The place was quiet and calm as the three thieves approached it. No light came from the windows, no animals sounded or moaned as they slept. This was hardly a surprise; Heljarchen Hall had been abandoned for almost fifty years. "Are you sure it's safe?" a woman's voice asked quietly.
"Relax, Arya," one of her companions said, his voice filled with the Khajit purr. "The Dragonborn is long since dead by now, and no one has lived here since."
"How can you be sure, J'tharr?" she asked, tugging at the full-body set of ragged fur armor she wore. "What if he's still alive? The draugr were supposed to be dead, but they walk the halls of their crypts."
"The Dragonborn was a Khajit. He would not have been subjected to your Nordic burial methods. Furthermore, he did not betray the Nine. Finally, he was almost seventy when he disappeared from every record. Even if he was not dead when he disappeared, he would be almost a hundred and twenty now, and not even Tiber Septim lived that long. If you want to leave, then do so, but Khajit knows that we all need the money. Now, just be quiet." Arya continued to glance nervously at everything around her, but she obeyed. "Marcus, if you would please."
The stocky Imperial in question strode forward, reasonably quietly for a man of his side, and began working on the lock. "Damn," he muttered as he broke his pick. He tried another, and another, cursing in frustration as he went through pick after pick. Finally, he was on his last pick, and with one more effort, his curses blew into a full-blown tirade when that broke as well. "It can't be picked," he swore vehemently. "Whatever the Dragonborn did, he either made an uncrackable lock or he had the money to buy one." He slammed his fist into the door, and with a thunderous creak bespeaking years of neglect, it slowly opened.
"Well, I suppose that works," Arya said nervously, moving forward. Her vision adjusted rapidly to the darkness, showing the outlines of numerous barrels, tables, chests, cupboards, and other pieces of furniture leading to the main hall. Her skilled eyes sought out any minute signs of traps, both magical and mundane, and, finding none, she gestured the others in. The moment the doors closed, the wall sconces flared with light, causing all three to jump.
"It's just a lingering spell," J'tharr said, stepping closer to the fixtures. "It's like the lights at the College of Winterhold, how they grow bright whenever a living being steps near them. Remember, he had achieved the title of Arch-Mage." The others seemed unconvinced, but J'tharr had the magical and historical knowledge in their group, so they went with his word. "This must be the house that he dedicated to the Pursuits of Knowledge," he muttered as he strode into the main hall. "The stories said that the Dragonborn had left three homesteads to mark Skyrim; one was dedicated to the Pursuits of Knowledge, one to the Pursuits of the Warrior, and one to the Pursuits of the Soul."
"And what were the Pursuits of the Soul?" Arya asked, gazing at the old, dust-covered furniture.
"History seems frustratingly silent on that," J'tharr replied, running a hand across the large table in the center of the room. "One would guess that he might have reared his family there."
"He had family?" Marcus said, swiftly turning to face J'tharr.
"Well, it doesn't seem that they were of his blood. This one managed to trace adoption records in Whiterun for a young orphan named Lucia, and records in Riften's orphanage for a girl named Runa. The Dragonborn did not marry a Khajit, and to the best of this one's knowledge, it is not possible for Man and Man-Beast to breed."
"Well, if he has no family then I suppose that whatever he's got here is ripe for the taking," Marcus replied. Cracking open a door, he whistled as he took a look inside. "Looks like a hard-core Enchanter's setup."
Arya quietly observed her companions as they perused through the contents of the tower, evaluating the worth of what they found. When she was sure they had completely forgotten her, she slipped out of the tower, sneaking through the upper floor of the main hall. The beds were covered in dust, great clouds of the substance puffing up when she tossed her hood onto one, shaking out her crimson hair. A quick run of the hall revealed no more than the objects they had already found. Without any hesitance, she quickly snuck downstairs, pulled open the trap door to the cellar, and dove down.
She was instantly assaulted with the scent of air that had been trapped when it was already stale. She coughed, pulling a rag from her pouch and holding it over her mouth. A heavy darkness permeated the room, one that even her vision could not permeate. Reaching into her nearly non-existent spell base, she cast one of the only two spells she knew: Candlelight.
