TES IV: Nothing Like Home

by Shadowfang3000

"Who dares disturb the Lion's Den?" - Sent on an errand by his contemptible companion, a spurned wanderer from Hammerfell finds himself invited to dinner at the home of a peculiar man and his Argonian wife. What troubles can ensue from his breaking of the norm? A sequel to "Destiny", and the fourth entry in the Elder Scrolls saga!

1. A Chance Meeting

Nothing Like Home

(A/N): Well bugger me, I never thought it would happen but here it is! At long last my TES series continues, only three months late! xD

Following the rather peculiar and almost supernatural story of the previous installment, I felt that it would be appropriate to return to the roots of the series with a good old chin-wag between a small amount of characters. With that in mind, I saw an opportunity to flesh out a particular pair of cast members that haven't seen much limelight!

Hopefully this tale goes on to show us what it's like for a shy Argonian woman and her Orsimer husband to make it in a cold and harsh world such as Skyrim... That's technically a spoiler, although to be honest it's probably in the future blurb :P

Here we go! I only hope that after such a long hiatus I can still write for this series properly D:

WARNING: Spelling errors, mildly inappropriate language, bad jokes, a notable lack of Silent-He-Wonders, too much stuttering, bad attempts at writing strong accents, awkward drama and a moral that goes all over the place!

Chapter One: A Chance Meeting

"Are you sure these are genuine?"

Wonders looked at his Ra Gardan companion with mock offence, cradling a thick Nordic tankard between his bony digits. "Come on now." he slurred, leaning forward in a friendly and diplomatic manner. "Would I ever lie?"

Stradlater didn't even pause. "Yes."

"Oi." the Argonian hissed animalistically, his droopy tongue stabbing out between his jagged rows of teeth as if eager to have a word with the stubborn human ahead. Wonders held his tongue - literally - and returned to his characteristic politician mode. "I need all of those urgently. You think I'd make up a list like that?"

"Well, you are the professional here." Stradlater admitted, bowing to the magician's superiority. Wonders smirked with self-satisfaction, glad that somebody knew their place. The scaled fellow took a gentle swig from his tankard, its overwhelming burden on his scrawny arms preventing him from taking the triumphant and testosterone-filled glugs that the Nords often showed off with. The charred Redguard shook his head, his bedraggled hair whipping about his cheeks. It was in desperate need of a trim, or a couple of cute bows. He muttered to himself at his choice of companions, "... Unfortunately."

It was early in the morning at the Bannered Mare. For such a hectic city, Whiterun's taverns were forlornly quiet on at the break of dawn. Save for lone adventurers destined for death and a few patrons here and there, most of the regulars were still cooped in bed with slop buckets close by. No doubt hangovers aplenty weigh on their minds, heavier than their pork and beer-filled guts.

The inseparable pair were seated around the same table they'd always chosen. One with a particularly good view of not only the main counter, but the doorway too. Wonders always seemed to fear the day that a Daedric Prince decided to crash through the entrance and wreck up the place, and insisted that if he saw him in time he could possibly dive for cover or at least use other patrons as meatshields whilst he scarpered for safety. Stradlater slouched over in his seat like a fighter at a boxing ring, feeling like the designated driver for a carriage home.

His snout sniffing around the bottom of his chalice, Wonders pierced the silence. "Go through it one more time." he suggested, his voice muffled by whatever material the tankard was made from. "Need to make sure you can read reliably." the Argonian added in his usual condescending manner, pulling away with a nose as wet as working girl in the rain. The warrior had always wondered what the darn things were crafted from that made them so heavy and borderline indestructible

Obsidian?

Dragon Bone?

Maybe he should've replaced his armour with a set of tankards?

The chair squeaked as if someone had pinched its derriere as the Redguard leant back, forking around the deep and unending pockets of his baggy desert garb. There must've been corners in the damn things; he could reach down up to his elbow if he had the back for it. "Slendoor's Legs." he started when he finally drew the parchment in question, a messy trio of lines scribbled across its face. "Nyce's Thighs." he continued, garnering an approving nod from the magician. A Nord on the table adjacent to them with a beard thicker than his skull glanced at them quizzically as if to say "you mirin'?", before awkwardly shuffling away much to Stradlater's chagrin. He coughed like a younger sibling walking in on their brother bathing, "... And Pert's Bottom?"

"Yep, that's the ticket." the Argonian grinned. Although to be fair, his teeth looked the same regardless as to whether he was joyous or peeved. Stradlater glared at him with suspicion, figuring he could read the face of someone he'd been tolerating like rockjoint for years. "... What? I need them all!"

Balling the paper in his fist he pushed it back into the woven layers of his robes, returning his weapon hand to its rightful place upon his scimitar's hilt. He always felt strange sitting around without his sword close by. It was like standing in the nude before the Emperor of Cyrodiil and not knowing which bits to cover. "... You mages sure are obsessed with naming reagents after what you're after in women."

