1.
The Young Liar

The winds howled with unrelenting fury, yet they could not topple Daniello.
Icy wisps clawed at his cheeks until they were tender and raw. He brushed snowflakes from his eyelashes, straining to see through the veil of winter along the Jerall Mountains. As far as the eye could see, from east to west, there was nothing but the sprawl of gloomy, gray mountains dressed down in cloaks of white; the Throat of the World loomed like a silent guardian on the eastern horizon. The summit reached to the high heavens, a place Daniello knew he could witness, but never reach. In all the stories he had ever heard, from boyhood to his wizened sixteen years, he knew of only one person to have climbed the Throat of the World in his lifetime. Or perhaps there had been others, and only one lived in such infamy.

He's gone now, Daniello thought. Did it matter who had climbed the Throat of the World? As if to confirm his feelings, he stole a second, neck-craning view of the titanous alpine, and thought, Maybe he never existed at all. Stories were like to do that, Daniello learned. His father had said long ago that raconteurs were dream-weavers with their heads in the clouds.

"They'll sing about Gods and heroes," Daniello's father used to say, while he struck red-hot steel with a black mallet, "And piss and moan when they're plates are bare, or their pockets are shallow." Songs and childhood fables were passages of adolescence, and seldom did they provide bread and water.
Was that why the sight of the infamous mountain soured him, so? Had his dream of seeing the peaks of Skyrim come with a bitter realization? There are no heroes, he told himself. Their stories are fodder for our imagination. It was in that moment, under the shade of the Throat of the World, that Daniello decided that his childlike creativity could serve him no longer. There is no hero atop the mountain, he thought bitterly, and no dragon to be slain.
With his declaration, Daniello turned his back on the peak of the world, and started west.

A camp sat at the foot of the snow-sprinkled forest. Biting, chilling winds rustled through the nordic pines, but they proved small match for Daniello's shag of fur and leather. He might have appeared to be a small bear to the untrained eye. Between the dark wood pines and the tired, languid snowfall, he could see a golden lit flame. Fur tents, and a sigil bore on a tall, ashewood banner. The Bear of Eastmarch bore its fangs, blue and fearsome, with a stripe of white. Stormcloaks? I thought they were all gone…
The fire might as well have been a kiss from Akatosh. Winter's vice receded as the young hunter sat beside the warmth on a leather rug, knees huddled close to his chest. For a moment, Daniello considered never leaving this spot. I could sleep here, maybe steal the tent for my own… His eyes wandered, and it was only now he realized how heavy his mind felt. The days of travel, camping under the stars with naught but fur and leather for warmth had taken its toll on him. Huddled close, he laid on his side, and felt the heaviness of sleep bring his eyes to a close. In the darkness of his mind, he saw the rush of heroes and legends, all tales his brothers and sisters would read him before bed. Tiber Septim and the Battle of Sancre Tor, Gaiden Shinji and the Siege of Orsinium… Mathiu and the Mother…

"Up, boy."

"Fly off, old man," Daniello said. He hadn't bothered to open his eyes, but as consciousness began to find him, weary and confounding, his first thoughts were to the iron dagger he kept close to his heart, slung in a leather sheathe with a cotton-woven thong. Stab him, a voice said, if he lays a hand on you. No mercy in the wildlands. It was the first rule Daniello's uncle taught him in what felt like a lifetime ago. Or someone's lifetime ago.

"Do not try my patience," the stranger said. "You're not a soldier, nor a courier. Find your feet and leave. I haven't patience for squatters."
Daniello found his feet as bid, certain that the stranger meant no harm, else he would have committed the deed already. He brushed snow from his thick fur hood and found the man with weary eyes. A Nord, tall and lean, with a shaggy blonde as he was, there remained a tenderness in his watery blue eyes.

"I needed only a moment of respite. Excuse my intrusion."

The old Nord gave a shrug. He reached down and hoisted up ice-buckets dangling from a long iron rod. "Bah, never you mind, Imperial. I seldom find people in this neck of the country. Oft times, the only voice I hear is the wind's whisper, and even she's begun to turn me mad." After a moment, the nord smiled, an expression riddled with a maw of yellow and brown. "For a moment, I thought the cold had stolen you from this world."

Daniello returned the smile, but only as courtesy. "In due time." He offered a hand, "Daniello Erisso, of Bruma."

