"I don't know what came over me," Jakt began, for the twelfth time, his words slurring together. "All of a sudden, I knew, this was it. It was us or him, that great scaly beast." He gritted his teeth, brought up his fists, then straightened up and laughed, and the pretty redguard girl who he was regaling this time laughed with him.
Quintus Drake chuckled to himself before throwing back his head and knocking back another glass of spiced wine. The kid deserved his moment. They were all heroes, but he was Dragonborn.
Whatever in Oblivion that meant.
Somehow, it seemed as if every single inhabitant of Whiterun had made it into the Bannered Mare that night. If they hadn't been at the Jarl's little impromptu ceremony, then they had heard about the company's deed quickly enough. Afterwards, the crowds had swarmed to congratulate their new heroes, carrying them to the second ring of the city to a huge, blazing fire that had been built in their honor, and rolling out barrels of ale to crack open. All the attention was making Drake mighty uncomfortable, until a friendly nord offered him a drink, and then another, and then another… and pretty soon the evening had become a drunken haze, from which he was just beginning to emerge.
When nighttime finally fell and the celebration moved inside, Hulda the Innkeeper had pulled out all the stops, bringing out barrel upon barrel of Honningbrew Mead, Colovian Brandy, her finest Alto Wine, and even some bottles of Blackbriar Reserve, which made Drake think fondly of his most recent abandoned home. They drank to the living heroes, they drank to those who had sacrificed their lives, to those who lay injured in the Temple of Kynareth, to the dragon itself, who had given its own life and blessed them, indirectly, with such fine feats of daring… at that point it was all very much out of hand. The nords, it seemed, enjoyed every opportunity to crack open a barrel.
As it turned out, Jakt had a taste for Dragon's Breath Mead, which everyone found hilariously appropriate, which in turn meant he was never without a full glass. He was raging drunk, clearly unused to any sort of hero worship, and trying in vain to retain a sense of humility. Every fifteen minutes or so someone would shout "Dragonborn!" and the whole room would break out into a chorus of a popular nord folk song and dancing around him. It was altogether too much for him to comprehend, clearly, and eventually he sat himself down at a table and started rambling to anyone who would listen. This proved to be no small number of people, who came and went as they pleased.
Drake's two archers, who he found out were named Torvald and Vigge, kept headbutting each other, then trying to headbutt him, which left his head aching - a malady only cured by more spirits. The disease soon spread to a number of nord men, and friendly headbutts turned to squabbles, which inevitably broke out into fistfights. Drake slithered away from the violence and sat himself down at the bar next to a long-legged, tough looking Nord girl who looked vaguely familiar. She kept drunkenly calling herself something that sounded like 'Carl' and succeeded in matching him drink for drink. He found 'Carl' very attractive, in a distinctly nordic way, and was quite happy to be talking to her when Lysana Trystane plopped herself down next to him.
"Well well," he said, the words dripping out of him like coagulated honey, "If it isn't our friendly little mage. Have some brandy."
He pushed a glass towards her, which she took gladly, to his surprise. 'Carl', sensing the sudden shift in Drake's affections, rose and left to join the crowd chanting over two half-naked wrestling Nords. He paid her little mind, instead watching as Lysana took the mug in both hands and drained it. She looked splendid: She had traded her robes for a simple belted dress, and combed her shortish red hair so straight that it shone pale gold in the candlelight. Unfortunately, Drake was entirely too drunk to make any further progress on his quest to mentally undress her.
"This is good!" she purred after the brandy was all gone, licking her lips in satisfaction. Drake's stomach turned a somersault at the action. "I can't remember the last time I had some fun." She turned towards him, placed a hand on his arm, and actually giggled.
By the gods, Lysana was drunk! Or at least a little tipsy. The mood-altering effects of alcohol on women never ceased to amaze Drake. He had been quite prepared to pull out all the stops, but maybe that wouldn't be necessary.
"You look absolutely radiant," he said, shaking his head, "You should wear girl's clothes more often. Unless, of course, the College frowns on dress that isn't grey and bulky."
"The College frowns on a lot of things," She replied flirtatiously, her freckled cheeks flushed.
"Is that what brought you south? Tired of the chafing rules? Or the miserable cold, for that matter?" he asked. He found himself genuinely curious, for some reason.
"Well," she began, tracing her finger around her empty mug, "There aren't many… eligible bachelors in Winterhold, if you must know." she giggled again. "At least, not under the age of fifty."
"Too many books," Drake supplied helpfully, "Not enough sunlight, or mead." This was too easy!
"You know, Drake," she said, smiling in a manner that Drake found entirely seductive.
"Call me Quint," he interrupted her, surprising himself. He hated being called Quint.
"Quint. I'm surprised you're still here. You don't strike me as the type who… sticks around for breakfast, so to speak." She winked.
"Not usually," he laughed playfully, "but I have a good feeling this time."
"Of course," she said conversationally, leaning forward, "Now, are we talking about me, or our mutual friend there?" She gestured towards Jakt. He turned to look at him. The young nord was leaning awfully close to the redguard girl.
