My name is Nova Quarksen. I am a Nord of 20 winters, and I am now the last Quarksen alive - apparently. The Akaviri sacked Windhelm some seasons ago while I was on the road and I had received the message when I stopped in Riften a couple moons after the attacks. I enter Windhelm now to settle everything with the estate. I am not looking forward to any of this. I'd much rather eat raw netch eggs than go back to Windhelm, especially to deal with family affairs, but I can't have messengers and officials coming after me everywhere I go either. I didn't leave Windhelm just to have it follow me everywhere I go.
I left home 5 years ago. My family were dishonorable and racist people when no one was looking and my father...had his problems. He was a soldier until he took an arrow to the knee. He got enough of a pay out thanks to having received promotion after promotion while in service and he was able to provide a quite comfortable life for us, if we ignored his thirst for expensive mead or his hunger for gambling and wenches.
I had gone to Riften after I left Windhelm, but I didn't find anything better there. I stayed in the Mage's Guild for a little bit, then they turned me over to the Fighter's Guild when, while I was capable of using Magicka, I didn't show the amount of interest in its pursuit as the Guild would have liked. The Fighter's Guild put me to work cleaning up after their ranks to pay for my room and board. I didn't mind the arrangement, even if it was putrid work, as I would have a small amount to put away every month and I was given an opportunity to learn how to fight, not to mention that it wasn't Windhelm. Once I saw my 18th winter I had saved up enough for a horse, meager leathers, a short sword, and I took to the road. I adventured around a bit, helped farmers with wolves, bears, or other troubles for a few coins here and there. One time I even investigated a haunted cave for a hunter I found on the side of the road with a broken leg. After travelling around the Rift a bit I had made enough to afford some proper iron armor, a shield, and a better weapon, and that's when I returned to Riften and ran into that damned messenger that brought me here to the Cold Moon Inn.
After stabling my horse and checking in with Irghild, the inn keeper, I walk up the stairs to take my things to the shared room and plan to change into more "city attire"; a faded viridian tunic with oak trim, dark brown pants that are a little short for my now longer legs, a matching dark brown leather belt, and worn light leather boots.
I take a moment to look over my armor's fittings to check for signs of ware. I had found a traveling merchant on my way out of Riften who had a Breton set of iron armor at a rather attractively affordable price. I should have known the deal was a bit too good to be true. By the time I reached Whiterun, I had to have a proper blacksmith repair all of the pieces to the point that I could have paid for half of a whole new set. Satisfied that the repairs were holding together, I put my armor away into the trunk by the small bed I would be borrowing along with my travel bag, lock the trunk, and place the key in a safe spot near my heart. I had taken a few coins from my travel bag and placed them in a smaller pouch that I tied to my belt. I quickly check the pouch to make sure I'll have enough for a bite to eat maybe a repair kit when I go into town.
Looking in the faded mirror above the water basin, I notice I look a bit tired and out of sorts. Fitting, given the state of the city, still recovering from the destruction that caused me to return. The puffy darkness under my eyes show my lack of sleep the past few nights. My skin looks paler than a draugr in moonlight. My hair looks like the coarsest horse hair on a child's doll. I run my hands through my short chin-length chestnut brown hair, trying to get it to smooth and properly frame my face, but end up getting frustrated and tucking the side near the part behind my ear, making my forehead even more prominent. With a sigh that blows up the strands of hair not tucked behind an ear, and a slight twitch in my right eye, I give in to defeat and leave the room to make my way to the inn's common area with the intentions of eating a warm meal and having a mug of something strong enough to fight off the constant bitterness in the air.
I choose a table close to the fire and sit down with my back to the warmth, thinking about a warm bowl of stew, maybe some cheese and a piece of bread to go with it, and how lucky it would be if there were decent honey mead in this horrible city. Fantasizing over a meal I wouldn't have to catch, kill, and cook myself, I notice a presence almost looming over me and blocking the warmth from the fire, replacing it with a revolting smell that reminds me of sweat and mildly of rotting flesh. So much for luck, but what could I expect while in Windhelm.
I turn in my spot on the bench and look up at the man to see a fancy-dressed horker looking excuse for a Nord. He even has a scraggly grey mustache struggling to grow on his upper lip. He noisily clears his throat and sways his gigantic gut forward on the toes of his feet while trying to catch one hand with the other across the expanse of his back, teetering in a way that makes you wish he were closer to the ice water outside the walls, waiting to be addressed in an obviously impatient manner. Apparently he's important for some reason and I ought to know who he is.
"Looks like you're having trouble finding your place, friend," I said in a tone that fell flat of friendliness. "Guarantee if you continue standing over me like that, I'll show you where it is."
