#Orgnar

[orfeolookback]

LAUUU HI i saw you like orgnar skyrim do you have any headcanons or anything i think he's neat

YEAH okay.

i feel like he's lived in Riverwood all his life. Knows everyone and their secrets, knows who likes who, who hates who, what folks were like when they were young. He has a bit of a radiant smile and does so often when things go well, but if he's not talking to people he has a bit of an RBF lol. He's missing a few teeth due to poor dental care and not having the means to go to Whiterun to get that seen. When Delphine showed up, she bought the inn and he accepted because it meant that he got a hefty sum at once as a downpayment. Of course, she keeps nagging him and doesn't do all the work he used to do as the owner, so he's sort of still performing his old tasks. Still, she pays well and his habit of being a great listener has made it so he gets tips fairly often. Simply put, nobody has a heartache in Riverwood without him knowing and getting tipped for his advice.

He tends to bond with people easily, at least on his end, and quickly developed a sort of parental instinct over Saathel (she's not too happy with that lol)

[helgiafterdark]

she is probably the most over-hated character, and i disagree with her views on dragons and paarthy, but i love her. she went thru so much, and she has given so much and continues to give.

[skyrim-said-that]

Orgnar listen. Listen to me. Look into my eyes. I can treat you better than she can just give me ONE chance

[wellthebardsdead]

Marigold: *seated in the sleeping giant inn, waiting for Kaidan to come back from bathing to order dinner, just quietly reading his book as Orgnar suddenly walks over holding a drink and looking confused* hm? Orgnar? Oh did Kaidan order a drink before his bath?

Orgnar: I- no. *glances back at the bar to a nord man in dark armour staring at him and the high elf before looking back at marigold* that dickhead at the bar kept telling me to ‘take this to the pretty high elf woman.’ But You’re the only high elf here and last I checked you identified as a bloke.

Marigold: I- *looks over to the man at the bar before looking back at Orgnar* well I have been mistaken for a woman before but mostly from behind- but no thank you h-he can have it. I’m married.

Orgnar: *nods* just give me the word, he bothers you again and I’ll kick him out before your husband paints the floor with him… took me forever to clean up the last bar fight. *walks back to the bar and hands the man the drink* HES, Married. And HE isn’t interested. Now quit pestering me about HIM! Bishop.

Bishop: *sneers at him* Do I look like an idiot to you dickhead? Last I checked men don’t look that pretty… *pushes off from the bar and walks over to Marigold, so focused on the high elf he doesn’t even notice orgnar disappearing off from the bar and into the bathhouse* Not the wine type huh? *grabs marigolds book closing it and pulling it away from his hands* maybe a sweet lady like you prefers Mead then yeah~ you high elves already look like you’re made of honey I bet you taste like it too.

Marigold: *grabs his book and pulls it back* I’m going to say this. Only once. Fuck. Off.

Bishop: You’re a man?!

Marigold: no I’m a mer~

Bishop: You fucking smart ass! you tricked me! Do you get off walking around confusing real men?!

Marigold: wait you’re a man? I thought you were a pig~ *huffs and gets up to walk off*

Bishop: Hey don’t you walk away from me! *reaches to grab the high elf’s hair, only for a hand, much larger and stronger than his to grab his wrist* what the- *looks up to see two red eyes glaring down at him, glowing along with a daedric tattoo*

Kaidan: *only in a towel after Orgnar told him Marigold was in danger* The only man. Allowed to pull his hair. Is me.

*a few moments later*

Marigold: *pulling out his coin and apologising profusely* I’m so sorry about the bar stool Orgnar let me pay for the damages-

Orgnar: no it’s fine it’s- *watches as Kaidan walks by, covered in blood and whistling as he whips the towel off upon entering the bathhouse again to start his bath all over* …That was payment enough on its own-

[joznii]

You know, we’re all aware of the Sven vs Faendal argument, but what about Camilla? I’ve heard an analysis saying that she’s stringing both men along with no intention of committing, based on in game dialogue.

So I propose that all three of them deserve to be quarantined in a toxic love triangle in Riverwood.

Yesss i think theres actually dialogue she has with hod or orgnar or someone where he basically tell her to "stop stringing those boys along" and shes like "lmaoo nah" +she immediately starts flirting with the player character too

I kinda interpret her as someone whose SO bored and frustrated in this tiny ass town in a fairly rural province like skyrim and desperately wants more but instead shes stuck here creating drama to entertain herself

She wants to go after the golden claw thieves HERSELF before the DB comes to help and she argues with her overbearing brother constantly about her ideas to improve the store or taking the shop on the road (get her Out of Here)

But yeah i highly doubt she has Any plans on picking either of them even after the letter quest she just likes the attention and enjoys getting fought over, never really even Picking the "winner" in the quest just being angry at the "loser" (i think she didnt expect either of them to stoop so low) , ideally to her she'd get with someone (like the DB) who would actually fulfill her ambitions before ever genuinely choosing either sven or faendal.

They rlly do all deserve the hole theyve dug themselves into lol

(tldr; camilla valerius,,, she should be at the club😔)

[tastesoftamriel]

Sleeping Giant Inn, Riverwood

Blue plate specials of the week include mug of ale or mead

Morndas

Breaded pheasant breast, with steamed vegetables and ale gravy

Tirdas

Creamy mudcrab salad, with rye bread and fried potato cubes

Middas

Baked cheesy Riverwood-style knoepfle, with fried onions

Turdas

Venison pie, with smoked game sausage and an all-butter crust

Fredas

Salt-baked trout, with buttered herbed potatoes

Loredas

Chicken noodle soup, with fresh crusty bread

Sundas

Roast beef with all the trimmings, served pink

Dessert of the week:

Orgnar's apple crumble, with clotted cream and honeyed oats

[critter-in-skyrim]

Sven's Sickness

Faendal lifted his ax above his head, swinging it down with just the right amount of force to split the log before him in half. He was working, as he had been since around 4am. As usual, by this point in the day, Faendal was feeling rather sore and irritable. Today, though, he was feeling doubly so, as Sven had never arrived for his shift. When Faendal had complained about it to Gerdur, she had not-so-subtly reminded him that it was not his job to worry about what Sven did.

“But his not being here interferes with my ability to properly do my job,” Faendal had said. Gerdur had merely given him a look.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do,”

“You could fire him,” Faendal pointed out.

Gerdur choked out a laugh. “And you will be doing all his work, once he’s fired? Good one.”

“I practically already do all his work,” Faendal grumbled.

Gerdur rolled her eyes. “Poor you. Now if you don’t mind, I have a mill to run.”

Faendal grumbled under his breath, as he brought down his ax again, finishing up the stack of wood he had been chopping. Thankfully, that meant he was done for the day.

Normally, Faendal would spend the afternoon hunting, to burn off some steam. Today, he certainly needed it. However, he instead made his way to the Sleeping Giant Inn, planning to catch Sven in the act of getting day-drunk.

Orgnar was the only one present when he entered the inn, though.

“Have you seen Sven?” he asked, going up to the counter.

“Not today,” Orgnar said. “Have you tried checking the Riverwood Trader?”

Faendal ignored that pointed little jab. “Well, if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, alright?”

“Fine.”

Faendal left the inn, and was once again tempted to just forget Sven and go hunting - it was a lovely afternoon. Orgnar’s words echoed in his mind, though, causing Faendal to let out an irritated sigh. He headed for the Riverwood Trader.

“Faendal!” Lucan greeted, “I didn’t know you’d be coming by. Did you need some more arrows or something?”

Faendal shook his head. “No. Actually, I was looking for Camilla, is she around?”

“Upstairs,” Lucan pointed. Faendal nodded, going upstairs. Sure enough, Camilla was there, reading, alone. She looked up when Faendal entered the room, smiling at her friend.

“Oh, hey Faendal. I wasn’t expecting you,” Camilla said, setting her book aside.

“I won’t be long,” he said, regrettably. “I was actually looking for Sven. Have you seen him today?”

“No, I figured he was working at the mill,” she said.

Faendal shook his head. “He never showed up to work today.”

“Oh…that’s concerning,” she mumbled. Faendal nearly rolled his eyes, but restrained himself.

“Not really, he hardly ever shows up for work these days,” Faendal said bitterly.

“Oh, now I know that’s not true,” Camilla said. “He may not be the most punctual of people, but he usually makes it to work. For him to not show up at all, without saying anything…it’s not like him.”

Faendal had to admit, she was right. Sven never made it to his shift on time, that was very true. It was also true that he rarely missed an entire shift, like he had today.

“I’ll check his home,” Faendal said eventually.

“Let me know what you find out,” Camilla said, going back to her book.

As Faendal headed for Sven’s house, he noticed Sven’s mother sitting out on the porch. Her normal bitter expression was twisted to one of tiredness. Rather than knocking on the door, Faendal approached her.

“By Shor, what do you want?” she suddenly snapped at Faendal, startling him.

“Is Sven here?” Faendal asked, jutting his thumb at the house.

Hilde’s expression twisted, like she had eaten something sour. “Oh yes. But I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”

“Oh?” Faendal asked, resisting the urge to sigh. “And why would that be?”

“He’s sick,” she said simply. “And acting like a real baby about it too. I had to come out here to get a break from his constant complaining.”

That certainly sounded like Sven to Faendal.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he told Hilde. He stepped inside their house.

It was rather dim inside, most of the usual candles were extinguished. In contrast, the fire was practically roaring. Faendal spotted Sven huddled as close to the fire as he could manage, a fur draped around his shoulders. Moving closer to him, Faendal could make out the flush of Sven’s cheeks, the glassiness of his eyes.

“You look pathetic,” Faendal said bluntly.

Sven turned to glare weakly at him. “You’re one to talk. Come here to gloat?”

“Gloat? Over you being sick? Me? Never,” Faendal said sarcastically, quirking a little smile.

Sven groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why are you here?” he asked tiredly.

“You weren’t at work,” Faendal said simply. “I was…annoyed. I wanted to let you know.”

“Well, you’ve let me know. Now go, leave me alone,” Sven suddenly broke off into a coughing fit. The coughs sounded heavy, painful. Faendal couldn’t help but to wince.

“That sounded awful,” Faendal pointed out. Sven glared at him with watery eyes. Faendal hesitated, before continuing, “I might have something that could help with that…”

“I…I’ll try anything,” Sven said after a brief hesitation himself.

Faendal awkwardly went over to kneel beside Sven, pulling a flask from his satchel. “Wine, imported from Valenwood. It’s strong - will knock that cough right out of you.”

Sven grasped the flask, sniffing it with a suspicious look on his face. Faendel rolled his eyes. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Sven gave him a look. “Well, you hate my guts, so what am I supposed to expect?”

Faendal paused at that. “I���don’t…hate you, per say…” Faendal mumbled. “I hate it when you don’t show up to work on time. I hate how you never leave Camilla alone. I hate the comments you make about my heritage. But I don’t hate you.”

Sven hummed, but that seemed to be convincing enough to get him to try Faendal’s wine. After taking a sip, his eyes widened. “You sure you’re now trying to kill me?”

“The taste can take some getting used to,” Faendal shrugged. “But it will help, I promise.”

Sven glowered at the flask, before downing the rest of it in one go. That resulted in a productive coughing fit that left Sven panting.

Faendal raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

“I ought to kill you, elf,” Sven said weakly, though his voice sounded far less congested than before. “And just for the record, I hang around Camilla all the time because she’s my girlfriend. You don’t have any right to be jealous over our relationship.”

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Faendal said. “I know Camilla. If she were single, she would never settle for me. Just like she will never settle for you.”

Sven glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that our lovely Camilla deserves more than Riverwood, or its men, have to offer. You or myself included,” Faendal said simply. “Don’t you agree?”

Sven simply groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m too sick for this.”

“Didn’t the wine help?” Faendal asked, a bit smugly.

Sven glared at him. “Yes…”

“Good. Then I should be going. I expect to see you at work tomorrow,” Faendal said, starting to head for the door.