Wonders nodded, acknowledging his oppressed minority status. He loved to milk it for all its worth, and was glad that people were so easy to fool. "'Us Mages tend to handle reagents all of the time, not women so much." he reminded, stressing the word 'tend' to distance himself from the masses like the hipster bastard he was. Of course he pulled women all of the time, providing you counted faulty necromantic Thralls with none of the bouncy bits intact. "You do the math there."

He thought about it for amount, but that would probably involve imagining bow-legged old men with balls that dangled lower than their wispy beards coming on to medicinal flora and fauna. Surprisingly that was enough to discourage him. "... I'd rather not."

"Come on, it makes sense though doesn't it?" he insisted, flicking his tankard's rim. It let off a dull clunk, and sent a sharp and wince-inducing pain down his blackened talons. "You know how people name dogs after things that are important to them?"

Was that a trend at the Marsh?

What was next, people pouring cold ice over themselves for frostbite funds?

"No." he said honestly, unsheathing his blade by a mere inch before sheathing it once more. Wash, rinse, repeat, to a rather incessant beat.

Wonders reeled back in genuine confusion, taken aback by Stradlater's lack of knowledge. To him this was like finding a Vigilant of Stendarr that wasn't into hot man-on-wolf action. "... You do know what a dog is, yes?"

"Of course I do." the burnt wanderer grumbled, drawing his blade a little further this time.

All of a sudden shanking himself seemed like a viable alternative to life in general.

The Argonian fidgeted on his chair, tossing the heavy tankard into the air ever so slightly and catching it in his hand. It sounded much cooler than it actually looked. "I had a dog once, named her after my mum." he retold, ignoring the splatter of ale that spread about the premises. He shot a cheeky glance at his companion, who reeled back as if struck by an arrow. Either that or he was caught in the splash zone. "She was a right bitch."

Stradlater's jaw unhinged for a moment, the rest of his face remaining absolutely normal. Providing you considered his horrific and puke-inducing scarred face that made him look like a troll's scrotum on an icy day as normal. He just stared at the mage, inaction speaking louder than a thousand curse words.

Eventually the scaly wizard noticed, distracting him enough for the tankard to clatter to the floor and roll away to new lands and new adventures unbeknownst to him. "... Don't look at me like that, hermit!" he growled with insult, "I just woke up!"

That jogged him from his trance-like reverie. Craning his neck to check his flanks and rear, he soon realised that the magician was talking to him. He pointed at his chest, "Hermit?" he echoed, having never heard such a strange and out of context insult in his life. "Where'd that come from, the moon?"

"You've got long unkempt hair, a dirty chin, and you haven't got a job." he reasoned with logic more flawed than the White-Gold Concordat. Wonders reached for where his tankard had been on the table, clutching expectantly at open air. "Sounds like a hermit to me, hermit."

There was no point in arguing with imbeciles he reckoned, and he begrudgingly conceded. Realising that he was out of pints, Wonders lazily filched another from the snoozing Breton that sat to his left and the Redguard's right. He could've sworn that the man had been there for several days at the very least. "... You're drinking at eight in the morning." Stradlater pointed out as Wonders took a heavy swig, slapping the High Rock native's back in faux good will to avoid a tip. "What's your plan for today, to get royally pissed and blow all your money away?"

"Redguard, Redguard, you know me." Wonders smiled trustingly, placing a hand on his colleague's shoulder. He patted it gently, fearing the broad and thick muscle would break his fingers if he hit too hard. The magician took another measured swig, somehow managing to speak clearly while he glugged away; yet another gleefully alien trait of the peculiar reptilian race. "I'd never do something like that. I'll get royally pissed and blow all our money away. Now get to work for me, yeah?"

Maybe he needed a break from the fool. The pair hadn't really left eachother's side since their arrival at Whiterun, and while the twists and turns of its widely berthed streets became ever more familiar with each and every day it was still nothing like home. They'd stuck together, like school children on a trip abroad, ever since day one.

Oblivion is eternity trapped with your friends.

"How can you be friends with that lizard?"

That's what Faelindra had said.

Stradlater heaved himself to his feet, feeling like a dangling piece of meat hooked onto the back of a butcher's carriage. Glad that he'd obeyed his wishes, the noble Argonian treated him to a gift straight off his back. With an underhand throw he tossed a coin at him. It was a single golden septim, which the muscular veteran easily caught in a display of honed agility. "You get me those regents. I can make the perfect cure for hangovers, mark my words." he briefed, leaning against the table edge. He hoped that a false promise like that would be the perfect motivator for the Redguard since he always sounded like he'd been drinking the night before, with his gravelly, action-hero voice. "Half in advance, my loyal business partner."

The Redguard tossed the coin up in his palm, letting the detailed faces spin and twirl. He bowed his head in mock appreciation, a dry smirk tugging at his equally dry lips. "You were always the generous type."