The sudden shift was almost painful, but within a few moments her eyes had adjusted and the items in the room were cast into hyper-detail. She paused as she saw an enormous stone structure, before she caught sight of the nine shrines resting upon it. "I never would have guessed that he was the religious type," she murmured, gently touching each individual shrine, lingering for a moment longer on the shrine to Talos. Her eyes skimmed over the two mannequins, one dressed in common mage clothing and the other dressed in a black armor with a cape that she had never before seen. She moved into the next room, the light spilling onto the structures within, and she quietly ran a hand over the forge, the heat long since died out, and the ashes as cold as the rest of Skyrim. Her eyes alit upon the numerous safes lining the walls, and she instantly pressed an ear against one, rapping lightly with a knuckle. There was little sound, meaning that the safe was almost completely full, and her lock picks were out in a heartbeat.
"Trying to sneak a little bit extra?" Marcus' voice said behind her, and she jumped, caught off guard. "Well, I suppose I won't tell J'tharr," he said, leaning against the frame of the opening. "After all, we all need a little something, don't we?"
"What do you want, Marcus?" she asked, crossing her arms. This was not her first time dealing with the Imperial, and she had often found that he was just as likely to blackmail you as to work with you.
"Your armor on the floor," he said, shrugging. "You bent over that forge. Me behind you, taking you like a bitch."
"Like that'll ever happen," she said, turning back to the safes. "Go find some other place to stick your cock." Even with all of her skills, she doubted she could have moved as fast as he did that instant, grabbing her and twisting her around. His strong hands grabbed ahold of her fur jerkin, tearing it completely down the front and revealing her generous breasts. She lashed out with her lock picking knife, but he grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully before he set her down in the ashes, holding her down with the sheer size and weight of his body as he unlaced his breeches. "Get off of me!" she screamed, thrashing as much as she could, even screaming for help from J'tharr, but no one heard her. She squeezed her legs together as tightly as she could, but he forced them open, moving forward until she felt him press against her. Tears poured from the corners of her eyes as he tore her cloth undergarments, and she clenched her eyes shut, hoping to try and block it out.
A gurgling sound emanated from Marcus, and her eyes opened to see him slump beside her, his throat opened from ear to ear and blood pouring out in sheets. She scrabbled away from him, clutching at the remains of her clothes, before she turned to thank J'tharr for his timely intervention.
Her blood chilled when she saw an armored void.
What she had thought to be a mannequin reached down, gently moving her arms away from her body, his fingers probing her skin. She flinched as he pressed hard on a spot that was already beginning to show a nasty bruise, and his left hand glowed with an amber light for a moment. Instantly the pain eased, the swelling decreasing, and the light disappeared. There was a slight snick as his dagger was returned to his belt, and he reached up toward his neck, unfastening his cape and draping it over her now nude form.
The shape lifted her carefully out of the dead forge, carrying her to the ladder and making a slight motion with his hand. The ladder shifted into a staircase, the trap door opening. "How…?" she murmured weakly.
"Heljarchen Hall holds no secrets for those who know it well," the figure said, and in his voice she heard the slight drawl of the Khajit. Her suspicions were confirmed when, once they were out of the cellar, he closed the trap door with his tail.
"Why did you save me?" she asked as he carried her up the stairs toward the beds.
"Because it was right," he purred, "and because you remind me of a long-dead Huntress."
"Aela," she murmured as he set her down on a large double-bed, the dust having mysteriously vanished. "When my ma was drunk, she used to scream how we deserved better than a hunter's life, how we were the descendants of Aela the Huntress… Never actually believed her…" Moments later, she was asleep, curled up in the expanse of his cloak.
Sim'baja pulled off the hood, shaking out his mane for the first time in years. Picking up a silver platter next to the bed, he brushed off the dust of fifty years and looked at his reflection. The three scars from the lion's claws running across the bridge of his nose looked slightly faded, though they had widened somewhat; the jagged and angular tiger-stripe war paint he had occasionally applied was long gone; his mane and ringed mustache were streaked with gray, but still mostly black, and still thick, and still the same length as it had always been; finally, his eyes seemed almost haunted, the depths of them speaking years of experiences.
He heard the sudden crackle of electricity, and turned, seeing a young Khajit standing with a charged spell, observing him quietly. "You can try," he said, "but it won't work well against the Arch-Mage of Winterhold."
