Chronology:
Winter in Riften
Learning the Hard Way
Taking a Sick Day
The Shadow's Reach
Impropriety
The parchment sat on his desk, curling inward upon itself beside a broken seal. The wax was unmarked, the message unsigned. There was no need for identification given the script and diction—words that hinted at curiosity. The writer could be as curious as he wanted. Mercer Frey would give no explanation for his sudden interest in Daggerfall's affairs, particularly its politics. He hadn't been to the city since his youth, and barely heard news of his homeland these days, leaving much to be learned. He sat in the quiet of Riftweald's basement, and swirled wine around his goblet, contemplating the matter.
"Mercer. You haven't asked, but I did some research since your letter first reached me. My resources in Daggerfall dismiss the king's death as a sudden illness. He was unwell, but hardly at death's door. It seems that he was accosted in his bedroom. A blow to the back of the head ended his life rather quickly, but the culprit was never found. Rumor is that it was revenge. It's a believable theory given some of his reported actions. The man had a penchant for suppression, but I can neither confirm nor refute how he died. If you share more, I'd be happy to do some more digging. Regards."
A crease formed between Mercer's eyebrows as he stared at the wall ahead of him. There were no windows here, in the hidden rooms beneath Riftweald Manor, only stone and silence, and unlike the rest of the manor, no one except him had ever stepped foot inside. If a fool did one day discover and intrude in these deeper quarters, they risked death by his hand or the traps he'd set, but that was unlikely to happen. Prior to recent events, the manor itself had been undisturbed, only Vald having stepped foot inside. Extenuating circumstances had changed all that.
He counted the number of times Prim had intruded in his residence: five during his sickness, and then twice during the ordeal with the assassins. She still had the spare key, although where, he couldn't say. It was probably tucked in her armor somewhere, just like that sodding pendant she so treasured. He'd reclaimed the key the night she'd stumbled inside half-dead, but the sneak had swiped it again after spending the night. What did she hope to gain by keeping it? The woman wasn't foolish enough to try robbing him. She probably did it for the pure satisfaction of having his key, as if she could march into his house whenever she chose. She was smart enough not to make good on that.
"Don't be so grumpy. I'm not staying. I just brought more medicine."
And just like that, she'd set a potion by his bed, unruffled by his less than welcoming behavior. He should have known better. Letting her step inside had invited trouble, but he'd been puking his mind out, damn it, and shadows take him, but her assistance hadn't been wholly unwanted. It had spared him cleaning his own vomit off the floor if nothing else, the actions of Brynjolf's too-caring, mouthy thief, and now he knew she was an infernal werewolf of all things.
Something Brynjolf doesn't know. But he found that hard to believe.
Mercer finished his wine, and thumped the goblet onto the table, departing Riftweald. The assassins were gone, but they'd left a bad taste in the guild's mouth. The cistern's atmosphere was restrained, the thieves armed at all times and greater caution taken when trafficking in and out of the city. That someone was meddling had been clear weeks ago, but that someone had now shown an intent to shed blood, and the awareness was present in the faces of each thief he passed. They hadn't taken the guild's security this seriously in a long time.
He reached his desk, and was immediately joined by Brynjolf. The man wore a serious expression, arms crossed over his chest and stance wide. The air of business prevented other thieves from wandering closer, although more than a few cast long glances toward the pair.
"What did you find?" Mercer asked.
"The Dark Brotherhood was most interested in knowing why three Morag Tong assassins were active in the Rift. They've never had a presence in Skyrim before, or so the brotherhood's mouth told me. She did a bit of legwork and was willing to exchange her information for ours. Turns out our killers probably came from the northeast. How they ended up in Solitude is a mystery, but three Dunmer went through Kynesgrove about four months ago. They might be responsible for a murder in Windhelm, but that's neither here nor there. It doesn't appear they stayed in the city. They met with a Dunmer woman and left."
"Kynesgrove," Mercer mused. "What's the name of the inn there?"