"What can I say?" Wonders opened his arms like the graceful wings of an eagle, accepting the well-deserved praise of his merit and worth. He returned the bow, the entire morning nothing more than a performance to him. "Might as well spread a little love, yes?"

X

Slendoor's Legs.

Nyce's Thighs.

Pert's Bottom.

He'd been given stranger lists, that's for sure. Wonders must've loved having his own personal delivery boy to get him what he wanted, like a loyal pup dragging newspapers from the doorstep to their master's stool. Of course the whole dog analogy lost its steam past that point. He wasn't really the sort who was flexible enough to lick his own testicles and sniff people's arses.

The early risers poured out from their homes like the gutter water that often flooded the damp streets of Whiterun. The city always felt frantic and busy in the morning no matter how low the sun was when you got up. It was the result of hundreds of mothers who thought they'd be the first in line at the biggest stores, and that no one else would have the same idea as them. Tattered dresses dragged across the cobblestones as flocks of women young and old darted from stall to stall with children in tow, where dazed merchants stood eager to push their wares.

You'd never find a bargain in Whiterun. Stradlater rarely thought about the mathematics behind it, but in a world where you could sell something for ten septims only to find it at a windowsill on sale for one-hundred moments later, there was no questioning that God was a bit of a git. A cruel git at that.

The Redguard took a seat on the lip of one of the city's many drainage wells, slam bang in the centre of the shopping district's plaza; fittingly mere metres away from the Bannered Mare's entrance. No doubt the mildly pissed and inebriated patrons of the tavern were perfect targets for sales pitches. You'd easily sell them a sweet roll to go with their pint for triple digits.

"Bits and bobbles!" a sweet old woman cooed in that curiosity-peaking manner only grandmothers seemed to possess. A young boy gazed at her in wonder, doing his best to struggle against his mother's leading hand. She continued to call to him as he sulked off in his parent's tow, "Fit for a knight!"

"Fresh cuts from the wild!" a young hunter announced, legs of meat dangling from hooks on his stand's sign like the jagged teeth of an ornate necklace. He reached for a rather vicious looking cleaver and slammed it down with trained poise, cleanly cutting a chunk of venison straight down its middle and causing every male in a three mile radius to wince in sudden self-awareness. "This one was a leader, that's for sure. Plenty of meat." he smirked, "I'd want it before someone beat me to it!"

It reminded him of Hammerfell, that's for sure. Well, to be honest he was pretty sure that all the markets of Skyrim reminded every Redguard and Breton and Imperial and more of their distant homelands. If one thing was in common between every civil race in Tamriel, it was that shopping districts were all identical.

Same scams, same deals.

Same warmth, same welcome.

Stradlater stalked his prey like a hawk on the hunt. Across the street was a produce store, ran by a young Imperial mother by the name of Carlotta and her ditzy daughter. He'd heard her peddling her wares from the Mare every day since he'd arrived. She was dedicated to feeding that child of hers, that was for sure. He had no idea where to start, but logically speaking wouldn't a farmer or gardener like her have access to alchemy reagents?

The charred man rose to his feet like an unsteady drawbridge, waiting for a break in the steadily growing crowd to slip on by. After getting caught in a few mobs and missing his turn-in for the fourth time, he eventually reached the merchant and her forlorn stall. No doubt the local Nords preferred their raw meat to sour fruit and veg. Stradlater placed his hands on the beaten pine, feeling jagged splinters prodding at his fingertips.

Carlotta certainly looked surprised, raising her head to meet the towering fellow. He had the form of a "tax" collector; the sort who was more proficient at breaking knees than counting coin. "Hello there sir, wonderful morning isn't it?" she smiled warmly, the beaming welcome of her expression a stark contrast to the exhaustion that sat under her eyes. The merchant reached under the counter for a moment, pulling out a few more sales pieces. The good stuff, reserved for richer customers.

"What would you like?"

Stradlater cut right to the chase, leaning against the counter with a conspiratory air about him. The merchant didn't seem to notice how she autonomously crooned back. The Redguard's working eye darted left and right. "Nyce Thighs."

Carlotta paused with confusion, wondering just what the peculiar man was after. You'd think she'd feel safe amidst the crowd of people in the shopping district, yet this little one-on-one session had been discomforting enough at the start. She bowed her head submissively. This could've been a famous doctor or lawyer for all she knew. "... Thank you?"

"Slendoor Legs?" he pressed on, tapping against the counter. The milkier of his two eyes was probably futilely scanning the horizon, not that you'd be able to tell. "Have you got them?"

She held onto the hem of her ragged dress, tugging at it defensively as she flushed with embarrassment. She hadn't encountered someone so forward for the whole of her life; and she worked outside of a twenty-four-seven tavern in the drunkest hold of the north. A place where every single man was so insecure about his sexuality that they made certain to stress their preferences whenever possible. "Excuse me?"

"How about a Pert Bottom?" he sighed, licking his dry and cracked lips. He bent over to try and look under the counter, hoping to speed up the process. "I need them all, sorry. I hope you have them, I've been looking all over. You looked like the best bet around here."

