold, a bone-chilling shiver having settled upon him. 

  In the chaos unfolding above, more pitter-patter. Swords clanged, voices unknown were…howling? The room remained drenched in fluttering darkness. The single source of illumination, a feeble flickering of a dying candle, only allowed him to see several other limp forms, a smattering of sparse torture instruments and coffins, and a curving hall that led  away. 

A blink. Those heavy steps were nearer, another cry. A man, ragged and fierce, barked out, signaling to others—friends, not foe, he hoped—that bodies were here. Bodies, Brynjolf noted mutely, not survivors. It was a familiar voice that sounded, a gravelling one he’d taken so much bitter grievance before yet now? 

❝Wait….there’s one! I’m here to help—By the Gods, Brynjolf…?❞ 

A wary smile graced the thief’s features at the recognition. Shaky hands raised just shy off the blood-soaked leathers, a gesture of mock-surrender he’d done before the pup time and time again. Tired eyes fluttered open to meet Farkas’ own worry stricken features. Now, there was a sight. Often the two exchanged little more than guised threats, mocking jests, and the occasional 'playful' jab that left his ribs aching for days after.

❝Aye….,❞ Brynjolf croaked, a cough interrupting him, ❝....dog?❞ 

Not even a flicker of annoyance. Only fear, fear for him, Brynjolf realized. It was worthy to note that the bulking sack of bricks’ hands never left his bastard sword. Not even for a moment. Farkas jerked back, perhaps to call for his love, but he need not worry. There she stood already by yon the other mortar-skulled twin. Malachite eyes were glittering so bright, lips parted in horror. There it was again…..fear. All wide eyes and whatnot. Fear of what, he dare not think—he couldn’t. No, not him. Not now. He’d muttered, near incomprehensible, for her to not fear. The muddling waters of his mind made little sense, and amidst that disorientating confusion, was an unfamiliar, edged hunger. With it, came rage. A terrifying, bubbling rage. Why? For what animosity coiled in his belly…..for what anger could drive him to consider, upon glancing at the fresh body not too far, to….? 

❝ I’m not scared. I’m scared for you . ❞

Her voice rang out sharp, grounding him. It was falling into place now. The dawning horror of what was coming onto him, the nature of this accursed infection. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Brynjolf felt a terror beyond him. 

❝Ach, my love….❞ Once again, his eyes closed. A coward, he was. He could not dare meet her gaze as he admitted, a choking, bitter laugh wheezing through, ❝....me too.❞

[bxynjolf]

❛ the trouble with prophecy is that it is alive. ❜ lilethys

》》 the low road, is it? // for @s1byls

A wary glance was shot her way. While niggling exhaustion kept his brow furrowed, the presence of the divine’s proper chosen did little to lessen the pinch of his expression. Truth be told, he’d never found himself a religious man. Something about their pious persnicketiness and threatened jail time over a misunderstanding of alms soured that potential relationship. Yet, he’d heard through whispers of the Redguard before him; she’d presented herself kindly to the beggars and invalids of Riften, and those words inevitably trickled down to him with just a bit of coin, or for the more foolhardy, a bit of pressure. Still, he’d not tread heavy over the Temple’s foot; it was one of the few places the Blackbriars had no weight and he’d not care to taste the pavement of a jail cell today. 

❝ Is that so, Lady Lilethys? ❞ The Second of Thieves slunk back, languidly leaning back into the dock’s wall as to further shroud himself from the dawn’s glaring light. Aye, absolutely getting steaming the night prior had left him with a mild headache and a parched throat. Truly, the timing couldn’t have been more comical. Coming staggering back from a ‘Dibellan Worship Ritual’, head pissin’ mad, and his merchant guise distinctly disheveled from an evening of petty crime only to so-happen to run into the Priestess of Mara? Delvin’s superstitious self would be beside himself.

❝ Indulge this wee sinner, lass, ❞ Brynjolf smirked, lips crooked in bemusement, ❝ What prophecy lives for you today then? ❞

[bxynjolf]

❛ i say nothing. i know nothing. i certainly don’t remember a thing. ❜

》》 the low road, is it? // for @luckydxy

❝ Aye, lass— ❞ Brynjolf’s lips twisted into a notably mock-expression of pity. Simpering words are thick with his honeyed accent. Although his hands were splayed before him, the very ‘misplaced’ ring had long since found its way in the inner lining of his sleeve. It’d been a clever little addition to his fine garb. ❝ I can’t say I’ve seen a thing either, loyal guard. ❞

Head canted ever so slightly, the Second of Thieves made no effort to disguise the sweeping glance through the Market, silently noting the few other meandering souls. Not many would interrupt this impromptu opportunity; that lonesome Lioness looked to have directed her poking charity projects elsewhere for the time being.

