[Big Homie]

http://archiveofourown.org/works/1272097?view_full_work=true

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10143016/1/Five-Threads

Argument

Spoiler

Rather than creating one character and letting him/her perform all the Guild Quests, like the game lets you do, I've instead created five characters and let them follow their own guilds. And of course, five characters creates more possibilities - some will meet, some will help each other, and other will become bitter enemies. And through all this, the Dragonborn's thread makes its own pulls at the fabric. I've taken a lot of liberties with this, so if it doesn't always follow canon to the letter, don't shoot me. Critiques are welcome, hope you enjoy the read! This is my first post in this subforum so if I'm doing something wrong, don't hesitate to let me know!

FALNAS

To Catch a Thief

City of Riften

As luck would have it, Falnas arrived in Riften on market day, his favourite day of the week, no matter what the actual day was, it was different in every city. Market day meant there weren’t just the usual stalls in the market place, the vegetable and fruit stands, the butcher’s stall, and all that sort of low-profit chump-change opportunities, no, on market day the other merchants came, and those brought the chances for some good business. For themselves, and for Falnas.

It wouldn’t be as easy here as it would be in Morrowind, of course. A Dunmer tended to stand out, and the mostly Nordic population of Tamriel still tended to associate a dark skin with subterfuge and deception. Completely unjustified of them, of course, Falnas thought to himself, grinning. True, these people were simpler and less perceptive than his fellow Dunmer, but on the other hand, if you got caught stealing in Skyrim, most people didn’t turn you in to the authorities, they simply chased you with a butcher’s knife or a woodcutter’s axe. What happened then depended on whose legs gave out first.

Falnas was rather confident he’d be able to make a quick septim or two here, however. Markets were deliciously busy, and the people wonderfully carefree. He’d have to be careful for one of them though, a powerful-looking blonde Nord woman with a big battle axe on her back and blue dye on one side of her face. She didn’t wear a guard’s armour, but Falnas was certain, from the look in her eyes, that she considered herself in charge of protecting this city. Right now her eyes were set on a dark-haired woman in an expensive-looking blue dress, adorned with jewelry. That seemed like a wonderful target, even though she looked more aware and perceptive than most of the dullards around here. She looked Breton or Cyrodiilic, Falnas could not say. At that moment, the dark-haired woman looked back at the blonde battleaxe, and shot her a look of annoyance and hostility. The blonde crossed her arms and stared back, betraying no emotion.

Hmmm, power struggles in this little hamlet. Always good opportunities for profit.

But first, business at hand. Inconspicuously, Falnas got closer to the dark-haired woman, moving effortlessly through the crowd, and resisting the temptation to snatch a coin purse or two while he was at it – no point getting caught and having to make an escape over a few lousy septims when there was a rich woman hung with gold to rob. She was inspecting rolls of silk now, and the gold and diamond brooch she wore on her chest seemed to be worth a small fortune. Brooches were always easy to steal. Necklaces, you had to tear them off, which meant you had to reveal yourself, rings were even harder, and earrings, well, Falnas hated blood. He was a thief, not a vulgar mugger. A job well done was a job the mark didn’t notice until Falnas was far away. It was how you didn’t get caught.

He shouldered closer to the black-haired woman, and as she held up a sample of silk against the pale sunlight, he walked up to her, meaning to bump into her ‘by accident’ (always a classic) and unpin the brooch and pocket it in a single, ephemeral movement.

“I have a few questions for you,” a Nord-accented female voice interrupted his operation, and he quickly withdrew his hand, cursing silently as a golden opportunity was ruined. The dark-haired woman turned towards the blonde with the axe. “Ugh. Mjoll, ‘the Lioness’. Must you pester me at every turn?”

“Another of the Amberblossom employees was found floating face-down in the canol last night.”

The dark-haired woman shrugged and gave a contemptuous sneer. “An unfortunate accident, I’m sure?”

“Someone unfortunately falling on his back, holding a knife,” the Nord said, her eyes narrowing. “A lot of dead brewers in one week. One mauled by dogs, one disappeared entirely, and now a third, stabbed during the night.”

“These streets are dangerous, Mjoll,” the other woman replied confidently. The crowd, including Falnas, had all stopped to gawk at the exchange. “It’s unfortunate that so many thieves and killers still stalk these streets at night. They kill a man over a septim or two, I’ve heard.”

“I know the streets are dangerous at night,” the Nord bit back. “And I want it to stop.”

The woman in the dark blue dress gave the Nord a flighty snort. “Report it to the guard, then.”

“The guard? You mean those corrupt fools you have in your pocket?”

The other brought a hand to her chest, acting wounded. “But my dear, why ever would you suggest such a thing? I’m only a legitimate businesswoman. I’m not the criminal, those cutthroats at night are.” She brought her face closer to the blonde. “I’ve heard they stop at nothing. I’d watch my step at night, if I were you. This whole vigilante thing is so very dangerous. It’d be unfortunate if the guards found a lioness floating face-down in the canol one morning.”

The blonde’s face contorted in a snarl, and she took a step forward, grabbing the rich woman by the front of her dress, pushing her backward into the crowd. “You dare threaten me?” the Nord snarled, spit flying from her lips. As the mass of people tried to surge away from the woman in blue, Falnas saw his chance and with his fingertips, he removed the brooch from the woman’s dress, sending it sliding down his sleeve in the same motion. “You’re a murderer,” the Nord continued, “and I will see you brought to justice, mark my words!”

“I suggest you let go of me right now, or I shall report you to the guard for assault,” Falnas heard the black-haired woman calmly threaten as he slunk away, slipping through the crowd, his heart racing. The brooch had been the catch of the century. He didn’t care much for whatever it was between those women, all he wanted was to find a fence. He knew someone here, pretty thing called Sapphire, had links to the Thieves’ Guild, she’d be able to find a buyer for this tacky but valuable eyesore. How anyone could adorn themselves with such a gaudy piece of jewelry was beyond him, but what mattered was that people paid a lot of money for it.

He’d last contacted Sapphire at the Bee and Barb, the local tavern, so he made his way there, hoping she’d still be there, and true enough, he immediately saw her sitting at a table, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a goblet of wine and regarding all the other patrons with her usual look of suspicion mixed with disdain. She was good-looking, for sure, but personality like stone. Falnas briefly wondered why she was that way, but he supposed it was none of his business. He’d asked her if there might be any vacancies within the Thieves’ Guild, but every time, she’d simply snorted and told him to come back in a few years.

“Ugh, Falnas,” the young woman grunted when he sat down opposite her. “Brought me another fake gold chain, have you?”

He’d never live that one down.

“That was two years ago, Sapphire,” Falnas reminded her. “And all my other loot’s been good after that.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, annoyed. “Got anything good? Or just the usual two-septim junk?”

His smile as broad as he could make it, Falnas said, “No junk. At least a thousand. Easily.”

Her interest peaked, Sapphire leaned forward. “It’s twenty percent for me and the Guild, as always. Now what do you have?”

After briefly looking through the inn to make sure no one was watching them, Falnas took the brooch from his sleeve and laid it out on the table, then gave Sapphire his most winning smile.

He very briefly saw a strange look in the woman’s eyes when she beheld the brooch, but it was gone as soon as he’d noticed it. “This’ll take some time,” she said. “Meet me… uh,” she had to think for a while. “You know where the Ratway is?”

Falnas nodded. Of course he knew. It was supposedly a sewer complex, but it was a public secret that the Thieves’ Guild had their headquarters in there. If his luck was in, this might just mean she’d lead him to the Guild. Trying to find it alone was suicide – the Ratway was a maze filled with traps, deadfalls, concealed doors and whathaveyou, and if you didn’t know where you were going, you got lost and never came back out. That she wanted to meet there meant she’d hopefully show him where the Guild was. She had better, because few thieves could swipe prizes like these.

“Meet me there after nightfall,” Sapphire said hastily, rising from her chair and marching through the door, throwing a furtive glance through the common room as she did so.

Falnas saw no reason to be nervous, and ordered himself a goblet of whatever it was Sapphire had been drinking.

[City Swagga]

KELJARN

Under a Red Moon

Near the city of Whiterun

Even for one with Nordic blood like Keljarn, the nights in Skyrim were cold if you didn’t spend them in the warmth of your home, or between the sheepskins in a comfortable inn room. His parents had emigrated to High Rock a while ago, his mother’s homeland, and certainly, its nights were warmer, but Keljarn had always felt his heart lay in Skyrim, and now that he was of age, his mother could no longer stop him from returning home, a decision his father had welcomed, even if he hadn’t dared to say it.

Keljarn had no intention of standing at the gates of Sovngarde just yet, but the blood of the warrior flowed through him, this he had always known. His body was built for battle, it was that simple, and the prospect of leading the life of the rich daddy’s boy back in High Rock had simply become more and more unattractive as the years passed. So he’d left, back to Skyrim, back to his home, because he simply considered his half-Breton lineage to be nothing more than a detail. He was a Nord, and as a Nord he wanted to live. His parents had offered to give him a sizeable stipend of septims for the journey, but he’d refused, taking only a small amount, enough to cover the costs of the trek. He knew he’d have plenty of opportunities to earn a good living on his own, without his parents’ help, much as he loved them.