“Wait,” Sven said, his expression one of confusion. “If you don’t think you’ll end up with Camilla, and you don’t think I’ll end up with Camilla, who do you think she will end up with?”

Faendal shrugged. “Who knows. Probably some rich, intelligent person that lives far from Riverwood.”

Sven frowned. “Great. And what about me? Who do you think I’ll end up with?”

Faendal hummed contemplatively. “Me, probably.”

“What?!” Sven snapped.

“Or Embry. But he doesn’t seem like your type.”

“And you think you are my type?” Sven asked, baffled.

Faendal shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I suppose someday we’ll see, won’t we.”

“That feels like a threat,” Sven pointed out.

“Consider it a promise,” Faendal said. And with that, he walked out the door, leaving Sven very confused.

[myscreenshotdumpblog]

I think the glasses I posted yesterday have gone viral in Skyrim. Who knew Orgnar was such an influencer??

[joe-england]

Commission: Lusty Argonian Maid'd

Welcome, hey, welcome!  I'm so glad you made it to the other side.  And here i am too, with my first post of 2024!  Let's do this.

This is for our good pal Val Salia!  Lusty Argonian Maid'd is...

...

I'm really not sure where to begin with this one.  Do you know Skyrim?  That nigh-legendary video game from some years back?  Well, if you didn't know, there's a text in the fantasy setting called "The Lusty Argonian Maid", about....  Oh, there are lizard people in this setting, and they're called Argonians.  Right?  And the book in question is sort of a gag, a raunchy tale about a lusty Argonian maid.  And also in this setting (that is, in the Elder Scrolls franchise, not in the raunchy book), there's a mischievous god who likes causing mayhem and chaos because that's his thing.  He's like Q, but without the moralizing.  So!  Val Salia's writing and drawing an ongoing fan comic in which the trickster god targets the Dragonborn (the protagonist of Skyrim) and transforms him into a real-world (as in, in the context of the game) lusty Argonian maid!  And the Dragonborn is compelled to act the part, which is bad enough since he's supposed to be saving the world from dragons, but it turns out the curse is contagious, and it spreads to Orgnar (a bartender working for an innkeeper who is actually an undercover secret agent), who turns into a sexy Khajiit (there are cat people as well as lizard people), and then it keeps going, and soon all of Skyrim is threatened by this plague turning its victims into pantomime bimbo stereotypes, and all the while the dragons that you're supposed to stop in the game are still ending the world and Pussywillow (Orgnar) low-key hates Lifts-Her-Tail (the Dragonborn) for doing this to them, and it keeps getting worse and more fun to watch.  And that's not the half of it!

It's one of my favorite comics in the world right now.  Funny, ribald, cleverly written, and 51 pages long as of this writing.  As a connoisseur of comics about people getting changed into monster girls, I give it my highest recommendation.  I couldn't fit all that I wanted to draw on a single page!  Check it out if any of that appeals to you, and if not, I encourage you to look into Out-of-Placers, Val Salia's other, more serious-minded webcomic about someone becoming a girl freak!  They're both great reads with their own appeal, and they get my Monster-Girl-Maker Gold Seal of Approval.

There are worse ways to start a new year.

Doctors Without Borders

Save the Children

Alliance for Middle East Peace

- Joe

[writersstareoutwindows]

snippet of a Skyrim fic I’ve been meaning to post. a pretty good, quick summary of my current Dragonborn concept.

small-town homebody returns from first adventure to find that her home is not as it always appeared to be. but then, neither is she. and neither is the cat on her shoulders. -

It was all so much the same: the hearth fire, working its way toward roaring as evening came on; low, warm light dimmed by smoke; the soft scents of yeast and honey; familiar voices chattering, while Embry snored at his seat and Sven plucked a heartsick tune. The Sleeping Giant slumbered on, exactly as she’d left it months before. There was only one thing that had changed.

As she stepped inside, people who had known her all her life looked at her with wary curiosity. In the doorway, backlit by fading sun, she looked like any traveler, in rough armor with a weapon on their hip, tall and broad and tusked, not from around here. Only when she smiled did they recognize young Signy, not dead after all.

A cheer went up; everyone wanted to buy her a drink. Everyone had heard the stories, everyone wanted to know if they were true. It was the sort of thing she’d dreamed of when she was the one bringing out drinks, but today, she’d been traveling for hours in the cold, and there was still something to do before she could sleep.

Khali, who had not moved from her comfortable perch on Signy’s shoulders for about sixteen hours, leapt to the floor and circled her ankles. When anyone came too close, the little cat hissed.

Everyone familiar with the erstwhile tavern cat knew not to push their luck.

“Sorry!” Signy said. “She’s just—Kha—I mean, Duchess, stop, it’s fine. Sorry, everyone, I just came to see Delphine, actually. That’s all.”

Signy’s name had flown around the tavern. Delphine was at the bar, ready with a mug of mead, watered-down and honey-sweetened, to slide in her direction.

“On the house. You’re back sooner than I thought. And you’ve brought our dear Duchess back safe, too.”

Signy caught the mug but didn’t drink. She wasn’t sure how to reply. “I guess so… Delphine, do we have an attic room?”

Signy didn’t notice, but Khali, returned to her perch, did: Delphine paused.

“No. We don’t have an attic. You know that.”

“I know! It’s just that someone thinks you do.”

Signy offered the note that she and Khali had found in Windcaller’s tomb. Again it was Khali who noticed that, though Delphine glanced at it, her eyes didn’t move to read the words.

“Someone did stop by, asking if they could leaving something here for you. Maybe that’s who you’re looking for. Let me get Orgnar on the bar and I’ll show you.”

Retrieving a key from somewhere beneath the bar, Delphine went to the door of a corner room that Signy had never seen rented out. She’d assumed it was a closet of some kind, but as Delphine opened the door a sliver and ushered her inside, she saw a bed against one wall, a wardrobe against the other. When Delphine closed the door behind them, Khali’s tail snapped against Signy’s neck. She hissed low in her throat.

Startled, Signy said “What—?”

Delphine had opened the wardrobe. Assuming the question was for her, she paused and said, “You worked for me for a good couple years. I think I can trust you…with this much, at least. Can you keep a secret?”

Trying not to glance at Khali, Signy said, “Yes. What’s going on?”

In response, Delphine opened a false back in the wardrobe and descended inside. At once, Signy loped after her, vaulted the stairwell, and turned a wide-eyed circle at the small, secret room that awaited. Weapons bristled on the walls. In one corner, hay bales had been dragged out to form a training space, the walls around it pocked and scored. The training dummy had pointed ears. Books lay open on every surface, maps tacked onto the walls, all scrawled over in thin, spidery writing. The map on the central table was the most marked of all, held down at the corner by heavy, notated books, in some places so thick with notes that they became unreadable. Delphine walked to the far side of this table, placing it between her and Signy as she watched the other’s reaction.

“Has this always been here?”

Delphine shrugged. “As long as I have.”

“This is…what?” Signy laughed, unsure if it was the right thing to do. All the years of her life, she’d known Delphine as the stoic innkeeper, but this—it was an adventurer’s storeroom, or a general’s office. “What is going on?”

“Same question to you. All the stories, not to mention the Greybeards, are calling you Dragonborn.”

The rumble in Khali’s chest was enough to put Signy on her guard.

“People say a lot of things.” She shrugged self-consciously.

“You wouldn’t have my note if the Greybeards didn’t believe you were the one. They wouldn’t send just anyone after that horn. The question now is, should I believe it?”

“Your note? You made it through that tomb? Delphine, what…?” Signy waved her hands around the entire room, not knowing where to point first. “What the fuck is going on? Who are you?”

That unflinching expression of hers finally shifted toward something halfway sympathetic. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. It was better when no one in town had to know, but if you’re really Dragonborn, someone is going to involve you eventually.” Delphine sighed. “Better for me if I’m the one to do it. But I have to make sure the Thalmor haven’t gotten to you.”

“The Thalmor? To me?” Signy gestured to herself, all six and a quarter Orcish feet. “In what world?”

“I’ve been fighting Thalmor a long time. I’ve learned not to underestimate them.” She laid a hand on the map beside her. “I have reason to suspect they’re involved with the dragons. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’d corrupted even you.”

That went through Signy’s heart like an arrow.

“Fuck off! My momma fought your stupid war. She killed Thalmor, and then she lost her home anyway—”

Delphine waved her hand. She was inspecting the map beneath her fingers. “None of that matters now. What matters is that you might be Dragonborn.” She traced a line drawn in red. “If we can find ourselves a dragon, you can prove it to me.”

“Why do you care?”

There was a jagged edge to the question. Signy had known Delphine for all the time she could remember. She had moved to Riverwood not long after Signy’s momma, when Signy was still a baby. For gods’ sake, she’d worked in Delphine’s tavern for the last four years. And Delphine had known her. They hadn’t been close; Delphine wasn’t close with anyone. But Signy had always tried to be kind. It hurt more sharply than she was willing to admit, that Delphine did not seem to have cared.

Still, she seemed to hear the note of hurt. She hesitated before deciding, regardless,“I’m sorry, Signy, but I can’t tell you. Not until I’m sure. It’s too important.”

A growl rumbled from deep in Khali’s body. Signy had forgotten she was there, but now the little cat stood up on her shoulders.

“She does not have to prove herself to you…Blade.”

And Delphine betrayed an emotion that Signy had not known her capable of: surprise. For half a moment, she gaped at the talking cat. Then daggers appeared in both hands as she sprang into a defensive stance. Those were warrior’s eyes, Signy realized, as they darted around assessing the room, settling on Khali. And there was hate in them.

“Thalmor. I should have known. Signy—”

Signy felt Khali’s fur fluff in fury. “This one is not Thalmor. Do you think you would still be alive if she were? Do you think this room is very hard to find? It is because of this one lying to the Thalmor that they have not already killed you. This one may bow to Aldmeri with her head, but not with her heart.”

“Signy,” Delphine repeated, “don’t move. That creature on your shoulders is exceptionally dangerous.”

“No, listen to her, she’s not—”

“That creature has a name! She is Khali, called after the great Mane of the ancient Interregnum, she whose soul was split in two and held in twin bodies for the twin moons!”

Khali leapt onto the table. Delphine adjusted instantly, lowering one dagger to her level, but Khali just flicked her tail in irritation.

“Your paranoia has made you blind. You trust a house cat to be what it is, but you do not trust a woman you have seen grow from childhood. You dream that Aldmeri could control the dragons. You cower in hiding—”

“You Thalmor scum—”

Khali’s claws emerged, tearing points into Delphine’s map. She was only a little cat, but there was a presence to her that filled the room. She did not have to raise her voice to be heard.

“Do you think you are the only one who has suffered at the hands of the Thalmor? Do you have any idea what they have done in Elsweyr? This one has done more by pretending to serve than you ever managed in your war. Far more than you do by hiding in your cellar.”

“Shut up, cat.”

Signy had been so drawn by the force of Khali’s voice that she had not noticed the poison in Delphine’s eyes. Looking now, she saw the daggers quake in her hands, and she knew, because Signy was good at knowing these things, that Khali had cut her very deeply indeed.

Khali saw the daggers shake too. She curled her tail into a question mark, daring her.

“This one is not afraid of you, Blade. As she says, you are blind. Has this one not already shown that she is more than you can see?”

Delphine was already lunging. Signy screamed, knowing she wouldn’t miss. “NO!”

But Khali’s Voice was a half-step quicker. She didn’t shout; in the same even tone that she’d been speaking, she said, “Fus.”

Delphine hit the wall so hard that it cracked. Signy dived for the table, scooping Khali into her arms, but Delphine stayed down.

With a glance at Khali, even with a twisting hurt in her belly, Signy offered her a hand.

Tears pricked the corners of Delphine’s eyes. She didn’t seem to notice. She just looked at Khali and said, “It’s you.”

Khali did not respond immediately. She returned to her perch on Signy’s shoulders and wrapped her tail possessively around one arm. At last, she gave a single nod.

“This one has proved herself. Signy has never needed to. You are the one who has lied; prove yourself to her.”