Rest assured no amount of military training or experience would've prepared the Redguard for the attack he took to the flank of his face. He could feel his cheek glowing an agonising pink as his upper body spun a full 180, the recoil of a blunt full-on slap to the face from a woman who hauled fruit for a living putting enough strain on his spine to snap a lesser man into two.

He stood there in mild confusion, blinking wetly as he considered what had just happened. "... I think I actually deserved that this time."

"Thanks for the business." Carlotta growled bitterly, balling her hand into a bony fist. While no diplomat, Stradlater deciphered the communication methods of Cyrodiil and came to the conclusion that the merchant probably didn't want him within a five metre radius of she or her daughter in the near future. With that sorted he promptly made like a deer, and retreated.

"Stranger lists", huh?

You just keep saying that.

He'd hoped that he would at least be able to start some sort of trail from the fruit stall, yet it appeared that his little escapade had thrown him deep into a river creek in a set of steel plate armour. The wanderer returned to his resting spot at the well in a foul mood, continuing to rub at the stinging flesh of his cheek in a circular motion.

"O-Oh my!" a gentle voice did its best to gasp, accompanying the racket of pots and pans rolling down the avenue in a growing stampede. A loud thump was followed by a horrified squeak, prompting many a raised eyebrow from a growing crowd. "I'm so sorry, I..." that thump sounded again, followed by a grunt of pain and yet another, equally horrified squeak. "Oh no!"

Stradlater crooked his neck to pierce through the mass of bystanders, doing his best to work out what was causing all of the hubbub and commotion. He rose to his full height, politely finding his way through a group of young mothers to spot the source.

"That was my face." a Nord whose accent was thicker than his chest hair grumbled, a large hoof-shaped mark seated square on his forehead. He rubbed the injury irritably, looking less like an injured man and more like someone who'd just lost their front-door key. "Would you mind not hitting my face?" he spat at his assailant, who timidly hobbled to his side with a ginormous leg of venison over her shoulder and began to dab at his lip with a feminine hanky. He frantically pushed away, doing his best to stop her helping and preserve his masculinity. "Puh puh! Stop!"

Soft-Her-Scales, the Argonian barmaid of the Bannered Mare, hung her head in shame as the leg of meat struggled to remain seated on her slender, tapered shoulder. "S-Sorry, I just wanted to..." she stuttered in shame, trying to make amends for the injury she'd caused him. She rose to her feet with a shaky gait, trembling with the burden of the meat and the responsibility of the damage she'd caused. "I'll try and-" she flinched, causing the venison leg to flop to the side and clobber a bystander clean in the jaw. He crumpled in an instant, falling unconscious before he even hit the ground. "Ah, sir!"

"Oh, terrific." the Nord sighed in exasperation, nodding at the first man she'd injured adjacent to him. "That's three men down. You're on fire, Lizard." he congratulated sarcastically. He honestly wondered if she was on a secret mission to incapacitate every single person in Whiterun. Perhaps she was the first step in a secret Stormcloak initiative to seize the city? He swung his hand back and forth like a child in a tantrum, barking commands. "Somebody get a medicus, before she maims someone!"

One of the market guards heeded his call and made from the Temple of Kynareth with a slow and deliberate pace. This sort of thing happened all of the time believe it or not. There was no point in worrying about it. The crowd soon began to disperse, leaving the trio of wounded men and their attacker on their lonesome. "I... Ummm..." Scales looked left and right, surrounded by suffering and inconvenience. She put her feet together, keeping the venison under her control for the moment. "I-I'll just stand still..."

Stradlater waited for the crowd to dissipate, disassembling as quickly as it had formed. "Soft-Her-Scales." he greeted out of the blue, promptly causing her to jerk in surprise and drop the leg onto the ground. He did his best to smile at her warmly, yet it was about as useful as a barking dog with a frothing gob when it came to calming the air. "... Hello there."

"S-Sir Stradlater!" she yelped, crouching over and wrapping her arms around the large hunk of meat in a big bear hug. The Redguard exhaled, continuing to pace closer. Her taloned fingers did their best to find a purchase, yet her tentative nature wasn't particularly cooperative. "Let me... G-Get this out of your way..."

His head tilted as if he had one massive earring on. "Do you need any help?" the scarred mercenary asked, a large berth surrounding the pair on the otherwise frantic market street. It was a tad bit disheartening to see that no-one in the whole of Whiterun had offered their assistance to the vulnerable young woman already. If you thought it was hard being a Redguard in Skyrim, you should've tried being an Argonian.

To think they were worse off in Windhelm.

Scales was having none of that. "I-I'm fine, sir!" she insisted unconvincingly, looking like a bony teenager doing squats alongside the popular kids. After a few more attempts she knelt by the venison's side, seeming like she'd winded herself from strain. "Doesn't sir... S-Sir Silent-He-Wonders need your assistance, Sir Stradlater?"

