Author's note: Hi! Thanks for reading.
This is an ever-so-slightly AU version of Skyrim. Slightly. And I shouldn't spoil things now by saying precisely why, but some of the things I've changed are either because people have said they've wanted to be able to do them in-game, or because I think they fit despite bending some parts of lore just a teeny bit.
As far as characterizing Sanguine himself, I'm trying my best, but this is entirely how he sounds in my head, and may not be entirely cannon. Sanguine-specific lore was hard to find, but I'm using what I did find. If you have anything to add, speak up! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the ride.
Evenings in Whiterun since the fall of Dragonsreach to Ulfric's forces had become a bit dodgy.
That is, one had to do a bit of actual dodging while in The Bannered Mare, espeically if one were trying to mind one's own business while seated at the far corner table, alone, enjoying a drink.
"Speaking of," he muttered, lifitng a tankard of cold mead to his lips and shifting his upper half to his left by inches. A clay mug burst into shards and foam on the wood panel very near where his head had been, followed by riotous, drunken laughter and the start of another verse of Age of Oppression. In true Nordic fashion, it was delivered nowhere remotely near on-key and supplemented with colorful metaphors that had grown more blashphemous as the night wore on.
It was positively delightful.
Not that he could begrudge the Stormcloak patrons their fun, even if he weren't the patron Daedra of sin and excess. Those boys had certainly earned a brief reprieve from the war, and were this any other night, he might've joined in the festivities.
A faint smile lifted his lips as he let his empty tankard rest on the table, palming his scruffy chin and staring off into space. He might still, yet, if his client arrived on time.
"I want you," a firm but decidedly feminine voice called loudly, "and you, outside-now!"
That snapped him to attention. Sitting bolt upright, he took in the other tavern patrons again. The celebratory atmosphere had been sucked from the room as if by some sort of vampire. A party vampire, he decided internally, one dark brow inching high. He swallowed hard. That was the worst kind of vampire.
But the figure for whom the sea of blue cloaks parted was not dressed appropriately for vampirism. Instead of the requisite black and red palette, it wore a more natural grey and mottled brown scheme, against which long auburn hair smoldered. Instead of a flowing silk poet's shirt and lace ruffles, it wore a sensible chainmail coat, cinched at the waist by a broad studded leather girdle. The shoes were certainly all wrong; stub-nosed and hardened, caked with mud.
Most importantly, he noted, the figure was definitely not pale and willowy. It was curved and visibly female, despite efforts to hide it beneath layers of protective chain and leather. Her skin was flushed, tanned to a pleasant golden glow, with rosy, full lips that managed to charm even when scowling. Which, from personal observations, seemed to be her default facial setting.
He smiled involuntarily at the sight of her. "Lady Mhairead," he murmured in greeting as she approached the table, standing and offering to pull out a chair for her. "So nice to see you again."
"Sam Guevenne, if I recall correctly," she said in return, nodding at him, sounding somewhat less enthusiastic about the reunion than he. Slipping off her gauntlets and tucking them into her belt pouch, she stuck out a hand, face impassive. "Breton, visiting various holds on business for your family back in High Rock."
"You recall correctly, dear lady." She remained impassive even when he flipped that hand and planted a light kiss over the pulse at her wrist, but pulled her limb back rather sharply. He didn't miss the flash of-disapproval? Panic?-in her pale eyes, no matter how quickly she could compose herself. Sam merely lifted his hands defensively and smiled, sliding back into his seat. He gestured back to the open chair he'd pulled out for her, still without a body to occupy it. "It's been...what? Two months since I've seen you last?"
"Two months, eleven days," she confirmed, folding her arms protectively across her chest. Her stance shifted, chin tilted-subconciously readying for an assault, he'd wager. "The Dead Man's Drink, just after our forces liberated Falkreath."
Sam nodded, lacing his fingers behind his head and grinning up at her. "Been too long anyways," he chuckled. "You still haven't told me yes or no."
Mhairead blinked. "Regarding what? You're certainly not about to suggest another drinking contest."
He hefted his tankard, suddenly full to the brim with sweet-scented mead, cold and crisp as an autumn morning. "Darlin', we never got to have a first! Come on, pull up a chair. I'll go first. Give ya a lead." He winked.
"I'm afraid I'm on duty, Mister Guevenne. I'll have to decline."
He set the tankard down slowly, sobering somewhat. "Y'mean you got stuck doin' guard duty? After ya went and won yer boss how many holds?"
"Yes, sir. Stormcloak presence isn't always viewed as positive by the existing population. It's my duty as ranking officer to ensure our men behave in a civil manner at all times." As if expecting the other patrons to provide her with an example, Mhairead glanced back over her shoulder.
"Oh, I get it, I really do," Sam said, clearing his throat. He shrugged a shoulder when he had her attention again. "Got to appear sober and ready for anything. But y'know, your men aren't going judge you at all for letting go just this one time and tossing back a little of Uncle Sam's special brew."