"Braidwood. It's the only real place to spend a night up there besides Windhelm. Shall I send someone for a closer look? The brotherhood satisfied their curiosity with little attention to detail. They don't think the assassins were trying to set up shop."
"We already killed their competition. What more do they care about? I'd rather rely on our own ears, and the job had better be done properly. The thief who fouls this up will regret it."
If only he'd taken one of the assassins alive, but Prim had ruined the opportunity by eating the one he'd debilitated. As for the other swordsman, he hadn't been willing to pass up a killing blow with a werewolf closing—not that the Morag Tong would have verified more than he already suspected. A location though, he mused. Knowing exactly where his enemy was would have been nice.
"You're certain it's her?" Brynjolf ventured.
"Without a doubt. All those years I spent trying to track her down..." Mercer scowled, pacing behind his desk. "All the damned gold and leads, and twenty five years later she just appears from nowhere. I'm impressed she avoided detection for so long, not that she's been very successful in destroying us."
"You," Brynjolf emphasized. "She might want the guild destroyed, but it's your head she's after. That's some kind of hate, Mercer, the kind that burns everything in its path. You don't hold onto that much hatred for twenty some years unless you're willing to lose everything for it."
"And lose she will."
The words tasted like iron on his tongue, his mind conjuring images of a woman he hadn't seen in so very long. They were both older now, and still locked in this cursed death roll. He wondered whether she was still beautiful—whether the wounds he'd given her had left scars—all while Brynjolf patiently considered him. The man couldn't possibly fathom Karliah's reasons for hating him. No one could, and he'd fought hard to ensure that it remained that way. Old memories. It all seemed so very long ago, even if he studied the scar she'd left on his chest each and every time he removed his clothing.
"I never understood why she turned," Brynjolf darkly mused. "She used to ruffle my hair and put a good word in Gallus's ear. I thought she loved him. You could almost see it in the way she looked at him."
"You were a boy," Mercer replied. "I worked with her far longer than you did."
"Aye. As you say, but it still makes me wonder. I never...eh," he dismissed. "It's water under the bridge now. She's made an enemy of the entire guild no matter the reason. I'll go to Kynesgrove myself and see if our friends left anything behind. It shouldn't take long."
"No," Mercer intoned. "I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."
Brynjolf hesitated before his face set in a grim line.
"I guess it's rather personal," he accepted.
"If I'm right, I know why the assassins met her there. It's a convenient location from areas further north. The innkeeper must remember something."
"That's where Gallus was murdered," Brynjolf recalled, voice severe. "In the far northeast. Why would she return there? It's miserable land in the winter."
"Nostalgia," Mercer sneered. "Because it's symbolic. Because she can't or won't let go of what happened. Oblivion if I know! She probably thinks it's the last place anyone would look for her. Who knows how many years the bitch has been clinging to bones."
"Do you intend to go alone? The entire guild is invested in this."
He could guess what was going through Brynjolf's mind. The redhead's younger self had watched as he'd stumbled into the Ragged Flagon, bloody and near incapacitated after fighting Karliah. The woman's astounding marksmanship had nearly been the death of him, and young Brynjolf had stood there, mouth gaping and eyes large as melons while he was patched back together. Now a man, there was still a glimmer of doubt in Brynjolf's eyes—concern for Mercer's welfare—and the guildmaster yearned to grind it to dust. He would not make the same mistakes with Karliah this time around.
"I'm hardly going to let her catch me with my pants down," he scowled.
"I meant no offense," Brynjolf coolly replied. "But I know what you're like when you set your mind on something. Don't forget that the guild's got your back."
At that moment, Prim emerged from the training room with Delvin at her side. Her voice easily carried around the cistern, and she stared at Mercer a moment before departing for the Flagon. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that Brynjolf and his protégé shared an insistence on foolish notions and ideals, albeit their own versions. She, however, was a bundle of gritty contradictions that Mephala would have taken delight in unraveling.
"As it happens, I won't be going alone. No, you're needed here," he quickly stated. "I can't have the guild falling to pieces in my absence, and you're the only person I trust to deal with Maven if she needs anything." The unspoken question rested in Brynjolf's eyes, and Mercer lingered in the moment before continuing. "Your little protégé will be going with me."
