b/c my attention span is about as big as a baby teacup chihuahua, i've got yet another story up and about
happy hunting or such
1. Living Meat
"Halt!" a soldier cries, successfully halting my progress across the border.
I thought I was being as stealthy as a mudcrab, but it seems I have been bumbling through the undergrowth like a drunken cave bear if a common soldier—border patrol, no less—has spotted me. I suppose it is a good enough start to my new life in Skyrim, but I'll be damned if I let this ugly beast of a Nord slap me in irons and drag me to the chopping block like some kind of war criminal.
With a huff of annoyance, I rock onto one hip and spin so that I can glare at the guard.
Surprisingly, he is neither an ugly beast nor a Nord, but a frail-looking Dunmer. I stare at him confusedly, realizing he is also not a soldier since he is dressed in shabby patchwork clothes and wielding no weapon. In fact, he seems to have nothing except the rags on his back and a strangely authoritative voice.
"Ha, ha!" the Dunmer laughs maniacally and slaps his bony right knee in mirth. "Oh, I'm just pulling your leg, my friend," he says in a manner far too cheerful and casual for a Dunmer. I'll bet he's spent too much time staring at the moons. "Welcome to Skyrim," he says happily as he lifts his arms and spins in an unsteady circle, "land of bad weather."
"But at least there's no volcano plotting to kill us all," I point out, and he giggles.
"I'd rather be killed by a volcano than suffer this blasted cold—oh, I'm pulling your leg again, friend!" he all but screeches. "I hate the cold but volcanoes are worse, especially the living ones, eh? Well, since you're here, I suppose the cold doesn't bother you, I'm certain… By Talos, I've been here too long," he mutters and scratches his head. A few clumps of black hair fall out from underneath his scraggly nails, but he does not seem to notice or mind. "Anywho, friend, you'd best be running along before someone screams so hard you get blasted into Oblivion."
In my opinion, that is the most coherent thing he has said so far, so I decide it will be good to leave on a high note. I give him a wave of farewell which he delightedly returns.
"Oh, and don't go to Helgen any time soon unless you want to get plotted on by a living volcano," he adds as I pass him by.
"Thank you," I say honestly, having no idea where in Oblivion Helgen is, but at least I will remember not to go there.
Probably.
The Dunmer gives me an exaggerated salute and moves northward, straddling the border without concern.
From what I have seen so far, I think I will fit in splendidly with the Skyrim natives, unless the Dunmer was an anomaly in this country. Either way, I am even more thrilled to be here than I was just a few minutes ago. I trot along happily for a few more minutes, not bothering to be subtle.
I mean, what are the odds that I'll get caught by more crazy Skyrim-ians?
"Halt!" a commanding voice shouts out, but I just smile to myself and ignore it. Oh, the Dunmer are a crazy bunch, aren't they? "I said halt!" the voice yells again, and I snort to myself. "By order of the Empire, you are under arrest for attempting to cross into Skyrim illegally!" he screeches, but I do not stop. "Wait! Dammit, listen to me!"
This one really isn't giving up, is he? A bit miffed, I twirl to glare at my new adversary, surprised to see that he is neither an ugly beast of a Nord nor a frail-looking Dunmer. No, it is an uppity prick of an Imperial jogging towards me and waving his sword wildly. His face is red and angry, but it does not look like he has any buddies with him. They must all be too busy putting people to the block to run after the beautiful woman crossing into their beloved wasteland of a country.
I allow him to catch up to me, a hand on my hip again, and he stumbles to a stop, breathing hard. "By..." He gasps out a few more breaths, close to wheezing. "By order... of the Empire... I demand that... you surrender yourself to the Legion's custody," he finally manages to finish.
For a moment, I consider his offer. It might be a good way to sightsee the country, traveling along in a prison cart with the Imp Legion, but I have never been a fan of imprisonment. With a soft sigh, I draw my mace and bash him hard in the head, a look of shock plastered on his face until it gets disfigured by the crushing of his skull. He falls with nary a cry. I wince at the blood trickling from his cracked skin and look away before I lose my lunch.
I do not rightly believe that I have eaten lunch, though, so I sit down cross-legged beside the corpse and pull some crusty bread out of one of my pouches, surveying it disappointedly. It is no feast fit for a woman such as myself, but it's food and it's not bloody. The thought of blood makes me a bit nauseous again, so I scarf down my bread as quickly as possible before standing up, brushing crumbs off my stomach, and flicking a small clump of skin off the head of my mace.