Signy opened her hand, still held out to Delphine. Delphine tore her gaze from the tiny Dragonborn with the angry golden eyes, and, seeing Signy attempt a smile, finally recognized her: not the weapon she’d been looking for, but the girl she’d always known, young and idealistic. She took her hand and let Signy pull her up.

“Right. Well, Signy. I’m one of the few surviving members of the old Imperial guard. We were called the Blades. We’ve been waiting for a Dragonborn for a very long time…”

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Whenever! ♥

thank you for the tag, @changelingsandothernonsense !!!! <3

tagging @totally-not-deacon @skyrim-forever @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @thequeenofthewinter @mareenavee @saltymaplesyrup @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @viss-and-pinegar and anyone else who'd like to participate!!

this week i've been working on the revisions of chapters 1-10 of Cycle of the Serpent. i've posted revised 1-6 on ao3, but am still rewriting chapter 7. so, here's a bit of that!!

The Sleeping Giant rarely got any sort of messages by courier, but occasionally, the Jarl would send a letter asking for help with a particular matter in an isolated corner of the hold. This letter wasn't from him. Handwriting spiraled and jagged all at once, and when he handed it over to the trio, Wyndrelis inhaled sharply. This was the handwriting from the cellar, he thought, glancing rapidly between his two companions. "Here, some old woman came by and dropped this off a few days ago," Orgnar grunted, "since you helped Camilla and Lucan Valerius, figured you might be interested." He tapped the letter for emphasis, Athenath picking it up and scanning the writing carefully. In short, it was a request for help with a specific pest problem, a wolf that had been stalking a remote corner of wilderness just outside of Riverwood, a beast that had a habit of intimidating and stalking travelers, but specifically a relative of the letter's author, who implored whomever got this request be careful and take extra caution. Emeros sucked his inner cheek between his cheek as he thought it over. Really, the trio should be well on their way to Whiterun by now. Who knew how long that dragon was going to hold off on attacking the town of Riverwood? Would this make any difference? Wolves did as they pleased, but everything in this letter detailed a lone wolf, something uncommon, a thing that set his nerves on edge. He took the letter into his hands and inquired, "did the woman who dropped this off say anything about the wolf itself? Any distinctive markings, any signs of illness?" Orgnar rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the hearth. "Now that you mention it, she said to be on the look out for a wolf with one grey ear." "One grey ear?" Emeros repeated. Orgnar nodded. "Yeah, that's what she said."

"Oddly specific," Emeros noted as he pocketed the letter. He looked between the other Mer as he turned on his heel, making an easy stride back to the trio's room and gathering his arrows and donning the armor they'd pulled off a bandit corpse. The leather was fairly thick, and the gauntlets helped. Plus, the fur lining kept him warm, though that was a tad unnecessary, with it being late summer. "So you're going after it?" Athenath asked, leaning in the doorway as Emeros examined his arrows. "We," he corrected, "I think we should all see this thing up close." "Why?" The confusion sprawled even further along his features, Wyndrelis inching by Athenath and into the room, tugging his own armor on over his clothes. Emeros looked between the Altmer, then the Dunmer, then the windows high above them, lining part of the upper wall. "One grey ear is a very odd marking, and if it's a lone wolf, it could be injured or sick. It's best to take it down now, instead of risking it spreading something to the other wildlife. Don't worry," he nudged a small smile up his mouth, "as long as we keep our distance, we'll be alright." Athenath shrugged, snatching their own armor up and buckling it on atop their clothes. He wasn't keen to encounter sick animals in the backwoods of Whiterun Hold, but the trio burned with curiosity. An old woman dropping off a note about a strange animal sounded ideal for one more distraction from the reality of their situation, that in a day or two they'd be standing before a Jarl, explaining the things they'd seen in Helgen, and telling him just how much danger his Hold was in.

When they told Orgnar they were heading out after the old woman's wolf, he trudged to the porch and pointed them in the direction of the barrow, explaining that the woman - he'd not caught her name, didn't think to at the time - had told him she lived out that way, and the wolf stalked the trees near the river, to follow it carefully. Emeros furrowed his brow. "Isn't that where we camped last night?" Athenath asked. He nodded. "I believe so." The Bosmer moved from the porch of the inn to the road, leading the trio out to the bridge. He carried a few healing potions he'd bought off of Lucan, but hoped desperately he wouldn't need to cure ataxia or bone-break fever this journey. Awful conditions, he'd seen plenty of cases of them in his travels, and couldn't guarantee he'd have the ingredients on hand to brew up his own disease cure potion for them.

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 6 - Ralof II: Before The Storm

Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 Late Afternoon

Ralof

I have a problem, a voice in my head slurs as I look into my flagon of mead. Empty. Another voice slurs, Yes, the problem is that my cup is empty. "Orgnar. Another pint."

"You sure about that pal? You're already three pints in."

I slam my cup onto the bar, perhaps harder than intended. "Are you the barkeep, or my mother? I don't see any tits on you, so fill the damn cup! If you'd seen what I'd seen this day, you'd be looking for Oblivion in the bottom of a cup as well!"

If my outburst phased the man at all, his apathetic face sure doesn't betray it as he takes my cup to the tap. "Fine. But don't blame me when you throw your septims up later outside." As he returns the full cup to me, he asks, "And what was so terrifying that it'd cause such a fine soldier as yourself to drink mead like water?"

"A dragon, you old goat!" Damn my drunken mouth, I spit it out without thinking. This at least seems to startle the stoic barkeep. His eyes widen, and I notice old Delphine stop sweeping and stiffen as well.

"A dragon, eh?" Orgnar scratches his stuffy beard. "Sure you were sober when you walked in here?"

Before I can retort, the last voice I want to hear sounds from behind me. "He's telling the truth." Bloody Hadvar. Of course. He walks in, sitting at the other end of the bar. "A gods-honest dragon appeared at Helgen. The town's little more than a pile of rubble now.

Of course, the bastards believe him immediately. I suppose an Imperial uniform gives you credibility regardless of the claim. I see Delphine turn white and dash into a sideroom, and Orgnar offers Hadvar a drink.

"Honningbrew," Hadvar responds.

"Pah, why not just order a mug of milk if you've not the stomach for a real drink." The insult has both men bristling, and I take my drink and myself to a nearby table. The stumble might have taken some of the bite away, but damned if I'll sit in the company of damned traitors.

The tavern is mercifully empty as I nurse my Black-Briar Reserve in silence. Though I know it won't last, this close to evening. It was unseasonably warm, and you could count on the locals whetting their parched throats with a mug or two after they finish their day's work. For some reason, it reminded me of my time with the Stormcloaks. We trained under a bastard of a man called Galmar Stone-Fist. Every day we trained damn near nonstop from dawn to dusk. And every day, he made sure we trained hardest when the sun was highest. Sad we'd need to be ready to fight at any time; "Your enemy won't care if you're too hot to put your shield between you and them." Spent weeks constantly exhausted before I got used to it.

Yet for all that, it seems old habits die hard. One measly dragon attack and I fall back into old patterns. It's familiar. And calming. Then someone drops on the bench beside me, interrupting the calming familiarity of my drink. "By Talos, can't you tell when a man wants to enjoy his drink alone?"

"You don't look like you're enjoying much of anything right now." Godsdamned Hadvar. Never learned to shut his mouth for anything. "The Ralof I used to know would've been blustering on about his escape from near-certain death. Regaling his story to everyone in town."

"What do you want, Imperial?"

He pauses a moment. "Company."

I scoff, but since he seems subdued now, I go back to my mug. A few moment pass in silence, the first few villagers starting to trickle in from their mills and fields. Amazing how careless they seem; even without knowing about the dragon, it's as if the sleepy town has been unaffected by the war. A bloody war, right under their noses. Blessing there, else someone might have called the Imperials to clap me in irons again. How easy it might be, just to stay here and resume the simple life I led before I enlisted under Ulfric.

"I don't hate you, you know?" It took me a second to realize Hadvar was speaking to me. The look on his face almost seems... Wistful? "For joining the rebels... Sorry, the Stormcloaks."

"What are you on about?"

He chews on his words before speaking again. "I know you probably despise me for joining the Legion. Expected me to defect once Ulfric's call went out. But I don't hate you for becoming a Stormcloak. You followed your heart and you went out to make a change. Hell, maybe I even envy you. I was always content to follow orders. Even as lads, you'd be the one making up the adventures we acted out."

Had I drunk anymore than I had already, I'd have assumed I was hallucinating. Unfortunately, I was sober enough to consider his words. A few hours ago - was it only hours? - we'd been set to tear out each others' throats. But was it truly because we hated each other?

"If you had asked me this morning," I said, "what I thought of my old childhood friend Hadvar, I would have made Talos himself blush with the obscenities to pass my lips. I considered every Imperial godless bastards, guilty of allowing or helping the damn Thalmor of every crime they committed. Hadvar's grip tightens on his mug, and I watch his face steel up.

"But... Now I remember... Or you just reminded... You're all people, same as me. You helped save all those townsfolk from that great black beast. You joined the legion to try to change things, no different than I. And you'd be an even greater traitor by betraying the oaths to your cause solely because of your cowardly commanders." I grin at Hadvar. "Come now, if I truly wanted you dead, I'd have let that dragon carry you away this morning."

I must have surprised him, as he takes a moment to retort. "And here I though you were just saving Talao and I was in the way."

"Might have helped." We chuckle together, and just like that, it's as if we are young again, sharing a mug. Only now the ale isn't snuck out from under our parents' noses. And for the next few hours, we forget that we might find each other opposite our blades on the field of battle soon.

Chapter 5 - Sven I: Before The Storm x Chapter 7 - Balgruuf I: Before The Storm

[kookaburra1701]

DELPHINE

OH BOY THAT LADY

First Impression: Well, first impression was staggering into the Sleeping Giant to try and ruin some stranger's love life because a lumberjack I just met asked me to. And what do I get? "You're that stranger been pokin' around." WHAT DID I DO Also the way she nags at Orgnar reminded me of every manager I'd ever worked for in food service.

Impression now: Still bossy. But since I'm not completely lore-blind now I see it as hyper-vigilance borne out of 20 years of constant anxiety. It still dives me nuts, and now that I'm writing a fic where her machinations during the main quest are part of a lot of the plot it became clear just how much she yanks the LDBs chain. She sends you hither and yon, and she doesn't even WAIT IN DRAGONBRIDGE or something when she's taken ALL YOUR SHIT INCLUDING QUEST ITEMS. Nope, you have to trot your happy ass allllllll the way back to Riverwood. You can't even complete quests along the way because of the aforementioned taking of all your shit. Basically if she ever had any consideration for anyone else, I think the two plus decades of running from the the Thalmor have completely ground it out of her. She sees everything and every one as a means to an end.

Favorite moment "If my analysis is correct, the dragon buried near Kynesgrove will be the next to come back to life." The analysis:

Idea for a story Delphine and Farengar Secret-Fire's association intrigues me. I assume he either a) knows she's a blade but *doesn't* know she's the Riverwood Innkeeper or b) knows she's the Riverwood Innkeeper and also some sort of information broker but *doesn't* know she's a Blade. I think exploring how they met, what sort of projects they've worked on together before would be really interesting.

Unpopular Opinion As much as she drives me bananas in-game, I actually love her as a character. The utter nonsense she puts Team Dragonborn through in the main quest drives a large part of the second act of The Wives of Shor, and honestly she is so much fun to write.

Favorite relationship Orgnar, hands down. I love how he just gray rocks her bullshit and that it drives. Her. NUTS. I could listen to him play her like a fiddle all day.

Favorite headcanon After the events of the main quest, her obsession with killing dragons and black and white thinking leads her to attempt to scale the Throat of the World to kill Paarthurnax and she dies falling off the mountain. This isn't even really a "favorite" I guess I just can't see her doing anything else without YEARS of therapy and I don't think that's a service Skyhaven Temple offers.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part I: Rat

ao3

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Thanks to @ravenmind2001 for proofing and helping me come up with the title!

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre

Content warnings: physical assault.

