Chapter 2: An Introduction

So deep in his thoughts Skjari was, that he didn't hear the warrior clambering awake in time for her watch. Nudging him slightly, the woman muttered something that sounded like "sleep", her voice thick, though her eyes were bright and alert. Skjari nodded in response, climbing into the same furs on which she had lain. They were still warm with the heat of her body, and soon, he fell into a slumber that translated the rest of the memories from his first night with her.

xOxOx

He had woken, warm, on (what felt like) a clean bed, listening to the sound of a crackling fire. The aroma of something met his nose, a rich salty flavour of cooking. His eyes gradually opened, and he watched the figure stir the pot intently, before realising that it was the woman— the one who he had been following for the past few days, all the way from Dagon Fell.

Thankfully, she was clothed now in some coarse linen, and her hair was no longer damp, though it still flamed with the brilliant colour of fire. She turned abruptly, seeming to feel his gaze lingering on her exposed neck, and Skjari felt chastised, though he had not meant to leer.

She did not appear to believe in speaking the obvious; saying nothing as she ladled the food into two bowls, before walking over to him.

Skjari panicked, his mind searching for the right words to express his gratitude towards her hospitality, as well as his deplorable behaviour from earlier. He felt a fool as he leapt from the bed, tossing all covers aside, only to find himself naked as a babe, and her unwavering stare. He did everything at once, tried to appear natural, tried to cover himself as discreetly as he could, and tried backing away, before falling over the bed. A small smile grew on the woman's face, but she obliged his burning sensibilities by looking away as she set down the tray.

She seemed so quick, almost magicking some linens into his hands (for he was still mortified), before she disappeared into a cellar. Skjari found the linen to be clothes, though coarse, were well-made. He had never worn pants of such a make, but they didn't chafe as much as his friends had bemoaned once upon a time.

She reappeared almost as soon as he dressed, laying down the platemail that was his armour. Still, nothing was said, and her silence unnerved him—and so he babbled.

He tried to keep that image out of his mind, for there was her modesty to think about. "Many thanks; I would have drowned if you had not come to my aid."

She only continued laying out the food, handing him pieces of fresh bread, and pouring mugs of ale.
"My name is…" he paused, working up the nerve to lie, his voice failing him. The warrior only stared at him; her eyes seemed to twinkle faintly though her face remained blank.

"Skjari." he finished, giving no account of his past, hoping that he'd remember the falsehoods that he had prepared.

"Like the gulls?" she commented, seeming to no one in particular. The momentary stilling of Skjari's pounding heartbeat allowed him to hear the same cries of the birds, the owners of the poetic (or so he thought) name he picked in a moment of romantic folly.

"Yes," with that, he dug in, swallowing the almost-scalding liquid that was the meaty stew, anything, to break eye contact.

He soon finished what he had, his appetite ravenous, before another bowl was put in front of him. Skjari was embarrassed at his manners, but the allure of this delicious meal allowed time only for a nod, and he bent over the food again.

After what seemed like a long while of stuffing his cheeks, Skjari glanced up at the woman, who still eyed him curiously. She had breadcrumbs on her lips which had been moistened by the ale, but still looked achingly beautiful, as if she belonged in a painting of the holy divines themselves. Sombre and unmoving, she gazed, before she brought the flagon to her lips once again, emptying it of its contents.

"Freia." uttered the warrior, as she left the table. It was her name, thought Skjari, which was the only explanation. She busied around the cosy quarters, her nonchalance even a little intimidating. She seemed so natural, that even as an absolute stranger that Skjari recognized her behaviour as an invitation to stay.

He hovered awkwardly, handing her his bowls (which had been licked clean) and flagons, and she dumped these efficiently in a waiting pail of water.

"Where are we?" he ventured to ask, after another long silence.

"Home," came the muffled answer, and Skjari thought he heard a hesitance when she stopped to think about her reply.

"I meant on the map. Of Skyrim." He stopped to think. "What… jarldom… are we?" he had heard that the rulers in this region were called as such.

"Riften."

So they were not far from where he crossed the border, following in the warrior's path from his father's lands. Skjari had heard of this place— Riften was a corrupt area run by the infamous Maven Blackbriar, and the legendary thieves' guild, but the warr— Freia, had called it home. Did she know that it was such a seedy place?

Her eyes seemed to linger on him, and they did not seem hostile, or searching. Freia appeared to be judging him, watching his arms as he dried the dishes (however clumsily) seeming to be noting the cords of muscles that bunched up under the shirt. Skjari was proud of his body; he had trained for a time, for such an instance, when he would have his own adventures. It would seem that she was appreciative of such, and Skjari obliged, taking a longer time with the final bowl, his muscles flexing discreetly.

Abruptly, she spoke, the sharpness startling. "Are you quite finished?" Skjari nodded.