He walked across the rolling plains, passing a few mills and what looked like a brewery as night fell, and stars rose in the clean, clear Skyrim heaven he had so longed to return to. The stars were beautifully visible. There was a red moon out today, but its light was currently blocked by the only cloud in the sky. He stopped for a moment, relishing the feeling of the heavy hatchet on his shoulder, breathed in the cold air through his nose, and smiled. Home at last.

When he opened his eyes again, they settled on the outline of a city, dark against the night sky, lights dotting its walls. It had been years and years since he’d been in Skyrim, but if his memory served, he was close to the city of Whiterun, and there he’d find the cosy inn room Skyrim’s nights were so cold without. He resumed marching, hoping to reach the city gates in an hour or two.

A group of lights danced to his right, a hundred or so metres away. Keljarn stopped again and kept his eye on them. They were moving rather quickly, as if the ones that held them were running. What were they running toward, though?

And then he saw it, barely visible against the night sky was the dark shape of an enormous humanoid, easily standing three or four men high. It was the first time Keljarn had ever seen a giant, but he knew those monsters could easily smash a whole squad of men and mer into the ground. And these fools were running straight for him. In the darkness, he estimated there were only four of them. They ran to their deaths.

Without thinking, Keljarn shrugged off his pack and broke into a run, gripping the hatchet in his hand tightly. As he ran, the sound of a roaring woman came towards him, and he saw one of the lights being thrown backward, sailing through the air and ending up several metres further.

The moon finally broke through as the only cloud at last ceded its place and moved away. In the new light, he saw that three of the humans were still on their feet, dodging the giant’s clumsy but terribly powerful blows, and one of them lay a few metres further, moving but doubtless incapacitated for the rest of the fight. The giant himself looked like a grotesque, gangly, gray-skinned tree-trunk.

He had almost reached them now. The only female in the group dodged a wild swing with a spectacular backwards somersault, landed on her feet, drew her bow, and planted an arrow square in the giant’s thigh, while one of the males let his axe bite deep into the giant’s fingers as it tried to scoop him up. Keljarn heard his own breath, heavy in his ears as he ran.

Even with the arrow in its leg, the giant brought its foot up to stomp the remaining male into the dirt, but he deftly rolled to the side, and the giant’s foot did nothing more than shake the ground. The woman nocked another arrow and let fly, this one striking the giant in the shoulder. The giant growled in anger more than in pain, and swung the torn-out tree trunk he used as a club at one of the men, who couldn’t dodge in time. Keljarn heard the hard, hollow blow as the giant’s club caught the man in the side, lifting him off his feet and sending him to the ground, his ribs doubtless broken and his organs probably turned to paste in his chest.

Frantically, the woman drew her bow again, but her shot hit the giant’s satchel, the arrow glancing off and flying end over end through the air. The remaining man took a swing at the giant’s thigh, but missed.

With a loud roar, Keljarn launched himself into the air, his fingers hooking into the furs the giant wore. Setting one foot in the back of the giant’s knee, Keljarn pushed himself off and up he went, grabbing first the giant’s belt, and then the shoulder strap of his satchel. The giant bellowed, finally realizing there was a human clinging to him, and clumsily began to reach for his back, trying to pluck the pesky nuisance off of him. Keljarn heard another zip of an arrow, a short thud, and the giant howled again. Grabbing the collar of bones the giant wore around his neck, Keljarn brought his axe up with his free hand. Another arrow zip-thudded into the giant’s flesh, and the monster roared again, swaying from the impact, making Keljarn’s feet lose their purchase, and he hung free from the giant, only his left hand clinging to the bone necklace, and his body swinging wildly as the giant moved.

“Aela, stop, you’ll knock him off!” he heard a man’s voice shout below.

No more zip-thuds came, and with one hand, Keljarn sent the head of his hatchet swinging at the back of the giant’s bald head. There was a hollow thwock as the axe head chopped into the giant’s skull, and blood leaked out from the cleft the axe had made. The giant stood, seemingly paralyzed, for a short moment, and staggered a few steps forward and began falling.

Keljarn threw himself to the side and landed in the grass, painfully bruising himself even as he tried to roll to absorb the blow. His teeth clacked together as he came to a stop against a large boulder, and pain flared up from his shoulder and ribs. A groan escaped from between his clenched teeth.

He opened his eyes again to see the giant lying on his face, the handle of his hatchet still sticking out the back of his head. Both remaining fighters kneeled by one of their companions. “Farkas will be fine,” the male called to the woman. “Brains got a bit scrambled, but we won’t notice much difference,” he added with a chuckle.

“Not so for Athis,” the woman called back. “He needs a healer, and quickly.”

The man stood up and marched toward the two others. As he painfully got to his feet, Keljarn could see the fallen figure the man had kneeled over slowly rising, holding his head.

“Athis!” the man called, standing over his fallen friend. “Hold on, we’ll get you a healer.”

“No need,” Keljarn said hoarsely, wobbling toward them. “Let me.”

The woman looked up at him, “You know any Restoration spells?”

“Just the bare basics,” Keljarn said, dropping to his knees next to the fallen man, a Dunmer with white face paint and an elfhawk haircut. He’d been hit by the giant’s tree trunk, and the side of his torso was badly dented. Closing his eyes and taking a breath to clear his head, Keljarn let the energies flow through him as he wove a Restoration spell, taught to him by his mother. White globes of light formed from his fingers, hovering toward the injury and enveloping it, the ribs snap-cracking back into place. Keljarn was a whelp at Restoration, so if the man had truly been mortally injured, there was no way he could have saved him, but thankfully for him, he was only suffering from a few broken ribs, and those he could treat. All Keljarn hoped now was that the Dunmer didn’t have a collapsed lung, because that would take the skill of a magnificent healer to treat. “I think that took care of the worst. He needs to rest now, though,” Keljarn said.

The Dunmer’s rapid, panicked breathing calmed and his eyes opened to slits. “Thanks… friend,” he managed to utter.

“Stay still, Athis,” the kneeling man said. “We’ll get you back to the Hall.”

The other man had come to stand with them. “Sorry for not being more useful.”

Neither of the warriors responded to that, and they and Keljarn rose to their feet. “That was damn spectacular,” the woman said, and for the first time Keljarn got a good look at her face. She was beautiful, not like the pampered and made-up Breton maidens his mother had tried to get him to court, with their upturned noses and braided blonde hairs, but like a real woman, naturally beautiful and radiating strength and confidence. “What’s your name?” She had war paint on her face, three diagonal slashes of blue that only made her more breathtaking.

The uninjured man chuckled and said to Keljarn, “When you’re done being struck dumb, how ‘bout answering the lady?”

“Oh, right, sorry. Keljarn.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Vilkas, and this is my brother Farkas. The woman bringing stars to your eyes is Aela. The crybaby on the ground is Athis. Thanks for your help.”

Keljarn shook the man’s hand. They were brothers alright, one with shoulder-length hair and a stubble beard, the other slightly more powerfully built, with slightly longer hair and a fuller beard. “It’s no problem, felt good to get the blood pumping a little bit.”

The man with the longer beard laughed. “Ha! That’s the way we like it, right brother?”

Vilkas did not seem entirely pleased with his brother’s rather na?ve candour, but he still said, “You did us a great service today, and we won’t forget it.”

Aela gave him a smile which made her even more beautiful and said, “Care to accompany us to Jorrvaskr?”

Keljarn had heard the name, but he didn’t know what Jorrvaskr was exactly. It didn’t matter much either. These people seemed like proud and powerful fighters, and he seemed to have made an impression on them. He knew better than to let such a chance pass.

[k a t e]

SIARI

Innocence Lost

City of Windhelm

Damn it, they’d put something in her food. Or her drink. The world began spinning even before Siari had taken her second boot off, and on one bare foot, she desperately tried to keep her balance, snatching at whatever handhold she could find, her vision blurring. Flailing for support, she knocked the candlestick off the cabinet, and the room went dark before she could hear, miles away, the fake silver candlestick hit the ground.

She couldn’t call for help. She wouldn’t even make it to the door, her head spinning and her knees giving out. After a few drunken staggers, her legs went completely numb and she fell, back down on her bed, one hand feebly snatching at the air.

Before her consciousness faded, she realized this had been sure to happen. There were always loose ends, always ways to trace a murderer, no matter how careful you’ve been. A witness noticing you from a hidden place, a drop of blood taken to a mysticist, some last words a victim could impart before dying – and every murderer was found. If not by his or her victims, then by another killer who didn’t tolerate competition, or by secret organisations employed by the authorities, whose goals weren’t to make arrests, but to simply make criminals disappear. Even master killers eventually vanished or turned up dead, and she’d been nothing like those trained assassins, so it had been inevitable that someone had found her.

