I'm back! After a break from playing Skyrim for a while, Hearthfire finally dragged me back in. Since I still had the ideas for Benor rattling around in my head, I decided the perfect place to start a new character was in Morthal. My original ideas for his story have changed significantly, but I'm just as excited about writing it! I hope you'll enjoy!

For those that are curious to see how he looks in my game, and how I picture him as I write this, you can find his mod here on the Nexus: NPC Overhaul Hadvar Faendal Benor by Harodath

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The town torches glowed creepily, flickering in fog so thick Joslin could barely make out the outline of buildings in the distance. She lurched forward another step, cursing loudly as the ice cold mud attempted to suck a boot right off of her foot.

Fucking mud. Fucking bogs. Fucking Skyrim.

She was soaking wet and pretty sure she was going to freeze to death if she didn't get indoors quickly. The fact that she was even alive was nothing short of a miracle. Alive, but in a world of hurt. The small ship she had chartered to take her back to High Rock from Morrowind, positively stuffed to the gills with the finds of three years worth of ruin exploration, had run afoul of an iceberg. It, as well as everything she had worked so hard to acquire, was no doubt resting at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts by now.

Along with that idiot Nord who had been at the helm, piss drunk on that disgusting swill he called ale.

See how much good that frost resistance does you now, you drunken sonofabitch.

Teeth chattering loudly, she pushed forward towards the lights. She had no idea where she was, having washed ashore almost a day ago. She'd managed to find a small cave to get out of the freezing, howling blizzard, and as soon as the sun came back up she found a road started heading west. She knew very little about the layout of Skyrim, but enough to know that if she wanted to get out of the bitter cold, then that was her best bet. She'd been to Solitude before, briefly. Compared to where she'd unceremoniously landed, it was positively a tropical paradise.

But then she'd hit this damnable marsh and its pea soup fog. It had stopped snowing and the cold had let up slightly, but the night was dark and she quickly lost sight of the road. She'd managed to get all kinds of turned around and confused. If she was going to be completely honest with herself, she'd have to admit she'd begun to panic a bit before those lights swept into view. Relief overwhelmed her as she was finally able to make out wooden walkways leading out of the swampy muck and into a small village.

She could only imagine what a spectacle she made as she burst through the door of the inn. She didn't care. There was a fire roaring in a pit in the middle of the common room, and the smell of food made her stomach start gurgling with joy. Patting her thigh, she was relieved to find that her well secured emergency coin stash hadn't gotten dislodged as she'd fought the sea for her life.

Joslin took a moment to look around the room, noting that there were very few patrons. An orc bard sang, horribly, in a corner, while a group of town guards sat around a table eating. One in particular, a hulking brute of a Nord with shaggy, brown hair and a deep, gravelly voice, was being obnoxiously boisterous. Fucking Nords, she thought, wincing as a sliver of headache shot through her head. The stress of her situation was finally catching up to her. The innkeeper, an older Redguard woman, approached her, face lined with worry. Joslin could hear her tutt tutt tutting under her breath from halfway across the room. She really must look a fright.

"I don't know what happened to you, but it sure wasn't pretty!" she exclaimed, stopping in front of Joslin, looking her up and down. The guards stopped their drunken revelry and all turned to stare.

Great, just great.

"Shipwreck. Last night. Been lost," she tried to explain through teeth that wouldn't stop clattering about in her head. The Redguard tsked again, and grabbed Joslin by the arm leading her to the back of the inn and into the kitchen. She could hear the guards resume their conversation, no doubt filled with speculation about her now.

"We don't have much here in Morthal by way of conveniences. Not like up in Solitude. But there's a water pump back here. You get yourself cleaned off and I'll see if I can find some dry clothes for you. Rinse those leathers off while you're at it," she said, indicating the muddy armor that was clinging to Joslin like a second skin. "That bog muck dries on them, they're as good as gone. My names Jonna, by the way."

"Joslin," she stammered through thawing lips, and started peeling off her armor. Satisfied, Jonna nodded and made her way back out to the commons. Heading for the pump, Joslin winced as she splashed cold water over her arms and legs, before finally shoving her head under the spigot and doing her best to rinse the mud out of her tangled, black locks. If there was ever a time to be thankful for short hair, this was it. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her wet hair trying to get out the last of the snarls.

"This was the best I could do. Belonged to a girl who used to work here before she ran off with our with our last bard. The good one," Jonna said, re-entering the room. She handed Joslin a threadbare towel and a dress that looked like it had seen many a night of use. "I'm going to put a bowl of stew out on the bar for you. You come on out and eat as soon as you're ready. You'll be warm and feeling better in no time."