Messy business, crossing the border illegally, but it could have been much worse than a Dunmer missing part of his brain and an Imperial now missing part of his skull. Satisfied by my progress thus far, I snatch a coin pouch from the fallen soldier's belt, studiously ignoring the blood trickling down his head, and check its contents. This soldier was not a rich man—what soldier is?—but any money is useful when traveling into a new country.
Apparently, no one much cares about people leaving Morrowind for Skyrim, because that Imperial soldier is the only one I pass until I am far enough from the border to relax. When I feel safe to move out of the mountainous undergrowth, I happily step onto the first stone road I come across and follow it in a direction that I hope is not back the way I came. A few hours of walking leads me to various signposts all pointing towards Riften, which I can safely assume is a city since there are signposts pointing towards it. Either way, a destination is better than none when you are in a foreign country and have no supplies or basic living necessities whatsoever, so I follow the signs and make it to a decrepit wooden gate just as it turns to nightfall.
"Halt!" a man calls for the third time today.
This time it is an ugly beast of a Nord, but he is neither a soldier not a civilian. No, from what I can tell in the darkness, he is a skeevy guard bored out of his skeever mind. Since my progress is barred by the closed gate which he guards, though, I am forced to obey his order lest I walk into the tall wooden doors. I halt, and he grins, eyeing me up and down with a lustful gaze that I am quite used to.
As I wait for the soldier to finish up with his ogling and get to the intimidation, I stare at the stone walls before me and wonder if I could vault over them. Let's see… I muse. I'll need some sort of pole and… Is that all you need to vault? A pole? I feel like there should be more ingredients, but I cannot think of any. Since I do not have a pole, however, maybe I could just climb over it without anyone noticing. Honestly, how hard could it be?
"Hm…?" I murmur when I realize the guard has started talking to me again. He glowers, and I notice that he has a buddy who steps forward to take the first one's place as a mouthpiece.
"Pay the toll to enter the city," he says gruffly. I blink at him, considering how easy it would be to bash his skull in, but I am not in a particularly bash-happy mood at the moment. Maybe later. "A pretty thing like you must make lots of money, eh?" he adds with a smirk.
"That's a kind thing to say," I inform him, flattered, and both guards find that hilarious.
"Tell ya what," the first guard leers. "Give me your name and maybe I'll let you inside."
"Heh, maybe we both will," the second one adds, and they again fall into snickers.
"I'm Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I state—as is only polite when meeting new people—with practiced enunciation once their attention is back on me.
I keep my expression impassive as I watch their faces slacken a bit as they try to sound out what I just said. I pity them a little, but I always find it delightful to see how people react to hearing my name for the first time, as the confusion and dismay fills their faces when they realize they will never be able to refer to me as anything but 'you' or 'that woman with nice tits.' The power in having a needlessly long and complex name with too many syllables and consonants is even more thrilling than having a body that would make Dibella self-conscious.
"What was that?" the first guard asks hesitantly.
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I repeat patiently as is only polite.
"Come again?" inquires the second guard.
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu." All this politeness is starting to grate on my nerves.
The guards look at each other and then back at me. "I dunno," the first one whispers far too loudly for any subterfuge, "it sounds like a noble's name."
"Aye," the second whispers back, only the smallest bit quieter. " 'S not worth the trouble."
"So we just let 'er in, just like that?" the first retorts. "That'll ruin our reputation!"
"Let's just tell her it's 'cause she's sexy," the second says as though he isn't speaking loudly enough to reach my family in Morrowind. "No one's gonna fault us for lettin' in a pretty face."
"Clever," the first agrees. "I always knew you were the clever one, Robert."
Robert looks away embarrassedly and rubs the side of his head. "That's a sweet thing to say, Ted," he mumbles back. "It means a lot to me, ya know."
Ted pats his buddy on the shoulder consolingly. "I know it'll take time to work through what your da' told ya growin' up, but I just want ya to know you've got irreplaceable worth in my eyes, no matter what he's said."
Robert sniffles slightly and nods. "You're the best mate anyone could ask for," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "If it weren't for you, I'd be some upstanding soldier instead of a corrupt guard."
"Oh, I'm sure you would've gotten to crime on your own," Ted replies, embarrassed as well. "I just got ya there faster is all."
"Either way," Robert says, "I'm more grateful to ya than you'll ever know."
"Aye?" Ted murmurs.
"Aye," Robert confirms.
I wonder if I should stay silent, feeling as though this is some sort breakthrough in their relationship, but I really want to get in the city. I wave my hand a little to get Robert's attention, and he clears his throat and straightens his posture.
