I woke early, eager to stretch my legs and figure out what my next move will be. The inn-keeper, Kleper, nodded at me as I walked out, acknowledging that everything has been paid for and taken care of. I almost feel bad for him, sitting in an inn all day scrubbing canteen s and dealing with the usual drunks for who knows how long, but I realize that he's off better than me. He's got a stable life and income. Hell, even the poor and street urchins of the Warrens have it off better than me. They know exactly what they need to do to survive and know where they are going to sleep at night. My life, on the other hand, is completely open to the unknown. And right now, that scares me. Especially since I have nothing, and to almost everyone in the city, I am nobody.
Swinging the heavy doors open, I rattled the inn-sign above, and take a step into the gray light of the morning. The light in this forsaken city is always harsh and gray, due to the stone and shadow of the mountains, making it seem dark, cold, and hostile, sucking the life out of everything and everyone.
I breathe in deeply, smelling and tasting the dank, rocky earth and metals that is Markarth, and step off the inn porch. I have no idea where I am heading, but I know I can't stay here. I need to go to my coin stash, and I'll figure out the rest from there.
"Good morning, lady troll."
I stop, not entirely sure I am the one being addressed, and turn to the voice uneasily. It is the mercenary from last night. The one who thinks I am a Nord.
"Troll?" I say sarcastically, my face deadpan. "And why am I troll?"
He is reclined against the wall, just in the shadow of the building, and stretches as if he'd been there all night. "Because no human would react so viciously as you did last night." He shuts his eyes, feigning tiredness and pain from harsh light, "It was completely feral."
"What do you want?" I ask, exasperated. It's obvious he came out here for the purpose of catching me before I left. He still thought he had a chance of being hired by me.
"Since you asked," he muses, shifting his gaze as if our conversation is a secret. "I was hoping you had reconsidered my proposition."
"No, I hadn't." I say flatly, crossing my filthy arms.
"Come off it," he says almost angry, pushing himself off the wall and stepping towards me, arms crossed in a mimic of mine. He stares down at me with intense, serious hazel eyes.
I scowled, trying to meet his challenging gaze, but found my eyes constantly drifting to his red facial paint. It was so daunting and captivating and I couldn't break away from it. He noticed this immediately, snorted a little and stepped back.
"You like the paint, too?" He said, amused. As if he was used to woman falling all over him because of it.
I bit back disgust and spat, "Not in the way you think," then silently breathed, "bastard." I hoped he both heard it and didn't hear it at the same time. "I just want some of my own. Mine all washed off." This was true. I had a specific design I liked to wear and was jealous that it was now gone. Long lasting paint was hard to come by.
He murmured in response, glancing at his dull reflection in the inn's window. "I like you, kid. You've got this striking, fierce energy about you." He began, looking back to me.
"I'm not a kid." I said with a snarl.
"If you say so," he said, smiling "I can't force you to hire me. But heed this—no one that travels alone lives long enough to make something of themselves. You find bodies with journals in caves all the time, lone adventures documenting their glorious journeys. Those notebooks never make it past four pages long. It's not that I'm saying you specifically are incapable to handle yourself; I'm saying that no one is." He stared at me, waiting for my reply.
I looked down, sighing weakly. "I don't have enough coin to hire you." I was so ashamed and embarrassed, but I had nothing else to say besides the facts of my situation.
He was quiet for a moment, looking me over again. I hated the way he studied me, fearing he would realize the truth. I could tell he was one who was racially prejudiced, and he thinking I was another Nord was part of the reason he insisted on following me. Traveling Nords were a rare sight in Markarth.
"You lost your stuff in your last quest," he said studiously, "but a smart one like you wouldn't have brought all her stuff along."
I suddenly feel exposed. He guessed about my secret stash. My heart quickens and I get all shaky, involuntarily of course. That coin is my life savings and I can't lose it all in order to pay for a desperate mercenary.