Sir, sir , sir, sir, sir.

"I shall Sir-Cumvent this Sir-Nario, for I am a Sir-Tified Sir-Valence Officer."

Stradlater never forgot about the wild boasts that Wonders had made on the day they'd met the Argonian barmaid. You'd think that she'd have figured it out at this point, yet it seemed she was still utterly convinced that the slimy magician was the Archmage of the College of Winterhold, and that the burly warrior by his side that often fought the urge to rip out his stubby crown hairs and turn them into a mop head was his loyal butler.

He decided to play along for now. He'd rather sort out the situation at hand with their mutual acquaintance first before doing anything drastic. "Yes." he said, taking a moment to recall what they were talking about. He crouched with a click of weathered bones as his backing track. It was the sort of cacophony that would embarrass a forty-nine year-old shepherd, let alone a veteran arguably still in his prime. "That's why I'm at the market, in fact." he leant forward and grabbed a firm hold of the meat, hoisting it up in one swift motion. It was heavier than it looked, which was an achievement considering just how heavy it clearly appeared. He distributed the weight across his broad shoulders.

Military training was around 20% fighting with swords.

The rest tended to be lugging things around.

Scales still clung onto the end of the meat, having been holding on pathetically the entire time. Gradually her grip faltered, passing on the responsibility to the Redguard not out of willingness but rather out of submission. "P-Please, there's no need..."

"I insist." he smirked, the knee of the leg bent around the back of his neck. He'd prefer to have the slender legs of a beautiful Bosmeri draped over his head, but then beggars couldn't be choosers. He still had his imagination, didn't he? Seeing the discomfort of the young woman before him, he did his best to throw out a joke. It certainly wasn't an attempt to flirt; he'd gotten past that stage over the months, unlike a certain Wonders. "... One maid to another, hmm?"

The Argonian laughed to herself gently, a tender trio of fingers covering the end of her snout in such a girly and feminine manner that he could practically feel his eyelashes perking up. It was a giggle that came less out of amusement, and more out of her unending capacity for politeness. 'twas adorable, all the same. Her hands met eachother at her front, green fingers tightly interlocking. "... M-May I ask something, sir?"

A swift puff of air squeezed through his pursed lips, and he wrestled with the venison to adjust its position. The more uncomfortable he got, the more he longed for that Bosmeri and her legs. He wouldn't mind just having the thighs; he was in a good mood. "You may."

"What is it that... Sir Silent-He-Wonders wants?" she asked, eager to offer her aid to a friend in need.

Well, he wants you, a bed, and a bowl of chocolate syrup.

Nothing else mind, not even clothes.

"Actually, that's a good question." Stradlater segwayed masterfully, feeling the sensation that the Thalmor probably felt every time they pulled wool over the Empire's eyes. One of the injured Nords from before began to mumble to himself incoherently, outraged by the lack of assistance he was receiving. He sounded less like an injured man and more like someone with a poorly stomach. "He had a list of reagents he wanted, but I couldn't find a store for them."

"R-Reagents?" Scales latched onto the word, her metaphorical lips parting to expose her maw of teeth; their edges seeming less vicious and more elegant than a male's set. Her palms rubbed together in excitement at the prospect, the sound of her rough skin scraping against itself sending shivers down the Redguard's spine like nails down a chalkboard. "I-Is he brewing a potion? My, that sounds... Enchanting!"

Stradlater reflected on the interest she'd showered them with the day they met at the Bannered Mare. Wonders may have been a total tosspot, but he certainly knew how to pull them a tenth of the time on average. "You do love your magic, don't you?" he pointed out the obvious, too anxious to say anything wittier. "Do you know where I could find his reagents?"

"A-Arcadia's Cauldron should have them..." she considered aloud, her talons prodding against her chin in thought. She didn't seem quite as nervous now, yet that strange stutter and stammer remained. Did she have some sort of speech impediment, or had she eaten too much cake and made her tongue all droopy? "I'm going there soon to buy some things..."

The venison rocked on his back. He could've sworn it was trying to wriggle free and hop away towards freedom on its singular foot. "Well, I guess I could tag along. If you don't mind."

She hung her head in reflection, tossing the offer about in her mind. She still had quite a bit of shopping left to do today, and having a strong pair of arms to help her on her way would certainly be helpful. However, if there was one thing she didn't want to be it was a burden on others. Scales warned him of the implications openly, "I-It may take some time."

The wanderer tried his best to keep grinning, yet the hinges of his jaw felt more tense than the finale of an emotional sonata piece during a fencing duel to the death. He honestly pondered how Wonders was able to keep his smug smirk going perpetually. He flexed his jaw, chewing an invisible biscuit. "I've got plenty of time to spare."

