"You have until this evening, Marcurio, or you'll be sleeping in the street. Understood?"

"But Keerava-"

"Understood?"

Harsh reptilian eyes glared the mage down with the ferocity of a dragon and, with a sigh, Marcurio held up his hands in surrender.

"Understood."

"Good. Now go find something useful to do with yourself."

The man pouted slightly as he slunk back over to the side door of the Bee and Barb and collapsed back on his usual bench. Sweet-talking that sharp-tongued Argonian had been about as worthwhile as arguing with a stone wall. Now he had a particularly irritable lizard woman on his hands and no money with which to satisfy her. This was just great.

Still slightly pouting, Marcurio glanced around the main room of the inn, looking for a resource he hadn't exhausted yet. But it was no use. The people in the Bee and Barb tonight were the same who usually frequented the place. And short of asking that slime-ball Brynjolf for work, the Imperial knew there would be no suitable work to be found here. It wasn't as if Riften was a particularly popular tourist attraction. Sometimes he wondered why he even hung around this place. Well…there was the fact that he was constantly spending all his money on mead, a nasty habit he had picked up from the Nords upon coming to Skyrim. And of course, luck would have him end up stuck in Riften of all places.

It was true, he could survive in the wilds on his own if he really wanted to leave. After all, he was a master of the arcane arts, one of the best to come out of the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. Nothing, not draugr deathlords, not fierce sabercats, not trolls or giants or anything of the like, could withstand the power of his magic…and neither could his food. The unfortunate fact of life, of which he would never willingly admit to, was the fact that he was just as likely to incinerate anything he tried to cook as he was to incinerate the average foe. And then, of course, there was the fact that he was woefully unfamiliar with the edible plants in Skyrim. Oh, he could survive the dangers all right. Surviving starvation, though, was an entirely different matter.

He was still mulling over what to do about the fact that he was completely and utterly broke when the main doors of the inn swung open and a stranger stepped into the room. Immediately, Marcurio looked up, and he couldn't help it when a grin crept up onto his face. Aha! Now that was more like it.

She looked familiar enough, but he wasn't sure where he might have seen her before. She was definitely an adventurer, though, which was all that really mattered, and a rich one at that, if he were to take a guess. She was tall, with long, blood-red hair and eyes so sharp and mysterious that Marcurio couldn't help but notice them. She was clad in what looked to be bone armor of some sort, though what kind of bone he couldn't quite guess. Mammoth, maybe? It had to be something big. The color wasn't quite right for bone, but it obviously wasn't metal. The woman also wore two black swords at her hips, both curved and, even though sheathed, menacing. Marcurio had read about that type of sword before. A katana, was it? An ancient style of sword from the lands of Akavir. They must be worth a small fortune. And what with the deadly-looking bow and bulging rucksack she had slung over her shoulders, Marcurio was certain his assumption was correct. She had to be rich. And surely she'd be willing to part with some of those septims to keep him from ending up on the streets of Riften.

Now quite sure that luck had finally turned in his favor, the mage stood up and nearly swaggered over to the bar where the traveler now sat.

"Hey, there," he greeted, leaning against the counter as nonchalantly as possible. "You look like you've been a few places."

He spotted Keerava glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, but he remained unfazed. If he could get this adventurer woman to hire him, just once, he would have enough to get himself out of Riften and on to better prospects. Whiterun, maybe? He had heard all sorts of stories about bandits and dragons attacking travelers and, being a central location in Skyrim, Whiterun seemed a good place for a mage-for-hire to go.

The adventurer didn't look at him as Keerava handed her a bottle of Blackbriar mead. The woman sank her teeth into the cork and yanked it out, sharp white canines glittering in the dim light of the inn. For all the ferocity in the bite, though, she was almost gentle as she removed the cork from between her teeth and set it on the counter. Marcurio watched for a moment as the woman put the bottle to her lips and tipped her head up, her long, pale neck curving back out from the collar of the bone armor she wore. If she didn't look like she could tear him in half with one hand, he thought he might have found her quite beautiful.

"So, I was wondering," he continued, trying to get her attention, "how would you like the help of a master of the arcane in your travels? For a modest fee, of course."

Keerava sniffed slightly at this, but the traveler didn't take her eyes off the mead bottle she held in her hands.

"I can handle myself, thank you," she replied before taking another long drink of mead.

This one was nearly as tough to convince as Keerava, and about as intimidating, too. What was it with females in Skyrim? Did they get them all from the same shop or something? Well, he wasn't giving up that easily.

"Ah, but why settle for just stabbing your foes when you can roast them alive in a gout of arcane fire?"

