Being an elf in Skyrim was not an easy thing. Que, a silver-blonde haired and silver eyed Bosmer, had figured that out early on in his life. He learned it was best to stay quiet, unseen, stay no place long, and keep his ears covered.
Those things use to work, use to let him drift from village to village with little to no trouble, and he had been, in the barest sense of the word, 'happy'. But, after being nearly killed at the hands of the imperials for attempting to cross the border, and being summoned by the Greybeards, it seemed as if that invisible barrier that kept him safe and hidden for all the years before vanished. Everyone knew him, everyone was looking for him, and Que hated it. He hated being stopped and questioned, then yelled at when he never answered or spoke in return. He hated when people commented on his ever blank features, or on his equally blank eyes that stood out for miles against the black war paint around them. No, all he wanted to do was disappear into the shadows and never come out again.
-x-
Que walked down the road leading out of Whiterun, Wolf armor he had bought after joining the Companions clinking softly against the battle axe named Wuuthrad. He knew when he joined the group that he would just bring more unwanted attention to himself, but he needed a vent for his frustration. All the fighting had been perfect; each death had brought him a little more peace. But then everything flipped upside down, and he became 'the new Kodlak'. Then, all that frustration came back tenfold. So, with no good-byes, he left.
A sigh escaped Que's mouth as he stopped in front of a broken wagon. It was blocking half the road, and the few guards that walked passed it did not seem to even acknowledge its presence. He soon found out why as he walked along the side until he reached the back. A strange red haired imperial stood there, wearing an odd jester's outfit, looking across between breaking out into hysterical sobs and strangling someone with the utmost glee. He knew that look; he saw it on his own face many times until he learned to keep his expression ever blank. Seeing another man with an all too familiar expression made the small part inside Que, the part of him that still wanted to help people for the hell of it, speak to the imperial. "Do you acquire assistance?" The bosmer asked, keeping his voice level. The jester nearly tackled the poor elf. "Oh, yes! No one has been helping poor, lowly Cicero! My mother," he gestured to the large crate on the broken wagon. "Would be grateful if you asked the mean old farmer up there," he then waved to the farm up the hill. "To fix Cicero's wagon. As would I! I have asked several times, yet he does not help. Please get him to help! I will give you coins, lovely, clinky, shiney gold coins." After all that, all the elf did was nod curtly and head up the hill.
It had taken everything in him to not throttle the farmer. The man had, at first, refused to help the jester simply because he was odd. Finally though, Que managed to convince the man to fix the cart.
"He said he will be down shortly."
"O-oh?" the red haired imperial, Cicero, looked genuinely surprised that Que had succeeded in his task. "Marvelous, spectacular! Oh, thank you kind stranger! And I am sure my mother thanks you as well! Here, here is your gold." Taking the pouch, Que smiled slightly. Cicero did not know who he was, nor did he seem to care much. That meant more than the gold to the silvery man. "No, thank you." Without another word, the bosmer sprinted down the road, feeling more light hearted then he had in months.