"I can't spend that. It's all I got." I say finally. It seems none of my emotions escape him. I can't stand that. If he does follow me, it would only be a matter of time before he figured out my true identity. And that wouldn't be good. He didn't seem like the type who would just accept he was lied to.
"That's all right," he said after a moment. He paused, and I could imagine his brain trying to work up another plan, ticking and hissing like the Dwemer gears beneath the city streets. "Let's make a deal." Another dramatic pause. "I journey with you and after the first cave, tower, keep or whatever you pay me then, and from the spoils you find I get to pick one. To keep. No questions or objections. Even if it is a set of damn daedric armor or a flawless diamond necklace. Just some interest. Then after that, I follow wherever and take only my cut. Deal?"
I gape at him, slightly startled by his seriousness of following me. It should unsettle me, or anyone, I think with anxiety, but for some reason I feel apprehensively joyous. This could be my chance—a new angle at my goals to become great.
"Deal."
He smiles broadly, eyes lighting up and extends his hand. We shake on it. "My name is Vorstag." He says as we release from the binding grip.
"Call me Saber." I say reflexively.
"Saber?" Vorstag says, uncertain and unimpressed. He seems to find it funny, like I'm trying to sound tougher than I am.
"Yeah." I say, not amused. "It's short for Sabierelie."
He looks me over, brows drawing together. "That's and unusual name." he states quizzically. I hold my breath, cursing myself for saying my real, Breton origin name. I should have made something up, or better yet, not given him a name at all.
"Well, it's what I'm called. Kill me for finding the need to shorten it."
He relaxes and chuckles a little at the joke. "Well, let's not waste any time." He says with tame excitement. "But first, we need to get you some new gear. Don't want my boss to get killed before we even make it to the first mark. Fortunately I got some connections."
xxx
The gates swing open and we walk out into the fresh world. Sunlight dots the land through the thick clouds and fresh air swirls freely in the unwalled terrain. The guards slam the high, metal doors shut immediately as we clear them, daring us to ask to be let back inside.
Vorstag turns to me, adventure lighting is face. He has pulled his ragged blonde hair back and restored his war paint, the supply which he graciously let me borrow from. I painted my face with my signature two finger, blood red, vertical streak on the left side of my face. One finger line above the brow, two finger line below. Simple and threatening. Just like me.
His connection, Tacitus Sallustius, the forge apprentice, owed Vorstag a set of armor due to previous freelance work Vorstag had took up for him. He gave me a full set of female iron armor and a steel sword. The poor bastard looked like a wounded animal as he handed over the goods, his she-orc advisor grimacing the entire time. I noted not to make too many deals with my hired help.
I had washed up a little at the inn as well, so I felt wide awake and ready to go. But I just couldn't shake the nagging feeling of being accompanied. I had been on my own for so long that I forgot how to interact with others. The only person I could truly trust was myself. And then there was my father problem.
When I rearranged my gear, the dagger shrieked at the contact it made with my hand. Fortunately I was the only one who would ever be able to hear it. He was appalled by my rejection of our people and accepting the companionship of a Nord. The people who killed us.
But not all of us, I reminded him. I'm still here.
He hissed and shrieked, the dagger flaring and flashing with violent reds, drawing Vorstag's attention. I belted it quickly, planning on using my steel sword as much as possible.
"I never liked those things." Vorstag said uneasily, addressing the dagger. "Anything Daedric shouldn't be trusted. Even if it is a hunk of metal, it came from them. That's bad enough."
"I couldn't agree more."
xxx
"I want to go to the keep!"
"I'm sorry," he grunted, not sorry at all, "but I refuse. It's a horrible idea and not worth our time."
I couldn't believe this. We had headed down the path and met the fork in the road, signs pointed to all the different holds in Skyrim. The way to head depending on what one was looking for.
And I wanted to go back to the keep.
"Look, you signed on to work for me." I growled, looking up at his stubborn face. "And I want to go back to where I last was. There's good stuff there—I can feel it."