As Siari’s mind sank away into darkness, she confessed to herself that she was getting what she deserved, whatever it was. Even if they had been children, they’d been witnesses, and they’d seen her, standing over the bed of the wicked old hag that ran the orphanage and drawing her blade across their hated tormentor, pushing her hand onto the old woman’s mouth to keep her down and to keep her quiet while the life bled from her throat, black in the darkness of the orphanage. She’d pushed as hard as she could, breaking the old fragile nose under her hand with a slow crunching, so the old witch was perfectly quiet and still, her eyes wide and staring at her killer… had there been recognition in the eyes? Recognition of the face of one that was no longer a child, but not yet a woman? Or had it been a realization of some sort, that she silently confessed to having deserved these last moments, bleeding out like a pig, because of how she’d treated the children? Even those that had grown up to be young women now? Maybe. It hadn’t mattered in the end.

And so, as the old woman had gotten her just come-uppance, so would she. She didn’t feel much, no pain, no burning inside, just dizziness and nausea. Death by poison had always been told to be much more painful than what people thought, but this… wasn’t really… painful, it was… just… like… falling… asleep…

[James Potter]

ACRUS

Thirst for Knowledge

City of Markarth

Another shop, another disappointment. Acrus was getting tired of eking out a living with sorcery displays in the town squares of Skyrim, depending on the generosity of gawking peasants. Every shop he’d been to had offered the same worthless repertoire of cantrip spells for sale. Oakflesh, Candlelight, Sparks, always the same unimpressive spell tomes passing through his fingers. He’d been warned that finding spells would be difficult when he told his mentor he’d be leaving Cyrodiil for Skyrim, and at the time, he’d nodded and humoured the old man, but it turned out he’d been right, and it made Acrus wish he’d simply enrolled in the Arcane University, back in the Imperial City. But that would have meant travelling across Cyrodiil to get a recommendation from the Mages’ Guild in every city, and Acrus simply refused to be sent on errands across the province just to be granted access to the University.

So much to his mentor’s protests, Acrus had simply up and left, travelling North to Skyrim, where the magicka was more to his liking, not the word-for-word incantations taught in the University, but a rawer, more primal manipulation of elements. Where in Cyrodiil magic was practiced with the brain, a science to be methodically studied and employed, in Skyrim it was practiced with the soul, instinct and willpower making it possible to bend the laws of nature. Or so he’d heard.

It made sense, then, that not many magic tomes were found in Skyrim’s shops, since the mages of Skyrim simply had a different approach to magic. He’d briefly considered enlisting a mentor in Skyrim as he had in Cyrodiil, but mentors were scandalously expensive, and his inheritance had just about run out.

Just as he threw the last of the shopkeeper’s tomes back onto the table with a disappointed sigh, the shop owner’s assistant, a lovely young alchemist with an elegant blue facial tattoo making a stripe over her nose from one cheek to the other, asked him, “If you’re looking for spells, why don’t you go to the College of Winterhold?”

Wait, there was a College of magic in Skyrim? And nobody had told him of that?

“Excuse me? College of Winterhold?”

The young apothecary looked suddenly guilty, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have. Still, she clarified, “Well, yes. Almost on the northmost end of Skyrim lies the village of Winterhold. There’s supposed to be a College of Magic there.”

The old shop owner, an old Breton woman with wicked-looking tribal facial tattoos (what did these Skyrim people have with face tattoos?), promptly scolded, “Muiri! The College already has to turn down most of its applicants. I doubt they’ll have the time for a wandering hedge wizard.”

Being called a hedge wizard should have made Acrus’ blood boil, but he stayed calm, as he always did unless there was magic to be cast, and he asked again, “Can you tell me where this College lies, exactly?”

After an insecure look at her employer, the girl called Muiri explained again, “Um, head Northeast until you come to the sea. Follow the coastline, past Solit – ”

“Muiri!” the old woman interrupted again. “There’s no point sending this young man all the way to Winterhold for no reason. The College isn’t taking new members anyway.”

Regardless, the young woman continued, “… past Solitude, keep following the shoreline East, you’ll reach Winterhold eventually.”

The old shop owner let out a grunting sigh of disappointment and devoted her attention to the mortar she was crushing mountain flowers in.

But Acrus had more important concerns than flowers or potions. He had places to be.

[Solina971]

RO?

Night Eyes

City of Solitude

She had to admit to herself, she was somewhat tipsy. But it wasn’t like she hadn’t earned it. That last damn assignment had been pure misery, slogging through the marshes for two days to find a dragon that hadn’t even been there. What kind of gullible halfwit believed in dragons anyway?

She’d been spared the frostbite to her toes unlike Gethor. Skyrim wasn’t really a place for Bosmer like them, but when your parents move to the coldest reaches of the world to join the Penitus Oculatus at the Emperor’s invitation, you had no choice but to come along. And no matter the blood in her veins, she’d lived in Skyrim most of her life, so she was used to the climate. Gethor, who’d only arrived two years ago, never stopped complaining. Still, for all his curmudgeonly behaviour, she’d bonded well with him. They were the only two Bosmer in the Solitude guard, so they naturally gravitated towards each other, and she’d gotten to know him well enough to smile every time he went off on another complaining spree.

The cold air drove the buzz from her mind, but only a bit. It wasn’t like she was staggering, but the mead had flowed freely, and even though she’d gotten used to the high alcohol content in Skyrim’s preferred drink, enough had been enough. There’d be a slight hangover tomorrow, but things had remained dignified, and even if they hadn’t, no guard’s uniform meant no need to mind the exemplary function.

“You going to be alright, Ro’?” Kunod, like most of the guard, had never bothered to pronounce her name correctly. Like most of them, he pronounced her name “Roh” instead of “Ro-ay.” Ro? didn’t attribute it to a lack of respect, just the typical easygoing nature of the people here. “Want me to uh… walk you home?”

Oh, sweet Kunod. He’d been rather taken with her from the start, and not made a secret out of it, in his shy and clumsy way, but she hadn’t reciprocated. Not because she had anything against the man, but because the feelings he hoped she had were simply not there. Sometimes she’d wished they had been, because Kunod was attentive and kind, if a bit awkward, but she couldn’t change the reality of it.

“No, Kunod, thanks, I’ll be fine.” Letting him walk her home would cause all sorts of complications. Complications she didn’t really need or want, she was perfectly happy just doing her job with the guard and coming home to an empty house.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Go on, get some sleep, didn’t you have day duty tomorrow?”

He gave an embarrassed grin. “Yes, but it’s at the gate. No one will notice if I’m tired and hung over.”

Gethor stumbled out of the tavern, almost crashing into them. Unlike Ro? and Kunod, he’d been really going at it, downing one goblet of mead after another. “Ro-ayyyy,” he slurred. “When are you and,” hiccup, “K-Kunod finally huh… hooking up?”

Oh dear, this was uncomfortable. “Gethor,” she said, holding him up, “you need to go to bed, come on.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Kunod said, taking the ailing guardsman from her.

“You twuh…two would make a gr… eat couple,” Gethor mumbled. “The struh… strong, powerful Nord buck!” he practically shouted the word, “... and the fruh…hail delicate El… Elven beauty!’ He made an animalistic growl, accompanied by a randy fist pump.

And here Ro? thought this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

“If you two don’t get together soon,” Gethor garbled, pointing a shaking finger at her, “I’m m… marrying you mysuh… myself, Ro?.”

“Shush, Gethor. Kunod, make sure he ends up in his bed, alright?”

There was a strange expression on Kunod’s face, but she was pretty sure what it meant. “Sure, Ro’, I’ll get him home safe.”

As Kunod half-dragged the drunk-of-his-ass Gethor down the road, she heard drunken off-key singing. “Ro-ayyy! With her silky pale bl- blonde haiiirrrr! Ro-ayyyy! Guardswoman oh so,” hiccup, “faiirrrrr!”

“Gethor,” Kunod’s irritated heavy voice came from down the road. “Knock it off.”

Smiling to herself, she hoped the mer didn’t recall anything in the morning. If he didn’t ask, she wouldn’t tell, and Kunod was a firm believer in the holy secrecy of drunken evenings, so with any luck, Gethor would be spared the embarrassing recollection.

Taking a breath and letting out a quiet, dignified burp, Ro? set off towards home. Her parents were part of Emperor Titus Mede’s close protection team, so they were rarely in town, but even then, she’d bought her own house as soon as she’d been able to, a small but cosy corner cubbyhole with not much more than a bed, a table and a chair, but since she only used her home for sleeping, eating and composing, she needed little more.

Noticing her tread wasn’t completely straight, she chuckled to herself, admitting quietly that maybe she was a bit more drunk than she’d thought at first. Still, her mild hangover would be nothing like the rabid horse Gethor would have in his head tomorrow.