Her smile made the aching pain more than worth it, that's for sure. Scales was truly pleased that she had someone to shop with her today. The idle stares of mothers and pointing fingers of children tended to get a bit embarrassing when she was alone, so sticking to a pair would likely help distribute the heat. "O-Okay!" she agreed enthusiastically, sounding like the host to a family restaurant. A list was drawn from her pockets, which she unravelled happily. "Berethor's General Store first..."

Stradlater watched on curiously as the parchment continued to swivel, rolling further and further until it plopped onto the damp cobbles. It continued to roll along on its way, bounding down the streets of Whiterun and taking a left at the nearest turn-in.

He couldn't quite see where it stopped.

X

To be truthful he couldn't really tell the difference between browsing and loitering, but the Redguard was quick to learn that the former is generally far more acceptable than the latter. The peculiar duo spent several hours traversing the relatively narrow corridors of Whiterun, picking up all sorts of goodies from the surrounding establishments, putting them down, then picking them back up again. They garnered a fair share of eyes as they went, although it was to be expected. Redguards weren't exactly the most common sight in the city, and as for Argonians?

You'd have more luck finding Nirnroot in your privy.

The men and women of the Black Marsh - the Hist-kin or something, if Wonders was sober when he said it - were often dumped into the same bracket as the Khajiit of Elsewyr and barred entry into most of the cities of Skyrim. Maybe it was feral instinct, but humans tended to have trouble trusting creatures that resembled dragons and sabretooths respectively. Like it or not, Whiterun wasn't quite home.

Berethor had been friendlier than most at least, but he was clearly uneasy in the presence of the young woman. And this was the single soul in Whiterun who had regular dealings with the Dragonborn, a man who seemed to sell bloodied rags and skulls for a living. The Breton had given the pair a discount on their purchases, but Stradlater could tell that it was less out of sympathy and more out of a desire to get them both out of his shop as soon as possible.

It was just business, understandably.

Nothing personal.

The unlikely alliance now stood by the doors of Arcadia's Cauldron, a rather solemn looking guard standing by its door with his discontent on display even through his concealing helmet. A mass of goods sat on the curve of Stradlater's back, accelerating a process that hadn't even started yet. In direct contrast the innocent and dainty Scales had nothing in tow save for a small packet of raisins, which she held close to her chest like a newborn to the teat.

"N-Now it's just wheat." she concluded, squinting at the end of the list. They'd found it nestled comfortably at the feet of the Statue of Talos of all places, the roll of paper having managed to somehow climb several flights of bloody stairs. Scales was truly grateful for her fellow maid's continued support. Most would have been crushed by the burden, literally. "Thank you for all of your help, sir..."

He merely shrugged. Or rather he tried to shrug, only to wibble and wobble for a secure footing. "Well, you know what they say."

Scales blinked wetly, her sparkling eyes gaining a new layer of twinkles and glitter. "... Do I?"

He hoped so, since he apparently didn't.

The stocky guard glanced between the pair, fiddling with the shaft of his sheathed battle-axe. Scales bowed her head shyly, as she often did. "Wheat..." she said, as if reading from a queue board. The watchman briefly turned to her as if the word was his name, yet quickly returned to staring off into the middle-distance. The Argonian fiddled with the hem of her dress, briefly looking up at the burly veteran with a burst of bravery. " ... I-It's funny, isn't it? That they sell wheat at potion shops? Hehheh..."

While he admittedly missed the joke completely, Stradlater nudged the guard's shoulder with his own and chuckled warmly. The guard tilted his bucket head as the Redguard stared at him, only to contribute his own withdrawn guffaw. "That's good." the watchman nodded, sounding very much like a fed up nanny. "I get it. Very clever."

To think he left the farm at Rorikstead for this job.

Pulling out his shorter list and ignoring the strange urge to compare lengths with the woman, Stradlater scanned that familiar trio of reagents for what must've been the fifth time today. "Do you really think she'll have these?" he sighed with uncertainty, focusing on the hastily scribbled scrawl. "Wonders and I are in desperate need of them."

"How would I know?" the guard grumbled, folding his arms across his pecs.

"I wasn't talking to you." Stradlater raised an eyebrow, wondering why the watchman was standing at such a secluded spot in the first place.

"Likewise!" he fumed disobediently, shouldering past him and stomping away on patrol. He walked with a heroic gait, near identical to the rest of his lookalikes in the Whiterun City Watch. "My brother's out fighting dragons and what do I get? Guard duty."

The Redguard kept his eyebrow raised in the wake of the peculiar encounter, before eventually handing the list of ingredients over to Scales. Logically she'd know a lot more about the stocks of the local stores than him, having lived here longer.

Holding the paper steadily between two hands, a flush of red slowly began to sprout across her cheeks. Scales raised the parchment to hide her mouth, doing her best to will the red away.

Slendoor's Legs?

Nyce's Thighs?

Pert's Bottom?

