The harshness of the snowstorm gave way quite suddenly to a warm interior, cozy interior. It smelled of mead, and woodsmoke. A high, pitched roof extended all they way up, nearly black at the top, its rafters casting dancing shadows. Further down, the warm glow of an open hearth, cast its golden light over the establishment. Rustic wooden tables and stools placed around a large bed of coals in the centre of the room. Warm, dry stone flooring around it, and a spit to keep mead and food warm withn.
Branwe was gently, but firmly steered inside. He was teetering slightly, and still so shocked his skin was white as winter. He was brought to a chair, which he was plopped into it rather unceremoniously.
"Skoljar! A cup of your finest for my friend here!" whooped Runa over the noise of chatter. "And a warm damn towel, too, he's a bit messier than I remembered," she added, still in good cheer.
From one of the kegs, an older Nord man turned around. He looked at Runa with a lazy familiarity. His mustache long, and his beard mostly shaven an unkempt. He had wisps of silver hair which ran down from the sides of his head. The top came out like a shining dome. He wore a yellowed and stained apron over a loose shirt and breeches.
"Since when do you bring men all the way out here?" he answered, though without so much as a bat of an eye he turned back to the taps and filled two mugs. "And why's he all covered in blood?" he added as an afterthought.
"Get a drink in him, he'll tell you the story."
"I'll wha...?" asked Branwe, still getting his bearings.
"Shh, boy, a drink first. No one'll fault you that. You've had a big day for a city boy," said Runa, giving him a firm slap on the shoulder. He didn't really react to it, but he did look up with pleading and confused eyes at Skoljar when his drink was placed in his hands. Among Nords, most everyone looks small. But Branwe looked even smaller, even for a Bosmer, at that moment.
"Take a drink now," said Skoljar warily to the little blood covered, bug-eyed boy staring helplessly at him. Branwe looked down at his cup, and seemed to recognize it was there for the first time. Gingerly, he picked it up and put it to his lips, but once it was there, he began drinking it down about as fast as he could, spilling everywhere in the process. Runa cheered, and raised her own glass, a few of the other Nords in the place raised theirs in response to Runa. In fact, some of the men and women at the nearby tables were starting to look at the spectacle.
"Take it easy there, boy," warned Skoljar. "You'll end up very sticky you keep like that."
Branwe slammed down the mug, and took a few deep breaths.
"He's almost back," sniggered Runa. "One more ought to do it.
"Noooo, no more..." moaned Branwe, short of breath and only half aware of what exactly he was protesting.
"One more, one more," insisted Runa, signaling Skoljar.
"You normally get your way 'round here, but this lad looks like he's going to hurt himself if you do," said Skoljar cautiosly.
"You're no fun, old man," said Runa. She practically stuck her tongue at Skoljar. "He's had a hard day, is all. City-boy's first run in with a bear!" said Runa, leaning forward and shaking Branwe by the shoulder as she said it, in a sort of heckling pride.
"A bear, eh?" said Skoljar, his interest finally piqued. His massive bushy eyebrow arched, and his mustache settled onto one side of his face more than the other as he smirked slightly. He took the Mug Branwe had slammed on the table, and did fill it. He walked stiffly back, and brought it to Branwe, once again placing the mug directly in his hands. Branwe seemed to clutch it more instinctively than consciously.
"I remember my first go with a bear," began Skoljar helpfully, trying to get the ball rolling. He sat down, straddling the back of the chair at the table with Branwe. "It was a big beast," he said, illustrating with his hands. "The size of a good, solid ox. But the winter was hard that year, or it wouldn't have come so near town. I found it one night going after the honey in our apiaries. I was six, seven years old. Hardly the size of its right arm. Up on his hind legs, the roof of three of our hives ripped right off, digging into it like a glutton." He let out a wheezing laugh at the memory, his eyes clouding over in recall. "You've never heard messy eating until you hear the slurping and grunting of a bear really eating honey.
"I didn't know what to do. Pa was out front, but the thing had eaten a great deal of our stocks already. I sat there frozen until it started in on the fourth. Decided I had to scare it off," said Skoljar. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "The folly of youth. So, I grabbed the nearest thing by, and charged it down, screaming bloody murder. Aaaagh! Arrrgh! Yeeeaagh!" he cried out, swinging an invisible weapon over his head. "Didn't even know what I had. I felt like a dman fool when I realized it was a bucket! Running, and screaming, flailing, and all that while a bucket swinging wildly above my head!" laughed Skoljar, his demonstration of the gesture coming down slowly. It landed with him spinning his finger in a couple of circles next to his head. Runa and the other Nords watching the scene laughed heartily. He dropped both hands onto the back of the chair with a clap, and sighed pleasantly. "The damn thing must've been more confused than scared, but it ran all the same!" said Skoljar, wiping at his eye.