Excellent.

His gaze then turns to the other, inviting her into his mischief with silent amusement.

❝ Perhaps that wee trinket of yours will pop up elsewhere, eh? Maybe even…..for the right price? ❞

[bxynjolf]

"It's a puzzle! Oh, I love puzzles!"

ancient meme from yonder // @luckydxy ❝ I…. ❞ 

The thought is paused, temptation to watch an oncoming mess stilling his warning. Aye, there wasn’t a lingering doubt she’d not be able to sort out the ancient runes. Clever thing, she was. Naw, it was the fair bit of debris that had settled on the stones over the centuries that piqued his interest. Bitty thing would have trouble seeing over the fancy stonework’s lip, being only a hair’s thread shorter than their half-pint bugger of a boss, and the fractures in the rock meant that it likely wouldn’t hold under movement. Their wee hen, placed so close to the rolling door, would become fast acquainted with its mounding filth once opened.  At the very least, the other traps had been disarmed. No blood would be spilled today…but a bit o’ mischief could certainly be had. Warm eyes never betrayed his intent; instead, his emerald gaze fixed the young footpad with an impish smirk. 

❝ Lass, ‘spose we’ll have t’see if you have it in you t’solve it, eh? ❞ His crooked smile deepened, adding with a wink.

❝ Though if your clumsy fingers haven’t the skill, we could find ourselves a new route. It’s your call—I’m with you either way. ❞

[bxynjolf]

waits by the door until you return and pay attention to your wife.

❝ Aw, lass, you needn’t dawdle by the door! Y'know, I saw the most darling stick off the road—-put you right proper in my thoughts, it did. ❞

        While the jest fell immediately at the sight of his greatest treasure, his beloved, obvious joy etched along travel-weary features. Hair sat in an unkempt knot to the side of a handsome smile. A few strands had escaped their messy confines, instead deciding to sway with his fast approaching person. Although he’d since bathed while away from the Ratways, under the tangy pull of apple and fragrant edge of pine, that damnable Skeever mark persisted. He’d considered donning finer garb for his return, but considering the several warrants out for his arrest, decided against pulling anymore attention to his already high-profile. So, he stood there, bathed in shadows and dressed in murk, grinning like a cat who’d finally nabbed the canary. 

[bxynjolf]

recovery.

⇨.  ╱ ╱ cont.

@ofhighever​

      Time would toll faster than he’d thought. Aimless pause had loosened once taut muscles----had he’d always been so tense? He’d donned stress with broad shoulders, shoulders than now flexed with idle stretches. Brynjolf had little interest outside Guild matters; after all, what time did he have to lollygag about? Mercer’d have his head before----

      The thought was struck short, a fleeting grimace momentarily shadowing roguish features. There was nothing to be done now. There was no more he could do nor that he could have done. The notion brought bitter bile to his tongue, yet as with his anger, he swallowed it back. Feet fell silently against cold wood. Rare did he rise with the dawn. Oft he preferred sleeping through the first rise of brilliant light, electing instead to lumber out late in the morn. Now, however, he sought a distraction from prying fears. 

      Bonnie thing had done her damnedest for him. Aye, he’d be aching for awhile. No matter the care, with such little movement, one would be a wee bit stiff. Admittedly, the languid pace he took to now felt embarrassingly arduous. Not that the Nord would confess such. Still, his head held high. Auburn locks fell in untidy tangles, errant strands framing emerald eyes. Once dulled from vexing poison, irises now darted about with acute interest. With no blade offered, his Nordic blood shined proud with the full beard matching that fiery shade of hair. 

                                                ❝ Lass? ❞  

      There was pause in his coarse voice. Strange, that very same hesitance anchored him just shy past the threshold. He’d not wish to trespass. Not this time. Oh, the hilarity in that irony wasn’t lost to him. Lazy smile in tow, the former Second of Thieves tilted his gaze towards the approaching footsteps. 

[bxynjolf]

💕 kiss me you fool

                               kiss, kiss —————            As if he needed prompting. 

           Dexterous fingertips wove deftly through the windswept tangle of her hair. The gesture was sly, sweet in its tenderness. Brilliant eyes, bright with the spark of warm mead, followed her motions keenly. Every subtle flicker of her lashes, every twitch of luscious lips, even the ease of shoulders melting back in her seating. True, he’d never fond solace in the Hall of Companions, but he did find comfort in seeing her relax in the amicable heat. Naw, they were no birds who shared feathers and familiarity. She was a wolf amidst sheep. Her loves and her comforts came from this pack of mangy mongrels. This, he knew and understood, just as she understood the way rats took to shadows and how his thieves’ worth was thicker than mud. 