Joslin was grateful for the dry clothes, but when she slipped the dress on and looked down at herself she had to force back a groan. Its previous owner had clearly enjoyed putting her assets out on display, as the front dipped dangerously low, revealing far more of Joslin's curves than she typically liked to show off. She was a short woman, just a few inches over five feet tall, but she was by no means a small woman. The dress was positively indecent.

Looks like the Morthal guards are going to get a special thrill tonight, she thought, before taking a deep breath and stepping into the commons again. Sure enough, the conversation came to an immediate halt yet again and one of the men, the one who had been particularly loud before, let out a wolf whistle. She made a point of meeting his gaze head on before dramatically rolling her eyes and making a rude gesture in his direction. She took a small bit of pleasure in watching him go slack-jawed before turning to the bar and settling in to eat the steaming bowl of stew that had been laid out for her.

This was going to be a painful evening.

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The roaring laughter of the guards around him was almost loud enough to drown out the roar of the blood rushing to Benor's cheeks. Almost. Eyes narrowing to slits, he stared at the back of the stranger's head, taking in the messy black hair. It was much shorter than what he usually liked on a woman, but it suited her face. And her eyes, before she'd rolled them at him, had flashed green in the firelight. Benor had always been a sucker for green eyes.

His gaze traveled lower, tracing the curves the bodice of that excuse for a dress revealed. He was a sucker for a nice ass, too. She was just a tiny scrap of a thing, though. A Breton, if he had to wager a guess. And that likely meant magic. Benor let loose a shudder of distaste. Well, damned if he was going to let a milk-drinking mage humiliate him in front of the guards, no matter how attractively it was packaged up.

Slugging back the rest of his ale, he paid half attention to the conversation going on around him, keeping one eye on the woman at the bar. She had a healthy appetite, that was for sure. And she must be stronger than she looked, because he knew all too well how difficult surviving the cold of the northern shores of Skyrim was, let alone surviving a shipwreck. Probably some kind of magey trick. Water breathing, blood boiling. Something unnatural and probably requiring unspeakable acts of evil. She looked over her shoulder, catching him staring at her. She rolled her eyes again before turning back to her food.

Unspeakably cute acts of evil, he thought and grinned. He pushed back from the table and sauntered up to the bar, purposely crowding in close and forcing her to lean a little to the left to avoid his arm brushing up against her. He ordered another ale from Jonna, then turned to face the woman who was doing her best to ignore him while she ate.

"You know, it's real unladylike to make a gesture like that," he chastised her, grinning when she flashed an annoyed look up at him. Shoving her empty bowl away from her, she twisted her body on the seat to face him.

"And I suppose you think it's gentlemanly to whistle and carry on like you do?" She arched an eyebrow up at him before sliding off the stool to stand in front of him. He was standing so close she was practically pressed up against him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. Gulping, he looked down and was treated to an eyeful of abundant cleavage.

"It was meant in appreciation," he claimed, reaching out his hand to rest it on her hip.

"Is that what it was?" She tilted back her head and looked up at him, something mischievous and dark dancing through her eyes. She pressed in closer to him and went up on her tip toes, her breasts crushing against his chest. Her tongue darted out to trace her lower lip, and Benor's mouth went dry. Curling a hand behind his neck, he felt her fingers gently tugging at his hair. "Let me show you how I express my appreciation."

This is going much better than planned, he thought, eyes trained on her slightly parted lips. The inn had gone completely silent, and he could feel the eyes of the guards on them. Well, there'd be no doubts about his manly prowess now! He lowered the hand on her hip down and around, cupping her backside as he started to lower his mouth to hers.

The fingers that had moments before been delicately stroking his hair, suddenly pulled viciously, yanking his head back. He had but a moment to look into her eyes, seeing the seductiveness turn to malicious glee as she gave him a hard shove, causing him to stumble back into a barstool. Her grin was almost feral and for a split second he held onto the hope that this encounter could still go in his favor, then her fist slammed into his eye and, stunned, he sank slowly to the ground.

"That's how I show appreciation for pigs who ogle my tits and grope my ass. Sleep well, Sunshine," she chortled. She lowered her gaze to where his not-yet-dead hope for a better evening was still straining against the front of his pants, and snorted. "Hope you've got access to a cold shower, jackass."

He watched her stalk across the commons and into a bedroom, slamming the door behind her with a resounding thunk. He stayed sprawled out on the floor, his eye throbbing and his ears ringing with the laughter of his friends. He was absolutely mortified, and yet… a slow grin tugged on the corner of his lips.

Girl sure can throw a punch.