...
"I see."
I see? Not the response Mercer was expecting, and he considered Brynjolf fairly predictable. He studied the man's posture and almost quizzical contemplation. A slight frown tugged at Brynjolf's mouth, yet the man offered no protest, not that it would have changed anything. The redhead cared for Prim greatly. That much was obvious, and since the first day, he'd done his best to buffer her fiery personality against Mercer's own. But she'd wanted to draw her own line in the sand, hadn't she? The thief could handle herself well enough, when she was paying attention.
Did Brynjolf know that she was a werewolf? Mercer suddenly felt compelled to know, the thought of Brynjolf not knowing deeply satisfying.
"The lass can hold her own," the man replied, nonchalant. "Although to speak my mind, Mercer, I'm a wee bit surprised you'd choose her."
"You said she's talented," he dryly returned. "And her methods might prove effective in winning over the locals. They're a suspicious lot in Kynesgrove."
"I meant nothing to the contrary." And you know it, his tone implied. "You don't need to take the lass, but she'll do well. She always does, and she's a good fighter. I simply hadn't realized you could tolerate her enough for a job like this. You haven't worked with anyone in a long time. She might not know it, but you'll turn heads with this one."
Mercer couldn't decide whether Brynjolf was being critical or curious, perhaps both. The man's expression was devoid of emotion, hinting at a scrutiny his otherwise charming demeanor often masked. This was why Brynjolf was second in command.
"You're being very direct tonight," Mercer noted.
"We've known each other a long time. I'd rather not dance around this one."
"And you're worried about your sweet protégé being gutted, aren't you? But this is guild business, and I'll handle it in whatever way I see fit. I'm not wasting time reassuring you." Then, with a sardonic curl of his lips, he locked gazes with Brynjolf. "She's not shy about shedding blood, if you didn't know. Karliah might meet her match."
"I don't doubt it, not for one moment." The comment was reserved, but the man's voice firm. "Prim trusts you, Mercer, and she'd walk into the deadliest dungeon in Skyrim. I'd merely ask that you make sure she knows what to expect."
Was the man giving his blessing to this little outing? Mercer's eyebrows warred between rising in question or lowering into a glare. He did not need the man's fucking approval, a fact that Brynjolf knew damned well. That the redhead had insisted on giving it anyway irked Mercer. And trust? Both Prim and Brynjolf should have been more careful about bandying the concept around, although the latter had uttered the word with caution this time around, as if wary of employing it. Was that a healthy dose of cynicism finally creeping into the man's voice? Miracles never ceased.
Brynjolf did not wait to be dismissed, a stiffness hinting at disapproval, yet there was no attempt to dissuade Mercer from his course. Good. It was a losing battle anyway, both against himself and Prim, who was unlikely to shrink away from a challenge.
His gaze remained pinned on Brynjolf's back as the man headed for the Ragged Flagon and Prim. She would no doubt know about Mercer's intentions in mere moments, and a wave of annoyance coursed through him. They were leaving at first light.
"Dagon's balls!"
"You're starting to sound like Delvin, Prim."
"And what's wrong with that?" Delvin groused.
Vekel didn't respond as he continued sweeping, and Prim kicked her feet up onto the chair opposite her. She and Delvin were seated in the Flagon, sharing a plate of oysters, their knives hard at work. It had taken her some time to master the technique, but Delvin was nothing if not passionate about the little morsels, and had taught her well. He'd laughed at her for pulling a face after swallowing her first one, the sliming creature sliding down her throat. With some frustration, she finally opened a shell that was giving her difficulties.
"Hands to your own side," Delvin warned.
"I'm only eating my share," she argued.
Another shell opened, and she tilted her head back, swallowing. They weren't the most appetizing thing she'd ever eaten, but she'd split the cost of a bucket with Delvin and was determined to eat her share. The man smacked his lips together and smiled.
"It's been too long since I treated myself," he stated. "Oysters are good for bedroom activities, if you catch my meaning."