"Put on your armour," she all but commanded, and he scrambled to obey. Was she annoyed? It would appear so. They left the house, her in some dark fitting, hooded leather and him in the steel plate he in which he had arrived. She led the way down some steps to the waterway, picked a lock on a gate and turned to face him. Skjari was confused when she told him to step through ahead of her, but he barely had time to protest when she locked the iron bars behind him.

"Head to the Ragged Flagon." she turned to leave, before handing him a blade through the bars, one that was as black as the night.

"You'll need that." she seemed to be hiding a smile as she walked away.

xOxOx

After what seemed to be forever, Skjari finally fell through another door, bleeding from a cut on his forehead—his very first battle scar.

He seemed to have stumbled on a small trade quarters, a circular hall lined by merchants on both sides, a place that stank of leather and the metal wares for sale. He held loosely the blade that Freia had given him, wondering if he should remain on his guard, hoping that he would see the warrior here. He saw chairs, and tables—an inn? Whatever this place was, he felt ready to collapse into a seat and catch his pounding heart.

But a man stood in his way and Skjari raised his arching arm with a sigh. No rest for Skjari then—he thought as he felt a dull ache surge through his veins again.

"Dirge," called a familiar voice from behind the bulk, and the man stepped aside reluctantly. Skjari was relieved when he saw her—Freia, and sheathed the ebony blade. It had been dripping with the dull redness that did nothing but remind him of the death he had brought on those half-crazed men in the dark paths before.

"Sit," she said while leading him toward the odd dingy bar, before disappearing behind what appeared to be a storage cupboard. The men and women in the vicinity watched him while he drank the mead in front of him nervously. He had no idea what was to be expected, but could not feel comfortable until she reappeared again.

She walked back out of the secret compartment (Skjari was now sure that the storage held a hidden door) with another man, one dressed in the dark leather that matched Freia's perfectly.

"Him," she nodded as the red-headed man surveyed Skjari solemnly. Privately, the latter wondered if the two were related, though Freia's hair gleamed with a much brighter copper than the auburn of the man's.

"We haven't heard from you in months, and now you appear with a strapping lad in tow," the man laughed, and the mirth appeared to spread through all present, except himself and Freia.

"Well, I am still unwed, Brynjolf. It's not all that surprising that I pick up an admirer or two," came the dry reply, which caused Skjari to choke. At that, the room roared even louder, and several jeers were heard.

"'bout time you found someone," said a bald man to Skjari's left. He had a most curious accent that was oddly familiar.

"Aye, and you missed the boat again, Brynjolf," Called the keeper from his place at the bar.

"So did all of you, pipe down." Replied the red-headed man curtly.

He noticed that the red-headed man was no longer laughing, though this seemed to go unnoticed by Freia, who was rather more interested in gathering more flagons of ale. She handed these out with a straight face, and took a seat next to him.

"So, an explanation, lass?"

She shrugged delicately. "New recruit for the guild."

"I hate to break it to you, but the lad doesn't look like he has the skills this line of work needs." Skjari was a little miffed by that, but supposed that he didn't look as… seasoned as the men did.

"He's good enough, or he'd never have made it through the Ratway," Freia's voice remained mild.

"With a blade, aye, but surely not…stealthy enough?" Brynjolf eyed the steel armour. Skjari began to wonder what it was these… shady people did for a living, though he couldn't imagine Freia involved in anything like that.

"Well, stealth can be trained, and I say he's decent enough," she glanced sideways at him, almost as if in warning. Skjari was reminded that he had managed to sneak up on her earlier, and she did seem sufficiently embarrassed by that.

The man appeared defeated. "Well, if you're sure."

"Mhm." She muttered from behind the flagon.

Skjari ventured a question, now that everything seemed well and settled. "I don't mean to be rude but… What exactly am I supposed to be doing?"

"Thieving." the man seemed to smirk, knowing that the thoughts repulsed Skjari's sensibilities, though he strove to keep this grin out of Freia's line of sight. The long silence that ensued showed Skjari's doubt, though there really was no way he could have expected this from his valorous heroine.

"Is that agreeable?" she seemed curious again, cocking her head at him.

"I… yes, of course." it certainly wasn't anything he had been prepared for, but surely… Well, as long as he could learn something—he supposed this would do, though his father would be scandalized— but only if he ever got caught doing it.

That seemed to settle things, and Skjari's heart began to beat again. "Gear." This came from the warrior, her voice cutting through the silence.

"What?" Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. It seemed that no one was used to the abrupt way Freia was accustomed to speak in.

"He'll need gear." she explained, jerking her head at a dark-skinned woman, who scowled—she did not appear to like Freia very much.

"Aye, Tonilia will give you a set of gear." Brynjolf muttered to him. "I'll… help you with that."

There was a moment as Brynjolf approached the woman at the other table, during which there appeared to be a short argument, before the woman relented sullenly. The leather looked as if it fit, almost too well, for his comfort.