           Though flames danced merrily along stone and candles lined the extravagant Jorvaskkjkjk, bathing them in a brilliant glow, and light glittered and twinkled in every corner of the blasted space, he found home by her side here. His visit would be short-lived, however. Always was. Mercer didn’t take kindly to his lollygagging. Never had. Likely never would. The longer he entertained this fantasy, this near-obsession, the harder it’d be to untangle himself from her. The Second of Thieves hadn’t drank enough to blame his vices for his smarmy looks this evening. Nay, it was a matter far worse than that. 

                                               Desire. 

                                               Admiration. 

                                               Infatuation. 

           All played him like a fool on a fiddle as he bathed himself in her presence. She’d been occupied chatting up the other bonnie lass there. The darling sister of moon had once talked with him, or rather, bloody threatened him in the most gruesome and oddly arousing manner when it came to regarding dearest Lira. He’d appreciated the sentiment, even if the thought of his family jewels being robbed by split steel had sparked some apprehension. His touch grazed further below. Fingertips traced absent patterns along her shoulders, her back, then dipped to her waist. Each caress deepened on the expanse of clothed flesh. For celebrations, she’d shucked the usual armor, as the rest had, and took to a common dress. True, it was no bawdy gala-gown, besmirched with too flamboyant embroidery or obnoxious bobbles not worth their weight in coin. It was a plain design. Comfortable, yet irrevocably breathtaking in its cotton form. 

           He’d teased her at the entrance before. She’d stepped up for a kiss, a kiss he then denied all for the sake of a giggle. Now, he couldn’t resist. His hand returned to her face, palm cupping her cheek, before suddenly tilting her head back to his. Lips stole her words while his tongue teased wanton longing for her company, her company alone, against the dawning eve. 

[bxynjolf]

❛ what if i just dropped to my knees now. ❜ // what's this ? a chance for Delvin to be a shit head ?? A l w a y s

                              naughty, aren’ you?┊┊ accepting !

       A laugh threatens to bubble past smirking lips, yet in a second’s notice, is quelled. Had it been any other bawdy cabbage spouting the nonsense, he’d have dismissed it. Whether he was lighthearted or sharp all depended on the idiot in the question. 

                    This idiot, however, was no idiot at all. 

            Or, rather, this idiot was quite favored. Birds of a feather ‘n all. 

       He allows himself to crack an unabashed smile. While Mercer busied himself elsewhere, Brynjolf had made himself cozy at the ledger. His absence was welcome for this moment, as he was certain the poor, soggy potato would’ve had himself a proper conniption at their play. Fingertips gently laid his quill to rest then. Ink dried while the pot it once flowed from was quietly corked. Hands folded together, laid plainly on the now abandoned parchment, he dipped forward. Emerald eyes would meet the other’s rich brown with his head canted to the side, his tone playful as he replied simply. 

                   ❝ And do what exactly, lad?❞

[bxynjolf]

smoochie smoochie ! 💕

                              kiss, kiss —————  accepting !            

                    Stagnant air clung to the pair in an uncomfortably moist embrace. Admittedly, when he’d glimpsed a cavern to act as a safe spot, he’d hoped it to be a smidgen wider. Not that they planned an extended stay, by any means, but breathing space was appreciated.                            

                                                                                Still.                      ❝Keep quiet, lass.❞ The warning was hissed. His accent played thickly on his hushed tones, a note of genuine apprehension slipping into his otherwise normal tone. Guards he’d no quarrel with. Bandits? No worries. Empty pockets presented full opportunities. Necromancers, on the other hand, had no care for pretty trinkets. Pretty body parts had more worth to the mad lot. Sadly, he’d not care to part with his bobbles that day. Or, any day. 

                    A warm hand traveled over her shoulders. He held her close while shifting farther back into the rocky crevice. Shadows take them, for in the dark safety lay. Fleeing the wretched ambush had done a number to both of them. Breaths were heavy, stuttered too, but kept forcibly muted. Soil gritted itself under nails. Muck clung to both robes and padded leather alike, the earthy smell soiling the area all around. Auburn hair, once kept neat, now sat in a frayed knot. Although a novice in braiding, he’d had some hope it’d stay proper during travels. S’pose that’d be a skill he’d learn more…..if they survived. 