"So that explains your interest," she grumbled in good humor.
"An old wives' tale," Vekel dismissed.
Prim grinned and reclined in her seat, her share of the plate consumed. Delvin was taking his sweet time, a bit of oyster juice escaping a shell to run down his chin. She sighed at his manners while following the motion of Vekel's broom, the rhythmic sweeping almost soothing. It was a lazy evening, and the Flagon was bare but for the three of them and the ever-present and silent Dirge. Trouble brewed just beneath the surface though. Prim's mind was easily wandering tonight.
"Delvin, I've been meaning to ask you something since you've been in the guild so long."
"Oh, and what's that, love?"
"Has the guild ever been religious?"
"Religious?" The man looked surprised, even a bit confused as he tossed a shell aside. "This isn't exactly the Temple of Mara, Prim. What put that idea in your head?"
"The thief I met in Solitude. Some of his comments were a bit strange. I asked Brynjolf, but he doesn't recall very much about it. You've been here longer, so I thought you might know something."
"Well, we've never been a religious lot. We've had a few religious members, but they're not the kind that bungle around blessing and preaching; that's for sure. There used to be a shrine here, I suppose, way back when Gallus was in charge, but I wouldn't call it religious. More like a figurehead on a ship, you know? For luck and as a symbol or something like that. I barely noticed the thing, and then one day it was gone."
"Gone?" Prim questioned.
Vekel's sweeping had slowed, the man drifting closer in interest. Maybe this wasn't common knowledge among the newer guild members, although Vekel had certainly weathered quite a few years in this place. Delvin glanced between the two of them, and rubbed a hand across his grizzle.
"Gone," he repeated. "It was brought in by Karliah, and after Gallus was murdered and the bloodshed finished, it disappeared. It must have been Mercer. I bet he smashed it to bits and pissed on the rubble. He never liked the thing—said it gave recruits the wrong impression—but that's not something you'd best bring up around him. It's not exactly a secret, but..." The man shrugged, and seized upon the last oyster. "You both know how he can be."
"No kidding," Prim mused. "Brynjolf told me about the fallout after the murder. He said part of the guild sided with Karliah, and that several people wanted to be in charge, and no one could agree."
"People died before it was made right," Delvin intoned. "I took a knife in the shoulder when Titus tried to eliminate the oldest members. A lot of thieves packed up and left rather than get involved. Smart of 'em. It was nasty business, and when the dust settled, we had to start from scratch. Mercer kept us together as well he could, but with luck a choosy whore, new members were hard to come by. Bad omen, the whole affair."
"And Karliah was never found," Prim recalled. "That's what Brynjolf said."
"That's a story in and of itself, and you can't blame people for having tight lips, love. Gallus was like a father to Brynjolf after Mercer found him. The two would talk for hours, and Mercer, well, he went way back with Gallus and Karliah. The three of them set up down here and built the guild. They wanted it to be as famous as the branch in Cyrodiil. I don't know how long they worked together, but they were quite the group when I joined. Karliah's betrayal cut deep."
Vekel shook his head and returned to the bar, tidying up for the night.
"I'm glad that was before me," he commented. "I'm turning in for the night. Don't steal from the bar or I will cut back serving you, Delvin."
The man waved him off, looking distracted as he twiddled his shucking knife. Prim was hardly satisfied, more eager than ever for information. Brynjolf had told her much, but seemed to be holding back for some reason, perhaps due to personal discomfort.
"I hadn't realized that Brynjolf and Gallus were close," she commented.
"Thick as thieves, as they say," Delvin chuckled. "But him and Mercer were the real troublemakers. Between Brynjolf's curiosity and Mercer's daring, Gallus had his hands full."
"Brynjolf said Mercer taught him."
"Some of it, sure, but he wasn't a patient teacher. Shocked, aren't you?" he teased. "The two worked well enough together, I suppose. Brynjolf always wanted to go on jobs with him, like Mercer was his big brother or something, but they weren't all that close from what I could tell. Mercer came and went and might be gone for days without a word. It was Gallus who looked out for Bryn most of the time."