Buzzed or not, her trained guardswoman instincts didn’t fail her, and as she walked through the narrow alley leading to her house, her senses alerted her to footsteps behind her. It was an unholy hour, and whoever was roaming the streets of Solitude now was either a mead-appreciator like her, or a criminal.

Walking on, pretending she hadn’t noticed, she listened intently to the footsteps, trying to count how many there were. Her teeth clenched when she realized there were at least three pairs of them. Even if they were drunkards out too late, she didn’t think they’d have good intentions, stalking a lone woman in the middle of the night.

Her hand on the grip of her shortsword, she stopped and spun around. “Whoever you are, and whatever your intentions, I’m a squad chief in the city guard. If you have any ideas in your head, now’s the time to reconsider.”

There were three, indeed, dressed in expensive finery, two male and one female. Drunk or not, she would have given a lot to have Kunod and Gethor with her now. The man in front gave a shirt, icy cold laugh. “Adorable,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from a frozen grave. “Thinking it can impress us with threats of being in the city guard.”

Usually, those threats did the trick, but these three didn’t seem fazed in the least. Her breath speeding up, Ro? repeated, “Whatever you’re planning, reconsider while you have the chance.”

The man in front came closer, and when the moonlight hit his eyes, the reflected colour made Ro?’s breath briefly stop. The pale cold moonlight reflected on red eyes with sickly orange pupils, the eyes mirroring the light like a cat’s, except in a blood red colour.

“Whuh… what the cack are you?” Ro? breathed, her fingers tightening their grip on the hilt of her shortsword.

“Never you worry, little she-elf,” the leader of the stalkers whispered in a cold voice. “Soon all pain and fear will fade.”

That removed what little doubt still remained in Ro?’s mind. These creatures – because they weren’t people, not anymore, she didn’t know what they were, but they weren’t people – were intent on killing her. With a snarl, she unsheathed her shortsword, and in the same movement, swiped it across the leading creature’s face, the blade briefly sending a shock through her hand as it thudded into the thing’s features, tearing the skin and breaking the bone beneath. The creature shrieked and staggered backward, but the two figures behind him leapt at her. She briefly saw the moonlight reflect off sharp claws at the ends of their fingers.

Time slowed to a crawl, Ro?’s brain going into overdrive as it always did when she fought for her life, banishing panic from her mind, cold certainty guiding her hand and pure instinct making her body move to avoid injury. The female reached her first, and Ro? side-stepped out of the claws’ arc, bringing her shortsword down in the back of her attacker’s neck, breaking the vertebrae with a wet thwock. The remaining male came at her, but her boot shot out, catching him between the legs, briefly lifting him off his feet. The creature howled in pain, but pulled its claw back for another murderous blow. Ro? was faster though, and her shortsword cut the air, the blade’s edge finding her attacker’s throat and half-decapitating him, tearing through carotid, jugular and larynx, sending a black arc of blood flying from the ruin of his throat. He clawed at his gullet, fruitlessly trying to stop the blood spurting from the tear.

The leader, incredibly, rose to his feet again, his face half-split. So fast Ro?’s eyes couldn’t even follow, his body uncoiled like a spring, launching him at her and bowling her over, her sword knocked from her hands.

They came down on the flagstones, the creature’s weight knocking the wind from her. One clawed hand came down on her face, pressing it down against the stone. Kicking and thrashing, Ro? rained blows on her attacker, but she only succeeded in striking his shoulders and back. Claws flashed in the moonlight as the thing’s other hand rose to deliver a terrible blow, and Ro?'s thrashing wouldn't be able to stop him.

But just as the claw reached its apex, a loud zzzip sounded, followed by a wet thud as the iron tip of a projectile burst out of the creature's chest. It sat on top of Ro?, its chest pressed forward and its claws spread, shoulder blades pushed together as the muscles tightened around the projectile that had impaled it.

Then the thing fell over and was still.

Ro? scrambled for her weapon, but the man coming toward her lowered his strange contraption and raised his free hand to show he meant no harm to her. “Are you alright, young lady?” he asked, running towards her.

“Uh... yeah, I think,” she said back, checking her body for injuries and finding none.

“Good, good. You faced three vampires and lived to tell of it.” As he came closer, Ro? noticed he was Orsimer. Maybe it was bigoted of her, but she always found it strange to see an Orc wearing human-styled armour and using weapons more complicated than a big club.

“Vampires? Is that what they were?” She'd heard of them in legends and myths, but had always thought them to be an old wives' tale. Apparently not.

“Aye,” the Orc said, turning the leader's body over with his boot. “Damn vampires have been a real menace lately.”

These were the first vampires she'd encountered. “I can't say I've noticed.”

The Orc became somewhat irritated. “Then you haven't been paying attention.”

“Alright then.”

The Orc didn't know what to make of that reply. “Hmph. The Dawnguard is always looking for new members to combat the vampire menace. Perhaps you could bring yourself to care enough?”

“I don't think so,” Ro? said. “My place is here.”

“Feh. You want to be a guardswoman all your life, be my guest.” He pointed his chin at her shortsword, emblazoned with the crest of the Solitude guard. She wasn't wearing the clothes, but that didn't mean she couldn't carry the weapon. “Anyway, there's more of them, at least six in this town. You got three, that leaves at least three more of them to find. Can't waste time chatting with you.”

A feeling of dread gripped her throat. “Wait, you said there were more?”

“Aye, but they're my concern, not y – ”

“Cack,” she swore. “Kunod and Gethor!”

Without waiting for the Orc's reply, she broke into a run, darting toward the street her two companions had staggered into. Behind her, she heard the boots of the Orc thudding into the cobblestones. “You have friends out on the street this late?” he panted.

“Yeah, two.”

“If they handle themselves as well as you do, there shouldn't – ”

“They would if they were sober,” Ro? snapped at him. She was running as fast as she could, and couldn't waste her breath on pointless pvssyr.

Rounding the corner, she saw them. Three humanoids, wearing noble-looking, old-fashioned clothing. One large figure still stood, his war hammer out, keeping them at bay. Kunod.

Roaring, she got a new burst of energy, charging at the three vampires, her shortsword held high. But before she could reach them, they noticed her and bolted, dragging a prone figure with them. Kunod no longer had the strength to give chase, falling to his knees.

“Kunod!” she called, skidding to a halt beside him.

“I'm fine,” Kunod breathed, “just completely out of breath.” He raised his head. “Ro', they've got Gethor, go after them.”

“Cack,” Ro? cursed again, her legs springing back into action, carrying her forward despite screaming muscles and burning lungs. The vampires had fled through the alleys, and in the pitch darkness, Ro? tripped on something soft and fell forward, barely getting enough time to break her fall with her hands.

When she tried to get back on her feet, however, her ankle screamed in pain and gave out, sending her to one knee. She tried again to put her weight onto her twisted ankle, but again it buckled out from under her. With a scream of pain and frustration, she had to abandon her pursuit.

“What the Hell is going on h - … chief?” Two guardsmen stumbled onto the scene, holding a lantern. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, go after those vampires, they've got Gethor!” she ordered.

“Uh... sergeant?” the other guardsman said hesitantly. “I don't think there's anything we can do for Gethor anymore.”

“You don't know that!” she shouted. “Go after them, damn you!”

“Chief... I don't think running after them... well...” He lowered his lantern. “... will do any more good for Gethor.”

Not understanding, she turned her head to the lantern and then realized what, or better who, she'd tripped over. In the yellow light of the lantern, she saw Gethor's face, his eyes wide open, his skin stretched over the skull, as if it had shrunk. His lower jaw hung open in a terrified grimace.

“Is that...” Kunod's out of breath voice came nearer, “... Gethor?”

“Yeah,” Ro? said, defeated. She turned her eyes away. “Damn it.”

“They got him alright,” the Orc said. “Must have drained him for strength as they ran. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't help him anymore,” Kunod said, breathing hard but sounding determined. “What in Frostfire did this? He looks... svcked dry.” He sighed. “I should have protected you better, Gethor.”

“Vampires did this,” the Orc said. “If you want to help your friend, help us combat the Vampire menace.”

“Who's 'us'?” Kunod asked.

“The Dawnguard, my friend. The ancient order dedicated to wiping out the Vampires. We’re always looking for new members.”

Kunod stood looking down at Gethor’s body for a moment, then said, “Alright, sign me up.”

The Orc grinned broadly, baring his sharp teeth and two lower tusks. “Good man! What say you, blondie? Maybe seeing what these creatures do to people might change your mind? The way you handled those other three shows me you’re cut out for the job.”

“Yeah, but the guard…”

“Who cares about the guard now?” Kunod snapped. “Did they ever care about you? They even told you to your face you’d never get past squad chief because you can’t keep your opinions to yourself. And look at Gethor!”