"I signed on to help you get rich, not get revenge on a group of overpopulated bandits in some Thalmor cult tower."
"You're a mercenary!" I almost scream, exasperated and pulling at my hair. "You don't have an opinion on the work you do! That's the whole point of hired help!"
He bared his teeth and his lip curled in a snarl. We were too close for comfort, able to feel each other's hot breath, but both refusing to back down.
"You said you wanted to get rich—become great—become someone. I'm trying to help you do that. And going to this keep bent solely on revenge is not going to get you that." He paused, and let his snarl form into a cruel smile. "And the only things one finds in keeps are plundered goods. I don't want my entitled interest to come from a pile of Elven swords."
I narrowed my eyes, hot, angry air whistling out my nose. "Then what do you suggest?" I challenge dangerously.
"Nordic crypts." He says this like it is the most obvious answer in the world.
"Aren't those just full of dead bodies and broken pots?" I ask, miffed.
His eyes harden. "Saber, those dead bodies are the bodies of our ancestors."
I falter, almost biting my lip in guilt. Once again I forgot I am pretending to be a Nord. "Well, you're the one who wants to ransack them and possibly re-kill their undead." I say, quickly recovering.
He smiles crassly, the sides of his mouth twisting into his trade smile. "They are our ancestors. Family if you will. What's ours is theirs and what's theirs is ours. It's not our fault is their dead bodies forgot that."
I smile slightly, letting a laugh escape at his twisted logic. I curse myself for losing my anger and giving into his whims.
Noticing my guard has dropped and I'm slowly giving up on the fight he adds. "Unless you're scared of a few Draugr."
I roll my eyes at his childish provoking, but find myself yielding to his plan. I hate myself for it.
xxx
After trekking through the wild plains and craggy cliffs, we come upon a rarely treaded path leading down into a crevice. Vorstag leaped down into it, grunting as he made impact, but called for me to follow. He's found what he was looking for.
I jog down the descending path, not bold enough to take the leap and rejoin with him, he who is now investigating a door with an ancient Nord embellishment. I notice some strange runes etched on the stone around the black iron door and intake my breath. Those are Daedric markings. The dagger hisses and flashed against my thigh.
"I don't think this is what you are looking for." I say awkwardly, not sure how to tell him this most likely isn't a normal crypt.
"No," Vorstag says reassuringly, stroking his hand over the door frame, "this emblem here signifies a Nordic crypt."
"What about those…carvings?" I try nervously. "They don't look Nordic."
He turns to me, a confused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "No one like us reads or understand ancient Nord markings. They use to practice Magicka, so it's probably just some ancient runes." He reaches his hand to open the old door.
"I don't like it." I say suddenly, stalling his hand. He looks at me, quizzical and bored. "They look like the markings on my knife." I pull out the Daedric blade so show him. It lights up violently in my hand.
He won't believe you! My father hisses to me. You must tell him who you really are. But that would ruin your little scheme, now wouldn't it? You know what this place is.
Vorstag looks it over incredulously, glancing at the door. He pushes the blade away, refusing to believe. "Nords don't worship Daedra. It just magicka runes. Now come on." Turning from me, he pushes the door open, which grinds slowly in protest, and steps inside.
My heart freezes in panic, and I reach out for him, attempting to pull him back. But he's out of my grasp "Vorstag!" I call, running in. The entry way hisses with evil power as I pass through.
No. This won't happen. I will tell him. I need to get him out of here. I can't go through something like this again. I won't be the one responsible. Never.
He's already descended down the steep, narrow tunnel, looking to me with concern, not understanding my apprehension and fear. The place seems to rumble, but only I notice.
I catch up to him and grab his arm, pulling him back towards the entrance.
"Saber!" he says, eyes wide in bewilderment and trying to pull away. "By Talos! You need to calm down!"
"Vorstag!" I plead, "We can't be in here. This is a—!"
My words are knocked out of me as the ceiling caves in.