"Brynjolf must have been devastated when Gallus was murdered." Prim frowned, memories of her parents stirring just beneath the surface. Loss was never easy, and how much worse for a young boy who'd already been set adrift in the world? No wonder Brynjolf was so protective of the guild. "But what about Karliah?" she questioned.
"What about her?"
"Why did she do it?"
"Damned good question. We'll probably never know. Might as well scratch your ass and hope to see the past. She didn't like Mercer though. I can say that much. They were friends when I joined. She used to wrap her arm around him and make jokes—real friendly for a dark elf—but something must have happened, or maybe they grew apart. Whatever it was, they were no longer cozy by the time everything went to Oblivion. Mercer spent a lot of the guild's wealth trying to track her down, and Brynjolf was right there with him."
They sat in silence, the only sound that of nearing footsteps. Brynjolf emerged from the cistern's tunnel, and paused as he noticed the two of them. Prim waved in greeting, noting a weariness in the man's features, but determination as well. She'd seen him talking with Mercer, and knew that whatever had passed between them was responsible. She could only offer him her best smile as he approached, lifting her feet and patting the chair on which they'd sat.
"Right here," she insisted. "Delvin was telling me all about the guild's history. Oysters apparently do wonders for the mouth, not just other parts of the male body."
Delvin gave a toothy grin and threw an arm around Prim.
"You can test out the second part anytime, love."
"Terrible man," she huffed, playfully pushing him away. Brynjolf smiled as well, much to her relief. The tension between him and Mercer sometimes worried her. "Hey," she said, grabbing his attention. "Are you alright? Delvin and I, we saw that there was a meeting. Good news about the assassins?"
"You could say that," Brynjolf allowed. "You and Mercer are going after our lead."
"It's about time I was let loose. My shoulder feels just fine now."
Delvin and Brynjolf exchanged an ambiguous look that left Prim wary. What was it with these two and the nonverbal signals? She sat forward, a bit annoyed, but more concerned than anything. Brynjolf hadn't said that Karliah was the suspected culprit in recent events, but he'd said enough to clue her in.
"You leave tomorrow," he stated. "So you'd best get some sleep, lass, but before you do, I need to tell you a few things." The seriousness with which he regarded her rooted in her place. "I once knew an archer who could throw and shoot an apple mid-air..."
They would not be taking horses on this trip. Mercer didn't want the hassle of feeding, housing, or sneaking with the animals, making them more of a burden than anything. Prim had no objections to the decision, not when they were traveling light. They both carried simple packs that would make due should they become stranded in the wilderness, although Kynesgrove wasn't far from Riften. The journey would take a day and a half at most, the main road to Windhelm passing directly by the small town and associated mine. She didn't understand why Mercer had implied that they might be gone for a week or more, although the news hadn't surprised Brynjolf. Maybe the guildmaster just liked holding information over her head.
He would, she thought, not unkindly. He walked a few paces ahead of her, his guild armor concealed by the gray cloak with which she associated him. Hers was brown with fur around the collar, and she was happy for it as their boots crunched through the snow. It was a clear day and cold as usual, the pines around them offering a splash of green against the white landscape. They had passed out of the Rift and into Eastmarch, and barely a word from her companion.
"She almost killed Mercer with an arrow through the chest. Barely missed his heart."
Brynjolf's conversation from last night replayed through her mind, for there was little else to occupy her. Whoever this Karliah was, the woman was possibly the deadliest shot in Skyrim, and with years of hate to support her aim. Prim wondered how Mercer had survived a journey from somewhere in Winterhold's region to Riften on his deathbed, and more importantly to her, why he'd chosen to bring her along to Kynesgrove. Maybe it was the beast blood and her fighting skills. It certainly wasn't for conversation on a long walk, the thought making her smile.
"Bears," she softly spoke, drawing close beside him.
He glanced at her and then the trees. It was rare for her to see him in such full light, most of their encounters having taken place in the cistern or at night. His face was creased from frowning too much, and he looked a true rogue with his barely groomed hair and scruff that had not been shaved in several days.