She hated to admit it, but he was right. The guard was corrupt anyway, her own superiors working against her, telling her she had to look but she wasn’t allowed to find, and telling her straight out they’d stop her from getting promoted for as long as they lived. And seeing poor Gethor lying there, drained as if by a giant spider, she decided she couldn’t let this go unavenged. “Fine. I’m with you.”

[sw1ss]

FALNAS

A Chance Occurrence

City of Riften, entrance to the Ratway

Falnas looked around skittishly, making sure no one was following or observing him. If these people were going to welcome him into the Guild, he’d better make sure he didn’t appear like a blundering amateur. It was getting cold, and the moon reflected off the canol, the silvery light making it all appear even more chilly. The entrance to the Ratway was on the lowest tier of the city, where wooden jetties and walkways were built on the canol that formed a ring around the city centre. The lowest tier stank of dead fish and rotting water vegetation. How people could live in such a place was beyond him. He stomped his feet on the wooden walkway against the cold, but immediately stopped when he heard how much noise it made. Dammit, all he could do was hug himself and shiver.

“Falnas,” a familiar voice hissed behind him. In the open doorway stood Sapphire, a scowl on her face. “Stop standing there like an idiot and get in here.”

Falnas ducked into the doorway and found himself in complete darkness as Sapphire closed the door behind him. Feeling around in the dark, his hand touched a soft surface with the texture of hard leather. Instantly, a hand slapped down hard on his.

“Keep your paws to yourself!” Sapphire’s voice snapped at him. The next moment, there was a bright glow of light as a torch was lit, and Falnas found himself looking at Sapphire’s angry face. Her fault for leaving him in the darkness.

“Now quit goofing off and come on,” she ordered, leading the way through the tunnels. They weren’t high enough to stand up in, and Falnas quickly began to feel pain in his lower back. He didn’t complain and stalked after the woman.

“Tripwire,” Sapphire indicated, not stopping. Falnas stepped over it and stayed close to her. It was dark, but he certainly didn’t mind having a nice ass to look at while he crept.

“Floor plate.” One of the tiles had no moss or filth on it, the sure sign of a pressure plate. Falnas didn’t want to know what would happen if he stepped on it, but he guessed it had something to do with the small holes in the masonry on either side. She led him into a side corridor, and then another, and it was hard for Falnas to stay oriented. All these corridors looked the same with their wet masonry, illuminated only by the light of Sapphire’s torch, and their rotten sewer stench.

“Another tripwire, floor plate right after.”

Falnas stepped over the tripwire and made an extra large step to avoid the pressure plate. Sapphire pointed up. “Crystal chimes.” Small, barely visible crystals hung from a thin thread. They weren’t dangerous as such, but they made a terrible noise when brushed against, alerting anyone in the vicinity. “Step over this moss-covered part.” Falnas did so. Most likely a deadfall, probably with interesting spikes at the bottom.

Another left turn, another right, and they came to a door. “Now if you value your life,” Sapphire said to Falnas, “you’ll keep your mouth shut and speak only when spoken to.”

He didn’t much care for the arrogant tone, but he wasn’t intent on squandering his possibly only chance to let the Thieves’ Guild know who he was. Sapphire inserted a strange block-shaped key into the lock and the door creaked open.

They emerged into a large round vault, ringed by water, with four walkways leading to a round stone platform in the middle. Three people stood on the platform, one burly-looking Nord with shoulder-length hair and a row of daggers carried on a bandolier across his chest, a Breton in his forties with a shaved head and black leathers, and… oh damn it, the woman with the blue dress! Oh, this was trouble. Falnas checked, and was about to bolt for the exit when Sapphire whispered to him, “Listen to what they have to say, you idiot!” She subtly pushed him in the back to get him moving.

Swallowing laboriously, Falnas shuffled to the platform, avoiding the eyes of the black-haired woman.

“This him?” The Nord said, his voice heavy with Skyrim dialect.

Sapphire merely answered, “Yes.”

It was the Breton’s turn to speak. “Mate, you may be the biggest moron I’ve ever met, but you’re not too stupid to realize who we are, roight?” He spoke in a strange dialect, probably one from the farthest reach of High Rock.

“The uh, Thieves’ Guild, correct?” Falnas said, taking care not to sound intimidated and succeeding almost perfectly.

“That’s roight, the Guild. Boy’s at least got ‘alf a brain in that ‘ead of ‘is,” the Breton said in his rough voice.

“So,” the Nord asked him. “You must be new to Skyrim? Only explanation I can think of. That, or you’re stupider than a gutted fish.”

The woman in blue still hadn’t spoken, and he hadn’t met her gaze yet.

“I don’t know about stupid,” Falnas said, sounding as confident as he dared, “but I’m a damn good thief, which is why you’ve called me here, correct?”

“’Good’ is relative,” the Nord said, making Falnas’ heart speed up. “You’ve got fast and nimble fingers, sure, but your choice of marks, well…” he chuckled. “It leaves a lot to be desired.”

Finally, the woman in blue spoke. “I hope for your sake that you haven’t the faintest idea who I am?”

“Indeed I don’t,” Falnas said.

“Show some respect for the lady, yeah?” the bald Breton commanded.

Falnas cleared his throat and repeated, “Indeed I don’t, madam.”

“Good,” the woman in blue said imperiously. “Not knowing who I am just saved your life. For now.”

This conversation wasn’t really going well. Falnas realized the gold the brooch was worth was the least of his worries now. The Thieves’ Guild were all about business, so they weren’t prone to simply killing off people who displeased them like those Brotherhood maniacs, but that didn’t mean they never decided someone had to be shut up for good, and they certainly didn’t mind breaking a few bones, knowing full well the guard looked the other way as long as they didn’t drop any dead bodies. And Falnas didn’t feel like being beaten to a pulp.

“Like I said, madam,” Falnas repeated, “I haven’t had the honour of learning your identity. I just arrived in Riften this morning.”

“I believe ‘im,” the shaved Breton said. “’e dun’t talk like a bloody moron, so let’s give ‘im the benefit of the doubt.” The man talked like he had a cold, as if his nose was clogged.

“Agreed,” the Nord said, making Falnas release an imperceptible breath of relief. “Let’s chalk his mistake up to ignorance rather than a death wish.” He quickly added, “If that’s alright with you, lady Maven?”

The woman was silent for a while, then said, with condescending arrogance, “Yes, I suppose we can’t punish people for being stupid.” Phew, looked like he’d dodged the arrow. “Your name?”

“Falnas, madam.”

“How quaint. My name is Maven Black-briar, and stealing from me is either very foolish, or very suicidal. Luckily for you, I’m prepared to attribute your blunder to foolishness this once. I shall leave the rest to Delvin and Brynjolf.” She threw her cloak over her shoulder and turned away. “Do not expect this kind of mercy from me again.”

The eyes of the Breton and the Nord standing in front of him were urgent. Right, he supposed he had to thank the conceited woman. “It won’t happen again, madam, and I won’t forget your mercy.” If there was one thing Falnas learned in his life, it was that honour and defiance only sent you faster to the grave, so if he had to grovel to stay alive, he would. Humiliation was better than death every time.

“You had better not.” And with that, she strode away, towards a giant of a man with a warhammer carried across his back, who’d been standing in the shadows until now. They left the cistern through a door in the side. Probably a short cut back to the city for important people.

“As you may ‘ave gathered, mate, you stole from the most big-‘eaded trollop in town.” The deference was apparently only a matter of courtesy in her presence. “That’s embarrassin’ for us, you see.”

“We don’t take kindly to freelancing in our city,” the Nord continued. “If you’re a thief in Riften, you’re either with the Guild, or you get beaten all the way to the city gate. The choice is yours, either you join the Guild, or you wake up outside of the city gates with a few broken bones and nothing but your undergarments.”

Ultimatum or not, Falnas had hoped for this question. “Are you asking me to join the Thieves’ Guild?”

“No, you pillock,” the Breton said, irritated. “We’re tellin’ you you’re either joinin’ the Guild or learnin’ a trade.”

Smiling broadly, Falnas said, “I’m too lazy to make an honest living, and I’m not about to let my considerable thieving skills go to waste. I’m ready for a job right now, if you’ve got one to give.”

[Miguel]

Keljarn

Take Up Arms

City of Whiterun

The innkeeper at the Bannered Mare, Whiterun’s seemingly only inn, hadn’t been difficult when he asked for a room in the dead of night. Some innkeepers were fussy or angry when woken up for a room booking during the night, but Keljarn never cared. It was part of the job.

The sun shone in through the cracks between the shutters, painting lines of pale yellow light on the sheets and the floor. Keljarn’s sleep had been short but refreshing, and first order of business for him was to find this Jorrvaskr place the four hunters had spoken of.

Or maybe that wasn’t really the very first thing to do. He’d look a fool if he walked in there with just a stupid woodcutter’s hatchet on his back. He’d always figured that those fancy weapons were for showmen and pretentious want-to-look-tough types, but this would probably be a good time to buy an actual weapon instead of the old hatchet with its notched head and leather-wrapped grip.