"We're gonna let you in the city 'cause you are a beautiful person on the outside—I dunno enough about you to comment on your internal beauty," he adds, "so that's not a factor here. Also, you should definitely repay me 'n Ted in the form of sex sometime."
"I will never do such a thing," I inform them gravely, "even under the threat of sanity."
Both guards seem rather despondent, enough that I almost give in, but they still let me through the gates with nothing more than a grumble. I mentally wish them luck on breaking down emotional barriers and conning money out of weak and innocent people.
I am sleepy from walking all day and eating nothing but some old bread, so the clear first stop is the tavern. Thankfully, it is right off the main square and cheerfully lit, the interior a hub of raucous laughter and loud conversation. It is nice to be in a crowd again after the empty roads to this backwater city, and these people clearly are not the uppity sort like every single Dunmer in Morrowind—my family excepted. I am a social creature by nature, and days traveling from my home with only myself as company is as dangerous as it is fulfilling. Truthfully, I never seem to tire of my own thoughts but my siblings always told me that I'm my own worst enemy, and I know that worst enemies, unlike normal enemies, are usually more annoying than fun until I kill them. Then, it's just a good time for everyone!
I glance about the place curiously, surprised by the diversity in race within the tavern. There are Bretons and Nords and Bosmer alike, a Dunmer mercenary in the corner, an Imperial singing badly while his Argonian friend eggs him on, and probably other mongrels and such that I don't notice. I do not stand out in the least, which is simultaneously offensive and a relief.
I maneuver my way to a small table against a wall, incidentally the only one still open. The moment I sit down, though, I understand why. This table, this innocently nondescript article of furniture, insults me with the worst offense a table could possibly commit against a hapless mortal. It wobbles.
I spend a few furious seconds trying to shove a wooden plate underneath the mismatched leg, but none of the dinnerware seems to be the right size to balance this damn thing. Just as I am about to throw something across the room in frustration, an Argonian woman approaches me. By the way she is glaring at me scuffing up the plates, she likely owns the place.
"If you would stop playing with the plates," she says sternly, "I can take your order."
I hesitate, vacillating between an intense desire to revenge myself upon the table and an intense hunger that threatens to force me into a dead faint. It is a close call but, with a last mournful look at the plate, I reluctantly comply.
"A tankard of beer," I decide hesitantly, "and something to eat." I am no good at making important choices such as these, but I have learned to accept it as one of my very few faults.
"And what would you like to eat?" the Argonian asks.
"Uh…" I muse for almost a half a minute, mind blank of an answer, until I forget what the question was.
"A tankard of beer and the house special, then?" the Argonian growls as I stare blankly.
"Oh," I remember vaguely. "Yeah, a bottle of mead and… sure, the food but without anything alive in it."
"Excuse me?" the Argonian hisses, clearly offended, and I blink at her as I try to recall what I said that would cause such a reaction. "You assume because I am Argonian I serve living creatures?"
Confused, I blink rapidly. "Eh?" I finally manage. "What's being an Argonian got to do with anything? I just don't eat meat."
She pauses and it is her turn to be befuddled. "…By alive, you mean… meat? Cooked, dead animals?"
I nod, wondering what she is on about. It's hardly an offensive request, isn't it? Maybe Skyrim-ians are offended by people who love animals and almost cry at the sight of blood. If so, then I will be ruffling quite a few feathers in this place.
"I apologize," the Argonian says stiffly, still regarding me with some suspicion but without her previous hostility. "I'll get that for you right away. If you need anything else, just call for Keerava."
"That's a good safe word," I agree.
"It's my name," she states dryly, and then leaves in a hurry.
Argonians have such odd names, I muse to myself while I wait. I do not have much time to muse, though, since Keerava reappears almost as quickly as she left, this time bearing a bowl of something that smells heavenly and a bottle of something that probably smells like beer. Sure enough, when she sets it in front of me, I sniff the bottle to find that it does smell like mead, which I think is what I ordered.
"Good choice, that," a friendly voice interrupts my aromatic excursion.
I look up to see a man slide into the seat across from me. He rests one hand on the table, and we both wince when it tilts towards him, slightly disturbing my soup's peaceful existence. The man retracts his hand gently, and the table once again leans towards me under the weight of my dinner. I bite back a surge of rage and instead begin eating my soup.
"You like soup too?" I ask him as I swallow my first bite. It tastes as good as it smells, and I cannot imagine anyone not liking this soup. Or soup in general, to be honest, but this soup is especially extraordinary.
