Author's Note: Well, after, what, six years? I'm finally back to writing. This is basically practice for a bigger, more publishable story I'm working on-I'm trying to refine my technique, develop a proper work ethic, and generally get to be the professional I need to be to succeed as a writer. To that end, I'm putting to paper one of my latest little ideas, a fic starring my personal Dragonborn, Ormuric, and generally following the storyline of the quest of the same name-with a few little changes. I hope even purists and serious types will appreciate my take on the Dragonborn, who can be a bit more Discworld than Game of Thrones at times-but if not, then I hope you'll stick around to see what happens. I promise, the payoff at the end is massive. And now... on with the show!

"Ormuric, we need to talk."

Delphine's tone brooked no argument, but Ormuric Dragonborn was never one to argue when he could simply ignore. With a grunt, he turned over in bed, pulling the furs over his head and quietly hoping that the disturbance would go away.

"Ormuric, I mean it. Fate of the world."

"Rrrmph." The Dovahkiin, heir of Tiber Septim, wielder of the Voice, implacable foe of dragonkind, and hope of all Tamriel, resigned himself to getting out of bed. He sat up and cracked his jaw, solid black eyes not quite focusing on anything. "My ribs are still killing me..."

"Serves you right." The innkeeper leaned in the door frame, a scroll in her hand, and a faint smirk playing across her weathered features. "Picking a fight with a whole troop of giants was dumb enough, but couldn't you have done that on the way to Kynesgrove? You know, before you let Sahloknir jump up and down on your spine?"

"I told you, I had him right where I wanted him." Ormuric stood up and lurched to the nightstand, floorboards creaking under his immense bulk. "Can't kill a dragon if he's in the air, can you? Besides, you said we were in a hurry."

"But why did you go after the giants in the first place?"

"Bounty." Ormuric splashed a bit of cold water in his face, and shook out his snowy white hair like an enormous, shaggy dog. "Jarl whatshername down in Riften is offering a thousand gold for that big matron's head - don't suppose you kept it?"

Delphine sighed. "No, it never occurred to me - but speaking of your little... quests, there was a Louis Letrush to see you a few hours ago. Apparently he offered you three hundred septims to... Divines, I can't believe you, Ormuric... steal a horse from the Black-Briar crime syndicate?"

Ormuric scowled, taking a thin hank of his hair from just behind his left ear and beginning to braid it. "Never did pay me..."

"That's because you brought him a talking purple unicorn."

The dragonborn paused in his work - amazingly delicate work, for a man who looked like he spent all day punching things. "Hmm... sounds about right."

Experience told Delphine that asking for more details on Ormuric's extracurricular heroics only brought more confusion. Some self-destructive, Freudian todestrieb made her ask anyway. "Where in the world did you even find a unicorn? They're supposed to be extinct..."

"M'not sure, actually." Ormuric finished the braid and began working on another. "I think that was the night I shut down those moon-sugar smugglers in Cragslane Cavern... there was a fire... lots of smoke... it's all kind of a... colorful blur."

Delphine tried not to think about the popular lore surrounding unicorns. "The point..." Especially the bit where the last one had ridden out across the sea two hundred years ago, the mad god Sheogorath whooping on its back, heralding the cataclysmic dawn of a new era... "The point is, he's not paying until you bring him the right horse. And that's going to have to wait - our next target is the Thalmor."

Ormuric grinned. "Point me at 'em."

"No killing this time, dragonborn." Delphine unrolled a map. "If the elves know anything about the return of the dragons, we need to find out what. And that will require a bit of subtlety on your part."

"I'm not sure I like where this is going..."

"We need to get an operative into the Thalmor Embassy in Haafingar - and since they're already looking for me, that leaves you. There's a reception in three days, and I've managed to get my contact in Ambassador Elenwen's household to forge you an invitation."

Finishing the last of his customary four braids, Ormuric sighed and began strapping himself into his armor - sturdy leather scale reinforced with small sections of steel plate, designed and custom-fitted to offer protection from blade, club, and the chill Skyrim winds without compromising freedom of movement. "And I take it this means you want me to gather things from all corners of Skyrim to make a convincing disguise? Shop around in Solitude for a wig, maybe talk to Belethor about a big fake mustache..."

"No need." Delphine produced a vial of deep brown dye. "I've already got everything I need to deal with your..." She waved a hand expressively. "...hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"How old are you, Ormuric? Twenty? Twenty-five?"

"Uh... closer to twenty. Can't really remember."

Delphine pointed at the nightstand mirror. "Well, you're the only twenty-year-old in the province with white hair - not to mention those eyes. I still don't know what we're going to do about your eyes - even an elf can tell solid ebony isn't in the normal human color range."

"They weren't always like this..." Ormuric scratched his beard, eyeing himself in the mirror. "They turned black after Helgen - right after Alduin Shouted at me."

Delphine pursed her lips. "So, about a month ago... and they've been that way ever since?"

Ormuric nodded, standing. "Mmhm - well, almost. There was that big wagon trip I took - I decided I should see all nine of the Holds, and by the time I got to Windhelm, my hair and eyes had both turned brown."

"Ormuric..." Delphine's eyes narrowed. "Ormuric, I need you to think for me... what happened on that trip?"

Ormuric shrugged. "Well, nothing, really - no bandits, no storms, no dragons, not even any wild animals. The roads are pretty safe, even these days - I don't think I even needed to Shout once."

"You never used the thu'um?"

"Nope."

"Ormuric, that's it!" Delphine grinned triumphantly. "It's your Voice - your body reacts when you Shout! That means all we need to do to give you a natural disguise is figure out how long it took your hair to get back to its natural color. Do you remember how long that trip took?"

"Well..." Ormuric thought for a moment, doing math on his fingers. "Whiterun to Falkreath, Falkreath to Riften... Riften to Windhelm, that's about three days, counting the stop I made at the shrine of Talos."

"Then there's our answer - but that leaves us with a bit of a problem."

"I'm... beginning to see that. You said three days until...?"

"Exactly." Delphine prepared her best no-nonsense glare and fired it at the dragonborn. "If we're going to get you in the front door, we need you not looking like Ysmir's ghost. And that means..."

"No Shouting?"

"For the next three days."