"Oh, him?" he asked incredulously, turning back to face the breton sorceress. "Let me cut you in on a little secret, lass. If we stick close to him, that boy is going to make us very, very rich. And maybe even a little famous!" He started to laugh, but faltered when she failed to laugh along with him.
"Well then," she started, her cold eyes betraying her light, conversational tone, "You'd better keep a close watch on him. All of that wealth and fame might go to his head." She pointed over his shoulder again.
Drake turned back only to find that Jakt and the girl had disappeared. His drunken brain naturally fearing the worst, he forced himself upright and pounded over towards their table, elbowing his way through the rowdy, drunken crowd…
But Jakt was nowhere to be found. Drake shook his head, putting his mind at ease. The girl was a barmaid, after all, he'd seen her handing out mugs… they couldn't have gone far. He would find him in the morning. He trundled back over to the bar, ready to express his confidence in this plan to Trystane, but she too had disappeared. Damn. Shrugging his shoulders, he prepared to delve into the gaggle of drunken bodies, hoping to find 'Carl' again.
Jakt slowly became aware of a cool breeze wafting over his forehead as he drifted back into consciousness. The bed was soft, though, and his head burned like wildfire. He rolled onto his side, away from the source of the cool air. Somehow, the breeze persisted. Aching and confused, he rolled onto his back again and chanced opening his eyes, only to be blinded by an agonizing whiteness that felt like daggers stabbed up through his eyes and into his brain. With a grunt he screwed his eyes shut and slapped at his face, trying to ward off the cool air that seemed to be hovering over his head.
All of a sudden the breeze became a blizzard, an icy cold barrage of sleet and howling winds pelting and twisting at his face.
"What in Oblivion?" he growled, forcing himself upright and opening his eyes. Sunlight poured in from an open window, sending fresh spikes of pain plunging into his sensitive, aching head. He turned away from the window only to find a hand hovering over him, from which the cold air had been emanating. The hand was attached to the breton mage girl, Lysana, who stood at the side of his bed. She lowered her hand and tucked it somewhere in her robe, her face expressionless.
"What was that for?" he thundered, altogether too loudly. His own words rang in his ears, sending more agonizing shocks careening through his head. He resisted the urge to clutch his head with both hands.
"You weren't waking up," she said, slowly and quietly. Her gaze inched downwards for a second, her face turning ever so slightly pink. Jakt followed her eyes with his own and discovered that he was completely naked, bedclothes nowhere to be found, his manhood standing at rapt attention.
With a yelp he forced himself to his feet and struggled to cover himself. Lysana blushed crimson and looked away, leaning over and grasping a blanket that had been flung over to the far side of the room. She handed it to him without saying a word. There was a painful awkward silence as he wrapped it around his waist. He let out a fake cough to indicate he was done, and she turned back around to face him. Her flushed, embarrassed cheeks clashed violently with her hair.
"Now then," He said, his chest tight, his head a little too groggy to process their mutual embarrassment. "Uh, what happened last night?"
"You, my young friend, got very drunk," came the reply from behind him. He spun to see Drake framed in the doorway. He had dark circles under his eyes and was clutching a frozen chunk of ice to his forehead.
"How was she?" he asked, giving a wink that looked more like a painful wince.
Jakt looked around, unsure of who he was talking about. Drake laughed softly.
"I'll be damned," he said, "You've just been used, haven't you, chap?" he came over to Jakt, punching him playfully on the arm. "It ain't so bad once you get used to it, trust me." He laughed again, a little too loudly, then winced once more. Suddenly Jakt remembered how he'd gotten up to this room… Feeling fresh waves of embarrassment washing over him, he groaned, and Drake laughed a third time. It was a good-natured laugh, at least.
"It's almost noon," Lysana spoke up sharply, interrupting their camaraderie. Jakt turned back to her, seeing that she'd regained her composure somewhat. "And past time we got moving."
Jakt struggled to comprehend her sentence. "What do you mean, 'we?'" he said, sounding more accusing than he really felt. He expected Drake to chime in, but the imperial remained silent. Then his memories of the day before came flooding back. The dragon, the Jarl's speech, the numerous stories and myths and explanations… not to mention the party, and the serving girl… It was all a little too much for him. Feeling lightheaded and embarrassed, he sat down. Lysana's haughty, pointed face softened a little.
"Get dressed," she ordered, "We can talk about this over lunch."
Finally, the Dragonborn loped downstairs, fully dressed this time in his simple Stormcloak armor. Lysana repressed any lingering embarrassment as she watched him approach. Drake shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside her, muttering something under his breath, but she did not turn to look at him.
Doubt welled up inside her as Jakt threaded his way through the crowd that made up the Bannered Mare's noon rush. He nodded as a couple of strangers greeted him, accepting their congratulations awkwardly. She had to admit: he did not look like the Dovahkiin, the Dragon of the North, the mantle of Tiber Septim's legacy. He was lean for a nord, a little shorter than average, and the beard that decorated his face was a scraggly affair. And he was young - no older than she, she reminded her doubtful, nagging mind - but he clearly lacked discipline, unlike herself. The College had no patience for sloppy, time-wasting behavior, and neither did she.
