#my imagination can fill in the blanks its fine uwu

[ariveth]

          HOME, IF IT COULD EVEN BE CALLED THAT, was a place in which she spent so little time these days it was a miracle it hadn't been sold away in her absence — then again, it wasn't as if the hovel would be much of a steal. It serves more as a place of respite, of privacy, and that serves her well when a courier of a more shadowy ilk comes knocking with word from a well-known associate. Brynjolf.

          The letter, full of tempting promises in his unique and well-honed brand of peddler's persuasion, does far more than pique her interest. Working alone was almost entirely comprised of small-scale work, subtle and with fewer turning gears, but it granted her the independence and freedom she desired, with the added benefit of no spoils shared. However. What Brynjolf's message promises, even just vaguely, isn't just wealth beyond measure ( which truly would be enough on it's own ) but a challenge, an adventure to terrify and test and thrill from start to finish. That elven lifespan bred boredom easily, and made Ariveth ravenous for that sort of uncertain, exigent risk to sink her teeth into.

          And so of course, she'd immediately agreed to hear him out. Although, even without the specifics, it was practically a formality — she knows any sort of plan concocted by the Guild's second is an opportunity squandered only by the foolish.

          With linen in place of her leathered armor and without her usual assortment of daggers and knives strapped to her, Ariveth looks almost homely, plain with the exception of the scar that runs across one side of her face. Typically, it's another beneficial tool in her arsenal; today, it's merely comfort as she cleans and puts both soup and tea on the boil in anticipation for her guest.

          When Brynjolf finally does appear on her doorstep, arriving with that considerately-precautionary knock, he's a stunning mess. Even braided out of his face, his hair had been whipped by wind, his armor softened by travel and its related toils; his unshaven face completing what was quite a good look on him. Ariveth crosses her arms briefly, grinning. "I'd say you look awful, but I'd be lying."

          She steps aside enough to let him in and shut the door before she's stretching to meet his extensive height, wrapping her arms around his neck then relaxing back on her heels to bring him bending down with her once she'd caught him in her embrace. "No trouble on the road, I hope?" She eventually releases him, guiding him to the kitchen by the firepit. "Come, sit. I'm dying to hear what you've got for me. Are you hungry, or is it just tea for you? Got mead too, if you'd like to start drinking early."

》》 starter for @ariveth

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

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

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

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