Author's Note: It goes without saying that Bethesda owns the universe and its characters. The rest is me.
Be forewarned; my grammar is not impeccable.
PROLOGUE - Journal of Tashine the Redguard
Several months ago, I made the fateful choice of stepping onto a merchant ship bound for Skyrim, and said farewell to my native Hammerfell. My choice was spurred by two things: news from Skyrim suggested the province was going to erupt into civil war, and where there is conflict, there is also profit for intrepid sell-swords. And second, my last ties to Hammerfell were gone. My husband and siblings had died during the wars, and when my ailing mother finally passed, home began to feel empty and restless. So I packed up what little belongings I had and found work on board a merchant ship that would take me far from the spice farms and sun-swathed sands. At last I debarked in Windhelm, the last port of call in Skyrim, and found my way to Candlehearth Hall.
I was sitting in the corner of the upper floor when I was joined by a brutish Nord with a bald head and thick beard, who sat (uninvited) at my table.
"Not many women wear armour," is what he said if I remember.
"Perhaps more should," I replied, and the man laughed at that.
He then introduced himself. "I'm Stenvar. If you're looking for a blade-for-hire, I'd reckon you've found one of the best."
And I replied, "Well I hope you don't mind a little competition then. My name is Tashine."
And that's how I met Stenvar. Despite the brutish physique, he had a rather kindly expression and manner, and damn-it-all if his laugh didn't somewhat remind me of my late husband's.
Those first months in Windhelm were profitable enough. Mostly I worked as bounty collection for the Jarl's steward. Sometimes it would be odd jobs for the Shatter-shields or Cruel-Seas. Despite representing competition, Stenvar and I shared information on potential clients, and even worked together twice to take down giants on the roads. In the evenings, we would share stories over bottles of mead at Candlehearth Hall.
Then, a week ago today, Stenvar sat down at our usual table with an imperial man in tow. My first impression of him was of a military officer. Stern. Intelligent. Well-dressed. Grey around the temples. I was writing to a distant relative in Hammerfell when they approached.
"Your friend can read and write? Rare for a mercenary."
"Yeah, she's something," said Stenvar.
We made introductions and the newcomer introduced himself as Cato.
Cato went straight to the point. "I'm hiring guards for an archaeological dig in Winterhold hold. Stenvar here says you've been earning a reputation for yourself."
Stenvar added in, "And tell her about the pay." The all-important question, truly.
Cato nodded. "We pay 5000 septims monthly. Plus you'd be living on site."
I had to admit it was good pay. Generous even. And suspicious.
"What's the work for?" I asked Cato.
He replied, "Guarding the dig site. Warding off bandits, wolves, the like. And once the dig commences in earnest, you'd keep the labourers safe."
Right. I've had run-ins with draugr and frostbite spiders while delving through an old Nord ruin on behalf of the Shatter-shields. Not pleasant, but nothing I can't handle. And since Stenvar had already accepted, I wasn't about to turn this opportunity down.
I provided what letters of recommendation I could, and Cato took them.
He rose to leave, and said "My assistant will look for you here in three nights, and take you to the site the morning after."
Stenvar and I treated ourselves to an extra round of mead that night, and suffered skull splitting headaches in the morning.
In three days, I had packed by belonging again, fastened my leather cuirass, and wrapped my head in a blue cloth turban. Stenvar wore his usual steel armour. I won't ever understand how Nords can stand the cold so.
The assistant turned out to be a squeaky, young wood elf called Roandil. We headed out of Windhelm, turning west and then north. Along the road, I asked Roandil for more information about the job.
"It's being led by a renowned historian. The great Calcelmo of Markarth," said Roandil, "But there's bound to be drama. The college of Winterhold is prying into the business. They've sent a couple of their mages on site. Between us though, I feel better much safer with the mages around."
Stenvar chuckled dismissively at that. I did not. Fighting the Aldmeri Dominion in Hammerfell had taught the Redguard people a healthy respect for the power of magic.
We arrived at the spot by noon. It was south and west of Winterhold, out on the icefields overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. The camp was nestled between the walls of a glacial crevasse, sheltered by the worst of the wind. At the very back of the crevasse, workers had evidently been busy chipping a tunnel through the ice to reach a long-buried Dwemer structure.
"No Draugr then," I noted to Stenvar.
"Aye. But there're animunculi." Which was probably true.
Roandil provided us with tents and bedding, and the rest of the day was spent making our beds and meeting the other workers.
In total there were twelve people, who could be loosely placed into three categories:
Guards: Myself, Stenvar, and two other solemn bearded Nords.
Labourers: Twin Khajiit brothers, J'Kier and K'Jor, an argonian fellow with the fitting name Deep-in-his-Cups, a young farmboy named Eoric (also the cook), and an old miner named Kjeld.
College: Two members of the College had arrived, apparently uninvited. The older one was a Breton called Arniel Gane. The other one, and the only other woman here besides me, was Brelyna Maryon, an apprentice.
In addition to this there was Roandil, Cato's assistant. Cato himself was absent, supposedly escorting this Calcelmo fellow from Markarth.
Four days passed between my arrival and my writing of this account. With the ice cleared in record time, the workers and the guards have nothing to do except wait, exchange stories, drink copious amounts of mead (especially in the case of Deep-in-his-Cups) and await the arrival of the bosses. According to Roandil, they will be arriving tomorrow. For now, the solid copper door awaits.