"Er, I was talking about the mead," the man corrects me a bit awkwardly, and I pause in my delighted gluttony.
Someone more interested in mead than this divine soup is someone worth inspecting, so I glance up to study him critically. He is a Nord, I think, what with his gutter accent and hard features, but he is not as ugly and leery as the other two Nords I have met so far. He has red hair that reaches his shoulders in unbrushed tangles, and he is wearing a set of dark leather armor that looks quite comfortable. Everything about the man looks comfortable, actually, from his friendly tone to his relaxed posture and nice sense of fashion.
I suppose I will not judge him too harshly about his soup comment now that I have judged him physically acceptable.
"I thought I ordered a beer," I suddenly remember as I stare at the bottle beside my bowl.
I glare at it skeptically for a few moments as though waiting for it to transform into a different drink, wine perhaps, but it remains a bottle of mead. Happy with this development, I lift the whole thing and chug it as quickly as I can. Sure enough, it's mead, and spiced mead at that with just a hint of cinnamon, but no strawberries. Strawberry wine should be more popular nowadays, but one takes what one gets.
"A Breton who drinks like a Nord!" the man laughs, almost slapping the table heartily before he remembers that it will probably catapult my bowl of soup across the room. He instead leans across the table, careful not to bump it, to inspect my soup, wrinkling his nose a little as the scent reaches him. "But eats like a Wood Elf, I see," he grumbles, a bit put off.
"I'm half-Dunmer," I explain, and he stares at me quizzically.
"What does that have to do with…" With a shake of his head, he puts a smile back on his face and folds his hands in his lap. "Well, lass," he says amicably, "I noticed you the moment you got in here, and I just had to introduce myself."
He has not introduced himself, as far as I remember, but I understand his desire to speak with me. Everyone, myself included, loves speaking with me.
"The way you carry yourself…" He leans forwards with a wicked grin, but my attention has returned to my soup. It really is good soup, but when is my strawberry wine coming? "You're not one for honest work, are ya lass?"
"Honestly, I'm not one for work at all," I reply after daintily slurping down another spoonful. "It's easier to just profit off others."
"Now that's what I like to hear!" the man laughs and almost thumps the table again. "Aye, lass, I think you're just the kind of person I'm looking for."
My spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, and I glance down to realize that the majority of my soup has departed. What a waste of good food. "It's nice to be wanted," I confess as I mourn my lack of soup. Now where is that damn beer?
"True enough," the man says with a chuckle. "And what's your name, pretty lass?"
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I recite as is only polite. There is a short silence during which I knock my spoon against the soup bowl and silently pray to the Daedra to fill it up again. Daedra of refilling soup bowls, I conjure thee!
"Eh, c-come again?" the man finally sputters.
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I say distractedly as I tap my spoon against the bowl more fervently, this time praying to the Aedra. Aedra of bothering to do something that actually helps a human being in some positive way such as refilling soup bowls, I conjure thee!
"Again," the man says, sounding a bit lost, "but more slowly."
When even the sickeningly benevolent Aedra ignore my desperate pleas, I look up at the redheaded Nord. He seems to be in pain, but that is only to be expected by someone hearing my name for the first time and also has red hair. I lay down my spoon and look at him intently, making sure to enunciate every syllable according to his request.
"Vil-lai-er-ar-lih-lee," I begin, but have to suck in a deep breath before I continue on. "Mil-iv-il-see-uh Led-vah-see Lie-sis-sis-ah-ris Suh-thar-on uh-vuh How-suh Law-loo."
He leans back in his chair, not seeming to be satisfied yet. "And... what do your friends call you, lass?" he asks confidently.
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss S'tharon of House Hlaalu," I reply just as confidently.
He snorts in what might be considered laughter among the lower echelons of society. "Don't have many friends, do ya."
"I have all the friends!" I retort with a huff.
The man eyes me suspiciously, but shrugs after a moment. "...Right. What should I call you?"
Frustrated, I mirror his position but cross my arms so that he knows I'm frustrated. "I just said!" I remind him, emphasizing my words with my spoon. "Valirerlillie Mil—"
"Okay!" he cries with hands raised in surrender. "Okay, I heard you." He clears his throat and rubs his bristly chin thoughtfully. "Right," he muses, "now how to shorten your name..."
"Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lledvasie Lyssyssryss," I recommend helpfully.
"Not helpful, lass," he grunts to my dismay.
I bite my lip and try to think of something shorter than my name that is still my name. "That's all I've got," I admit.
