This little off-shoot contains a scene that did not make the final cut for the "Wolf of Riften" main storyline that I am currently working on. More specifically, this is the bit where Brynjolf is originally supposed to find out that Felnore is more than just a blacksmith with anger issues. But since the actual chapters were re-written, this got left on the cutting room floor. And now, it's here for your reading pleasure.

This is what could happen when Brynjolf has time for you and has a score to settle. Bryn is complicated. Felnore is not. Together, crazy shenanigans occur. How I love these two demented peanuts. Enjoy the chaos!

Underneath a moldy burlap hood, Felnore inhaled the rank dampness that could only be the city's sewers. The ripe stink of stagnant water and foul air made it difficult for his nose to differentiate between the refuse of the city inhabitants and the crafty brethren that made their home in the warren of unused tunnels below the city's surface. It made his eyes water just to breathe through his nose.

Felnore tried to lift his hand but no such luck. There were heavy leather bindings on his wrists and ankles. The tightness across his chest and the foreign weight around his neck kept his spine rigid and pressed into the wooden hardness at his back. He was seated, bound to a heavy wooden chair, and had no idea how he had gotten there.

The last thing he could remember was the soft tread of cautious feet and a blur of movement in the deep shadows of the canal boardwalk. A steady throb on the back of his head was a reassuring reminder that he was not losing his mind but only had it scrambled from a well-placed blow that must have laid him flat.

Felnore swallowed but the sour taste of old tanned goat hide made him cough. A thick leather braid was wedged between his teeth and try as he might, there was no way to work his tongue around it. Whoever had pulled a fast one on him was not taking any chances.

"Got his arms? An' his legs?"

"He's secured."

"I dunno about this."

"Delvin."

"You sure you know what you're doin'? Does Mercer even know about what you're up to?"

"I know what I'm about Delvin. Don't worry about Mercer. There won't be any slip-ups this time."

"Them's famous last words."

Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, there was nothing Felnore could do but listen to the voices that echoed off the stone walls around him. The dock accent sounded familiar, but he could not put a name to it. The smooth brogue lit of the second speaker, however, was one he knew all too well.

Brynjolf. That damned sly fox.

The thief had made sure that it impossible for him to move, but that did not stop Felnore from trying.

"Well now, looks like someone is finally awake." The all-too-memorable scent of oiled leather, earth, and smoke grew stronger.

Felnore could feel the air shift on his skin as the clever thief moved in close. Only then did Felnore realized that he had been stripped down to his skin.

That sneaking son-of-a-…

Felnore did not hold back the dangerous growl that rumbled deep within his chest.

"Make sure you keep a tight leash on this one, Brynjolf. Remember, the bastard bites." Delvin warned.

"How could I forget?" Brynjolf's tone was anything but pleasant.

Felnore was silenced when a rough hand yanked tight on the collar around his neck. He did not have to see the man to want to kill him the moment the opportunity presented itself.

This time, Felnore would make sure his teeth found their proper mark in that green-eyed swain's tender throat.

"You sure don't need a hand with this? The torturin' and all? You've only got the one good hand as it is."

Felnore's ears pricked up at Delvin's words. Only one good hand? So, the thieving wretch had yet to figure out a way to reverse the damage that Felnore had inflicted as payback for the stunt Brynjolf pulled. Brynjolf had made the grave mistake of taking from Felnore what he treasured deeply. His wedding band, which had remained a permanent fixture on his hand since the day his late wife wrenched it onto his finger twelve years ago.

Serves the bastard right. Felnore hoped the hand festered and had to be cut off. He would be more than happy to sharpen the axe needed for the job.

"I'm certain I will be fine, Delvin. Even with one hand, I'm still the best. Leave us, and whatever you hear, make sure that I am not interrupted. You do not open that door. Understood? This could take a while."

Felnore uttered another growl, this one a clear threat, as he tested the strength of his bindings. The leather straps creaked from the pressure, but they had no room for any give. If he was going to have to fight his way free, he would need to find some way to break the chair limbs because the straps held fast.

The slam of a heavy wooden door, followed by iron bolt, made Felnore tense against his bindings. He growled a third time, and the sound carried the canine promise of slow retribution. Strapped down to a chair, unable to see, to fight back, the thief was going to pay with his life for this.

"Here then, let's have a look at you."

The hood was pulled off and Felnore's thick grey hair fell about his shoulders in a tangled mess. A strip of cloth was wound across his eyes, but at least now he could breathe a little easier without having to inhale through the sack.

Brynjolf's hand came to rest on his head and Felnore went still. Curious fingers grazed the long strands of his hair as they combed through the snags, trailing down the length of his neck, before working the braids at his temples free of their decorative bindings. Felnore could only wonder where the thief had gotten the nerve to touch him like this. To pet him, caress him, like he would a common street mutt. He bristled from the indignity of it all.

How dare the thief touch him.

Felnore curled his lips as he was grabbed roughly by the beard and his chin jerked upward. It was impossible not to wince before the rough calloused fingertips found the exposed pulse-point just under his chin.

"So, you do enjoy pain. Well, blacksmith, I am fairly certain we can find some common ground that suits us both."

Brynjolf's voice was a low murmur in Felnore's ear as the blindfold was slowly removed. When Felnore was finally able open his eyes, two bright green eyes peered into his. Twin emeralds that glinted of dark promises yet to be revealed.

"Hello Greymane. Did you miss me?"

Felnore glared at Brynjolf before he swallowed hard and choked. Small rounded studs were imbedded into the inner seam of the leather around his throat. His skin began to sting whenever they touched his skin. It took him a few seconds to figure out why.

The studs were made of silver.

Brynjolf's smile broadened until it touched the crow's-feet at the corner of his eyes. "I think you did."