Branwe had calmed down some, though he was still tense enough he could be used as a cheese wire. He was watching Skoljar, probably more because he didn't really know where else to look than for any other reason.
"Your bear incident, boy? Why don't you tell us about it," said Skoljar. A few others had turned their chairs to get a better view. Runa squeezed Branwe's shoulder firmly, then released it, and went to sit down across from him.
Branwe looked around, still a little confused and distant.
"A bear attacked camp. I stabbed it..." he said, dazed. Skoljar winced, and looked over to Runa, who was shaking her head and laughing under her breath.
"You city folk," she muttered. "Come on, Bran, you're a bard, for Talos' sake. You can weave a better tale than that."
Branwe blinked twice. "I... But... It's just a bear."
Runa looked over at Skoljar with a knowing smile, which he returned.
"Boy," said Skoljar. "They're all just bears."
"...What?"
"What he means is," said Runa, leaning her elbows onto the table. "Every story, every song, every tale... It was just someone fending off a bear attack. Or someone falling into a hole. Or someone hitting someone else with a sword. Stories are what we make up of the events, not the events themselves. Stop thinking like an imperial, and tell the story, boy!" she said, raising her glass to accent her point. "What was it like to be there! Bring us the smells, the feeling, the fear, the triumph. You slew a bear, Bran, tells us about the damn thing!" Her words were punctuated by a cheer being raised, and mugs being raised in the air.
Branwe suddenly found himself to be very on the spot. The centre of attention. What every bard wanted, and mostly what he wanted, but now he was... He wasn't singing someone else's words. He was having to make his own. He looked into Runa's dark brown eyes for something to ground him. She was smiling encouragingly at him. She ducked her chin, and raised her eyebrows, urging him on. Suddenly, all at once, he felt the mead warming his blood, and he felt the caked, drying bear's blood on him like a sort of a trophy. He reached up with one hand and touched it, and grinned breathlessly. This was a story. This was a story, and it was his story. He nodded, the thoughts coming back to him in a clear order. He downed the last of his mead, this time most of it actually making it into his mouth.
"We'd just finished breakfast, and were packing up camp for to keep traveling up here from the capitol," he began. "Runa was feeding the horses while I filled the water skins," he said. Yes, setting, and context. A story needed a place of normalcy to start. What else? Damn it, Branwe, you know this!
"The snow had just started an hour or so ago, and I hadn't really packed for the snow very well. I knew it was cold in the north, but I didn't realize that it would be this cold, this early in the season. So there I was, shivering half to death, sticking my hands in freezing cold water to fill the skins, when I heard Runa cry out. I didn't catch what she said, the wind was too loud. I looked over at her and she was jumping up and down, waving her hands wildly. I-I thought she was trying to hurry me up!" said Branwe, laughing slightly. Those listening laughed too, though he could tell it was more of a courtesy laugh than anything else. Several in the tap-house had turned back to their conversations long since, though a few remained. Runa and Skoljar were dutifully paying him heed.
"Anyway, I glared at her, went back to what I was doing," he said, letting himself feel the indignation all over again. "She'd been hurrying me about packing up, about setting up, about walking... I decided that here, in the freezing cold snow, with my hands like ice-cubes, I was going to go at my own bloody pace," he said, nodding his strength and slamming his cup down.
"A moment later, whhhhp!" he said, throwing his hand beside his head. "An arrow whizzes right past me, sticking into the ground of the river and splashing in the face!" Runa, for her part, laughed.
"You weren't coming! I needed to get your attention somehow!" she protested.
"It worked!" cried Branwe. "I fell right into the river, I was so surprised!"
Again, Runa was laughing. She covered her eyes, and pounded on the table with her free hand as Skoljar and the others' laughter rose, rolling over him like a warm tide.
"Gods, your face when you did!" she said around her roars. "I thought your eyes were going to pop right out of your head, and just float there as to fell back into the water! You splashed around there like a horker on its back, kicking and flailing!" she said, hardly able to speak with her laughter. The sound of the tavern was full. There the wood on the walls was filled with uproarious cheer. And here was Branwe, his clumsy hijinks, adding to that. He felt... He felt like a part of something.
He shook his head, and tried to get back to the story. "Yeah, well it was cold, and slippery as hell! And you just tried to shoot me!" he cried.
"I did not!"