Being an Archmage must've been a stressful, challenging job. No doubt Sir Silent-He-Wonders was prone to homesickness after spending so much time away from Winterfell, tending to other matters at the tavern involving the books he often hauled around. It was certainly perverse, but then her life was far much simpler than his wasn't it? She timidly folded the paper and offered it, unable to meet the butler's eyes without blushing at the thought. "I-I'm sure you two will find what you need, sir..."

With that the pair entered the shop, its lack of windows compensated by a roaring campfire at its middle that certainly added no health risk to the wooden terrace whatsoever. Stradlater set his load down against the wall adjacent to the door, stretching his back to rid it of its aching pain. Hundreds of different smells seized his senses, sweet and savoury abound; reagents were anywhere that could accommodate them, down to every last nook and cranny.

Who would've thought that you'd find reagents in a potion store?

Stradlater shook his head in self-loathing. He'd need a smooth one once he got back to the Mare.

The titular Arcadia of Arcadia's Cauldron leaned forward to glance over a smoking alchemist set on her counter. "Aha! Welcome!" she cooed, fanning at the billowing pillars of smoke emitted by her tonics. "Browse to your heart's content. I'm not going anywhere for a while yet."

The Redguard nodded in cool understanding, feeling rather stylish even in his weathered and stinking Ra Gardan traveling robes. Scales instead stuck to her customary bow before timidly back-pedalling and taking a spot behind her large companion, "guarding the rear" as Wonders would put it. He took the lead, navigating past the terribly positioned hearthfire. This place wasn't designed to be a shop, it was designed to be a home.

A home with terrible health regulations.

Always one to cut to the chase, Stradlater placed his hands on the counter like a politician on the verge of giving a speech. Arcadia didn't stir from her potions, humming to herself in amusement. The mercenary frowned, tapping his nails against the stained work surface to try and garner her attention. "... Have you got Nyce Thighs?"

Arcadia continued to work on her tonics, looking up only to reach for a rather dark and pointy looking leaf. She bit on it, revealing a tongue covered in lumpy cuts and ulcers, before working on the flora with a pestle and mortar. "... Well, I'll leave that to you to decide."

He was getting impatient, which was quite the record considering how little he'd said. "Slendoor Legs and a Pert Bottom, please?"

The alchemist looked up for a moment, giving him a quick do over with her darty eyes. After a brief moment of consideration, she leant against the counter in a way to accentuate her non-existent love handles and flashed a smirk that would probably get her incarcerated in a less shameful town. "If you're trying to flirt with me, you're doing a fine job stud."

"What? No!" Stradlater snarled in disbelief, the invisible Scales poking her head around his side to observe the commotion. He pulled out the list once more, slamming it on the desk and uprooting a few vials. "It's a list of reagents I've been asked to get. Do you have them in stock?"

Her arms shot out faster than crossbow bolts, catching her bubbling concoction and saving most of it from staining the counter. Righting it, she took a moment to croon over the note with judgement in her gaze. "Those aren't ingredients." she said bluntly, recognising the shoddy penmanship within moments. A lanky Argonian who claimed he had permission from the Greybeards on the behalf of the Dovahkiin to claim several hundred clumps of Chaurus eggs had submitted a note with the very same handwriting weeks prior. A subtle sizzle signified the liquid of the potion burning through the wood of the counter. "If you ask me, you've been duped by a master of the craft."

She hoped the emphasis was sarcastic enough for him.

Stradlater grit his teeth in the wake of this betrayal, shaking his head in dismissal as Scales tried to pat his back. "I'm sorry, miss." he apologised, swiping up his note and forking it into his pocket in a screwed up ball. "I didn't mean any of that, and I hope I haven't caused any off-"

This time he saw the flat of her palm coming towards him, but all that did was give him a layer of understanding to the agony he was on the verge of partaking in. Scales yelped as once again Stradlater spun on his heel, bearing all the grace and charm of an inebriated ballet dancer who'd just been dumped at the altar. While he wasn't the go-to source for legal defence, he was pretty sure he didn't deserve it that time. "What was that for?!"

"You're saying I don't have nice thighs?" Arcadia growled pedantically, shaking her aching palm with recoil. The Redguard deserved another spanking as punishment for injuring her hand with his thick, stupid face. "Offence taken!"

The air simmered as a glare of bitter resentment was shared between them, mutual disbelief vying to outweigh their competition. Amidst the fury and desires for divine retribution, Scales quietly shuffled in with her angelic little voice and a purse of septims on hand. "... M-May I have some wheat please?"

The violent staring contest continued for a few seconds longer, only for Arcadia to suddenly shift focus and change expression as if her face was made of some sort of malleable jelly. Stradlater flinched in total confusion as she returned to shop-keeper mode, tending to a customer who'd shown her coin. She smiled purely, squeezing her aching hand under her armpit. "Of course, I had a fresh batch sent in this morning. You're in luck!"

"L-Lucky!" Scales smiled gently, tapping her snout. She tried her best to ignore the fumes that were coming from both the burnt wood of the countertop and Stradlater's ears, as did the shopkeeper.