He’d passed a shop on the way to the Bannered Mare, a small smithy, from the looks of the sign outside. They’d have to be pretty stupid to hang out a sign with an anvil if it wasn’t a smithy. Or maybe an anvil shop.

A woman stood outside the shop, holding a strip of iron between a pair of tongs and inspecting it carefully. When she noticed him, she gave him a nod and said, “Welcome to Warmaiden’s. If you’re here to buy stuff, head right on in. If you want something repaired… Well, I’ve got back orders for an entire week, so it’ll take a while.”

“Nope,” Keljarn said to the tanned Imperial woman. “No repairs, I need a replacement for this old thing.” He pointed his thumb at the hatchet on his back.

“Daresay you do,” she said. “No offence. Well, my husband will help you inside.”

“Alright, thanks.”

The man tending the counter in the shop was a bear of a man, even by Nord standards. His arms were as thick as most people’s thighs. Despite his impressive physique though, he looked friendly and cheerful. “Welcome to Warmaiden’s,” he greeted in a deep and gravelly, yet somehow strangely pleasant voice. “Got blades, helmets, pretty much anything to suit your needs.” Cocking his head at the old rusty woodcutter on Keljarn’s back, he added, “And looks like you’ve already got one need right there.”

“You’ve got that right,” Keljarn admitted. “Got anything I can replace this old thing with?”

He let out a hoarse chuckle. “Adriana forges just about anything, and everything she forges is top quality. Including the axes.” He walked over to a weapon rack. All kinds of sharpened weaponry hung from the rack, including several axes. Most of Keljarn’s friends in High Rock swore by the sword, but Keljarn had tried them both, and decided nothing could replace the feel of a weighted axe head lending power to a blow. Swords were just… too damn light.

“You’ve got your basic garden-variety wood-and-iron axe right here,” the huge smith explained, slapping the head of a very plain-looking, but excellently forged axe. “It’s cheap, efficient, and does the job.”

“M-hm.”

“Full metal axe forged in one piece costs double,” he went on. “But it lasts much longer.”

“How much for one of those?”

He slapped the wood and iron axe again. “A hundred for the regular, two for the full metal.”

Keljarn kept a mental count of the gold in his pouch and the expenses he still expected. “I think I can afford a bit more.”

The bearded man’s grin widened. “What I like to hear. This thing,” he picked up an axe with a faint yellow sheen to the metal, “has a corundum-iron alloy head. Edge is keener and lasts much longer. Most iron axes dull after a bit of use, but not this. Regular’s a hundred and fifty, full metal’s three hundred.” After looking at the weapon rack more closely, he added, “But seems I don’t have any regulars in stock anymore, and Adriana’s struggling to keep up with all the demand, so there’s either a full metal available right now, or a regular in… say, a week or so?”

That didn’t matter, he had enough. “Full metal will be fine.”

“One-handed, right?”

Keljarn nodded. He preferred to have a hand free for other uses, including what few spells he knew. Still grinning, the weaponsmith took the last full metal corundum alloy axe from the rack. “Wise buy, my friend. Go see Adriana if you’d like some extras.”

“Extras?”

He shrugged, “Yeah, etchings, or a leather grip, things like that. It’s all free with the purchase except etchings. They cost extra unless it’s a simple bit of text, like initials or a name.”

Something wasn’t clear though. “Wait… your wife does the smithing? Not you?”

The man laughed. “That’s right. People’s jaws drop every time they realize. My wife’s the smith, I just sell the things. And mark my words, her weapons are almost as good as Eorlund’s, and his only have the edge because he’s working the Skyforge.”

Who, the what? “Eorlund? Skyforge?”

He chuckled again. “Adriana can explain it better than I can, and she loves to chat during work. Might as well ask her to talk your ear off about the Skyforge.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

The lady in question was nowhere near the constant yakker her husband had described her as, but she proved quite sociable, offering to wrap the axe in leather bands for a better grip and less blisters, and while she did so, she asked if he was new to Whiterun.

“Does it show?” Keljarn asked with a grin.

“Mm… yes and no,” the smith said, carefully wrapping long leather strips around the axe handle. “Everyone looks new here, in a way.”

“Your husband said I should ask you about something called the Skyforge?”

She grinned as she took a metal strip and bent it around the axe handle so it would stop the leather from coming undone at the top. “Well, I’m not the best smith in Skyrim. Eorlund Gray-Mane holds that honour. He works the Skyforge over at Jorrvaskr. All I can do is do the best I can and hope I come as close to him as possible.”

Well, she was certainly gracious about not being the best. “I was told to meet some people at this Jorrvaskr place. Can you tell me where it is exactly?”

“Oh, sure, looking to join the Companions, huh?”

He shrugged. “Looking to learn more about them, at least. See if they’re worth joining.”

She took a small round metal plate and heated it. “Oh they’re a good lot. A bit too uppity, some of them, but the world would be worse off without them, that’s for sure.” She placed the glowing plate against the bottom of the axe and gave it a few gentle taps, then cooled the haft to make the iron bond together. “There you go, all done.”

“Thank you, uh… Adriana?”

She let out a clear and pleasant laugh. “Usually I prefer ‘mistress Avenicci’, but for you I’ll make the exception.”

Keljarn took the axe she held out at him and grinned. “You are most gracious. My name’s Keljarn, and it’s been a pleasure doing business with you and your husband.”

“Likewise, stay safe out there.”

He fully intended to. Strolling down the streets of Whiterun in the pale winter sun, he treated himself to a fresh handful of snowberries, sold at a market stand, and thought to himself that it was damn good to be here, in Skyrim, the country he’d always considered his true homeland, not High Rock. Two children ran past him, one girl with long blonde braids and a boy with fair hair in a bowl cut. As they ran, he heard the girl squeal, “Tag! You’re it!”

A rather skittish-looking Redguard woman, who looked like she had something to hide, pointed him to Jorrvaskr, a large mead hall at the top of a hill, at the very edge of town. He passed an old man preaching full of passion about Talos, and full of contempt for the Empire, who had “sold Skyrim to the Aldmeri Dominion”. Right, the Empire had all the trouble in the world quashing the rebellion of the so-called Stormcloaks, radical Nord nationalists who were bent on driving out the Imperials and their Altmer leash-holders. Even though Keljarn felt a true Nord, he knew it wasn’t his fight.

As he ascended the stairs, he heard the sounds of sparring: the thudding of metal on wood, the thwacking of arrows into targets, the grunts and growls of exertion and competition. All he had to do was follow his ears. Going higher up the stairs, he came to a large oval hall, made up of broad wooden beams supporting a sort of turtle shell made of heavy wooden boards. It almost looked like an inverted boat. The shield motifs carved into the walls made it clear that this was the place he needed to be.

He didn’t have to take a breath or close his eyes to compose himself. He simply pushed the door open and walked in.

A young woman with a sharp face and two stripes of red war paint on each cheek raised her head from the shield she was polishing. “Just because a door’s unlocked doesn’t mean you can just walk on in.” Her tone was nothing short of confrontational. “I don’t remember this being the church of Mara.”

She was the only person in the hall, even though there were plenty of chairs at the tables, which were set into a U-pattern for maximum enjoyment during mead binges, with in the middle the smouldering charcoal remains of what looked to be a huge fire. Keljarn was somewhat dubious as to whether or not it was a good idea to build such a needlessly oversized fire in a wooden mead hall, but he supposed the inhabitants knew best. He certainly hoped they weren’t all as unfriendly as this one, though. “I’m not here for worship,” he replied curtly.

The woman went back to polishing her shield. “Let me guess, another farm boy thinking fighting’s the same as chopping wood ‘round back?”

Keljarn knew her type. People who acted all belittling to hide their own insecurity. It was usually the new cubs in groups such as these who had the most attitude. The more experienced members were usually calmer, they didn’t feel like they constantly had to prove themselves, and these wet-ears usually did. He was far too smart to let such people get him riled up, so he simply said, “Some of your people should be expecting me. Woman called Aela, and uh... two brothers. One mer with an elfhawk haircut.” Figured that he only managed to remember the woman’s name. Ah well, he wasn’t made of stone and had never claimed to be.

At least dropping her name had some effect, because the woman with the sharp face raised her head again. “That so? So what’ll you be doing then? Fetching the mead?”

Keljarn always wondered about those people. Did they actually think this kind of thing made an impression? All it did was draw attention to their own insecurities. “I’m sure I’ll be told what my job is by people with bigger responsibilities than shield polishing.” Just because he didn’t want to be provoked, didn’t mean he couldn’t gently bump this big-mouth off of her imaginary pedestal.

The woman seemed to get the message, glaring at him and then devoting her attention to the shield again. “Aela’s out back with Farkas and Vilkas.”

