A/N: played Skyrim for the first time over winter break. Because I did that with my best friend, we ended up making a character who had an idiotic name, that one war paint that looks like tire tracks and less than stellar personality. A dark elf called Lappavich, small-time criminal and full time coward. Because of Faendal's resigned "still here", he gets to be the reluctant partner of our dragonborn.

This was purely for fun, and may or may not continue. I don't have access to the game, so probably won't, in any near future. Which is good, because I want to concentrate on other stories.

In hindsight, Faendal thought, he really should have thought twice before offering his aid to an elf who seemed to take to betrayal and sabotage with the sort of glee he usually associated with children and candy. Unfortunately, he had been, to his embarrassment, too glad that the stranger had been plotting with him. Not against him.

Which brought him here, in the middle of Skyrim wilderness, with someone whose entire earthly possessions seemed to consist of things other people had mysteriously displaced.

Great.

Faendal made a face at his companion's sleeping features. The elf had slumped down in a rather dramatic manner after they had stopped, making a show of his alleged aching wounds (heroically received during a daring and dashing escape from a dragon).

Faendal had unwittingly offered to take first watch, having not quite learned how his companion's mind worked, and found that the state of Lappavich's injuries seemed to correlate with how much work he saw in his future.

Faendal was starting to wonder if the dark elves weren't in the right and a few well-placed assassinations were just the thing to keep the gears of society running smoothly.

If there was one good thing about his situation, it was that no one deemed Faendal worthy of attention. He might as well have been a particularly solid shadow, as he trailed behind Lappavich, and he had no real desire to change the situation.

As far as he could tell, this was all going to end badly, sooner or later. The only thing that soothed his wounded spirit was that everyone and their uncle seemed just as unable to see through to Lappavich's true nature as he had been.

Even so, how the jarl thought Lappavich was someone who could be trusted with confidential tasks was a mystery, but it was oddly fascinating to watch him weave tangled webs of lies. Faendal was mystified as to how he had not yet tripped on a single thread, but surely it was only a matter of time. He would be there, standing behind with a well-timed "told you so", this ridiculous adventure would be over, and he would spend the rest of his life giving side-eyes at every single dark elf he saw.

Of course, just when Lappavich had all but convinced the jarl to sell him a house, someone stormed in, screaming something about dragons.

Lappavich froze in terror. A sudden surge of smugness felt like balm to Faendal's soul.

Faendal looked up at the dragon, and then down at Lappavich.

The dragon was circling overhead, in great lazy circles that said it had every intention to come down in very near future. Lappavich was cowering inside the watch tower, and looked like he was contemplating the future living prospects within a collapsed watchtower.

Entirely without prompt, an imaginary argument played inside Faendal's mind.

(Well, there's not a lot to say about the state of the infrastructure, but you have to admit it's a prime location. And the rate is very reasonable!

What do you mean 'reasonable rate'? There is no rate! The place is abandoned!

Like I said, very reasonable.)

Faendal valiantly resisted the urge to hit something, either himself or Lappavich. Then, he notched an arrow, shoulders heavy with resignation.

If he was going to die, at least he had a bloody big lizard to take on some of his frustration.

When they made it to Whiterun, charred but victorious, Lappavich seemed a wholly different person. Earlier that day, Faendal had had to keep a stern hand on his shoulder to make him march to the ruined watchtower. He still wasn't sure what to think of the fact that Lappavich had, in fact, still faced the dragon.

Eventually.

But it seemed like a some sort of a cosmic joke that this person… this person who had wheel tracks tattooed on his face, who had fingers more sticky than tar, who always managed to hoist off guard duty on Faendal…

…this person was, somehow, chosen for a great destiny?

Faendal glanced at his companion, who was regaling the ladies of the Bannered Mare with tales of his heroics that were not so much embellished as utter lies. Lappavich seemed perfectly fine with a role as a legendary dragon slayer from ancient Nord myths, now that he didn't actually have to be killing anything that weighed more than a mammoth and still managed to fly.

Faendal let his face land against the table and called for more ale.

They were about halfway to High Hrothgar when something inside Faendal finally went snap.

"What is it that you carry that is so important that I must hold onto half of the weapons you keep 'liberating' from the unfortunate idiots we keep running into?"

Lappavich made a sort of nervous scuttling motion, which always reminded Faendal of a twitchy-eyed rodent, and, eventually, relinquished his rug-sack. Faendal looked inside, and found out that his expectations could, in fact, still go lower.

There was Black-Briar Mead, Black-Briar Reserve, Honningbrew Mead, Mead with Juniper Berry and mead that wasn't expensive enough to have a name printed on the side.

Faendal raised his eyebrow. By now, he could probably bore a hole in a rock with the force of his disapproval, but Lappavich merely twitched and looked away, a natural master of shifty eyes. For him, responsibilities were a lit explosive – something to throw away as far as possible and run away from in the opposite direction.

"What? It's not like I wasn't going to share."

Faendal felt something twitch in the corner of his eye. For a moment he wanted to suggest that it was not, in fact, a very good idea to get drunk when you were climbing a bloody cold mountain infested with trolls. Then, he closed his mouth and thought better of it.

He still hadn't learned his lesson, Faendal thought sourly. Even after all these weeks, he couldn't bring himself to just up and leave the bastard to his fate.

"Give me the good mead. Not that drivel you get from 'rustic local breweries'."

"We used to be noblemen, you know," Lappavich said. They were sitting on the stony steps inside the main hall of the Greybeards' sanctuary. The odd, silent men had long since gone off, finally done with the chanting and the shaking of the mountain.