"You can smell them?" he asked.
"Of course. They're to the east and coming closer. It shouldn't be a problem."
"Their luck," he lowly commented.
If he wasn't going to pick up the pace to lessen the chances of an encounter, neither would she, although the scent was quickly behind them. It occurred to her that maybe Mercer had brought her along for her nose since she was capable of detecting opponents over long distances. She personally hadn't thought much of accompanying him given recent events, but Vex's mouth had dropped open at the news, and Rune had just looked adorably confused.
"Did you know that each person smells different?" she ventured. "Once I smell someone, I'm able to pick out their scent anywhere."
"Can you tell whether it's a person without seeing them?"
"Yes. People are...it's not easy to explain, but yes, I can tell whether a scent belongs to a person or not. You can know a lot about people by how they smell: what they like to eat, where they spend their time, who they've been sleeping with..." He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I notice a lot of things about people without them realizing it. I knew you were sick before you did."
"Do people leave their scents behind?"
Suddenly interested in werewolves, are you? He hadn't asked questions before, even though she'd expected them, and now she almost felt flattered by his curiosity. To have someone know of her condition and remain so indifferent was a relief. He of all people could probably appreciate its benefits.
"Do you mean if someone sat in a chair and left?" she asked.
"If they walked through a room. Pissed in a corner. Take your pick."
"It depends. Did the seat have a cushion? Did the person bathe recently? Any number of things make a difference, but..." She could only think of Riftweald and how it smelled of him. Sitting on his bed and treating his fevered body had made her all too aware of it. That example felt too intrusive though. "Your cloak," she decided. "When you wrapped me in your cloak, I knew it was yours. If it were in a room, but you weren't, I would still know it was yours and that you'd recently worn it."
He did not respond, and she imagined the wheels in his head turning, archiving the information for later. Perhaps she shouldn't have shared so much, keeping some advantage to herself instead, but she wasn't overly concerned as a humorous thought hit her.
"You know who smells terrible? Maramal. And sometimes he reeks of mead. Makes me wonder."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Mercer's mouth, although maybe the light was playing tricks with her. It was gone almost instantly.
"I suppose some people smell better than others," he commented.
He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, the suggestion of something more evident in his tone. She was tempted to ask, but sealed her lips, again wondering about the details of what had transpired the night he'd carried her home. The feel of his scruff against her face, inhaling him...Divines, she needed to stop thinking about that.
Their journey continued in relative silence, few words passing between them. She was comfortable with the arrangement, and they continued after dark since they were so near their destination. Kynesgrove sat on a small hill with meager farmland, swallowed by pines and dependent upon Steamscorch Mine for its livelihood. Prim had never been to this part of Skyrim before, but favored the place with an eye for rustic comfort. The Braidwood Inn stood proudly against the night sky, a collection of tents and a campfire to its right.
"Do so few people live here?" she asked.
"Mostly miners," Mercer answered, climbing the last few steps to the inn. She was equally happy to be off her feet as they entered and settled at a table. The inn was typically Nordic with a long fire pit running down the center of its pillared common room, and high crossbeams and rafters overhead. Smaller rooms line the room's sides, promising sleeping quarters for weary travelers like themselves. Prim dropped her pack to the floor and basked in the firelight, warm at last.
"Can I help you with anything?" a dark-haired woman yawned.
She came from the counter at the far end of the room, where she'd apparently fallen asleep in a chair. She smelled of charcoal and straw, her dress modest and voice almost reluctant in addressing them. Surely they didn't look too ragged.
"We'd like a room for the night," Mercer stated. "And whatever you're serving."
"You're well past supper time, travelers. It must be almost witching time if not later, but I'll see what I have. The name's Iddra." She lifted a keyring from her belt, and removed one key. "The room's small, but there are two beds. You can put them together or not as you like."
Mercer took the key and set several coins on the table, the woman quickly scooping them up. He didn't look tired, but surely he was. He leaned forward and crossed arms over the tabletop while Prim loosened her hair from a braid. It was a relief for there to be no expectation of conversation after such a long day.