"I didn't know that! Anyway, I couldn't get out on my own, so down comes Runa, dun, dur un, dur un, right down the hill at a gallop towards me. Then she just stops, and starts shooting arrows. All this time, I still don't know where's a freaking bear eight feet behind me!"
"How close?" exclaimed one of the Nords at a nearby table.
"Close. Very close," assured Branwe, using his hands to push the imaginary bear away from him. "I know because as soon as I actually managed to get out of the water and look, there was several hundred pounds of angry, wet fur, sticking with arrows, and it knocked me right back down into the water!"
"Ouch!" said the man. "Have another mead, warm your bones, boy!" said the man, once again, gesturing to Skoljar, who rolled his eyes, and stalked off to get another mug.
"Anyway, there I am, pinned under a bear who already has eight of Runa's arrows in it, and all I have on my are two water skins, and my eating dagger! Numb and cold as a... a..."
"Frost-witch's tit," supplied Runa helpfully.
"Frost-witch's—uh... yes. That..." said Branwe, blushing furiously. "As a frost-witch's... ahem..." This got even more laughter.
"So what do I do? Not the sensible thing of pulling out my dagger. I clock the bear in the head with what I already had in my had; the water skins." He snapped his hand against the side of the invisible bear's head. "And the boosh! They proceeded to explode, and pour water all over me. I can't see a thing, so I'm on my back, numb all over most of me, flailing madly. I grappled blind, and managed to get hold one of Runa's arrows. It was in there pretty deep, but a good yank had it free of the monster's thick hide, and just as the thing's about to swipe me and create a smear formerly-known-as-Branwe, I plunged it into his neck, sh-ck! And rrrrripped it aside. And, well," he said, looking himself up and down. "I got a bit messy in the process..." he said, gesturing to the brown and red coating of blood which mostly covered him.
"It collapsed on top of me. Thank the gods it fell mostly on my legs, or I wouldn't have been able to breathe. Runa had to spend nearly half an hour tying it to the horses to they could drag the damn thing off of me!"
"It wasn't that long!" hollared Runa.
"Sure felt like it from under the bear, in the river!" laughed Branwe.
Skoljar returned with Branwe's drink. There was a twinkle in his eye, and the curve of the man's mustache told Branwe he was smiling. A tale told. Perhaps not well told, but told. It felt right. Branwe raised the mug to Skoljar in thanks. In return, he smiled and tipped his head. Branwe drank deeply, feeling as if, for the first time, he'd earned it. He'd been drunk before, he'd just never felt like... Well, like he'd earned it quite like this.
"So did you keep any pieces of it? You know, as a trophy?" asked Skoljar.
"Are you kidding?" said Runa. "We already had it tied, I took an hour so we could haul it onto a sled. Once Bran was feeling more alive, and less like an icicle, I was going to make him skin the breast so he'd stop complaining of the cold. Silly Bosmer packed for Cheydenhall's autumn, not Bruma's. A trophy, and a coat!"
This got the attention of a few of the younger patrons. There were general noises of interest, and one or two of them even got up to look out the window at the carcass.
"Ah, you're in good hands, boy." said Skoljar, approvingly, slapping Branwe on the shoulder. He nearly flew off his chair at the force of Skoljar's hand, but thankfully all he did was crumple instead. "Whatever you've done to get this one on your side, you've done well. Mead's on the house tonight."
"Nonsense, Skoljar, I pay my way, you know that," quipped Runa.
"Aye, and who said anything about your mead? I'm talking to your young hero here!" answered Skoljar tauntingly, shaking Branwe by the shoulder he still held. Branwe felt like a ragdoll, and was actually lifted off his own rear briefly with the gesture.
"I expect the two of you will want to stay for a time?" asked Skoljar.
"Just tonight," answered Runa. "Two beds, then we're off in the morning."
"Oh? You usually spend the full winter down here. What's changed?"
"We're off...?" asked Branwe, a horror creeping back into him as he imagined taking to the road again. Runa ignored his little voice, and continued speaking to Skoljar.
"We may be back some time soon. But for now, I've got a ruin to look into."
"Ah, finally found whatever it is you've been looking for in all those books of yours?" asked Skoljar. Branwe blinked, and looked over at Runa curiously. She frowned slightly at Skoljar, but it was wiped from her face almost immediately.
"Perhaps," she said. "I won't know until I have a look at those ruins."
"Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck like I always do," said Skoljar.
"Aye, and you have my thanks for it, old man," she said, smiling again as he nodded to the both of them, and went back to the bar to wipe down.