There had been something fundamentally misplaced about it all, considering Lappavich was naturally geared towards drunken brawls and opportunistic 'business plans' rather than heroic deeds worthy of legends. Faendal had stood behind and bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying something rude.

Lappavich himself was, naturally, entirely too happy to puff up his chest and walk around like he owned half of the world. Or, rather, he had been. Now that it was just him and Faendal, he looked pensive.

Faendal had a bad feeling about it. At least when Lappavich was whimpering in fear or laughing raucously, you knew where you stood with him.

"My family used to be nobility," Lappavich said slowly, with the sober voice of a man who has decided to excavate deep under layers of bullshit and self-deception. "Never knew much about that, myself, we were ousted when the Red Mountain erupted. Parents never did adapt to it all. Grew up listening to how great we were, how noble, how dignified. Couldn't have lived up to that even if I tried for a thousand years, so I didn't."

Lappavich downed a bottle of tremendously expensive mead with the practised ease of a long-time alcoholic. Faendal listened, with dawning horror. He had fully intended to go down the mountain and then straight back home. He had chanted a mantra, reminding himself over and over that delivering one bloody letter did not equate to a debt great enough to get dragged all over Skyrim, just so his companion wouldn't be able to talk him out of it.

Lappavich was irritating, cowardly and full of himself, to say the least, but if Faendal had to hear much more, he was going to start to sympathise.

"And after years of squandering my life away, after a long stretch of petty crime and drunken violence and running away from the angry husbands of my affairs, I somehow find myself with a destiny that might have made my parents proud of me."

Lappavich smiled, bitter and mocking, and entirely at himself.

Faendal barely suppressed a list of colourful curses.

Lappavich was wearing something that looked like it was made of an old quilt.

"Frankly, I don't even want to know," Faendal said flatly. There was no need to even pretend surprise. He was entirely used to such things, and wished he wasn't.

Lappavich shrugged. He tried to make it look casual, but Faendal could see the lines of tension on his wily face.

"It's fine. I'll be back by tomorrow."

Faendal's eyes narrowed. Lappavich was the first to take advantage of ill-advised promises and unfortunate debts. The easy, obvious conclusion was that there was easy profit that he didn't want to share, but –

– but that look.

Faendal was, by now, the nightmare of all used horse salesmen and court politicians, and could not be fooled. Lappavich was nervous, and it wasn't the usual sort of nervousness that hung about him like the smell of old sweat. He had grown up with petty crime and swindling, so his eyes were naturally inclined to dart around, taking in positions and possible exits if things went sour.

This wasn't the same sort. The nervousness was concentrated, all of his considerable self-serving instinct geared up in preparation, like a beam of light through a magnifying crystal.

This had to be political, then. Even dragons had ceased to seem like such a threat after the first dozen or so, and you couldn't quite compare any other acute danger to five tons of steel scales and breath of ice and fire.

…Abruptly, Faendal realised that this was his chance to go home. Lappavich wasn't asking him to come, wasn't even really asking him to wait, and seemed too scared and preoccupied to consider what Faendal was doing.

And he wasn't even telling why.

Faendal glanced at Delphine, from the corner of his eye. She was involved, but wasn't going herself. A former blade had her enemies, for sure.

For one, the Thalmor.

Faendal closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He was full of regret.

"I'm coming along, idiot."

Faendal had never been happier to melt into the background than he was at this moment. He had left Valenwood long before the Thalmor had taken over, and so had none of the simmering resentment he could see in Malborn, but no one liked the Thalmor. You couldn't help it. You caught resentment off of them.

Lappavich, though, seemed to be doing a good job of pretending, his honeyed words and fine sense of danger providing with everything he needed. Faendal didn't have to actually hear his words to imagine his oily tone; it was clear on his face as he trailed behind Justiciar Ondolemar.

This, of course, meant that Ondolemar was ignoring his existence, which was exactly what you wanted. No one wanted the interest of the Thalmor.

Faendal frowned at his glass. Colovian brandy was not something you got every day, but he should probably stay sober. Somewhere along the line someone was going to need to die, and he had not risked coming along just to be there to shoot himself in the foot.

Thankfully, there was a commotion, and Malborn herded them both through the door. Faendal turned to ask after their weapons and almost hit his nose on the door.

They were on their own.

Even though he had expected it, Faendal still felt a little sick at the sight of the cells and instruments of torture. Blood had seeped into the wood of the floor, ancient and almost black. A smell lingered in the air, as if to avoid touching any surface. It was rust and piss, and something else, just under.

Faendal didn't want to know what it was.

"Let's get out," Lappavich said quietly. It was not so much to try and remain undetected; Faendal would be very surprised if their cover hadn't been blown along with the hole in the wall, courtesy of the now-dead Thalmor mage.

It just seemed wrong to make noise in a place that reeked of old death.

The thief had already run, and Faendal and Lappavich were entirely prepared to do the same, if not for the sound of a commotion upstairs.

It was Malborn, dragged along with Thalmor guards. Faendal suppressed a curse, and glanced at Lappavich from the corner of his eye. He had already notched an arrow, and was aiming.

Faendal sighed, and followed suit.

This was probably why he couldn't seem to leave.

A/N: This is as far as the main quest got, and I can't be bothered to watch a let's play in order to continue. After all, it's about the adventures of my own character, not someone else.

Man, I write a lot of weird crap. Hope someone finds this amusing.