"There's stew," Iddra stated, returning with two bowls. "And bread. Mead too, if you'd like. I could make it hot for you."
"I'll take some," Prim accepted.
"And you, sir?"
"Make it two.'
Mercer set several more coins on the table without looking at the woman, and she eyed him warily as she turned away. A man appeared at the far end of the room, staring a long moment before Iddra hurried to have a word with him. Whatever passed between them, the man considered his guests with a stern expression.
"You won't help by being rude," Prim stated. "These people seem touchy."
"I'm not here to make friends," Mercer dismissed. "And there's always you."
"Is that why I'm here?" she bristled. "To make up for your bad behavior?"
A spoonful of stew paused half-way to Mercer's mouth, his eyes fixed on her through the steam.
"Make no mistake," he glowered. "I don't need your help, but I expect you to be useful."
Arrogant ass, she thought, dunking bread into her stew. The food quelled any ill feelings, and when two steaming mugs of mead drew closer, she leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mercer frowned around his spoon.
"Pay attention, Master Frey. This is how you make friends."
The man's disposition didn't improve as she put on a smile for Iddra.
"Thank you," she beamed. "I know it's late, and I apologize if we haven't been properly gracious. We had a very long walk to get here. This smells wonderful. Is it a local brew?"
"Aye, ma'am," the woman nodded. "We make it here, and buy some from Riften and Windhelm as well. This one here is my own recipe."
"Oh, excellent." Prim raised the mug, looking over the rim at Mercer while she took a sip. The man stared hard as another spoonful of stew reached his mouth. "Mmm. It's good. Not too sweet. I find Black-Briar a bit too heavy on the honey."
"Like the brewing was rushed, and they're making up for lost flavor," Iddra agreed. "I understand, ma'am. I understand." This was too good to be true. Prim wanted to chuckle, but settled for a playful grin. "So what brings you in this late, travelers?"
"Well, we know a few people who might have passed through here. Perhaps you'd remember them? There were three, all dark elves. They're quiet gentlemen, so I don't imagine they drew much attention to themselves."
"Oh, I remember them alright, but there were four. Three men, one woman. She was a dark elf too, but I don't recall their names. They weren't a friendly group. Polite enough, but not friendly. That was...six months ago or so."
"Do you happen...? But it's late, and you'd probably like your rest," Prim gently smiled. "We'll have to chat tomorrow morning. How does that sound?"
"Sounds good, ma'am," the woman returned. "You enjoy your evening."
Iddra departed, tapping the man who was still studying them on the shoulder, and motioning to one of the rooms. He was no doubt her husband, and it was only with reluctance that he followed the woman to bed, the door to their room remaining cracked open. Prim couldn't keep the grin from her face as she indulged in mead, pointedly ignoring Mercer.
"Do you think you're clever?" he asked, voice crisp and very much suggesting that he disagreed.
"No," she dismissed. "But I do think that I have manners and that a little kindness can go a long way, Master Frey. And whatever your reason for bringing me along, I'm ready to turn in."
She finished off the mead, drinking too quickly, yes, but oh well. She stifled a yawn as she stood, one hip resting against the table and hair tumbling down her back. Mercer was lazily running a spoon along the inside of his empty bowl, face too shadowed for her to see. He had the key and took his time polishing off his drink before rising and unlocking their room.
Their traveling packs were quickly dropped on the floor, and the door locked. The room was as small as Iddra had promised, sporting two beds that nearly touched one another in the narrow confines. A table was jammed into one corner with a single chair and wash basin, now joined by discarded boots and armor. Prim needn't have asked why they were sharing a room as she as slid beneath blankets and fur throws. It was no doubt more convenient and safer should anyone hope to sneak up on them, and she didn't mind as she watched Mercer lay on the bed running parallel to hers. If she reached out, she would be able to touch him, brush his hair aside and trace his jawline.
She rolled to face the wall and fell asleep. Outside, it began to snow.