#######

“What do you mean you left the dossier?”

“I mean exactly that! Guards entered the solar while I was reading it.”

“You should’ve just grabbed it and ran.”

“I should have done what I did: slipped in and out without disturbing any of the dossiers, leaving the Thalmor blind to just what we were after.”

Delphine’s pale face pinched. Leara waited for her to press the issue; aggressive needling seemed to be this woman’s primary interrogation method, but to her relief, Delphine moved on. “So, what do we know?”

“He’s alive and the Thalmor think he’s somewhere in the Rift.”

A flicker of relief and anxiety played a tug-of-war with Delphine’s face. “If the Thalmor think he’s in the Rift, then he must be. Are you sure it didn’t say where specifically?”

Leara sighed, “I had to skim the last few paragraphs rather quickly or the guards would have found me.” Then, “I suppose you want me to cover the entire Rift for Esbern?”

The younger Blade shot her a look. “We need to find him. Even with your caution, the Thalmor have us at a disadvantage. If they decide to act on their information, we may be too late to get him out of there alive.” By ‘we’ she meant ‘you’, but Leara wasn’t going to complain about that. She remembered Delphine's bullheaded and know-it-all attitude from before the war when the Breton was only a Knight-Sister too small to fit her armor. Years of hiding and acute paranoia only served to erode her tolerability further. Not a charitable thought, Leara mused, but an accurate assessment. The Kynesgrove dragon was enough.

“I suppose I’ll be off then.” And Leara stood to leave.

Delphine stopped her. “Wait just a moment. You can’t do this by yourself.”

“Are you coming, then?” Leara asked, resigned.

Delphine shook her head. “I need to stay here. It’ll become too obvious if we keep leaving together. The Thalmor have eyes and ears everywhere. No, I want you to take Bishop.”

“Who?”

“Bishop. He’s a ranger who’s been hanging around the common room for a while now. Has a bit of a reputation. Brutally efficient from what I hear. But keep intelligence on a need-to-know. All he needs to know is what he’s tracking and where. Don’t mention the Blades or the Thalmor or anything that could send him running for the authorities.” A reputation for what? Leara wanted to ask, but Delphine waved her off. “You’d best get going. Remember, this is life or death. We’ve got to find Esbern before it’s too late!”

“Of course.” Leara lifted her satchel and sword belt from where Delphine had stored them. Strapping it to her waist, she nodded to Delphine. “I’ll find him.”

Delphine called out to her when she reached the stairs. Leara looked back. “And when you find him, just, ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall. He’ll know what it means.”

“I understand.” More than Delphine knew.

·•★•·

At first glance, the barroom was empty when she entered, save for Embry, deep in his cups, and Orgnar, who was wiping down the bar. A second glance and she saw him; in the far corner was a figure swathed in leather so dark it faded into the surrounding shadows where the hearth light didn’t reach. Leara slipped over.

“You’re a ranger, yes?”

The man looked up at her with a lazy tilt of his head, his pale eyes giving her a once-over. “Who’s asking?”

“I am.” Leara dropped a coin purse on the table. “I need someone to track down an individual for me.”

The man, Bishop as Delphine called him, didn’t even look at the coin purse. “Woah, hold your horses, lady! I never said you could hire me.”

Leara bit her tongue behind her smile. “I’m sorry, you are Bishop?”

“Last time I checked,” Bishop huffed.

“Listen, I need help tracking an older gentleman in the Rift. He’s lost and it’s time for him to come home.”

“That kind of sap could choke a spriggan,” Bishop said, rolling his eyes. “The Rift, you say? I might just take you up on your offer – if you do me a favor.”

Leara cocked her hip to the side and her head to the other. “What kind of ’favor’ are we talking about?”

Bishop barked a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself! Besides, you’re not my type. I need some help retrieving something of mine.”

Did he just insinuate that she thought he wanted her to–? Never mind. “Well, what is it?”

Bishop cleared his throat. “I was tracking my wolf, Karnwyr, around here. We were separated while hunting a week ago. I’ve been hearing rumors of bandits holding pit fights this side of Skyrim. He’s all I’ve got, and that’s the only lead, so I’m off to shut them down before something happens to him.

“Where is he?”

From his jacket, Bishop pulled a leather-bound roll. He pushed his empty tankard to the side and spread it out to reveal a map of Skyrim. He stabbed a finger at a dark pinprick just north of Shor’s Stone on the border between the Rift and its northern neighbor, Eastmarch. “Lost Knife Hideout’s my guess. He’s not a bad-looking wolf. Strong and ferocious. They want him for pit fights, maybe for breeding. Not that he’d complain about that part.”

Leara grimaced. There was something off about this man, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She did need help finding Esbern, though, and Delphine said this man was good, or at least good at tracking. Helping him find his wayward wolf might cost time, but it may cost her more to try and track down the loremaster on her own in a country she was still woefully unfamiliar with. “All right, I’ll help you find your dog.”

Bishop rolled his map and stood in one swift notion. Leara was a little dismayed to find he was taller than her. As an Altmer with mixed Breton ancestry, she was still eye to eye with many of the Nord men she encountered. Bishop was at least half a head taller than her, practically as tall as a frost troll. He had the shoulders of one, too. “Great, we set out now!”

“Now?” Leara took a step back from the suddenly too-small corner.

“Yeah now. Time’s a-wastin’, your ladyship.”

Leara took one glance back at the barroom. Embry was passed out on a table and Orgnar was gone. But there Delphine stood behind the counter, a reassuring smile pinching her pale face. It almost looked sincere. Suppressing a sigh, Leara adjusted her satchel and followed Bishop out into the dark spring night.

·•★•·

When Leara ascended High Hrothgar to answer the summons of the Greybeards, it was late winter, and ice still covered over two-thirds of the Seven Thousand Steps. That trip took her three weeks from Whiterun, given the poor weather conditions and her unfamiliarity with the territory. Her descent was quicker; the snows were melting by the time she hit ground again in Ivarstead and set off for Ustengrav. That was late First Seed. It was now Second Seed, and southern Skyrim was bathed in sun and temperate warmth.

Bishop had her at Lost Knife Hideout in four days.

Four, because apparently, she shook her hips while walking and that “slowed them down”, or something.

Ignoring Bishop was becoming second nature, by this point. She’d ignore him entirely by just walking away, but she agreed to help him get his wolf back and wouldn’t go back on her word. And she still needed his help to find Esbern. From what she’d seen in their cut through the Jeralls, Bishop knew the wilds of Skyrim like the back of his hand. Delphine wasn’t kidding about his reputation as a tracker, at least. As much as Leara loathed to admit it, her lack of knowledge would be Esbern’s doom, and she needed all the help she could get. Bishop was necessary.

They found the wolf in the pit, stuck in a cage neighboring a sabercat on one side and a pair of rabid, screeching skeevers on the other. The ringleader of the pit was going nuts, calling for anyone and everyone in his gang to come down and fight him. Leara shook her head with pity before sending an icy spear spiraling into the bandit’s chest. The sharp shhtk of ice and iron trilled in the air. The caged animals whined. Beside her, Bishop whistled. “I’m impressed! I didn’t think a woman like you had it in ya!”

Leara snorted as Bishop sauntered his way past the cages of snarling, biting predators to his wolf. “There you are, you mangy mutt! The Hell were you thinking, getting trapped and making me track you all the way to this gods’ forsaken place?” Karnwyr laid down, his paws cast woefully over his muzzle. Leara only just restrained a snort. “There, there. I say we play a little game for old times’ sake. I shoot an arrow into one of these bandit bastards’ knees, and you can go rip his face off!”

Karnwyr woofed in clear excitement, bounding out of the cage. Leara, from her place at the control lever, cleared her throat. “You’ll have to play your little game somewhere else.”

Bishop didn’t look up from where he was scratching Karnwyr’s ears. “What?”

“We’ve already killed everyone here,” Leara clarified. He was just too busy calling her a swamp boar to notice the half-frozen corpses oozing congealed blood as she – they fought their way through.

“Ri-ight.” Bishop got to his feet, his wolf beside him. He reminded her of Ralof’s nephew and his dog as they stomped around Riverwood, brandying words at travelers and bossing the blacksmith’s daughter around. She also recalled the girl giving him a good wallop more than once.

Silence, save for the still-caged animals. Neither the Dragonborn nor the ranger moved to free them. “Well, I guess that’s it then, your, ladyship,” Bishop said at length as Leara perused a chest full of broken iron and steel bracers.

She looked over at him. “You’re still helping me track my friend down, yeah?” He’d better . . .

“Don’t worry, sweetness. I’m not going to leave you high and dry after you helped me. Even a wolf knows loyalty,” he smirked. Leara didn’t twitch. She didn’t. “Who knows what kind of trouble we can find ourselves in along the way.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure trouble will find us soon enough,” Leara mused, her mind going to the Thalmor. Elenwen shouldn’t have recognized her, no one should’ve, and yet . . . Something about the entire incident at the Embassy was still biting at her, and it wasn’t just the race to find Esbern. She was missing something, something important . . .

“Hm, I’m looking forward to that.”

Funny, because she wasn’t.

·•★•·

“First place we should go is Riften, the spring from which all things rotten flow. If your old man is in the Rift, someone there will know about it. Several someones, if we’re lucky.”

“Hm,” came Leara’s answer.

Karnwyr pressed his nose into the palm of her glove. Smiling softly, she patted his head. Even if Bishop was, well, odd, at least his wolf was nice. Her hand fell as they approached the gate. A guard stepped into their path before they reached it, the eye slits of his helmet dark and foreboding. Leara almost rolled her eyes.

He held his hand out, and the two travelers halted. “Hold there. Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor's tax.”

Leara clasped her hands together. “Right, and what's the tax for?”

“For the privilege of entering the city,” the guard replied. “What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Bishop began, “because you’re just another pig who thinks he can extort a pretty face for a few coins.” Before Leara could speak, he was in the guard’s face. From the corner of her eye, she could see other guards nearby reach for their swords. They didn’t draw, but Bishop was clearly pushing them to that point. “Or maybe,” the ranger went on, heedless, “you think you can get her into your bed, have her open her—”

“Quiet, you!”

“Why you—"

“Bishop, stop!”

The guard had his sword out, the others were getting dangerously close with their own drawn weapons, and Bishop was looking at her in rebuke. By Akatosh, what a mess! She yanked Bishop’s arm back, throwing him off balance and putting herself between him and the cluster of guards now standing between them and the gates, all with drawn swords. If she could see through their helmets, she imagined they’d all look as happy as a minotaur, too. She repressed the urge to pinch her nose. “I’m sorry, guardsman. He’s not used to civilized customs.”

“Hey – oww!” Leara stamped on his foot.

Another of the guards appeared beside the first. “Say what you will. No one’s getting in without paying the tax, and after that little display, we’ve half a mind not to let him in at all.” All the guards nodded in unison. Drones, the lot of them.

“I’ll pay twice the amount,” Leara said evenly.

The guards all looked at each other. The first one shrugged, the second nodded, and the third held out his hand for her coin purse. “Two hundred septims, no less, though more is always appreciated.”

Bishop was growling like a dremora behind her, but Leara silently handed over her coin purse. There were some odd two hundred coins in it, which wasn’t easy to pool together, but the loss was worth getting through the absolute disaster that entering the sewage drain of Skyrim had become. The third guard took it in hand, weighing it thoughtfully before nodding. The first produced a key and with purposefully slow steps, escorted Leara and the seething mass of leather that was Bishop to the gate. He took his time unlocking it; Leara could feel Bishop boiling behind her, ready to shoot off again, consequences be damned.

She’d never tasted Black-Briar Mead, but if she were on any other mission, tonight would be a great chance to go swimming in it.

“Thank you,” she smiled demurely to the guard as they passed into the city.

“I’ve got my eye on you,” was the hard reply.

(*)(*)(*)

The golden smile on Leara’s face wavered once they were clear of the gate and its guards. It slipped away entirely when Bishop dragged her into an alley and thrust her against a wall. Wooden planks dug awkwardly into the backplate of her silver armor, but she remained still. She inhaled, the beginnings of Unrelenting Force stirring into a gale in her mouth when his hand pressed into her windpipe.