"So you are the Dragonborn," the Khajit murmured, canceling the spell. "You're supposed to be long dead."
"Dragons were supposed to be a legend, the Stormcloaks were supposed to be victorious, and the Thieves Guild was supposed to be gone." Sim'baja set the platter down, returning to his vigil over the young woman.
"This one's name is J'tharr," the Khajit said. "You knew his grandfather, J'zargo." Sim'baja cast him a sideways glance, nodding before he looked back. "Does Arya fascinate you that much?"
"Your companion tried to rape her," Sim'baja said matter-of-factly. "He's lying dead in the ashes of my forge." J'tharr remained expressionless, obviously uncaring of the man's fate, and Sim'baja cast him another glance. "What is your purpose here?"
"We thought the house was long abandoned, so we decided that our sheer needs would justify an incursion into this place and the taking of what we could to survive. Evidently, Markus wanted more." Sim'baja nodded, reaching into his pocket and tossing J'tharr five flawless diamonds. "Thank you," J'tharr said, his voice barely remaining calm as his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "This one hopes you do not mind, but he came across numerous spell tomes in your library, and he read several of them."
"Khajit already knew the spells," Sim'baja replied. "This one suffers no loss there." J'tharr nodded, before taking a seat.
"This one's grandfather used to tell numerous tales of adventures with you. Once you disappeared, he spent more than a year searching for you. J'zargo claimed you were his greatest friend."
"How did he die?"
"Age," J'tharr replied. "You are roughly one hundred and twenty years old, though you look forty. Every non-Mer you knew is dead, dying, or undead. If you venture out, you may meet some of their descendants, however."
"It is late," Sim'baja said, changing the subject. "If you wish to stay, find a bed. If your talent with magic is anything like your grandfather's, this one will give you what you need to head for the College in the morning." J'tharr bowed, leaving the room, and Sim'baja leaned back in his chair, falling asleep moments later to old memories.
Sim'baja worked hard to try and stifle his grunts and groans as he thrust into the woman beneath him, the bed creaking quietly with their movements. Sun poured in through the windows, giving a lovely view of the mountains surrounding Whiterun a distance off, but he and the woman did not care. They were still mostly clothed; he had only undone his trousers enough to pull himself out, and her underwear hung off one ankle, her breasts pulled up and out of the neckline of her shirt.
"Papa?" Lucia's voice sounded on the other side of the door.
"Papa is a little busy at the moment!" he managed to shout out, his voice wavering. "Papa thought that Lydia had taken you to the market!" His voice rose on the second sentence, loud enough for Lydia to hear, and he would have sworn his sensitive ears heard a slight snicker.
"Almost there…" his partner whispered, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist. "Just a few more moments."
"Can we go and visit Uncle Farkas and Uncle Vilkas? Pleeeeeaaaassssseeeee?" Runa asked, her voice taking on the tone she always used when trying to appeal to Sim'baja's soft spot.
"Yes!" he managed to croak out, feeling his own end coming. "Go ahead, go now!" Footsteps pounded down the staircase of Breezehome, and the door opened and shut. With an animalistic roar, he sprayed deep inside his partner's womb, the woman bucking with her own end, before they both flopped onto the bed, utterly spent.
"Hmm, that was wonderful," Saadia said, sitting up after a few minutes and fixing her clothes. "Maybe next time I should bring along Olfina. If you ask me, that girl needs to get a cock in her. Then you'll be able to say you've fucked two women of high status." Sim'baja gave a grunt, closing his eyes as she left.
If only she knew…
As she awoke, Arya felt warmer than she had felt for many weeks. Without opening her eyes, she could feel that she was in a large, comfy bed, and wrapped up in soft, warm blankets. She nuzzled further into the pillow, squinting her eyes as a beam of sunlight fell across her face, before she finally relented and opened them. The room was empty, the cloak was gone, the blankets having taken its place, and on the chair across from the bed was a backpack that she did not recall seeing the night before, with a note pinned to the front. She rose from the bed, holding her shredded tunic in place, before reading the note.