The woman paused at this, though what her actual thoughts might be, Marcurio couldn't tell. It was like her face was an impenetrable mask, and not even her eyes, the gateways to the soul, betrayed any hint of emotion.

"What makes you think I merely settle for stabbing my foes?" the woman replied bluntly, draining the rest of her bottle of mead. She then reached into the satchel attached at her waist and placed a few glittering septims on the counter, nodding to Keerava who quickly fetched her another bottle of mead.

Marcurio leaned closer, hoping that it would help him get through this adventurer's tough exterior and not end him up on the floor with a black eye…or worse. He could sense the woman tense up as he scooted closer, so he stopped further away than he had planned. Better not to be broke in more ways than one.

"So does that mean you're a mage, too? A spellsword, perhaps?" he inquired, leaning forward to try and get a good look at the woman's face.

"Hardly," the woman responded, biting out the cork in her second bottle of mead and downing another mouthful.

"Aha! See. There you have it. You know, magic can be a wonderful complement to brute force. Besides, the only thing better than a powerful mage fighting at your side is…well, nothing, really."

"Marcurio, quit pestering my other guests," Keerava scolded, swatting at him with the rag she had been using to clean the counter. "She isn't interested."

"She never said she wasn't interested," the mage responded coyly. Then he leaned over the counter and whispered to the Argonian, "And you and I both know I need the coin."

Keerava looked like she might have responded to that, but a quick glance to the side made her freeze in place, and when Marcurio glanced over, he found himself staring into a pair of harsh silver eyes. Those eyes… If they had been amber, they might have even looked like the eyes of a dragon.


The Argonian was obviously startled when Adaria fixed a steely gaze on the innkeeper and the obnoxious mage who was currently sitting far too close for the Dragonborn's own comfort. No need to sniff the air to figure it out. The one called Keerava was visibly trembling. The one Adaria had meant to scare off, though…

The mage…what was his name? Marcurio? Definitely an Imperial. The man had turned when Keerava froze, and his dark brown eyes locked onto Adaria's sharp silver ones. Unfortunately for her, though, he seemed to become more interested in her than he was before she had done that. She tensed as the man leaned forward, and she backed up slightly to keep his face from getting too close to hers. Any further back, and she just knew she'd fall off the stool on which she sat.

"Your eyes are…fascinating," the man said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Quite unusual. Or, at least, I've never seen anyone with eyes like yours in Cyrodiil or here in Riften. Is that…common, here in Skyrim?"

For once, Adaria could feel a look of surprise creeping onto her face, but she quickly swallowed it down before it could become too obvious. So he…didn't know. He really didn't know. How was it that all of Nirn and Oblivion and everywhere in between seemed to know who she was except for this man? And furthermore, even the few who didn't know she was the Dragonborn usually still seemed to shy away from her. Yet this man wasn't even remotely fazed. This was more problematic than she had originally realized.

"No. This isn't common," she muttered, closing her eyes as she took another swig of mead.

"Ah. I see. Well, they are very fascinating, if you don't mind my saying."

As if her minding what he said would keep him from saying it.

"So," he continued, "how about it? I'll just work for you for a bit and then be on my way. And you'll have the privilege of fighting alongside a master of the arcane."

Adaria drew in a deep breath, then opened her mouth to speak. What came out of her mouth, though, was something far different from what she had intended to say.

"How much?"

Wait. What?

"500 septims," Marcurio replied, his face beaming with victory.

"Fine."

No. That wasn't what she meant to say, either.

"So when do we start?"

This wasn't happening. There was no way. Since when did she allow anyone to follow her?

"Tomorrow morning. We leave at 6 sharp. Don't be late," she stated bluntly, separating out 500 septims and handing them over to the mage. He looked happier about convincing her than about getting the money he obviously wanted.

This was madness. Sheogorath incarnate. If the god of madness himself had shown up then and asked her to tea, she could not have been more appalled. What in Oblivion did she think she was doing?

"Keerava," she said, shoving 10 gold septims across the counter toward the bewildered innkeeper, "a room, please."

"Of course," the Argonian nodded, snatching up the septims as though she was afraid they'd disappear right in front of her. She held out a key in trade and pointed in the direction of the main doors. "Up the stairs and straight across."

"I'll pay for another night in my regular room," Marcurio quickly added, flashing Adaria a brilliant smile. She had to make a concerted effort not to wrinkle her nose at him.

Without another glance, the Dragonborn took the key offered her and strode across the room toward the stairs. She listened to the dull thud of her boots against the wooden boards and struggled not to smack herself in the face. What had she just done?