Durak arrived at the Four Shields Inn, just this side of irritated. Getting Trygve Wartooth had been a boon, but recruitment was not going well. There were a couple potentials in Whiterun and that one kid from Karthwasten, but he had not actually secured any commitments.
He wanted to skip Haafingar hold entirely; he could not imagine anyone in the wealthier city of Solitude and it's adjacent towns wanting to trade their silks and four-poster beds for leather armor and a cot in Fort Dawnguard. Even the prison cells in the Blue Palace had to be more comfortable. Poorer holds like Hjaalmarch and the Pale had more people willing—or even more desperate—for work, even that of hunting vampires.
But Isran insisted he cover all the cities and all the towns in all the holds and he was growing tired of talking to people. At least he had kin in Markarth, which made the time he had to spend there mildly more tolerable. With others, men and mer alike, he never knew what to expect, how to navigate their particular quirks. He liked the Nords though, for the most part. They were honorable, loyal, and hardy. The other races lacked neither talent nor strength, but he had no idea how to entice them toward the cause. They needed mages too, but he wasn't to approach the college except as a last resort.
At the end of the day, all he really wanted to do was get back to the fight.
"What's on the menu?" he asked the red-headed barmaid; hoping it was not rabbit, which was just about all they ate back at the fort. Rabbit stew, to be exact. And he was sick of it.
"Venison and salmon," she replied, smiling brightly.
Divines bless these gorgeous barmaids who always had a smile for him, however insincere, he thought. Though he supposed it was an honest transaction, money for mead and revelry no doubt genuinely delighted these publicans. Either way, it was a welcome change from the looks he and his kin often received and which he was anticipating more of from the wealthy assholes in Solitude.
"I'll take the salmon," he replied. "And whatever kind of ale you got."
He took the bottle she placed on the counter and turned to find a table, nearly knocking over the young woman behind him. He was about to apologize when he realized she was staring at him—well, at his torso, specifically.
"Where did you get this armor? Is it…a uniform" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. But before he could answer, she brought her hand up and placed her palm lightly on his chest.
He scowled. Although the gesture was clearly borne of gentle curiosity and not enticement, her boldness was unsettling. He would have been less offended to be punched in the face. Though it was unlikely that this tiny slip of a woman, who looked as if she could be knocked over by the subtle breeze of a swinging door, could manage that.
"Girl, what is your problem?"
As he was speaking, a Nord woman approached and tried to pull her friend's arm away. "Prisca, please!" she said. "Come sit."
"I just want to know about his armor!" The tiny woman drew her arm back and closed her eyes, bringing her hands to her head. The expression on her face betrayed some kind of extreme discomfort and she started to take long, deep breaths.
He turned to the Nord. "Your friend appears to be a bit touched in the head."
"She's fine," she replied. "Come now Prisca, let's have a seat." The Nord was pleading now.
Prisca's eyes flew open. "I need to know about that armor, Idgrod," she said.
"Oh for fucks sake," Durak replied, annoyed that they wouldn't just go away and he would have to proceed with this conversation. "You've seen this armor before then?"
"No…no…I've felt it," she said, pressing her palm to her face.
"Indeed, she's not at all touched in the head," he said, glowering toward Idgrod.
"Prisca, please I'm begging you, stop bothering this man."
But Prisca would have none of it. She turned back to Durak. "You can take five minutes and tell me!"
As if you haven't taken up enough of my time, he thought. "Fine, but you'll buy me another drink."
He followed the women to a table on the other side of the tavern, continuing to observe Prisca. Durak, though not a healer or a particularly empathetic person, could tell that this woman was not doing well at all. Pale, thin, dressed in shabby clothes ill-fitted to her thin frame.
"My name is Durak," he said, after sitting down. "My armor is that of the Dawnguard, a group newly revived to deal with the vampire menace in Skyrim." At this she reacted, and not particularly well. Her already pallid complexion grew even more so, and her dark grey eyes grew wide, giving her a bug-eyed expression that would have made him chortle if he wasn't starting to feel sorry for this poor lass.
"Vampires?" she asked, though it was clear from her expression that she had heard him just fine the first time.
"Indeed," he said. "What's your name again?"
"Prisca Cantor," she replied, straightening her posture and smoothing her clothes down, as if her name required the invocation of a new level of decorum. "And this is my friend, Idgrod the Younger. And I appreciate you taking the time to—"
"Cantor?" He grunted. "Of Winstead Manor?" Winstead manor was the location of a recent, devastating vampire attack. The Dawnguard had wiped out the nest of monsters who had been squatting there. But, to his knowledge, there were no survivors.
"Yes," she replied, her voice shaking a bit.
Durak was confused. To recognize the armor, the woman must have seen the Dawnguard in her home. He recalled the report, which listed no survivors. There was an older daughter, a resident of Solitude who identified the bodies, and who was visited by Beleval.
"That was your family, yes?" he asked. "The one who was attacked? Well, I am very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she said.
"If I may ask…how did you survive that attack? Were you hiding?"
"I…." She paused and looked at Idgrod, who was shaking her head sadly. "I didn't…I wasn't there."
"But you recognize this armor?"
"I don't think so." She dropped her head down in her arms. Idgrod moved closer and stroked her hair gently.
By now Durak, feeling both incredibly sad for and annoyed by Prisca wanted nothing more than to simply stand and walk away.
"Look girl, I don't have a lot of time for, well for this."
Her head shot up, and she spoke again. "There was a woman in the armor. She was tall and lovely, with dark skin and hair."
Vi'van, he thought, well that's something.
"Yes," he said. "That sounds like one of our agents. Did she rescue you?"
"I wasn't there."
This was getting to be too much. "Look, I don't think I can help you. Take a few days, get your head right or your story straight. And then, if you still want more information about the Dawnguard, come to Dayspring canyon and meet with our leaders." He paused on this, thinking for a moment about how Isran would react to Prisca.
"Ask for Celann," he said finally.
"Thank you," she said, pushing a few septims across the table. "For your drink."
He shook his head. "Keep your money. I had no business asking for it. The Dawnguard pays me to do exactly this."
Prisca paused for a moment as if to insist he take it, but Idgrod urged her to pick it up again.
He watched them leave. Normally, he would shake this sort of interaction off. He met all kinds with this work and few were worth the energy it took to remember them or their conversations. Certainly he never paid much mind to entitled noblewomen, no matter how pale and helpless. But this was clearly different. Either this woman was seeing the Dawnguard in her dreams or there was someone else in that house—someone not accounted for in the Winstead Manor report.
The barmaid approached with his meal. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked.
"I'll take another ale," he said. "And if you could direct me to a courier."