He huffed about for a few candle drips, seemingly trying to form the words to mount a counter but to no avail, only furthering his horker resemblance.
"Young lady," he finally managed to say in a voice that surprised me at him not sounding like a beast, "I'll have you know you are speaking to Ulran Gjansson."
I look at him with a bit more attention now, the name seeming familiar, and quirk an eyebrow at him. Dark blue padded cloth trimmed with gold, matching pants, shiny leather boots, a thick gold chain hanging around his neck, and enough rings to make every woman in the city green with envy. The only Nords I know that have that much time to polish their toes so nicely usually has enough money to pay someone else do it for them, work for the Jarls, or deal with handling property. Whatever he is, this milk drinker is probably here about the estate. I shouldn't be surprised that I couldn't even get an hour to eat before dealing with this. I roll my eyes at the way his whiskers twitch in the silence and let out a disgruntled breath.
"Quit acting like someone stole your sweet roll and sit down then, Ulran," I say to him indicating the bench across the table from me. A few huffs later and the bench on the other side of the table creaked from he strain of his weight. "Tell me what business you've got with me and make it quick. I'm hungry and you're keeping me from my meal."
"How dare-" he starts as the veins pulse through the wrinkles of his face and neck. "You are every bit the brigand your father said you had become, may his soul find Sovengarde," Ulran retaliated in what I'm sure he thought to be an angry manner but ended up being as weak as a baby mud crab's pincer. I nearly spit in his face, but being the better Nord here I show some restraint and merely glare a hole through his head, which is enough for him to shut up and visibly gulp. I lean towards the horker across from me and cross my arms over the table, trying to make my glare even more intimidating.
"I see. So you knew the Quarksen clan and you know who I am," I say, narrowing my eyes. Great. He might not be here about the estate, but he's a friend of my father's, meaning he was probably a friend of my mother's and the rest of them. The company my family would keep were usually just as two faced as them if not worse. "If you're looking to help my father find Sovengarde, I can help you find passage," I say lowly. Bringing myself back up, leaning back into my chair and crossing my arms over my chest, I find I have lost my appetite for tonight which only serves to make me as irritable as a skeever who's cheese wheel was taken from him by giants. "If that's your business with me, you'll have to give me a quarter of a candle mark to buy a new sword because I won't be staining mine with filth like you." Ulran is now looking at me as if I were a dragon with nine heads. Good.
"Now listen here girl," he sputters, turning an interesting shade of beet in he face. "I will not be spoken to in this manner. I came by to help the misled daughter of a dead friend, just to be treated worse than a beggar at the city gates," I snort to his comment, knowing full well those beggars are leagues ahead of this dung pile to getting in Sovengarde. "If you want to act like a no-name brigand, then I shall treat you as such and offer no helping hand here. I-" I loudly thump my fist onto the table so he'll stop his tirade and interrupt him before he can continue further.
"I needed nothing from the Quarksens and I certainly don't need anything from their 'friends'. I'm no charity case-"
"You will be soon, young lady," Ulran interrupts me, trying to regain his momentum. I clench my jaw shut tightly and can feel my temple starting to pulse. "Your father's estate-"
"You mean 'my' estate." I intervene again. He flusters for a hair's width of time and then continues on.
"-is worthless. Actually, it is less than worthless. Between the back-taxes owed, and the damage cause to city property, let alone neighboring property-" I interrupt again with both hands coming down on the table as I stand, the bench screeching back behind me in a hurried manner.
"Who are you to come here, forestall my supper, and tell me of my inherited affairs from a family I want nothing to do with?!" I growl out at him with narrowing eyes. Ulran stands from his seat on the other bench, its feet scraping back at a much slower pace than mine had, still the same shade of beets in the face.
"I am Ulran Gjansson, Secretary to the Treasury of Windhelm, and I have an ear in the goings on of this city. Your father was a great man, a hero to the city for his service, and he was never the same after he lost his daughter to her own selfish ways." He throws wicked grin my way, seeming more confident than he had been this entire conversation now that he knows he's holding game pieces I can't see. "I will guarantee you this girl, Windhelm will not be the only debt collector coming for your hide, and I bet we will all get our pound of flesh from you before you leave." He starts to head for the door, taking his time with the way he waddles, but he stops and looks to me again before taking the exit. "If you try to leave Windhelm before matters of your father's estate are setlled, Ms. Quarksen, the guards are on orders to arrest you and put you straight into the city dungeons," Ulran offers with what sounded like something between a belch and a chuckle and he finally leaves the inn.