Chapter 1

"Halt!" The guard's call stopped the dark skinned man from approaching the city any further. As the man turned his head the early morning sun glinted off a shiny object on his belt; a sword, its distinctive curve leaving no doubt of its origin. Yes, a Redguard of Hammerfell, likely in league with those Allik'r fellows hanging around. Flushing the city out. "The city is closed to those without official business."

"I have business with a man named Belethor," the Redguard replied, his deep exotic accent striking a cord with the guard. "It's rather pressing." The guard looked intently at the man, who's face was partially hidden by his hood. The hood was a trademark of his people, something the people of Whiterun were becoming more and more familiar with. However... this man didn't hold the same demeanor the others did. For one, he wasn't boorish nor pushy. He didn't convey any emotions actually, simply stating facts as they were. He also wasn't wearing the same clothes as the others were; instead of robes he had on leather garb. It was scratched and worn in places, evident of many long trips and hard roads. Not unnoticed was the multiple arrow punctures and sword slashes.

"I'm sorry, it'll have to wait." The Redguard's mouth twitched in annoyance: he was about to reply when there was a sudden terrifying roar. It's sound seemed to penetrate into their very bones, striking fear into the hearts of both men. The sound reverberated off the distant mountains in the south, and again both men cringed with a very real, very old fear of prey meeting a predator. There was one last cry, and it faded away.

"You would have me stay out here," the Redguard said slowly, "while beasts that can conjure such a sound roam the wilds?"

It did seem horrible indeed. The guard was glad to have the high walls of his city. He looked at the man again, seeing the same blank expression. After a hesitant look towards the sky, he replied "Shor's bones. I know not what beast that may be, but I'll be damned if I'll let a stranger die by my own stubbornness. Welcome to Whiterun." He signaled to have the gate unlocked. "Get into any trouble in my city, and I'll haul you off to Dragonsreach myself," he added hastily as the great door swung open. The Redguard merely nodded as he walked into the city.

Immediately upon entering, he bumped into another Redguard. Surprised (but not showing it), the man turned to face him. "Brother. It's good to see a friendly face in this foreign land. I am Kematu, of the Alik'r warriors. And you are?"

"A man with honor, unlike some." The harshness of the reply gave Kematu pause; a confused look passed his face.

"I do not understand brother."

"Nor would I expect you to. While some fought to reclaim our home... others claimed their own names."

Now offense had taken hold. "I have tasted Thalmor blood on my blade, I have ran through with the finest soldiers of the Dominion, slashing my way through-"

"You war stories do not amuse, nor impress me. I was there on the field of Sentinel while you and your," he spat on the ground, "nobles haggled with the Bretons over boundary lines. While Redguard blood was being spilled you... you stood by and did nothing, leaving other men to die in your place. You have no honor, no respect and no love from this brother."

"I ought to teach you a lesson." Kematu half reached for his scimitar. He was stopped, however, when he felt a dagger poking into his stomach.

"I'd have gutted you before your blade hit the air," the Redguard stranger hissed at Kematu. He returned the dagger to his belt and walked on, heading down the main street of the Plains district.

"Aw, no!" Belethor shouted from behind his desk. "I told those guards I didn't want you Redguards in my shop! You've already made a mess of things, now get out of here before I call the guards!"

The Redguard walking in, however, did not stop. He gestured absently with his hands. "I am not among the Alik'r who stand near the gates. I am Strid'r, and I have come to do business."

"Business? Now you're talking my language!" the Breton replied. "Let's talk!" Instead of replying, Strid'r took a small pouch out of his pocket. With his other hand, he pulled out a dagger. Slowly, he put the pouch on the counter and pulled the dagger up against the side. "Smart man who protects his wares," Belethor said under his breath. Strid'r's eye flickered at the comment, but his attention did not stray from the pouch. With a deft movement, he undid the drawstrings. Belethor's eyes opened wide as his face was bathed in a green light. Just as fast, the drawstrings were pulled close and the pouch returned to the owner's pocket. Belethor's expression was disbelief, he shuddered as if stunned.

"I see you recognize it."

"But... but..." Belethor stammered, "it was lost. By the Eight. Lost centuries ago."

"It was found."

"Look... even if I did want to buy that, I couldn't even come close to enough cash. I'd have to sell my shop and myself into slavery for years." Belethor paused, looking out the window at Whiterun for a moment. "But it's not about the money. There's blood involved with that, more blood than I'd be willing to shed. It would be the end of me."

"I had a feeling you'd say that," Strid'r replied. His hand fluttered over the pocket with the pouch safely secured. "I was hoping you could put me in contact with someone who would be able to... procure me someone to sell this to."

"Well, that's a fair shot more reasonable. Let's see... I might be able to put you in contact with someone. But it'll cost you."

Strid'r gritted his teeth at this. "I have naught but the clothes on my back."

"Then I'd suggest you find some alternative method of income." Strid'r's dagger came up instantly, catching the Breton's collar and pulling him over the counter by the tip of the blade.

"How about you tell me your prospective contact while I slowly remove appendeges from your body." With a grunt, Belethor choked out a reply.

"Bad idea. I know Hammerfell is a barbaric land, but here in Whiterun at least we keep track of nasty murders and such. You may have noticed my assistant outside; he keeps track of everyone who comes in to my shop just in case I should, Divines forbid it, wind up dead." With a sigh, Strid'r pulled the dagger back. "I'll need at least two-hundred septims. It'll cost me at least that much to get in contact with my man."

"I'll get you your money." Without another word, he turned and left the shop.