Barely a minute later the two had left, their pickings for the day in tow and ready for review. The warrior grumbled in discomfort as Scales counted through her list and checked that they had all the goods she needed, rubbing his pair of red cheeks to ease the pain. The ones on his face. Figures; he'd been slapped twice without the pleasure of having cheated on someone, like Wonders probably would have.

Content with their haul, Scales brushed her finger against the tips of the wheat testingly. "T-That's everything." she assessed, her fingers trembling ticklishly. A swift intake of air through Stradlater's teeth only made her frown, "I'm sorry for all the trouble..."

"Bah, don't worry about it." he dismissed her worries. The charred veteran had survived his own share of ordeals over the years. A couple of spankings from unruly women hurt his ego more than his body. The streets were gradually emptying as the sun dangled high in the air, no doubt having peaked for the day. The city would be lit by nothing but torches and candles within a few hours, the sun setting fast with the coming of Frostfall. He shouldered the load, "We'd best get this stuff home."

"Sir Stradlater..." Scales sighed in wonder, flattered by his eagerness to help. It was strange; with such hardiness and combat experience, you'd think he'd be a soldier rather than a butler. The Argonian was truly grateful for all the help he'd given her, but with that also came a sense of debt. Debt she fully intended to pay. "W-Would you like something to eat...?"

To be fair, he should've worked it out a lot quicker than he did. No doubt the young barmaid was planning to create quite the filling meal. One for the ages that would put all of Skyrim's gourmands on the edge, that's for sure. "I wouldn't want to intrude." he said politely, denying his honest opinion as well as his rumbling belly.

"I insist, sir." she smiled confidently, echoing his words from the start of the day with her own feminine flourish. When it comes to women and dinner, they were always right. "I-It's the least I can do... To thank you..."

He made to raise his eyebrow, only to realise that it was still frozen in place from his dispute with the town guard. He willed it down, only to raise it again with much less of an effect than he'd intended. "For what?"

Scales bowed her head with respect and thanks. "... For being a friend."

That was reason enough.

"Then I'd be honoured." Stradlater agreed. He did his best to bow, but with the burden of shopping weighing a heavy toll on his back it was little more than a slight lean forward followed by a chorus of worried "Woah"'s and "Ahh"'s ", something that gave Scales a brief case of the giggles.

"Follow me!" the young woman beamed giddily, almost childish in her sudden unbound enthusiasm. Maybe the only reason she seemed so shy was because she was often in the company of strangers? Perhaps, in the presence of those she trusted, she was the heart of the party?

Well, he wouldn't go that far.

He couldn't picture her burping the chorus to "Ragnar the Red".

Adhering to her command he followed her lead, the young Argonian constantly stopping at corners to wait for the weight to catch up with her. The pair traversed the cobblestones past duos and trios making their own treks home towards the actual residential district. Stradlater was versed enough in the city's layout to know that they were getting further and further away from where everyone lived, and closer and closer to the main gate.

By the large waterflow that circled Whiterun and acted as its drainage, the pair faced what appeared to be a tall and thin cottage squeezed tightly between the guardhouse and the city wall, just adjacent to the Warmaidens smithy. He'd never actually seen it before, and he frequented the smithy almost every week.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That's one way to keep the peace.

Waiting at the doorway for Scales to fumble for her keys, Stradlater couldn't help but eye the glowing windows of the nearby barracks. A line of freshly forged helmets adorned the windowsill like a row of skulls on the doormat of a troll's den. The major share of his mind thought it was a coincidence that the barracks were so close to her home. A smaller portion thought it was a precaution.

A loud click jogged him back to the material plane, as the door slowly creaked open with all the subtlety of a religious fanatic rambling at a city square. Scales kept a tight hold on the door as it swung, making doubly sure that she didn't knock the wall.

"What's wrong?" the nomad frowned with concern, autonomously tilting his head to try and catch a view of whatever it was that lurked inside.

The barmaid lowered her eyes, timidly hopping onto the doormat with the grace of a silken and sleek feline. "W-We should be quiet." she suggested, wiping her spotless soles against the thatch sheet. Glancing up to see a bewildered Stradlater standing out at the porch, she curtsied in welcome. "... He might be napping."

With the wariness he often spared for abandoned crypts that adventurers would explore yet never return under mysterious circumstances, the Redguard shifted the goods he had in tow and stepped indoors upon heavy feet.

Who dares disturb the Lion's Den?

X

(A/N): At last we return!

To be honest I was initially a bit uncertain with the start to this story. While it's been planned alongside a bunch of other instalments in the series for months, the main meat of what has actually been considered for the lengthiest period has been the middle of the story... Which is to come in Chapter 2!

As for how soon this has been released following my previous fic, it comes from a push to try and finish a large chunk of stories to cover a gap in writing I'll be having by May. I've got exams to "focus" on, you see!

Next time we'll enter the den, where I'm sure all manner of escapades shall be had. After all, there's Nothing Like Home! *Zing*