A silence took hold between the two of them. Branwe listened vaguely in the background as conversation resumed. Two of the youngest came back inside from their examination of Branwe's bear, both trying to sound impressively unimpressed. Most of them were more of the same; burly men and women telling oversold stories about things that happened to them. The stories themselves weren't that interesting, but the listeners seemed transfixed. It was all in the telling. And even if only for a moment, Branwe'd been a part of it.
He tried to catch the eye of the woman who'd managed to bring him on to that stage, or into that fold, or however the Nords would think of it. But it gradually became clear to Branwe that Runa was very aware, and purposefully returning his look. He was trying to make eye-contact with her, and she was refusing to do so. Branwe took the towel he'd been brought some time ago; it was cooled now, but still damp, and he was still covered in bear's blood. He began wiping it off his face.
"I didn't know you were a big reader," began Branwe from behind his towel. He rubbed away at a dried chunk which had constricted his eyebrow, and her silence persisted. Runa didn't look at him, her face tightening back into a frown. Branwe smiled teasingly as he began to work off the stain from his neck. "You've been so disdainful of my books, I wouldn't have guessed."
"Books are what they are," said Runa. "I'm not disdainful of books. I just don't put as much stock in them as you Imperials. They're a place to start, but not much more," she said.
"So what are you looking for?"
Runa paused, shifted uncomfortably, and seemed as if she were about to simply refuse to answer. But Branwe had picked up a few things from her; he filled the silence with his unremitting curiosity. She blanched under it, and finally relented.
"A cave," she said. Though she tried to leave it at that, she didn't seem to be willing to undergo his curiosity again. "There's a cave to the west of here, I think it holds an Ayleid ruin called Rielle. A few hundred years ago, nothing interesting. Excavators and surveyors were there after the place had already been looted clean. Recently, though..." she said, pulling out from one of her satchels a thin, relatively new volume. Despite its age, it was worn, its pages taken poor care of, bent and chewed by time. She dropped it carelessly onto the table. Branwe looked it over. It was called, simply, 'Welkynd Stones.' There was a very old, and very fine, and very well-used bookmark in the volume. He opened to the paged indicated. There was one paragraph circled.
"Though experts believe Ailiie to be an isolated instance, there are still some who speculate that the technique of using the Welkynd stones' inherent magical resonance to uphold or power enchantment was commonplace in Ayleid society. We see documented cases of this in lighting fixtures which have gone dark years after Welkynd stones have been removed from other places within ruins. Perhaps they were also used for more mundane wards, such as walls, or long-term containment, or other types of Ayleid structures. Such a theory does have some evidence to substantiate it, although it is thin. For example, in numerous Ayleid ruins, there have been documented cases of certain areas within the ruins being dramatically better preserved, both simply from the exposure to the elements, and also from looting."
Branwe looked up at Runa. This had not answered his question at all, and she had at least a little more explaining to do if she was going to get that far. "Huh?" was all he said. Runa rolled her eyes.
"I think that perhaps this ruin, which was looted clean of all the Welkynd stones ages ago, may have... Opened up," said Runa. She tossed her head side to side as she mulled her next words. "Now that the stones are gone, and have been for a long time, perhaps whatever enchantments were keeping the place closed are worn though. Used up."
"What do you hope to find in there, though?"
Her hesitation was palpable. She opened her mouth to speak, and stopped as if suddenly frozen. Her eyes were wide, and she snapped her mouth shut before rigidly answering. "...Something important."
"...Well, that's really... clarifying."
"Look, it's not... It's just that..." Runa gritted her teeth again, and set down her drink. "I don't know what I'm looking for exactly. But... I don't want to talk about what I'm hoping to find there, all right?"
Branwe frowned, a little hurt. She'd been so open with him up to now, so willing to share her stories, her culture, her memories. He'd sort of forgotten they weren't long friends. She was a source for information on her mama. And she didn't trust him with everything. That should have been fine, but it still stung a little.
"Oh, okay," he said, nodded, and pulling his drink to his mouth. Runa look like she was about to add something to that, to assuage her own guilt about shutting him down. But she stopped herself, and turned away. The silence between them lasted until Runa stood up from the table. She bowed her head slightly.
"I'm going to bed," she said before she retired to her room. She turned and paused momentarily only to inform him, "I'm going to be leaving at dawn... You're still welcome to come along, but I won't wait for you," she said before resuming her way back.
He was still chilled, and filthy, so he signaled to Skoljar, who came over to him attentively.
"What do you need, brother?" he asked. For a moment, Branwe was taken aback by this. Skoljar was smiling at him in a friendly manner, and calling him familiarly.