                    Footsteps sounded uncomfortably close. Soft, confident. His grip tightened on Remilia as he counted. There were multiple. That, they’d known. The exact number, however, was lost amidst the pitter-patter of varying paces. Running off wouldn’t have been good…..After all, who’s to say death-magic cult folk didn’t have hell-dogs to set on them? 

                                  By the Nine, he’d pray they didn’t. 

                    Never mind it. They’d survive. They’d laugh this away after a heart round or three. It’d be a gaff to carry for years to come. Just had to keep low. It’s alright. It’s okay. His thumb ran errant circles of comfort along her upper arm; had her sleeve ripped? Shor’s Beard, he’s pay that for her; it’d been a bit of an impromptu trip on his behalf, after all. 

                                                            An idiotic, awful, horrible trip—

                    The strangers’ gaits halted. His breath caught in his throat, touch stilling once more. Her body curved back into his, and though she could be pressed no closer, it didn’t stop him from holding her ever so tight. Words were exchanged then—-by them. Mer. They spoke in mer—No, Aldmeri, he realized a moment later. And, with that, he tilted an ear towards their muffled conversation, straining to hear. 

     “ What do your eyes see, Falael?” 

              “Nothing…unfortunately. Could they have parted our trap and turned East?” 

                                        “ Surely not!” 

“ There are no other prints but ours and the wild’s, Akkar. We waste time here, and if they live to travel far, they shall to live to tell our location. We cannot risk exposure now—-not when the experiments are at such a critical place!“ 

                   A sigh was the initial response, followed shortly by a shuffle of feet. 

“ You are right. Let’s head back and gather more. Extra eyes will do wonders. Darkness falls soon and I do not think Merithr’a would appreciate a lack of….results.” 

                                                           “ Oh, indeed. “ 

                    A solemn note concluded the exchange, and once their presence dissipated into the distance, Brynjolf risked a breathy chuckle. Relief replaced the fear that clamped down on wary bones. His hold turned lax too while he allowed his head to rest back against the crooked stone. Just a breath. Just one. A slow intake filled his broad chest before he exhaled. The years were stacking too high to be able to handle encounters like these. Remilia—ah, bonnie thing was too young to bear these burdens too. 

                                                            Remilia. 

                    And, though black as night surrounded them in their hole, he found her face fast. Fingertips curving along her jaw, he drew her lips up to meet his in sudden urgency. The kiss was soft, surprising. His mouth melded warmly to hers almost in act to confirm she was still there, still safe, still alive and not dead like all the rest. 

                                                                                She was the one. 

She, the quirky bird, had to live, had to thrive. He was no oracle. Never claimed to fancy seers much either. But, blast it all, she was special. She would have to be the change of wind that swept through their organization. She had to be what changed their luck. And, he? He would not muck it up. He relished the thud of her heartbeat, felt then by a calloused hand resting at the base of her neck, before withdrawing as abruptly as he’d came. 

                    ❝Come,❞ he whispered, breathless mumble tickling her ear, ❝We’ve little time, lass. We’ll make West and loop around, stay low and stay quiet.❞ 

[bxynjolf]

“how about… i pour champagne down your stomach… and get a little naughty”

                         ⇨.   shaggin’ are we ? ┊ selectively accepting !

            ❝ Seems a waste of champagne, lad.❞            He flashes a nonchalant grin. Feet remain perched over the lounge-chair’s side, his head canted playfully as he levels a glance at the other. 

         ❝ Though, if you care, I’d like t’see what you call ‘naughty’. I myself have a wee idea or three that don’t need drink—-if you’re interested.❞

[bxynjolf]

℧

           ⇨. ╱╱ fancy a chance meeting ? ┊ selectively accepting ! 

Lira frustrated by losing a card game to Brynjolf.

                               ❝Aye, so that’ll be fifty septim for me.❞ 

            There’s smug delight etched across roguish features then. Worn cards are scattered about the equally well-loved wood, an aggravated result of yet another win for the Second of Thieves. Never mind the rest of the lot spotted through the Bannered Mare. Perhaps few would glance his clever deceits, maybe even one of her fuzzy sort would sniff out the hidden luck tucked fast under long sleeves. They were a rather nosy pack, those blasted Companions. Never did quite care for a show of hand in a saucy sleight. Nah, whole sorry sods would take to brawling had a cheat been discovered. If a lad was caught, he’d expect himself a whole load of trouble for days to come. 

                                                Then again, that was the fun of it. 

                        After all, the best treasures did not arise without risk. 

            ❝Or,❞ Brynjolf continued in mock-sweetness, ❝I’ll take a kiss instead of that coin.❞

[bxynjolf]

“Shaking a jar of bees has so much raw energy and I despise it.” is he currently drunk? maybe, but the important thing is: never trust bees.