"Ralof of Riverwood," the Nord said, and gave a soft handshake. He canted his head, as if to steal a better glance at Daniello. "Are you going somewhere, friend? I can point you to a warm tavern nearby, if that suits your fancy. Is there a reason why you're roaming the mountains?"

Daniello straightened himself out. "I'm looking for my father," he said quickly. It was a simple, practiced response, and it would suffice. "You mentioned a warm tavern?"

"Oh, aye," Ralof began, "off the cusp of the forest. Follow the river north into Whiterun Hold, and you'll find Riverwood. But…" He trailed off for a moment.

"But?" Daniello raised a brow.

"Stray from the wilderness of Falkreath Hold," Ralof said. "There's an old hermit who lives in a cabin. Best you don't tread on his lands."
Daniello fought back a snort. As if I am to be frightened of some half-witted homebody. To answer, he offered only a stiff nod. "An odd place for a camp," he asked suddenly. "I don't imagine you happen upon many travelers."

Ralof wandered over to the patched tent, which Daniello was certain had seen better days and, most of all, better patchwork. The old soldier laid the buckets beside the leather bedroll inside, and with a heavy sigh (whether from the weight of the water, or the subject of the question, Daniello couldn't be sure), he said, "I've been at this post for four years, friend. The last Legionnaire to storm the hills of Falkreath came two summers ago, and every season since, I've spent it with specters." He dipped a wooden cup into the bucket, and gulped down frigid water. "I must hold Falkreath. Those are the Jarl's orders."

"Isn't it time to go home, then?"

"Not until Ulfric sends word." Of all the words the Stormcloak soldier named Ralof had spoken, it was this single declaration that sounded most certain of all. It might have been all that tethered the man to the ground he walked on. "He is the true High King of Skyrim."

"The war ended ages ago," Daniello offered. "Pack up, soldier. You said Riverwood is only up the road - why not go home?"

Ralof smiled, though his eyes bespoke of a hidden sadness. "I swore vows, friend." He drew his sword from a leather sheath and guided a strip of cloth down the iron. Judging from the looks of it, it appeared to have been seldom used. "The terms of the truce were to last only until after the Dragons were gone."

"I see no dragons," Daniello said. "Your Bear of Eastmarch is the first of Ulfric's banners I've spotted since Windhelm. You explain, soldier, for it appears to me that wars are fought, not observed. Where is the fighting?"
Ralof's smile, like the seasons, faded much too quickly. His lips pursed, and he said nothing.

Daniello bit his lip. Would it have been better to hold his tongue? What are soldiers without a war to fight? He turned, and began making his way north.

"Imperial!"

With a glance over his shoulder, Daniello regarded the old soldier.

"Be mindful of that hermit I mentioned," Ralof said. "He's not one to bother."

If Riverwood were to be summed up in a single word, Daniello decided that word would be modest. The buildings were sturdy, the roof thatching would fend off rain and bugs, and as the young hunter made his way north along the coursing river, he realized the bugs plagued Whiterun Hold the worst, second only to wolves. Snow receded as the mountains descended, but for every snowflake in the Jerall Mountains, Daniello was certain there were thrice the amount of bugs. Bloodthirsty mosquitos and cocksure honey bees, all buzzing, all a nuisance that swarmed him. If not bloodsuckers and honeymakers, then it was furious swarms of gnats, and if they failed to make an appearance, the wasps were quick to remind him of their unyielding stings.
By the time he reached the foot of Riverwood he had scabs by the dozens, itching worse than a whore's curse, and the thought of a warm bed had fallen second to ointment for his bug bites.

"I can't help you, dear," the older woman who kept the Sleeping Giant Inn said. "If I'm to be honest, medical work's a touch out of my range of expertise."
She must be better with book-keeping and ham-slicing, Daniello mused. "Are there any alchemists who can help me? Surely there's something I can lather on the wounds to stop the itching?" He often found that, in truth, it did not do well to ask simply for what he wanted. It did, however, prove easier to ask for what he needed, and merely continue from there. Now, if I managed upon a certain potion of honeyed words, I may find my endeavor easily achieved, and to be frank, who could deny a bit of help every now and
again?

"Burning sage ought to keep the bugs away," the woman said. "As for ointments?" She paused, and guided a thumb along her cheek. "I do know an incredible alchemist, but… No, he dislikes people on his land."