No.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” he hissed, looming over her face. “Do you not understand what corrupt guards like that do to beautiful women like you? They’ll use you once and then expect favors any time you come through town!”

“Get – off – me . . .”

“Stupid woman,” Bishop growled. Nonetheless, he backed off her.

Leara gasped, her knees threatening to buckle as she took in air. “I can’t believe you’d just let them hustle you liked that!” he growled.

Leara coughed. By Akatosh. “Hustle me? They didn’t hustle me! I bribed them to keep them from turning you into a pincushion!”

“Oh, was that what that was?” Bishop lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Next time, sweetness, let me handle the guards.” With that, he turned and walked away toward the other end of the alleyway. Without missing a beat, he called back over his shoulder, “Next time you want to play rough, try and give a man a warning, all right? I want an equal share of the fun, after all.”

(*)(*)(*)

Leara gaped after him as the Nord disappeared around the corner. Beside her, Karnwyr whined, clearly agitated with everything that just happened. “Yeah, me too, boy, me too.”

She found Bishop at a railing, eyeing the market square with cutting scrutiny. She hung back as he watches a redheaded Nord pitch a scheme about ‘Falmer’s Blood Elixir’ or something. It sounded like a scam, but that was none of Leara’s business. She skirted around the canal, just out of Bishop’s periphery. She was unready to rejoin him after that aggressive display. Did Delphine know he acted like that? Talked like that? That was the kind of behavior she knew the younger Blade wouldn’t put up with, but it still made her wonder just why Delphine thought Leara needed help. This was one more item on a growing list that screamed of Delphine doubting her ability. With few friends in Skyrim and fewer answers to the ongoing dragon crisis, Leara didn’t come to that decision lightly. No, it pressed down on her like a millstone.

The streets of Riften were a winding mess of wooden buildings and stone fences crushed together between canals that wound like ribbons through the city. Moments after slipping down a side street, the market disappeared from sight, and the pressing presence of Bishop lifted from her skin. She hadn’t felt so scrutinized since the war. Something about this was different from the smoke and mirrors espionage she was forced to engage in back then, but that didn’t make it any less troubling.

The sooner she found Esbern, the sooner she could part paths with the ranger and get on with this saving the world business.

She rounded another corner and jogged down the empty street by a few quiet residences. The bustling noise of the market hummed in the distance, not quite drowning out the slurring whisper of the canal ways as they flowed into the lake. It reminded her of Bravil, if a bit less muddy and haphazard. At the next corner, the cobblestone street split back toward the docks, so Leara took the other direction. It was just as vacant as the previous one. Where was everyone?

“All right, traveler! Give me all your money!”

Leara spun on her heel, her hand wrapping around the hilt of her katana. Off to the side, in an alcove made between a garden wall and the next building over stood a scrawny youth in scruffy leathers. Dark hair fell into his face, only to be pushed back by a shaking hand. Though she hadn’t drawn her weapon, the boy looked ready to pass out at the mere sight of her. Beside her, Karnwyr growled, his hair standing on end.

“Oh no, no, no!” he mumbled, distraught, “Why did it have to be you?”

“Pardon? What are you talking about?” By the look of this kid, he was either off his medication or on skooma. Probably both.

“Why did it have to be you?” he carried on. The boy stepped toward her – and Leara stepped back, the hand on her hilt tightening. Still, she didn’t draw. This screamed of desperation and hero worship. He stood in the middle of the street, his hands clasped, beseeching. “The only goddess every bard in Skyrim should be singing about?”

By the Nine, was he serious?

Discomfort and resignation settled over her shoulders with growing familiarity. Leara grimaced. “Stop, now.”

He ignored her. “Oh, it hurts my heart so! I must ask for all the gold that you are carrying on your very beautiful—”

In a whirl of silver and red, Leara pinned the would-be thief on the ground, her knee and boot centered on his chest and stomach. Her katana remained sheathed, but she didn’t need it to keep him in check. The boy looked up at her in absolute terror, his throat bobbing like the beating heart of a rabbit. “Listen,” she hissed, and the boy’s watery eyes darted from a snarling Karnwyr to focus on her face. “I’m in town looking for information and you’ve just volunteered yourself as my little guide. Congratulations! If you cooperate, there may be something material in store for you at the end. If you don’t, well, I know how to dispose of trash. Do you understand?”

Frantic nodding.

“What’s your name?”

“R-Raven!”

“Nice to meet you, Raven!” Leara stood and hauled the boy to his feet. She pointedly did not address the wet spot expanding across the front of his trousers. She did not want to know. Ever. “Now come on,” she said, wrapping her hand around Raven’s bicep. “I need to find someone, and you look like you’re the one who has all the answers!”

Raven colored darkly. “I, I do?”

“Of course!” Leara laughed, light and warm. “After all, you know who I am, and I’ve never even been to this part of Skyrim before!”

Raven quickly regained his footing, physical and verbal. “Of course I do! How could I not?” If she wasn’t hauling him by the arm, it might have appeared as if they were two friends out for an afternoon walk with their dog. But this wasn’t anything so benign. “The legend of your beauty has spread across all of Skyrim! Every voice sings your praises, waiting for the day they meet you!”

“Yes, quite,” Leara nodded, her insides cringing. That’s just what she needed. A rabble of Raven-like fanatics waiting for her everywhere she goes. “But let’s keep my presence here our special secret. Can we do that, Raven?” His mouth wagged open. Leara pressed on: “Now this is important! If someone were to go into hiding, who here would know how to find them?”

“The bartender at The Ragged Flagon,” Raven said, now uncaring that she was manhandling him hostage. She had the unfortunate suspicion that he was into it.

“Can you escort me there?”

“Yes, yes, I can, my, uh, Dragonborn,” Raven stuttered.

Following his pointed directions, Leara and Raven wound their way to one of the canals which flowed by what she assumed was the jarl’s keep. A set of rickety stairs jutted out past the railing. They were on the second step down to the lower level when Bishop appeared, hair ruffled and mouth downturned. “What’s this, ladyship? Getting down and dirty with the sewer rats now?”

Beside her, Raven blushed, this time from embarrassment. Nonplussed, Leara just scoffed. “I’m doing your job: finding the answers to my questions. Raven here has been lovely enough to help.” Unlike you, but she refrained from adding that. Only just.

Bishop’s pale green eyes fell on Raven. “Raven, huh? Bit scrawny for your tastes, eh, darling?”

“My tastes bear little weight on the matter,” was Leara’s terse reply. “Now if you’re still coming, we’re heading down to – where are we going again?”

“The Ratway!” Raven perked up.

“Yes, thank you,” Leara nodded. “Now, Bishop, as I was saying—”

“Hold up!” the ranger cut in. “Are you serious? I’ve taken good care of you for days now, but at the first sign of trouble, you turn to this street rat? That’s low, sweetness, especially for someone so high and mighty as you! I have half a mind to leave you here and strike back out on my own.” He looked like he meant it, too, but that didn’t phase Leara.

“You’re welcome to do what you wish,” she told him flatly. “I hired you to help me find someone. You’ve brought me to Riften, and I’ve found someone who can help me in the next stage of my mission. Your work is down, Ranger. Return to your wilds.” Raven squirmed beside her. Leara ignored him. Years of solo operations, and this is what she was reduced to! She proceeded down the steps, Karnwyr at her heels.

“Now wait just a minute! Dragonborn or not, we’re in a little too deep together for you to just get rid of me like that!” With that, Bishop swung over the railing. Leara and Raven kept walking. He followed them down to the lower walkway. “In the last week, I’ve saved your hide more times than I can count! I’m not about to let you waltz into the damn Ratway on a haunch with this skeever-faced prick breathing down your neck!”

Silence. Leara’s jaw tightened as a nervous Raven stumbled across a plank bridge to another walkway. He would have fallen into the canal if not for her tight hold on him.

It was in a huff of agitation that the small party entered a little side door in the stone-lined canal wall. It was set further back in the stone than many of the other doors they passed, hidden behind a stack of barrels and a barred door that swung silently inward once pushed. The wooden door did the same. Beyond it yawned a dark hole, silent save for the distant drip drop of water and the faint scurrying of little claws. This was the gateway to the city under the city, and though no guard held the gate, there was a sense that entering would exact a heavier price than the tax the Riften guards extorted from travelers.

Bishop’s hand caressed her shoulder. “You don’t have to go in there.”

“Yes, I do,” Leara said, and she plunged into the dark, slipping from Bishop’s hold while dragging Raven behind her. She pulled the young thief to her side. “Now, where is this ‘Ragged Flagon’?”

“This way,” Raven pointed, subdued. Whatever creepy act he was putting on before, Bishop seemed to have scared it out of him. She could thank him for that, at least. Or would if he’d stop yelling at her.

Sneaking through the dark in a group was a new challenge in itself. Leara hadn’t done anything quite like it since she fled through the Skingrad catacombs, but this wasn’t nearly as dangerous. It was thunderously quiet; save for Raven’s whispered directions whenever they reached a turn or came across a room with too many offshoots to count, the only sounds were those of the ever-present water and the denizens of the dark maze. Bishop remained blissfully quiet, which Leara was thankful for. She didn’t need another swamp boar comment.

It was forever later, not long after their descent into the tunnels, that they reached a door illuminated by lanterns and a curious mark scratched deep and bold against the faded stone. Leara gave it a passing look as Raven led them through this new door into a well-lit, cavernous room. Across a great cistern of water was a floating barge anchored to a stone alcove lined with crates and tables. At the back was a bar, behind which a man stood serving various people in worn leather armor not dissimilar to the set Raven wore.

“The Thieves Guild. So, this is where you lot scurry off to,” Bishop said.

Thieves Guild. Of course. “The bartender, you said?”

“Oh, yes, Dragonborn!” Raven said, all superfluous prose gone. Though she wasn’t a fan of his methods, Bishop at least served as a good fanatic repellent. “Vekel the Man is just the man for your, ha, task.”

“Lovely.” Releasing his arm, Leara made her way along the cistern’s perimeter, flexing her fingers.

“Fair lady,” Raven called out after her. “What about my gold?”

“You already have it,” she shot over her shoulder. “You took a coin purse from my belt while this one and I were arguing.” Bishop roared with laughter as the thief spluttered behind them, and Leara herself couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

As they neared the bar, she couldn’t help but notice the gaunt faces contorted by the flickering candlelight that watched her as she and her companion passed by. Karnwyr bumped his head into her leg, his tail down between his legs. The atmosphere here was just what she’d expect from a bar of thieves: cold and distrustful. She didn’t blame them, though. Even in a city as corrupt as Riften was said to be, crime didn’t pay, not really. These people were miserable. Miserable and so very useful.

“Excuse me?” she called, stepping up to the bar. From the corner of her eye, a burly man absolutely covered in blond hair got to his feet. She could feel Bishop tense behind her when the bouncer took a heavy step forward. “I’d like two ales and a word, thanks.” She said, coming to the counter.

The bartender gave her a dark look over the tankard he was cleaning; nonetheless, he pulled two dusty bottles of ale from under the bar and slid them over once Leara passed the requisite number of coins his way. At the rate she was losing money, she was going to have to get a regular-paying job. Being the Dragonborn wasn’t as lucrative as it once was when being Dragonborn was synonymous with titles such as ‘emperor’.

“There’s two things to do at the Flagon,” the bouncer said, coming up beside them. He was shorter than Bishop but no less dangerous, “Spend coin and then get out.”

“I would just like to ask a question,” Leara replied, turning an even, open gaze to Vekel, who looked, if possible, more distrustful than his bouncer.

“We don’t take too kindly to people poking their noses around down here,” he said. “Best take your drinks and get out before there’s trouble.”

“Listen, pal,” Bishop spoke over Leara’s attempt to persuade the barkeep. “This woman has come a long way to find her father. The only lead she’s got led her here. The least you can do is accept whatever she’s willing to give you and give her what she wants in return!”