"I... Just... " began Branwe, trying to regain his train of thought. "Do you have the facilities to draw up a bath?" asked Branwe. Skoljar's smile faded to the much more familiar shade of a Nord looking at an outsider.
"Aye, we bathe here on occasion," said Skoljar, just short of harshly. Branwe backpedaled hard.
"Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply that—I just didn't want to assume—I'm terribly sorry, I seem to've inadvertently been an ass again... It's just that I'm a mess, and I have to be out on the road again tomorrow, and... You're laughing at me."
"Aye, sorry lad," said Skoljar. "Most of your types rise to the bait, and you backed down so much I thought your spine would snap," he said. "Runa was right about you, you're trying, I'll give you that. But you're trying too damn hard."
"Wait, when did you talk to Runa? We've only just gotten here!"
"While you were telling your tale, boy. You got wrapped up in it," said Skoljar approvingly. He broke eye-contact for a moment, and looked over at a younger man who was stoking the fire. "Bruljar, a bath for our guest here. Do you need any scented candles, or specialty soaps?"
"Oh, actually if you could—Ah. No, just hot water and whatever soap to scrub with is fine," said Branwe. "I mean... if you've got the other stuff..."
"I was joking."
"But I'm ever hopeful." This got Skoljar to laugh again.
"That, that right there. That's what most city-folk won't do. A simple joke. They're either afraid of us, or think we're uncivilized, or think we can't take a joke that doesn't have Dibella's tit right there in it. You're all right, boy. What's your name, anyway?"
"Branwe Willowshade."
"Branwe?" asked Skoljar with a furrowed brow. "Doesn't sound much like any Bosmer name I know of."
"No, it's actually from Altmer tradition," admitted Branwe.
"A foundling?" asked Skoljar vaguely.
"No, I'm just one of those cosmopolitan mutts," waved Branwe. "Third generation living in the Imperial City. Or near it, anyway. Between there and Skingraad. Names sorta lose their potency and meaning. My sister's name is Rithleen, from Redgaurd course. My parents just didn't really care to keep a single cultural identity, I guess," said Branwe with a shrug. "'We're all just men and mer,' was something father said a lot."
"Your father sounds like a wise man, even if it's a little sad to lose such roots. The Bosmer have a very proud heritage, a noble people," said Skoljar, still approvingly.
"Considering I've hardly even held a bow, let alone gone hunting, I don't really... I mean, I belong to the Bosmer about as much as I belong to the Nords, really," said Branwe. He'd said something similar to that about a hundred times before, but this time the words felt like lines from a script. When he said them previously, he'd never felt a twinge. Somehow saying it to this old man, who was Nord through and through, he felt... Sad. For the first time, he felt like maybe he'd missed out on something, rather than like he'd been freed of something. Like he'd ostracized himself. Missed out on being Bosmer, rather than being allowed to be whatever he was. Skoljar's old, worn face was carved by years of knowing who he is, and who his people are. The shapes of his wrinkles all set into place and comfortable. After all, the voice that came out of his mouth was the one you thought would come out when you saw him. Branwe envied him slightly. Maybe it was the drink; he never drank this much, and now he was doing it every damn night just to keep warm. Maybe it was the company; he did have people he felt at home with, even if it was never couched that way in his youth. People who were his people. Though part of what bound them together like that was the dismissal of such bonds, so it was a lonely sort of connection even still. Maybe it was the cold up here, and the lack of sun getting to him, just casting a gloom. He didn't know.
Bruljar appeared at their table, suddenly, breaking him from his revere. "Your bath," he said simply. Branwe started slightly at the roughness of the man's voice. Southern Skyrim, south east, even. Probably from the Rift. A very different accent than Runa's or Skoljar. More no nonsense, less rolling with the buffets of the wind. More powering, or cutting through them forcefully. It was a terse accent. Branwe'd heard it before, but never in such stark contrast. He was starting to get a feel for just how big the place must have been, to house such desperate accents so readily. And to think, Rithleen couldn't tell the accents of any Nords apart.
"It's ready," said Bruljar impatiently.
"Oh, right, oh, yes. Sorry, zoned out there a moment. Thanks for the talk, and the mead, sir."
"It's Skoljar to you, boy. It's always Skoljar."
Branwe smiled in spite of himself, and blushed. "Then, thanks, Skoljar. I'm going to make it a point to come back up here some time," said Branwe as he walked away. He shivered slightly as he walked further from the hearth. "Though I might pathetically decide to make the trek by carriage next time..." he added.