The smaller Breton sighed, pinching her nose. "For the last time, no."
A small pang of anxiety bloomed in his stomach, and Sam was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "Please? Come on, just one!" He put on his best smile, aiming the handle of his tankard towards her palm and thrusting. "It's on me." And he'd be damned if he was waiting another two months for her to step foot in a tavern.
At about the same time, Mhairead moved to check the entrance, craning her neck while on tiptoes, and pointed in exactly the wrong direction to see the tankard. She avoided his offer, again, without even registering that it'd been made in the first place. "It will be on you in a moment if you continue to interfere with my duties, citizen," she said curtly, blindly pulling on her gauntlets again. Her eyes locked on a pair of Nords near the tavern entrance, surrounded by cheering compatriots. Septims glinted in the candlelight. "If you'll excuse me." With that, she gave her auburn hair a toss, and strode with purpose towards where the men were beginning to take a few poorly-aimed swings at one another.
He could only remain frozen and stare after her, an empty feeling of defeat vying with anger and frustration at having been blown off, again. He plopped back into his seat.
Gods, the woman was so uptight, he was surprised she'd managed five minutes at The Bannered Mare without her pretty head simply popping off in a fountain of blood. To be honest with himself, he was fairly impressed with her professionalism in the face of chaos thus far, but wondered exactly how long the little mortal girl could maintain her detachment from the situation. Especially when the situation was being helped along.
"No, I don't care who bet whom how many septims, you're both leaving-now," her voice carried back to him. A stern gauntleted finger jammed towards the exit, her other fist at her hip as she stared the two men down. "Whiterun has enough trouble on its hands without you two behaving like children. Get back to the barracks, on the double!" As the brawlers lumbered outside, Mhairead rounded on the rest of the Stormcloak revelers, steely eyes sharp and voice commanding. "While I'm at it, I'll have the lot of you back at barracks as well." The men and handful of women soldiers exchanged sullen glances, and for the most part, everyone quieted down, started tidying up and began to file outside in an orderly fashion.
Everyone except for a particularly burly fellow with a head of curly brown hair, left waiting for what should've been his payout from the brawl. He lingered near the counter, scrubbing through his hair with a sudden look of confusion, wrinkling a nose that'd previously been broken. "Hey," he drawled, blinking deliberately and frowning, "I ain't got my money." Pulling both his wits together, he repeated, "My money. Ain't got it," more forcefully, levelling his stare at Mhairead.
"Sorry, what?" she breathed as the much taller Nord towered over her.
Sam smiled, kicking his chair back to rest against the wall, watching as the compulsion spell went to work. Oh, this was gonna be good.
"You gonna pay me what they owed me, or what?" the soldier demanded, voice like gravel. His breath ruffled Mhairead's hair, which from the face she made, must've smelled as nice as he looked. "Well?" Knuckles were cracked in a threatening manner that the little Breton obviously didn't appreaciate, but it took the man actually reaching out and taking hold of her wrist to make her snap.
A swift knee to the soldier's groin weakened his hold on her wrist, allowing Mhairead to twist free and swing her balled fist back. Narrowing an eye as she aimed, her fist connected with a audiable pop. A few stragglers hovered anxiously near the doors, goggle-eyed, as the Nord crumpled to the floor behind her. She shook her fist out gingerly, gesturing with mouth and brows drawn tight, for one of the spectators to clear the unconcious Stormcloak out of there. One could swear the floorboards reverberated as she shouted, "The tavern is closed, gentlemen. Good NIGHT!"
And just like that, the party was over. The plump innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief as the doors creaked closed, ceasing her nervous counter scrubbing to massage her weary brow. The Breton officer's hand touched hers lightly, Mhairead's expression sympathetic as she exchanged a few soothing words with the shaken woman.
Sam couldn't help trying to overhear them, crooked grin forming on his lips, but his senses were dreadfully limited in this form. From all appearances though, he'd chosen to target a woman bound and determined to play mother to all of Skyrim, and just as his brain set itself to imagining several disciplinary techniques he could teach her, in very graphic, lifelike detail, a shadow fell over him. He tipped his face up, tankard clutched to his chest as he blinked at Mhairead, standing at his elbow. "You're...You're back." She's back! And before he could think of something more witty and engaging to follow that up with, another compulsion spell was readied, somewhat weaker than before. No reason to make the choice for her.
"Yes, I'm back," Mhairead replied, unimpressed by his grasp on the obvious. After a thoughtful pause, her face relaxed into a light frown, brow wrinkled as she allowed herself a brief moment of ease. "I...I apologize, that must have seemed rude," she murmured, chin down.
"Uh...what? Oh! Nah. Yer dealin' with a rough crowd tonight, I understand completely, darlin'."
"Thanks." She rubbed the back of her neck, tilting her head and looking slightly sheepish. "Ah...you don't still have that drink, do you?" she asked quietly.
Sam's mouth twitched. This was it.
"Why, yes," he drawled, lip curled in a grin as he proffered his special tankard, "yes I do."