“Listen, buddy,” growled the bouncer. “You have five seconds to get lost before. I toss you out on your head!”

Vekel waved the bouncer down, frowning as he studied Leara. “I don’t know about in prissy old Altmer skulking around, but there’ve been plenty others of your kind in here recently. I’m going to tell you same as I told all them: I don’t know who lives in the warrens, much less the rest of the Ratway. You want information, find it for yourself or get lost. I’m not getting involved.”

Others? The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on in. the Thalmor were here, somewhere, and if they were openly showing themselves here and asking questions, then Esbern was a lot nearer than she originally thought. Which meant they were running out of time!

Unopened bottle of ale in hand, Leara shuffled back from the bar, colliding with Bishop, and pushing him away from the growling bouncer. The warrens. They needed to get to the warrens! But which way?

Around her, the gaggle of bottom feeders nursed at their own tables, save one dark-haired fellow. Something tugged at the back of Leara’s mind as she watched him exit the tavern toward the Ratway. Vekel’s gruff laugh caught her attention. “If you want to try your luck in the warrens, door’s back there. Watch yourself, you and your brooding boyfriend. Worse things than Dirge live down there.” The bouncer, Dirge, flashed a yellowed smile full of menace.

“Thank you,” Leara called over her shoulder as she hurried to the door, Bishop and Karnwyr on her heels. It was dusty, surrounded by cobwebs, and she wondered if it was the only way in or out of these warrens. If there was a way for them to slip by the Thalmor – or for the Thalmor to cut them off.

Everything depended on finding Esbern, and soon.

Dust motes stirred into the air, setting off a chorus of sneezes as the door shut ominously, sealing off any trailing lights from the tavern and shrouding them in the dark. Wiping her nose, Leara cast a dim magelight overhead. A ring of light revealed a dusty stone path, undisturbed save for the prominent trail left bare by many scurrying feet. Whether it was made by the inhabitants or from Thalmor agents, Leara wasn’t sure, but she didn’t want to stick around and find out.

“Come on,” she whispered over her shoulder, palm raised to maintain the light at low brightness. “We don’t have much time!”

“Who’re we looking for, anyway?” Bishop hissed back. “Not your old man, clearly.”

“No,” Leara said. “He’s a very dear friend of mine and he’s in very real danger if we don’t find him.”

“Sounds serious!” There was a note of amusement in Bishop’s voice. “Should I be jealous, darling?”

Jealous? No? Leara was quiet as she waved a rune of life detection over her eyes. All around her, thousands of pale pink pinpricks appeared in the dark: insects, spiders, and rats. A few skeevers. These were of little concern to her. It was the larger masses of violet smoke, pulsing with each individual heartbeat that drew her attention. Many were indistinguishable from each other, blurry and unfamiliar as a tree line on the horizon. Most of these were distant, either sealed behind doors or too far away to pose much concern—yet –but she studied each one, looking for a glimmer of familiarity in the swirling souls.

“And now she’s ignoring me! Typical.”

“Swamp boar,” Leara coughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, it’s just dusty down here.”

“Nothing a little natural air won’t clear up once we’re done putting out old flames, eh, sweetness?” She could almost hear him wagging his eyebrows. “I know of a few hiding spots in the Rift’s forests. There we can be alone with no distractions – and perhaps—”

“Shh, I smell something!” The hot etheric tang of electricity filled her nose. Her skin prickled in warning. “We’re not alone down here. I’m going to put out the light. I need you to trust me!”

Bishop scoffed. “Let me make this clear: I don’t trust anyone, not even the man pouring my drink.” Says the guy she found drinking his way through the Sleeping Giant’s ale stores. “The only two things I trust anymore are myself and my wolf, got it?”

“Yes, yes,” Leara hissed, dismissive. She grabbed his hand, the magelight winking out and leaving them in the pitch black. Karnwyr brushed against her leg, present and silent. At least someone understood her. Illusionary magic dripped in quiet waves from her fingers, muffling their steps – and Bishop’s mouth, though he probably wouldn’t notice. Mundanes. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of magical talent in him, which was for the best.

The moonstone ring on her hand burned cold, chilling her skin and pushing her magicka reserves beyond their natural limit. Engulfed in the dark and the specters of life in a smoky haze only she could see, Leara pulled the ranger behind her Karnwyr’s rosy form following close by, as she searched with methodic precision amongst the signs of life for one she knew.

The smell of lightning grew heavier.

The ring sent frostbite crawling up her hand.

She almost missed it – would have, if not for the reflection of a spiraling tower over crystal waters, a snowbank high against ancient stones, a hall full of tables occupied by brothers and sisters. She saw these things sung in the heartbeat of another life, recognizable as they lived in her own soul.

Clairvoyance was a tricky spell. Some claimed it blindly led them to destiny. Others dismissed its use entirely. Leara used it as a lasso, binding it to her goal and drawing herself toward it as a mountaineer pulls himself up a cliff face. The icy moonstone bit into her hand, a cold reminder of just how much magicka she was pouring out and of the limited ability of the ring to support her. Just a little more . . .

In a muffled bubble, she pulled Bishop deeper and deeper into the twisted labyrinth. If at any time he protested when she brought them to a sudden halt or made a hasty turn to avoid the other souls wandering in the dark, she didn’t hear it over the blanket of illusion. It was a cheap remedy; she knew that, and yet his inability to Not Talk was a serious liability.

The soul grew closer, less than a dozen yards away. Leara sacrificed life detection for a Nighteye spell that washed the lightless warrens in a green glow. Squinting, to keep her own magical glimmer as small as possible, Leara led the way up a set of stairs and across a stone archway that she’d have otherwise missed. She felt more than heard Bishop grunt as they made the ascent.

And then they were there, the tether of clairvoyance pulling her along a ledge before disappearing through a heavy metal door. It stood as an imposing barrier in a corner, easy to miss when traipsing blind through the warrens. The entrance to a bolt hole, and she knew who was inside.

Releasing the clairvoyance, she felt the muffle dissipate as well. Warmth began to seep back into her ring, thawing the frost just under her skin. Untaxed save for the Nighteye, it replenished her well without overdrawing. Leara stood trembling for a moment, then two, allowing her equilibrium to reorient itself.

“Hey, you all right? You’re trembling.” Concern failed to mask the obvious amusement in the ranger’s tone. “What were you even doing?” he added when she didn’t answer.

“I was blindly fumbling through the dark in a very dignified fashion, thank you,” she snapped, unwilling to explain the amount of magic she’d performed just to get them there without incident. Electricity still stung her nose.

“Fine, don’t tell me!” he said in a huff.

Leara rolled her eyes. She rapped a prim staccato of taps in a dizzying pattern. It thudded a deep, erratic beat reminiscent of children beating at drums.

Silence. Then— “Go away.”

“Esbern,” she called out. “Esbern, it’s me, it’s Elanor.”

He wasted no time in replying. “That’s impossible. Elanor was executed. The Thalmor found her – and if you know about her, then no doubt you're one of them. Leave me alone!”

Leara placed a palm on the door, restraining herself from pounding into it with a fist so cold it would shatter metal. To the side, Bishop was mouthing words like ‘Elanor’, ‘executed’, and ‘Thalmor’ like he was practicing for a spelling test. “Esbern,” she began again, soft but still loud enough to be heard through the heavy barrier. “It’s Elanor. I was there when they ordered the executions. If you remember the 30th of Frostfall, then the 7th of Frostfall haunts me every time I close my eyes. That was the day I was forced to watch all my brothers and sisters lose their lives to the Dominion.”

“It’s a trick.” She could hear the tears in his voice the same as she felt them welling in her eyes, clogging her throat.

“It’s not.”

“All this emotion is giving me a stomachache,” groused Bishop.

“Then stop eavesdropping and keep an eye out for the Thalmor!” bit Leara.

“I don’t know if your ladyship has noticed, but we’re standing in the dark.”

“Aren’t you a hunter? You have other senses attuned to tracking than just your eyes,” she snapped before turning back to the door. The ring and shudder of locks and bolts scraping against metal were her only warning before the door slowly swung open. A thin candle hovered before a gaunt old face, lined with more than just the long years since the war and the fall of their order. “Esbern.”

“It’s you,” he whispered. “Elanor, you’re alive! How can this be? But, no, come inside, come inside.” The candlelight and its ghost drew back into the hole. Leara followed, whispering for Bishop to keep a watch at the door. He rolled his eyes but stood at the post. The Nighteye fizzled out as she entered the room, Karnwyr following.

It was sparsely decorated, but much cleaner than she imagined many of the other holes in the Ratway were. A table and chair, both stacked with books, and a broken cupboard took up one end of the room while a thin bed and padlocked chest occupied the other. Candle stubs her dotted around the room, creating a dim and dismal atmosphere. The mood was reflective of her own.

“Now,” Esbern was saying. “You had best tell me how you survived the massacre in Summerset when every other Blades agent was found and killed. How did you do it?”

“I was a shadow,” she began, mind suddenly distant, lost to the past. The burn of a different ring and the sticky guise of Alteration magic clung to her skin. In those days, she didn’t know the woman she saw in the mirror. Neither did the Dominion. “The Grandmaster sent me to infiltrate the Dominion. By the time I was in a high enough position to know what was going on, it was too late to try and warn anyone without revealing myself.” Sometimes, usually at night, she still doubted that she did the right thing.

Esbern’s face was drawn, deep in thought. “As relieved as I am to know you’re alive,” he began. She could hear the ‘but’ coming. “Why did you search for me?” There it was. “The Thalmor have been seen in the Ratway. It was only a matter of time before they found me, and now when they come, they will find you as well.” He shuffled over to his stack of books, lifting one and studying its cover. “It’s all hopeless.”

“Hopeless?” Leara echoed. “How can you say that?”

“Haven't you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake-up and see what's going on?” Esbern shook his book at her, his eyes were bloodshot. Karnwyr whined. “Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said! The Dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him!” He deflated then, small and wraithlike in the dark. Leara’s heart ached. “I tried to tell them. They wouldn't listen. Fools. It's all come true . . . all I could do was watch our doom approach . . .”

The weight of the world settled across Leara’s shoulders. Esbern was wrong. There was one thing that could stand between mankind and the end of the world.

Her.

"Oh, yes. It's all been foretold,” the old chronicler nodded, catching sight of her drawn face. “The end has begun. Alduin has returned.”

Akatosh help her. “The only thing that stands between him and the world is the Dragonborn,” she said. Karnwyr pushed into her hand, shifting so it fell on his head.

“Yes, but no Dragonborn has been known for centuries,” Esbern said. “All the Blades’ waiting and watching, and it was in vain. No Dragonborn has come.” He sighed, “It seems the gods have grown tired of us. They've left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater.”

“They haven’t,” Leara spoke up. She squared her shoulders, internal crisis packed away to be dealt with later. “Esbern, it’s me. I’m the Dragonborn. By the grace of Akatosh, I’m here.”

A mix of emotions spun across Esbern’s face: shock, disbelief, realization, relief, and last of all hope. Hope settled on his face as the old Blade took her hand, his worn hand eclipsing her small golden one. “What? You're . . . can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then . . . then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must, we must . . .we must go, quickly now!”

Leara and Esbern made quick work of gathering his books and papers together. Over the years, the chronicler collected a wealth of knowledge on the Alduin, the dragons, and the prophecy of the Last Dragonborn. The thought of the Last burned in Leara’s heart. All those years the Blades spent waiting for a new Dragonborn after the death of the last Septim emperor, and for decades, the one they searched for had been one of their order. The irony was not lost on her as she shouldered one of Esbern’s bookbags, laden down with books about her processors, stretching back to St. Alessia and her covenant with Akatosh.

“Hey, ladyship? Something’s out there, and I don’t think it’s one of those vagrants we slipped by earlier.”

They were out of time.

“Do you know another way out of here?” she asked.

Esbern nodded. “Yes, come. We should proceed cautiously.”

Back into the dark, across the ledge, over the arch, and down the stairs. The electricity in the air sent every fiber of Leara’s being on edge. Not even in the embassy had it been this rampant. She hadn’t felt this much electricity since the war.