He couldn’t resist adding a snide little “Thanks” before crossing the hall and opening the door on the other side. She was out back alright, the first thing his eyes fell on as he blinked against the sunlight, which reflected on the sweat matting her tanned skin, her muscles taut as she held the bowstring drawn, her eyes focused on the target and nothing else. Then she released the bowstring and the arrow found its way to the target, striking it in the third-most central ring. It was an impressive shot, to be sure. There were probably even more precise bowmen and –women in the world of archery tournaments, but Keljarn doubted if those people could also skin a boar, find their way in a dense forest, or take a few punches and have a mug of ale afterwards.

On the other side of the practice field, which was hemmed in by a wooden palisade, the two brothers he’d fought the giant with were sparring, the brother with the longer beard wielding a two-handed sword, attacking with broad swings, the other holding a one-handed blade and limiting himself to dodging his brother’s blows. Keljarn thought to himself how much nerve they must have, because the wide sweeps of the two-handed sword looked like its wielder wasn’t holding back, and one miscalculation could lead to serious injuries, even in a practice match. As he saw them in the daylight, he was surprised at how hairy these men were, even for Nords. Their forearms were covered with dark hairs and the stubble of their beards went all the way up to just below their eyes, which they’d blackened with soot. They had a certain animalistic appearance to them, and it wasn’t just their Nord blood.

A young woman sat on one of the benches ringing the sparring field, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and watching intently as the two brothers went at it, her eyes shifting as she followed every move, studied every feint and noticed every shift. For some reason, her war-paint was made up of nothing more than a thin line going down from her bottom lip over her chin. She didn’t look Nord, more Breton or Imperial. Whatever she was though, she was clearly in deep concentration.

“Huh, was wondering when you’d show up.”

Aela’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. She still stood where she had been, but her head was turned to him as she nocked another arrow.

“Yeah, figured I’d come see what this whole Companions thing is about.”

The two brothers had noticed him too, and they broke off their training to come meet him.

“Care for a round of mead?” the huntress asked him. “We’ll answer all your questions inside. Come on.”

“All this sparring is making me thirsty, so good idea,” the larger of the two brothers agreed. “Ria, get some mead for our guest, would you?”

The young woman who’d been concentrating so hard on the training promptly gave a short bow of her head and answered, “Of course, Companion.” With that, she scooted off to the hall and disappeared inside. That ornery woman inside hadn’t been kidding about fetching the mead.

The smaller (well, less huge) brother put his hand on Keljarn’s shoulder. “Come inside, friend. You’ve done us a great service, and you’re welcome at our table.”

They didn’t need to ask him twice. When they came back inside, all the Companions took their places, which were apparently fixed, and motioned for him to take an empty chair between Aela and the woman with the sharp face and the snarky attitude. She seemed none too happy to have him at her side, but that wasn’t Keljarn’s problem. He’d just have to devote his attention to Aela then.

The woman they’d called Ria arrived with one large ceramic bottle of mead, set it on the table and immediately ran back off to get more. The larger brother immediately reached for the bottle and poured his cup full.

“Farkas,” his brother said with a weary sigh. “What kind of hospitality is that? Guests first, remember?”

Farkas chuckled sheepishly. “Right, forgot.” He held the bottle out to Keljarn. “Honoured guest?” There was no sarcasm in the addressing, unlike as was usually the case when people used an honorific these days.

Had his Breton blood been more dominant, Keljarn would have begun a series of polite refusals and insistences that they should partake first, and had the Companions been Breton, they would have countered with insistences of their own until the whole interaction consisted of nothing but apologies and after-yous and I-insists, but they were all Nords, and when a Nord offers you a drink, you don’t beat around the bush and start babbling pleasantries, you take it and drink to his health. So he held out the cup set in front of him at the table and allowed Farkas to fill it, though the man didn’t do so without spilling on the table and not caring a bit that he did.

“To your health,” Keljarn said, raising his cup and taking a swill that was sizeable enough not to look effeminate, but also not so greedy he seemed like a septimless beggar gulping down his drink because the price was right.

“So,” Aela asked him as Farkas filled her cup, spilling even more of the mead on the wooden table. “What do you know about the Companions?”

Keljarn took another drink of mead (it was of decent quality but clearly a mass-produced batch to be drunk quickly and without too much discerning) and said, “Well, I know you take on dangerous work for good coin. I know you’re a close-knit group of fighter-hunters.” And to flatter them ever so slightly, he added, “And I know people respect you, but they know not to mess with you.”

Aela smiled, looking satisfied. “That’s mostly it, I suppose.” She brought her cup to her lips and drank, not with a dignified, feminine sip, but with two greedy gulps. She wiped her mouth with her wristband. Maybe it was Keljarn’s Breton lineage, but seeing a woman drink like this was amusingly surprising.

Then again, it’s not like he had expected a company of dignified mead samplers with uplifted pinkies and pencil-thin moustaches.

Farkas filled his brother’s cup, then his own again, and then finally the one of the unpleasant sharp-faced woman, which Keljarn had to pass to him and then back to the woman.

Lastly, the cup of the focused girl was filled. She’d brought two more flasks of mead and then had taken her seat next to the unpleasant woman. From the way these people treated each other, Keljarn could make up a rough idea of the pecking order. His cup had been filled first, because he was a guest of course, but then the order hadn’t really mattered for the next three. If it had, Aela’s cup would have been filled before or after both brothers’, who were clearly around equal in standing, which meant Aela ranked more or less the same. Then had come the more junior members, first the snippy one and then the mead-fetcher herself. It was a bit of a risk, but it’d make a good impression if he made it known he already understood the dynamics in the group, so he asked, “So isn’t it difficult to make decisions without singular leadership?”

“What makes you think we don’t have singular leadership?” the less-bearded brother asked, looking amused.

“Well,” Keljarn explained, “You wouldn’t be a disciplined and efficient companionship if you didn’t have at least a vague hierarchy. Seems to me like you three are the people with the most, and around the same, level of authority. So there must be the occasional difference in opinion, right?”

Both brothers laughed, and Aela joined in with a chuckle. From his other side, he heard the woman snort in derision.

“You seem to think we’re the only Companions,” the less huge brother pointed out. Ah, of course, he’d been making assumptions in his haste to show off his perceptive abilities. “We have a leader, but he leaves most of the day-to-day affairs to us.”

“Kodlak doesn’t get out much anymore,” his brother added.

“And he’s not a leader as such,” Aela said. “But we hold him in the highest respect and follow his guidance.”

“Ria,” one of the brothers said. “Why don’t you go check on Athis, see if he needs anything?”

Both Keljarn and the young woman sensed that she was being sent out of the hall for a reason, he saw it in her eyes, but she didn’t question the veiled order and rose. “Right away, Companion.”

“You too, Njada,” Farkas told the unpleasant woman at Keljarn’s side. “Ria may need help.”

Her reaction was considerably less deferent. With a snort, she got to her feet and said, “Yeah, right,” stomping off after Ria.

When they had both left, Aela said, “Ria and Njada are young and inexperienced, and from the way you fought that giant, we’re guessing you no longer need to learn the basics. Here’s our offer. If you agree to join the Companions, we’ll skip the whole initiation period. You’ll be able to join us to assist on missions as apprentice right away instead. When we’re confident in your abilities, you’ll be able to undertake missions alone, or even ask one of the apprentices to accompany you.”

Keljarn blinked, somewhat surprised by the offer. “But you don’t know the first thing about me?”

Farkas chuckled. “Let’s just say all three of us are really in touch with our instincts. Right Vilkas?”

“What my brother means, is that we’re good at sensing people.” And somewhat reluctantly, he added, “And that we feel this is suitable recompense for saving the life of a Companion. Or more than one.”

Aela seemed a bit less embarrassed by the matter, saying it right out. “If you hadn’t arrived, there’s no telling how that battle with the giant had turned out.”

“This is a one-time deal,” Vilkas said. “It’s... a bit unusual, that’s why we’ve sent Njada and Ria out, but if you accept, you’ll be set to the same status as Njada and Athis. And Ria, pretty soon.”

“Which means,” Farkas grunted, “We’ll be needing some new blood soon. That mead doesn’t fetch itself.”

Keljarn found the offer almost too good to be true, but there was one thing he was worried about. “Won’t they be jealous? I mean, they’ve been here for a while already...”

Vilkas shrugged, refilling his cup and leaning back in his chair. “There will be some... resentment, mostly from Njada, but it’s up to you to prove you were worth our trust, isn’t it?”

They had a point. “And your leader?”

“He knows, and he trusts us when we say your arm is strong enough. Skjor might have reservations, so he’ll probably be the first to take you out on a job when he gets back.”

He’d heard good things about the Companions. They’d struck him as dedicated and welcoming, and if they weren’t the epitome of Nordic fighting spirit and comradeship, Keljarn didn’t know what was. “I have to say, when I decided to return to Skyrim, I did it to fill... a hole in my heart, I think. Not just to come home, but to be part of something. To find purpose. And – ”

“I think he means he’s in,” Farkas interrupted, laughing boisterously.