Arya,
Your companion, J'tharr, left earlier for Winterhold. Your rescuer left for his own reasons. You are free to choose your own path as well. Within this backpack is two hundred and fifty Septims, three apples, a wheel of Eidar cheese, three handfuls of assorted jewels, one handful of flawless diamonds, and an enchanted ring. Khajit wishes to speak with you at a later date, so if you wear the ring, he will be able to find you. Take whatever clothes you need from the wardrobe. With the gold in the bag, you should be able to stay at an inn for a good while. There are one or two weapons in the cellar, but no armor. IF YOU GO INTO THE SAFES, REFRAIN FROM OPENING THE ONE WITH A DOZEN RUNES CARVED INTO ITS DOOR. This safe contains dark artifacts, certain books Khajit has sealed away to prevent Hermaeus Mora from achieving power. Khajit would be very sad if you were to die.
Your ally,
Sim'baja
Arya opened the bag, amazed to find that with the items he had given her she had more of value than she had in her entire childhood. She quickly dove into the wardrobe, finding a beautiful set of fine clothes that she put on, before fishing out a fine hat, fine boots, and one of three pairs of soft leather gloves. To her amazement, the clothes actually fit her; given her large bust, she often had difficulty finding things that fit her that she herself had not made. Well, congratulations on your wife, she thought, snickering as her mind switched to dirty thoughts. Deciding that she didn't need to grab any weapon besides the dagger that was on the shelf above the bed, she set out for Whiterun.
Erandur made a slight sound as he moved to greet the figure before him. It wasn't a groan of pain or sigh; it was simply a sound that one of his advanced age made when they moved. It was almost like a heavy breath, but it was not of exertion. "How may I assist you, my son?" he asked.
The Khajit was dressed in simple religious garb, wearing a robe that almost matched Erandur's. His fur was a whitish-gray color that was similar to a cold stone in the harsh landscape. His long hair white reached far below the expanse of his hood, two shorter strands falling around his shoulder out the front. Unremarkable black eyes gazed kindly at the old elf.
"This one is new to Skyrim, and was hoping that you could be of assistance," he replied, sitting in one of the numerous benches that Erandur had refurbished in the old ruin above Dawnstar. "You see, Khajit is studying the Dragonborn. There are few left alive now who knew him well, and they are all Mer or Undead. This one had heard that you were a friend of his?"
Erandur remained quiet for a few moments, his eyes lost in one of the memories that the elderly were prone to fall into, before he spoke. "I do not know if ever I could have been called such. You see, the Dragonborn affected many lives; if one was not one of his greatest friends, one simply could never know if they had affected his in return. What I can confirm is that he requested my presence on a number of different ventures, and that I went with him when it was both within my power, and my privilege, to do so."
"Do you know if he had family?"
"I believe that he had adopted two young orphans, and that he had a wife. I cannot recall the name of any of these people, however. You must forgive me; my mind is not what it once was." The Khajit gave him a kind look, gently gesturing for him to go on. "Well, I am given to understand that one of his 'daughters' passed some thirteen winters ago. She lived a full life, if the stories are to be believed; she had children of her own, and grandchildren. In her youth she was an adventurer like he was, and wrote a series of stories for her children that eventually were published throughout Tamriel. Wait! A name returns to me. That child was named Runa."
"And what of the other child?"
"Alas, that tale is more fraught with sorrow. She buried two husbands and three of her four children, and the one that survived died in war shortly after fathering her only grandchild. The granddaughter was charged with theft in several of the holds, and hid away here in Dawnstar for a number of years. When she was caught at last, she had just enough to pay her bounty. Brought to the brink of poverty, the woman wound up selling the only thing left to her; she whored herself to whatever sailors would call here. She died last winter from a resulting disease; I performed the rights myself. The grandmother is now past ninety winters, and her mind is nearly gone. She lives in her childhood haunt of Breezehome still, I believe. If there is anything left in that shell, she may be able to give you more information than I, but do not expect much."
"Thank you for your time," the Khajit replied, rising from the bench. "May your roads lead you through warm sands." Erandur smiled, watching as the Khajit left, and once the door was closed, the Khajit pulled back the hood, removing the wig before also removing the simple spell he had created to change eye color. A quick snow-scrub had the dye washed from his head and hands, the only things that were visible and therefore the only things dyed, and Sim'baja stood where a stranger had been. "Onto to Whiterun," he murmured.
Well, hope you guys have enjoyed the first chapter! Review and let me know how I did.
-Zeratide, out.