       A hearty snicker bubbles past sober lips. Whereas their dearly beloved Mer hit the bottle harder than they’d hit rock bottom, Brynjolf was surprisingly still-blooded. Aye, he wouldn’t keep the sad state for long. Days were long. Drinks were nigh, high-top, and a frothy gleeful sight once dusk arrived.        His smile remained merry when he replied, ❝By the Nines, lad, what’d posses your sharp-eared noggin’ t’bottle bees?❞ 

      Coming from the Nord who’d bottle damn near anything for profit, that had to be something. 

[bxynjolf]

' it's been a while since we last met, ' harkon purred, ' i trust you do not have any intentions to leave this night? '

                            ❝Forgive me——Much has passed, m’lord.❞                                             

                Threadbare leathers had since been tossed. Material grafted from the void of Oblivion itself fitted his form well. Muscles, taught with the journey’s stress, could be seen shifting underneath the handsome plating. Each step fell in a fluid state of silence. Though his eyes were alight with merry spring, there was a new heaviness that burdened handsome features. Flyaway strands of auburn interrupt his roguish display. Yet, little else can be glanced through breaks of the pitch-black material. The way it stole light, the way not even a shine would break its smooth surface spoke volumes of its Daedric origin. 

                                  A Nightingale. 

                The upgraded aesthetic certainly doubled already expert skills. Muffled steps now held no noise, no tell-tale thud. For the Lord of the Immortal court, perhaps he could hear the slightest shift of fabric, but to the average bobbling, bawdy sod? Brynjolf was no more than a slithering shadow in the corner. 

            Really....

                      They were past formalities at this point. 

                Yet, he continued to play to the court’s tune. As a Bard plucked their lute for admiration, the Second to the Thieves spun amicability with words, actions, behaviors. Sweeping arms extend with honesty while he stoops, mocking a somber bow. 

❝  Your cherished hospitality is....tempting. But, I bear sad news——❞ 

                                                A wink breaks his charming spiel. 

 ❝There are matters I must handle now personally with our own lot. I wished only to inform you there will likely be delays in both my presence and correspondence. You know how I do prefer your company, however, so I’d thought you might appreciate such an update from the direct source rather than pen and ink. You see, we’ve had a recent switch of....❞                 More like switch from back-stabbing flabby gits with shit-all fuckin’ luck. 

                                                                ❝.......Management.❞ 

[bxynjolf]

℧ hi kc i luv u

           ⇨.  ╱ ╱ fancy a chance meeting ? ┊ selectively accepting !

Brynjolf loses a bet to Elona.

                            ❝Fair win, lass.❞

     Despite the grueling loss, there is no bitterness in his expression. No sore loser would be spotted today in the Flagon; at least, not among the senior members of their sorry bunch of thieves. Had it been any other source, Brynjolf would practice some reserves. Delvin, blasted bastard, was a charming but well established pain in the ass. Vex could exercise quite the venom in her rebuttals too. Tonilia shared the same breathtaking toxicity, if pressed. Sapphire took her hands and dealt in shadows, all passive, all underlying, all mottled and muddled till her need for coin rose and her fingers would reach out like a vindictive Skeever. ‘Bout only other sod he felt his words could be laid out openly, with little repercussion that is, was Rune. He was a good, if bit too trusting man. 

    ❝Now, tell me,❞ the Nord murmured, a wicked smirk crooking his lips, ❝What does the victor demand of her spoils? We laid no boon before our wee gamble, you know?❞ 

[bxynjolf]

her heart is almost bursting with glee as he enters her sight . tripping over her own two feet , she does not hesitate to bring her arms 'round him , all the stress of the day leaving her body . he was her first friend in the entirety of skyrim , the first to accept her . " brynjolf ! did you bring back anything for me ? a shiny trinket , perhaps ? "

        ❝Ah, lass. I brought you the handsomest gift of all.❞

The urge to dip into a mock show of grandiose fun was quelled, though he did bring a hand up. Calloused fingers, nicked and scarred from too many picks’ soured spring, splay forward then. In that moment, his amusement is apparent. Although he fancied a toss about in the hay like any other lad, he’d never been too fond of public sentiment. Made his skin itch all uncomfortable-like. 

                  At least, it had. 

There was such an innocent charm to the bonnie thing’s touch. Like morning dew on a spring rise, there was no threat of that water drowning him. This was fleeting, as all things were, but genuine. A good contrast to the vast bunch he’d corralled over the months. He returned the embrace halfheartedly. One arm looped around her shoulders while his other hand splayed toward his roguish mug. 

                                                 ❝Myself. ❞