Vilkas grinned along with him and clinked his cup against Keljarn’s. “Welcome, Companion.”

Aela said nothing, but reached for the second bottle of mead.

“I think this warrants a drink or two, Aela?” Farkas said, emptying the bottle into her cup.

“I swear,” Aela said, grinning and opening the second bottle. “When it comes to not training and pouring yourselves full of mead, any excuse is good for you two, isn’t it?”

[Elizabeth Falvey]

SIARI

With Friends Like These...

Somewhere

It hadn’t been poison, but a sleeping draught. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, Siari realized as she woke up with a pounding headache. She was in a shack somewhere, it seemed, but where, she had no idea.

“Waking up, are we?” a mocking woman’s voice came from behind and above her. Siari whipped her head around to see a masked woman sitting on the skeleton of a wooden bunk bed, one leg hanging down over the side, her pose completely casual. There was something about the dark leathers she wore, they seemed to subtly distort the light around them. Whoever this was, this wasn’t a first-timer like Siari had been.

Siari said nothing – how could she – and the woman introduced herself.

“My name,” she said, “is Astrid. I’m certain you’ve never heard of me, but you’ve heard of the organisation I am part of.” Still sitting casually on the bunk bed, she continued, “The organisation you stole from.”

Siari frowned, nonplussed. She’d killed someone, not stolen. Maybe they had the wrong person?

“Oh, you didn’t steal anything physical,” the masked woman said with a chuckle, her eyes a cold blue above her dark leather mask. “You stole something far more precious. You see, our organisation doesn’t deal in goods as such.”

Siari still had no idea what she was on about.

“Our commodity is death,” the masked woman said. “We are contracted to assassinate a mark, and we take those matters seriously. Recently, a young boy in Windhelm contacted us through the Dark Sacrament. Great was our surprise however, when our assassin arrived at the mark’s place of residence, and found her already dead, her throat cut in an almost embarrassingly amateur fashion.”

By the Nine, Siari realized. She’d killed someone marked by this woman’s group. And there was only one assassins’ group in Skyrim that mattered. Its name was often whispered, but none had ever seen its members, except maybe those who’d been granted a brief glance before their lives were taken. Siari’s gut clenched when she realized which organisation this woman belonged to, and she quietly wished she’d been slipped a poison rather than a sleeping draught. Her heart beat hard in her chest.

“I can tell from your eyes that you’ve come to the realization of whom you’re dealing with,” the masked woman said, her voice amused. “You know the Black Hand doesn’t let a kill be taken without taking one back in return.”

All Siari could do was give the woman a fearful and not-understanding look. These people were going to kill her, and in a slow and painful way, but why hadn’t they done so already?

“Oh not you,” the woman calling herself Astrid said with a chuckle. “We didn’t bring you here to kill you, then you’d be dead already. You’ve stolen a kill from the Dark Brotherhood. A kill is due, and a kill shall be returned. Look behind you.”

Reluctantly, because she didn’t trust turning her back on the masked woman, Siari looked behind her. There were three people sitting on their knees, their hands bound, each with a bag over his or her head.

“These three,” Astrid said behind her, “have been captured to give you the opportunity to repay the kill you stole. One of the people in this room has a contract on their head. These three will tell you their story, and then you must determine who the mark is. And kill that person.”

Siari had no idea what this was about, but she decided to listen to the captives’ stories before deciding whether or not she’d play this game along.

“You, mercenary! Speak!” Astrid commanded imperiously.

“Puh… please,” the first captive whimpered. “I’ve done nothing to you… let me go!”

“I said speak, not whimper!”

The man in soldier clothes shrank under Astrid’s command, and began stammering. “I’m… I’m a mercenary. I fight when told to. I’ve… I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Ugh,” Astrid grunted. “What a snivelling coward. Then again, a mercenary like him, could have made a lot of enemies. You, housewife, speak!”

The woman in the middle immediately let loose. “You bastards! How dare you abduct a hard-working homemaker! Release me now, and I promise my husband won’t come back with his associates to burn this place to the ground and put your heads on spikes!”

“Spirited,” the masked woman remarked. “But one can’t help but wonder how many other people her husband and his ‘associates’ have wronged over the years. Lastly, furball!” She clicked her tongue.

The last captive, a Khajiit by the looks of him, began with a nervous chuckle, “Ah yes, you have the honour of addressing Vasha, obtainer of goods, defiler of daughters, and taker of lives. If you tell me someone wants me dead, I can only feel flattered.”

“His kind of arrogance isn’t admirable, it’s foolish,” the masked woman on the bunk bed said. “And as you’ve heard, he’s probably made quite a few enemies with those habits of his.”

Siari heard something drop down on the hay next to her, a dagger the woman had thrown down. “Now you must decide. One of the people in this room has a contract for their elimination. All you have to do is take the dagger and draw it across the throat of the mark. Or stab it between their shoulder blades, or something similarly effective.” With a cynical chuckle, she added, “If you guess wrong, you can always guess again.”

Siari stared at the dagger.

“A kill is due, a kill must be repaid,” the woman above her said again. “Either you use your dagger, or I use mine.” The threat couldn’t be more clear.

She’d killed once, and it hadn’t been that difficult. It wouldn’t be any more difficult either. Maybe it wasn’t right to kill these people, but there was no right or wrong, Siari had learned that at a very young age. There were only smart decisions and dumb decisions. ‘Deserve’ had nothing to do with any of it, and it didn’t matter to her what these people did or did not deserve. This was kill or be killed, and she had no intention of dying.

Siari knew who really had the contract. The way the masked woman had worded her demand had made it perfectly clear. But she’d play the game as it had been requested of her.

She picked up the dagger and walked to the Khajiit, kneeling down behind him. At least the Nord and the woman had shown some emotion, whether it was fear or anger didn’t matter. But this Khajiit had remained arrogant even with a bag over his head. He clearly thought she wouldn’t have the guts.

“I can feel you’re there,” the Khajiit said. “Surely you won’t be so foolish as to – ”

She cut his throat, severing his jugular and carotid, and cutting through his larynx, instantly silencing him. Blood spurted from his opened throat, and he fell forward, kicking and spasming as his life sprayed out over the dirty old carpet in the middle of the shack. As they heard him gurgle, the other prisoners reacted, the Nord whimpering even louder in terror and shock, and the woman letting out a clear and unmistakable sigh of relief. It was these reactions that decided the order in which they would die.

Without hesitation, Siari stood up, walked to the next prisoner and kneeled behind her. When she felt Siari’s hand over her face, pulling it backward to make her throat more accessible, the woman began sobbing and begging, but Siari didn’t listen. She simply drew the blade across the housewife’s throat, opening her arteries as she’d done with the Khajiit, at whose fate the woman had let out a sigh of relief, caring only that she hadn’t been the one to die.

Siari let the woman fall forward as the pressure of her blood lessened, her skull falling onto the boards with a loud bonk.

“By the Nine,” the Nord begged. “Please, please don’t kill me! I don’t have a contract on my head! I’m not the one you want, please, please!”

Sairi had heard enough. She rose and kneeled behind the Nord mercenary.

“Whoever you are,” the Nord kept whimpering, “please! I’ll reward you, I’ll give you anything! Please just please don’t – ”

“… kill me.” Astrid finished his sentence as Siari calmly let her blade carve its third throat. The Nord died as the others had, falling forward in a pool of his own blood.

“My, my,” the masked woman said, sounding satisfied. “Three kills, aren’t we the overachiever?”

Siari merely shrugged.

“So,” Astrid asked. “Which one had the contract?”

Oh, please. You’ve given it away from the first moment. The way you worded your demands.

Siari raised her dagger and pointed it straight at Astrid.

The masked woman laughed and said, “Not bad, kid. Not bad. Interesting that you’d still kill those three, though.”

There was nothing interesting about it. Astrid had expected her to kill at least one of them, regardless of who had the contract. It hadn’t been about making the right choice, it had been about doing as you were told, about killing even if you didn’t know why. None of those three had deserved to die, but life wasn’t about deserving. They’d had to die, and so Siari had killed them. Simple. It was comforting to do as you were told. And with the right leader, the right person to follow, doing as you were told was complete freedom.

“Well,” Astrid announced, lithely leaping down from the bunk bed, “you’ve repaid your debt, and you’re free to leave.”

Siari gave her a curt nod.

Her blue eyes frowning behind her mask, the woman said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Siari shook her head.

“Well, so much the better, I suppose.” She stood looking at Siari for a moment, then said, “Falkreath’s visible from the top of the hill outside. If you want, travel southwest starting from Falkreath until you reach a black door. It will ask you a question: ‘what is the music of life’. Tell it, ‘silence, my brother’, and it will open.”

That might be a little difficult.

“Or come with me now?” Astrid said. “I can imagine why you’d kill the evil bint that ran the orphanage in Riften, and if I’m right, then you’ve never had a family in your life. How would you like to be part of one?”