"So I've heard," Daniell said. An incredible alchemist? Not a title often prescribed - he made a note of it. "Is there anyone else?"

Delphine's lips fell. Had something wistful stolen her mood? "Not unless you're willing to hike to Whiterun and see Arcadia, but if you ask me, she's oft in the habit of misdiagnosing. Mixes her ingredients up from time to time - oh, pity her, the years have taken their toll."

Daniello gave a nod. This woman babbles on and on...

"There's another woman you can see, however. Anise, I think her name is. Not a bad mixer of potions, but she's not like to take customers in my experience."
Then why mention it? He felt a flare of irritation."If it's the best I can muster," Daniello conceded; he learned long ago that too many questions quickly raised suspicion. It did better to speak mystically and succinctly, his each word a puzzle piece meant to fall into frame.

"Before you go, can you do with a name?" The woman crossed the tavern, and flipped open a hefty ledger. "How many nights are you paying for?"

"Daniello Erisso, and I believe three at the most." He reached into the satchel at his hip and counted out thirty gold septims. "And you are? My mother always said it does well to know the names of those you dine with."

"Delphine." A feathered quill flicked across the book, and the woman glanced up at him. "Would you do me a favor, dear? If you do decide to visit that old alchemist in Falkreath, could you take a little gift basket up to his cottage? Nowadays, he rarely visits. I'd like to be sure he hasn't forgotten me."

Daniello drew up his travelling cloak. "Will do." It seemed his journey would take him to Falkreath instead. And who knows? Perhaps the alchemists could give me exactly what I need?

"His name is Rokon," Delphine said. "Let him know we miss him. He ought to know that."

Falkreath had always held a special place in his heart. Colovia had once run from south to north of the Jerall Mountains, and everything, from the names to the accents were, in some way, vaguely Colovian. In the mountains, not unlike his family's farm near Bruma, the snows were thick and the winds were torrential. Once the altitudes lowered, the lazy snow that insulated more than it froze became still as a summer lake. He saw much of that in Falkreath; lowland forests, inviting yet ominous, with lightly wintered pines.
Lake Illinata followed the road west until it came to the White River, and the rushing current collapsed off the bluffs of moss-grown rocks. A curious, haunting mist cloaked the westward path, but Daniello had read enough books about Skyrim's wilderness to be mindful of the region's notable weather. He climbed up the hill to a quiet cottage overlooking the lake, where the fog began to thin out, warded off by lit torches settled on wooden sconces dug into the earth. Was it a reminder to travelers? This land belonged to someone, and it was not to be tread? Perhaps…
Daniello continued with a half-hearted shrug. What's the worst he can do? Kill me?

Next to a lush garden of nightshade, deathbell, and garlic sat a rusted iron signpost which read, 'Lakeview Manor'.Moss had grown over the better of it, and weather left the hinges dangling on each beckon of wind.
The young hunger brought his knuckle up, and rapped on the wooden door. A stir echoed from inside, and hefty footsteps drummed off the floorboards.
A mass of brown and gray appeared in the doorway. It towered almost a foot over Daniello in shaggy furs, and from under a low-hanging hood, Daniello could see a thick black beard and large white tusks.

Yellow eyes with pitless black pupils narrowed down at him. "Yes?" the Orc asked with a gravelly rasp.

"My name is Daniello," he said quickly, "You must be Rokon? I came to ask for medicine for my mosquito bites. Wasp stings, too."

"Go elsewhere." The door slammed shut.

What a miserable old - Daniello brought his fist against the door with a booming pound. "Don't disrespect me, old man. I'm willing to pay - by the Nine, open the damn door.

"Can't I ask you a question, at the least?"

Silence.

Daniello grit his teeth. This is an incredible alchemist? "Fine. Mingle on your ownsome." He leaned down and placed the bundled basket on the stone porch. "I brought a reminder from your mistress in Riverwood. She says you're welcome to come around anytime you'd like." He turned away. "Not like you would bother, all settled up in the middle of nowhere." Hermits like you die alone, he thought. Daniello had more experience with home-dwellers than he cared to admit. Once in their haven of safety, people like that often mulled about in their own pit of self-loathing, self-reflection, self-this, self-that…

"Delphine?"

Daniello spun around. Rokon hoisted the basket up, most of his figure obscured in the shadow of his cottage. "She must care for you a lot. Does she send you packages often?"
The hermit snorted. Half a heartbeat later, the door slammed shut.