"Vil... lai... er..." he murmurs, and I mentally applaud that he has managed to remember even those first three syllables. "Oh!" he gasps with a snap of his fingers. "Liar!"
I look around anxiously, a hand immediately resting on the mace leaning against the wall beside me. "Where?"
The man waves his hand in some kind of calming gesture that works like a charm. "That's what I'll call you," he explains. "Liar."
I blink and consider bashing him upside the head with my mace, but it does not seem worth it. "Okay," I agree.
"Okay?" he echoes with no small amount of confusion. "No argument?"
"You didn't ask for my opinion," I chastise him, "so I didn't give it."
"Eh. Okay, true," the man admits. "I guess your name is Liar from now on."
"Alrighty then."
The man chuckles again and regards me with his friendly smile. "So, Liar," he says cheerfully, "how did someone get a name such as yours?"
Incredulous, I stare at him in silence for a few moments until he becomes clearly uncomfortable. "You," I inform him slowly, wondering if I have actually stumbled across someone with a memory worse than mine.
"No!" the man grumbles. "I mean your long full name."
I scrunch my eyebrows together this time, still wondering if he is pulling my chain or honestly this stupid. "…My family," I answer.
The man sighs loudly and rubs his face as though I am being the stupid one. "I mean, why does it have so many syllables and such?"
"Oh." I sit up straight and place my spoon into the wooden bowl where it traditionally belongs. "Well, mum was a Breton and they all have a dozen syllables in their names, so she gave me my first name. Dad's a Dunmer and they all have a dozen syllables in their names, so he gave me my second name. My older sister decided she wanted to name me too, so that's how I got my third name, and then my brother decided it wasn't fair my sister got to name me, so that's how I got my fourth name. Since I was born in Morrowind, I'm from dad's family and house, so that's how I got my family name and house."
"I'm damn sorry, lass," the man says sincerely, and I acknowledge his pity as justified. "How long did it take you to learn how to say it?"
"A really, really long time," I sigh. "Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm saying it right at all. Or spelling it right." I twirl my spoon around the damp bowl thoughtfully. "It doesn't really matter, I suppose. Today, I think it's V-A-L-I-R-E-R-L-I-L-L-I-E, new word, M-I-V-L-S-E-A, new word, L-L-E-D-V-A-S-I-E, new word, L-Y-S-S-Y-S-S-R-Y-S-S, new word, S-apostrophe-T-H-A-R-O-N, new word, O-F, new word, H-O-U-S-E, new word, H-L-A-A-L-U, end."
The man stares at me, overwhelmed by the onslaught of information he just received. "You… didn't need to spell it out," he says.
"I think I got it right, at least," I say a bit proudly.
"I should hope so!" he exclaims. "That's an important thing to know, lass!"
I pause in my spoon twirling to give him my full attention. "Why?"
"How else will people know it's you?"
I pout and return to playing with my spoon. "No one else knows how to spell or say my name, so what difference does it make?"
The man muses that for a moment before nodding. "Good point," he concedes.
"And nice to meet you," I add.
His eyes widen as though he only now realized he has not introduced himself like he intended to from the start. "Oh, I'm Brynjolf. A pleasure."
"Nice to meet you again," I say again as is only polite. "I'm Liar."
"A pleasure again."
Feeling charitable towards my new friend, I begin to offer him my soup before remembering that it is gone. Momentarily stumped, I then recall that I am in a tavern. "Here, I'll buy you an ale," I say cheerfully as I look around for the Argonian. "Keerava!" I shout over the din of the bustling tavern. "Keerava! Keerava?"
The grumpy Argonian shoves herself over to my table and gives me an undeservingly exasperated look. "Yes, what?" she snaps. "What is it?"
"Three bottles of mead, please," I answer.
"Comin' right up..." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "What was your name again?" she asks.
"Liar," I reply proudly, and Brynjolf bellows out a laugh.
Keerava looks at me suspiciously, her arm frozen in the middle of clearing my empty bowl and bottle. "What?"
"Liar," I repeat. "My name. Liar."
"Charming," she grumbles and proceeds to grab my dinnerware.
"It's not like I chose it," I explain to her, wondering why she is so hostile. I discreetly hold onto the spoon, just in case I will need it for some future tapping or twirling.
When Keerava leaves without another word, Brynjolf turns to me accusingly. "I thought you said a tankard of ale!"
I try to think back to mere minutes ago, but my thoughts turn up blank. "Oh." I shrug. "I guess I changed my mind."
Brynjolf raises and eyebrow at me. "Ah," is all he says in response.