Crack! A brilliant sliver of light shot through the air. Leara pushed forward with Esbern, and the bolt collided with the wall. Sparks ricocheted, snapping on her armor. Esbern cried out. Karnwyr howled. Bishop cursed.

“There’s the Blades agent! Kill her!”

“Run!”

Temperatures plummeted as the air was shot with electricity. Leara ran, keeping pace with Esbern to help the old man through the twisting tunnels. She could hear the twang of Bishop’s bowstring and Karnwyr snarling.

“I’m getting too old for this!” Esbern moaned.

“Where’s the exit?” Leara asked.

A glowing compass rose appeared on the back of Esbern’s hand, and he pointed in a direction away from the path back to the thieves’ bar.

“I’ll see you burn!”

“Oh, for the love of—” Leara spun around, frost gathered in her hands. A wizard was hot on her heels, having slipped by the rearguard held by Bishop and Karnwyr. Ice and fire met in a crashing song and the air filled with the snap-hiss of steam. Out of the mist, a lumbering form lurched into being. A frost atronach! It swung toward the wizard, and Leara took that chance to rejoin Esbern, his hand raised from conjuring the Daedra. He led her to a sewer drain deep in the wall. It wasn’t very big. There was enough room for them to crawl through to the other side.

“Through here,” Esbern said, tugging at the grate. It swung out on a hinge. “There’s a ladder that leads up a hovel called beggar’s row.”

“Can you make it?” Leara asked.

Esbern wavered for a moment, then nodded. “Come after me,” he told her. “Wait for me to get up the ladder before you crawl through. It’s a tight fit.”

Esbern crawled through the drain. Leara looked back over her shoulder, the distant sounds of fighting echoing back through the tunnels. She could still hear Karnwyr, and her heart went out to the wolf. He was sweet. She didn’t want to leave him down here.

She stood to go back for him.

“Where is the Blades agent?”

“She’s mine!”

She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine. It resonated off the stones, bouncing back and forth between the walls. It bit at her heels.

Leara shot through the drain, pulling it closed behind her before scrambling up the ladder after Esbern, who she was surprised to see was already a decent way up the passage.

“I’m right behind you!” she called.

She saw Esbern acknowledge her. “What about your friend? The hunter?”

“He can take care of himself.”

She hoped the Thalmor took care of him.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Faal Hah Wuld, pt. 16

Sadrith,

We found the brush. It's yours when you next visit.

-Vex

----

Dear Sadrith,

I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you now from Solstheim, where I have now been living. I had thought I might continue to travel with the khajiit, but it seems my age is catching up with me. After solving a particularly unsettling situation in Raven Rock, I found myself gifted with a home, and it is here I have settled. Settled, me! It is a ridiculous idea, really, to think that after a lifetime of roving, both with the Urshilaku and the khajiit, I am finally inclined to stay in one place.

Yet here I am. The letter you provided was quite handy when I encountered a brother of that Mallory fellow you spoke of, as it turns out his brother is the town blacksmith, and he showed me how to put up one of those marks your guild is so fond of. So everyone knows I'm not to be stolen from. The guild takes care of their own, he says.

I know you don't do well with long passages so I will end this letter as I always do. Remember that you brought me hope as you brought it to all of Skyrim.

- your loving mother

----------------------

Sadrith gave a slight smile as she looked over the second letter the courier had delivered, and tucked it away with some of the others from her mother. Whenever she was having a particularly bad day she would reread some of them, and...it would help. Sometimes if the day was especially bad it wouldn't be much, but a little spot of light was better than none when her mind darkened.

"What's this about a brush?"

She had been so focused on reading the letters that she'd hardly noticed Torovan as he slipped up behind her.

"None of your--" she tucked away the first letter as Torovan sat down next to her, "Has anyone ever told you that it's rude to look over another person's private letters?"

"My apologies for wanting to know if you were looking over anything more you might have fond on those...golden bandits we encountered."

Sadrith took a deep breath. "Just...don't sneak up on me like that. And it's...a delicate letter. From someone I'd not like you to yap about. Oddly enough, it's from someone a lot like you."

"And how might that be, exactly?" Torovan took a sip from the mug she ordered for him and gave a brief wince.

"Stick up her ass. S'pose she's got a reason for it, though, so I imagine you do too." She shrugged, and went on nibbling at the meal before her. Her appetite was deader than dead, but she was forcing food down knowing they'd have to go through Helgen and the mountains...if she didn't eat, there'd probably be hell to pay later.

And she could not show weakness to this one-eyed mer. Whatever reason he might have for acting the way he did.

"Sadrith!"

"Ugh," Torovan said under his breath, "Do you know everyone in this forsaken village?"

"As a matter of fact I do." She gave him a brief smile, which seemed to surprise him. She looked off to the side to see Camilla, emerging from the room that had once led to Delphine's secret staircase. "Camilla! I've heard congratulations are in order."

"Oh...yes." For a moment her face shifted about. "Well, after seeing the games Sven and Faendal were playing, I realized...I wanted someone unlikely to do that."

"Orgnar is a man of few words, but all of them are straight-forward. You couldn't have chosen better. Orgnar, you happy?" she looked to the bartender.

"Happy as a man ought to be when he's married," the man replied, without looking up from the glass he was cleaning. There was a slight mote of emotion--small, but there. He was happy, despite not showing it very well.

"I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps you'd like a wedding gift?"

"You're spending money here, that's all the gift I need."

"Fair enough." Sadrith gave a little laugh.

Torovan sat beside her a little while longer as Camilla chattered about how things were going. How Orgnar had built a basement and how being allowed to actually DO things to help out had been wonderful. Sadrith struggled to pay attention to it but she nodded, and smiled, and retained enough to make small remarks now and then. On the whole, when Camilla left to head to get some salmon from the river, she seemed quite pleased with the conversation.

"She seems happier now. You're lucky, Orgnar."

"Sure am."

Sadrith went back to trying to eat. Torovan said something about going to pick over the meager offerings at Lucan's shop, and after denying her saying she'd go with him, he waved off her concern and left.

Something else is going on here, it must be. He doesn't seem to need or want me taking him to Riften. Why am I here?

He was clearly an enemy of the Thalmor, as was Sigurd...so there was no purpose in having her along. Unless it was simply to have someone else to watch his back. But in that case, why not simply hire any random mercenary? There would be plenty of them who would be happy to take a few hundred gold to make the trip. Perhaps they wanted to make contact with the Thieves Guild and saw her as the in...or...

As no answer revealed itself, and the matter wasn't especially pressing to her mind, she eventually drifted back to forcing herself to eat the meal she'd already paid for.

She managed to get down the rest of the salmon, and sat sipping at a mug of ale, still thinking over Vex's letter. The brush. Finally. After months of searching and paying for information and shelling out damn near the entire fortune she'd amassed from the scales and bones of dragons--the brush was hers.

"Strongest you have."

The voice was all khajiiti accents, and sounded off so suddenly beside her that she nearly dropped her drink. The khajiit--a calico dotted here and there with dark spots, clad in a black robe that seemed to shimmer with stars -- took a seat beside her and gestured to Orgnar.

A lone cat that isn't M'aiq...?

"That'll be the argonian bloodwine. Expensive."

Some gold was produced. Orgnar took it and got out the large aqua bottle, then poured a small glass.

"That's always a good choice," Sadrith said, raising her mug slightly. "Useful for breathing underwater..."

"Not that I need such things." The khajiit finished the glass, and poured himself another. He turned to her, and gave a toothy grin. "Perhaps you'd like to share in it?"

Something about him felt...off. But that was a feeling she had fairly often, so she brushed it aside.

"Ah, no, I don't want to take something so expensive," she waved absently, "You've paid some pretty coin for that..."

There was a feeling that she'd missed something. Forgotten something, and she hated that she couldn't figure out what in oblivion it was.

"And it's rude to refuse a gift."

"You're right," she replied, and slid her mug over. "Not too much, though, I've got to get on the road soon."

And, she added mentally, for the skooma to actually work, I need to be sober. Trying to drink while taking skooma never ended well; she seemed to get drunk faster and stay drunk longer.

She shut her eyes momentarily, and found herself taking in a sharp breath when upon opening them she saw the hands holding the bottle of bloodwine were covered in black fur instead of the mottled color they had been before.

"The scent is a bit strong," the khajiit said, "Perhaps I should have let it breathe for longer."

"It's fine." Sadrith gulped hard, and forced herself to look up at his face. It was dark too, just like the hands...paws...she'd just looked at.

Gods, not again. This isn't supposed to happen unless I take too much. It's fine. It's fine, it's only his fur color. It's FINE.

Deep breath. It didn't help. It never did.

"And what brings you to Riverwood?" she asked, in a vain attempt to stave off her sudden bout of nerves. "It's not often one meets a khajiit that's not part of a caravan."

"A job," he replied, gesturing after slowly draining another glass of the bloodwine. "There's someone I mean to keep an eye on...track."

"Sounds a hazardous job. I hope your quarry's not hard to track." Perhaps this was the one Sigurd had warned of? Maybe it wasn't only the Thalmor he'd been worried about.

"On the contrary, my quarry is quite easy to track."

A blink. Now he was no longer a khajiit, despite the persistence of the accent, but now an Altmer. Yet the robe remained the same, distracting in its dark way, glittering here, darkening there...

"...so obvious, a child could do it."

"Oh? Then why have you not yet caught them? Assuming you wish to, I mean. It's not really my business, I'm sorry, but you've piqued my curiosity."

Keep it together, keep it together

"I take no offense." Another grin. "In fact, I should be glad of your help."

For a brief second Sadrith swore his teeth were longer. She shoved the thought back. This was a skooma hallucination, nothing more.

Act as though nothing is wrong. You can do this, Sadrith. You must. If Torovan returns and you're still in this state--

"You are the dragonborn after all, as much set to wandering as any caravan of khajiit."

White fur, black spots. The fear was peaking and she reached for the bottle.

"How can I help you, then?"

The khajiit took the bottle from her, and poured her out a bit more bloodwine.

"Tell me how I might deal with someone on the run, once they are caught? I never fail to catch my prey. Either I find them sooner due to a combination of skill and luck, or later, when they become aware I am following..."

"And begin to panic? They get more dangerous that way. I should know, with all the bandits I've collected bounties on. Got a few scars from...from cornering them."

"Yet you always come out the victor." Again that toothy grin that unsettled her. "The magnificent dragonborn...bandit killer, dragonslayer, feller of foes from Markarth to Windhelm. A bloody force that Boethiah herself would be proud of."

"Because I am here, and they are not." Sadrith thought of the book regarding the summoning of Boethiah, desperate to think of anything but the chaos unfolding before her. "I would prefer to avoid killing if possible, but...some people make it necessary."

"You see it as a duty, then. Perhaps the Dark Brotherhood would suit you."

"I hardly think a group of assassins know much about duty. Devotion to sending people to the void by bloody murder, maybe."

Another glass.

"And I eliminated them. I don't care for Sithis and his ilk."

Sadrith blinked, and the khajiit's fur changed again, back to the black.

"No, clearly not, if you so eagerly move to commit such a feat. But I am curious...do you have no fear of death? Most would balk at the danger."

"Danger is in my blood." She laughed nervously, trying desperately to shake off the rising anxiety. "I'm not afraid of dying, I'm afraid of not living."

It's only your mind playing tricks on you. That's it. That's all. He's a normal man and you're just seeing things.

"Everyone is afraid of death. Everyone wants to go in their bed, at a great age, surely you are no different."

Why do you CARE?

It didn't matter. There was nothing outside her head that scared her more than what was inside, anyway.

Blink. Tan fur, white hands. Paws.

What is HAPPENING? Has Shegg--Sheogorath come to claim my mind?

"Excuse the dark and dreary talk," the khajiit finally said, "I've taken so many bounties my mind thinks mainly in metaphors of death...however chaotic they might seem to those with a heroic bent, like yourself. But tell me...I am curious, I ask this question of everyone. How do you imagine you will die?"

"In glorious battle defending someone, or something, I imagine," Sadrith replied easily. "I spend a lot of time adventuring...so it only makes sense it should be how I leave the world."

"A woman of Shor's own heart."

Orgnar dropped something, and as he muttered bent over to clean it up. Sadrith finished what remained of her drink, and took another deep breath.

"Dragonborn!"

Torovan's voice rang out suddenly from the doorway. Sadrith looked back, and waved him over, turned--

--and dropped her own mug.

The seat beside her was empty. The only hint that anyone had been there was the cup beside her own, and the half-drunk bottle of argonian bloodwine. She handed the mug back to Orgnar and muttered some excuse of needing to get moving.

I was seeing things. Hearing things. That's it. That's all. I just--don't remember ordering the wine. I must have done that myself, and just...I just forgot. ...keep it together, keep it together!

"If you're sufficiently pickled, we should get a move on."

"Right. Right, yes." Sadrith was for once glad of Torovan's stern orders; they simplified things quite a bit. She gathered her things and headed for the door with him.

"I hope you've not made yourself unfit for travel."

"Some ale and not even half a bottle of bloodwine won't do much to me," she replied, and glanced here and there as they went outside, wondering if the hallucinations would stop with that khajiit. "Your concern is...is touching, of course."

Sadrith saw nothing more, though she was still looking for anything out of the ordinary.

She forced a smile for him. Not until they passed through Riverwood's back gate, on the road to Helgen, did he speak again.

"Tell me," he said, "How is it you are so undaunted by insults or slights against your character? Where is the desire to defend your honor?"

"I grew up in a khajiit caravan. The petty things you throw at me don't compare to the things I was called as a child. Or the things I've heard from Thalmor."

The gentle sound of the running river near them soothed her mind just slightly, and she tried to focus it to further ease her unsteady mind. But Torovan spoke again, breaking her fragile concentration.

"Do you often provoke them, then? No...no, don't bother answering that question. Perhaps what I should ask is what you've done to earn their ire."

Sadrith latched onto the topic eagerly. A distraction, that was what she needed. Something to put the khajiit from her mind--a strategy she often employed in distressing circumstances like these. "Are you sure you want to hear? Will you insult me over that also? If you do...I beg you to do better at it."

"I would be pleased to hear it, actually. They have not made themselves popular, and it is always good to hear of such people being...taken down a peg."

"You? Enjoying humiliating one of them? I'm surprised you wouldn't simply leave that sort of thing to the Archmage. The nords have more of a cause to hate the Thalmor than we do."

"The enemies of my friend are my enemies also," Torovan stated evenly. "His devotion to my welfare is such that it could be no other way. I would not be standing here before you if he hadn't taken such pains to save my life."

She thought again of Lydia.

"And how do I know that you are not some part of a Thalmor plot, hmm?" She then realized her error late, and quickly tried to correct herself, cover it up, with, "The letter we picked off that group seems a point in your favor, of course. But you did say I shouldn't trust you, and I hesitate to do it anyway. Tall, dark, brooding - you are the sort of man I read of in novels, who usually has some danger attached to him."

"Brooding!" Torovan laughed. "Now you have gone too far. I do not brood. Will you answer my question or no? What have you done to upset the Thalmor, besides that business with the embassy?"

"I broke a nord out of one of their fortresses," she replied, "His mother asked I look into his disappearance...and some clues lead me to a fortress in the Northwest."

"Ah, so Sigurd has YOU to blame for their increasing presence in the Sea of Ghosts."

"For WHAT?" Sadrith burst out. "Are the Thalmor skulking around Winterhold? If he needs them cleared out, I could do it as easily as I did at the fortress."

"All of them on your own?"

"If need be."

"You are every bit as foolish as Sigurd once was. He too is eager to take command and right the wrongs and ills he sees before him. Do you think it your responsibility as he does, or do you simply like the glory?"

"Both," Sadrith replied. "To see a smile, or relief, on a face and know I was the reason for it - that is what I want to see when I enter a village, or one of the cities here."

"You could settle right now and be satisfied with all you've done...and still see those looks when you receive visitors." Torovan went on in the same vein, but she tuned most of it out. "You killed the World-Eater, and need do nothing more."

"If I don't, then who will?" Sadrith shrugged. "I'm not made to be idle...stay in one place. I get an itch under my skin to move if I try. Natural, considering I grew up in a caravan with a mother who herself hailed from an ashlander tribe. Wandering is in my blood."

"Indeed it is."

They were silent until reaching the Guardian Stones.

"You clearly do not need me," she said suddenly, stopping to look at the Thief stone, "And I know you won't tell me the reason for my being here...but I know there must be something else."

"The reason is that my friend is overprotective of me, and wants me looked after more than I feel is necessary. With the dragons about, he wanted extra caution taken."

"You do not mean me harm, do you?"

"Of course not."

She stared a little while. The anxiety was finally receding but all she could think was--the hallucination of the khajiit was so contained within the Sleeping Giant and nothing else outside it had been seen, perhaps it was merely having met Delphine there that kicked it off? The unpleasant memory of that woman, maybe, that stirred her skooma-addled mind into a frenzy without her even realizing it? At times her body seemed wholly disconnected from her mind, and where she felt no inward worry her body would refuse to believe the fact and feel its effects anyway. But she hadn't felt any such thing in the inn...no nausea in her stomach or ache of the head, nothing of the sort.

What then had caused the hallucination? She wasn't worried, truly, she merely wanted to understand. To prevent it happening again.

"If you meant me harm, you would have done it already, with all the chances you've had. You could've drained me dry and left me in the Barrow and no one would have been the wiser. Hungry as you were..."

That reminded her of something else. Another subject to stop herself thinking overmuch on the hallucination.

"I'm curious," she said, "I've never had the...appetites that those like you have. Never had to tell the difference between difference kinds of blood...what makes mine any different than the regular? Is it more filling?"

"In a way," Torovan replied, as she turned and lead him further up the path. "I cannot strike the feeling from my mind that I have tasted it somewhere before."

His tone here made her wish she could see his face.

"Unless you have preyed on me in the night some time ago, I doubt it. Not that I would say no to your bowing over me as you did before."

"I say again: you trust too easily. You seem aware of the danger I pose and yet you flaunt it as a less experienced mercenary would. Do you think yourself safe from harm?"

"I think what is outside is less frightening than what is inside." The words were out before she could stop them, and the hope she felt that he hadn't heard her properly was immediately dashed when he turned to face her. She hunted frantically for something to say and settled on, "Think what you will of me, but if I should set the safety of an entire province on your shoulders I'd wager your mind would not be as pleasant a place as before."

Torovan didn't seem to have a response.

"At any rate," she went on, "I prefer to think of more pleasant things, if I can. It keeps the mind busy, stops it from taking all the weight at once. Joy in little places - that helps me bend, rather than break."

"And here I thought you to be the sort of person information must be coaxed from," Torovan replied, "I see now I need not have worried. Information gushes from your mouth like a river. Reckless, talkative...it is a wonder you have maintained a reputation for discretion with qualities like these."

"Secret keeping is not my job, and there hasn't yet been something too important that I must keep quiet." Aside from Delphine and Esbern's locations, of course. "I leave that to others of the Guild."

"Suppose you came into information that would enable you to relieve Tamriel of some Thalmor? Would you share THAT?"

"If the one from whom I learned it desired me to. When I hear of Thalmor, however, I tend to..." She drifted off. "I have said enough."

"No, tell me," Torovan said, his voice suddenly sharp. "When you think of Thalmor, you do what?"

"Why should I, when you tell me nothing of yourself? Am I being judged, is that what this is? You want something more to..." She took a deep breath, and tried to calm herself down. Getting worked up could only end poorly. Maybe she'd see that khajiit again, or maybe as a treat a dragon that wasn't actually there. "Fine. When I hear of Thalmor...I get angry. A bully should be smacked down, and if no one else has the wherewithal or ability to do it, then..."

"Then it shall be you?"

"Then it shall be me." She gave a momentary grin, wider than her usual. "Not that I would say no to aid or guidance, but who would be willing to help me? Certainly not General Tullius or any of the Imperials."

Sadrith could not stop, could not make herself stop. Her mouth refused the very idea.

"Ulfric is being led by a leash he cannot even see, so he is no better. Not to mention the dislike his ilk have for mine. He would be the better choice for..."

And then just as suddenly it shifted, and she could find herself just as unwilling to speak. On a septim it pivoted, and she felt all the embarrassment of it.

"You've give this a lot of thought, haven't you? Perhaps the imperial dogs and Stormcloaks should let YOU figure this all out."

"I'm not a leader," Sadrith said, "That is the problem of this whole thing. I could sort it, but I don't want to be king or queen or anything like that. I don't wish to lead armies, perhaps a charge, but not the whole army. I'm more of a soldier than a general. A weapon to be turned against the one who needs reminding what happens when you poke sleeping dragons."

Oh, yes, how she would love to show the Thalmor that...

As they approached Helgen, her mind was alight with possibilities for scaring them--what good would it be to defeat them without some element of terror to make them regret all they'd done? All they were trying to do?

Torovan brought her back to reality.

"I see I shall have to get back out my larger fur robe," he said, grumbling at the cold around them as he stopped and reached into one of his bags. "I will be surprised if you can make it half the way across this accursed back way before you start ruing the day you took this job."

"Pay no attention to any grumbling. I complain, but I do what must be done anyway." Sadrith shrugged. "The issue will be seeing once we get farther up."

She took out her map, and pointed to a spot on it, which he leaned over to glance at.

"There's a cave called Haemar's Shame around this spot. We might not entirely NEED to stop for a night's rest there but it'll be a good spot to stop and warm up before we go on. Shake the chill out of our bones and all. I'll gather up some kindling as we go and we'll have ourselves a good little fire."

"And then?"

"We can make a quick stop at Ivarstead." Sadrith looked up then, towards the gates of Helgen.

"You picked a bad time to get lost, friend!"

"And a stop here to get you something to eat."

The gates swung open, and two bandits charged forward.

Torovan raised his hands, charged a fire spell, and gave a dark laugh that left her tingling.

Tall, dark, and deadly

She shoved the map in her pocket and readied her sword, eager now to blot out not fears of hallucination, but the mental image of the torso beneath Torovan's robes.

[jiubilant]

I would like to see Ayo's definitive ranking of Skyrim cities

"I will tell you which cities have the most comfortable inns. This is, I think, the most important thing to know about a city.

"The Bannered Mare in Whiterun is not bad, now that Mikael is yowling somewhere else. Don't let Saa Dia give you the second-story room. Unless you like to be watched while you sleep. In that case, I recommend the second-story room.

"If you like to scratch yourself, go to Danstrar and take a bed at the Early Oar. Their fish soup is good, though. And the Frozen Hearth in Winterhold is very warm—but if you stay anywhere in Winterhold, you'll have to break the ice in your washbasin each morning. Oo, the College is worst of all. Half the hallways have snow in them. Do you own many pairs of socks?

"Good. If you are going north, wear them all.

"The best inns in Windhelm are in the Quarter. They're called cornerclubs—because each one's a House of Troubles, a friend once told me, but he was joking. I think. Anyway, the New Gnisis sells the strongest drinks, but there's a quayside place, the Dregs—the Drugs—"

Lydia, slouched in a fireside chair with a book tented over her face, is not as asleep as she looks. "The Dreugh's Dugs."

"—o sé, the—whatever she said. They served us spiced crab legs that tasted almost like what you can buy in Khefrem.

"The Skeever in Solitude is clean, but not cheap—and the Bards' College masters drink there at night, and are sometimes inspired to give lectures, so it is—

"Loud. Yes. Most of the taverns near campus see much of the students. We usually lodged at sailors' inns in Dockside, which is the port district under the rock." A brief, wry pause. "Those are also loud. You will find the best food and cleanest beds at the Hung Man, which has a...very distinctive sign.

"Oh, and there's the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood." The Dragonborn grins. "Ask Orgnar for the attic room."