At the same time, she had watched him come alive in the battle at the watchtower: he had good instincts, even if they were rash and untempered, and he had rallied the despairing guardsmen to victory with an air of leadership. The spark of potential was there.
Lysana repressed her silent conflict as he reached their table and sunk into the chair across from her. She took the tall glass of water resting before her, chilled with frost magic, and slid it to him. He smiled gratefully and gulped down the whole glass in a display of truly horrible table manners.
"Right then," he sighed, placing the glass back down and wiping his drenched lips with a furred gauntlet. "What makes you think traveling together is such a great idea? If that was what you were suggesting."
He locked eyes with her. They were soft and green: young eyes, hopeful, but with a twinge of sadness. Perhaps he was not as inexperienced and naive as she thought.
"Look, lad," Drake cut in, before she could answer. "I actually agree with this overblown magical trollop." Insulted at his words, she flashed a deadly glare his way, but the imperial ignored her and continued on. "You're not just a worthless nobody anymore, begging your pardon. You're the Dragonborn. You're going to need backup!"
"I can take care of myself."
Drake smiled and shook his head, jabbing his finger at the young nord. "Don't lock me out just yet, lad. Traveling with you was just becoming interesting!" he stood and swept his hands out before him in a grand gesture. "Imagine all the dragons out there that need slaying! And all the wealthy persons who need them slain, if you get my drift." He sat back down, a dazzling smile on his face, his hangover apparently forgotten. "And you really want to try and tackle the beasties on your own?"
Lysana raised an eyebrow at him as he flicked his eyes back and forth between his two table companions. She reminded herself of their conversation the night before: clearly, Drake was not one to be trusted. He was, at best, a liar and a thief, seeking to profit off of momentous happenings far too grand in scale for him to comprehend. And yet, the competitive atmosphere of the College had taught her to utilize everything at her disposal. He might prove useful after all.
Jakt sighed, rubbing his forehead, a seemingly conciliatory gesture. She took the opportunity and cut in.
"He's actually right," she said, "You will need our help if you are to confront their return. You have a part to play-"
"Spare me," Jakt growled, his tone turning callous and bitter. "I heard enough of this talk from that fool wizard and all the rest of this Gods-forsaken city. I didn't ask to be the Dragonborn, I didn't ask for any of this responsibility!"
He lifted his empty glass up as he spoke and brought it down hard on the table for emphasis. It shattered upon impact, and Jakt grunted in surprise. In a flash a table boy appeared at his side, sweeping the shattered glass into a bucket.
"It's no trouble," he said, smiling down at Jakt. "No trouble at all for the Dragonborn!"
The rest of the tavern, in a quiet yet earnest echo of the previous night, raised their drinks in unison, and toasted him with a "Ho, Dragonborn!" As the serving boy hurried away, Jakt groaned and put his head in his hands. Lysana felt herself smiling despite the gravity of their conversation. Beside her, Drake chuckled. Still, she could feel Jakt's consternation, the fear and uncertainty that lurked behind his mostly stoic facade.
"Like it or not, Jakt," she began, trying a new tactic, "You are the Dragonborn. I saw you use the Thu'um on that dragon. Not to mention… whatever happened afterwards." she cleared her throat, clearly made uneasy even just thinking about his display of soul eating. "Do you know how difficult it is to learn the way of the voice?" She saw him lift his head out of his hands to stare balefully at her. "It takes even the most disciplined, hardworking students decades to produce something like what you shouted in the course of an afternoon."
Drake evidently saw where she was going. "If I was you, lad," he began, a twinkle in his eye, "I'd want to learn to control it, to use it. Just imagine! Shouting your enemies to pieces!"
Jakt perked up. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he breathed.
Drake faltered. "What?"
"Haven't you heard the tales?" the young nord began, his breath short with growing excitement. "Ulfric used the Voice to slay the High King. I'll bet he can teach it to me."
Lysana opened her mouth to dissent, but Drake beat her to the punch. "Damn it all, Jakt," he said, shaking his head frantically. "That's as good as throwing in with him! You realize what Ulfric could do if the Dragonborn, the nord hero of legend, or whatever, was on his side?"
"Of course I do," Jakt replied, his voice turning harsh. "He could unite Skyrim against the threat of Imperial oppression, not to mention wipe the Thalmor off the face of the map."
Drake looked incredulous. While he struggled to come up with a reply, Lysana cut in again.
"Look, Jakt," she began, "I'm not sure throwing in with Ulfric is a good idea right now. For one, he studied the Thu'um with the Greybeards, or so the story goes, and they're supposedly the masters of the voice. There's no way, between fighting in the Great War, taking and holding Markarth, waging a war against the Empire, and ruling as Jarl of Windhelm, that he had anywhere near the time to devote to learning the ways of the voice.
"Secondly," she continued, frowning as she spoke, "It's probably best for the Dragonborn to remain neutral. The dragons won't wait while Ulfric and the Empire squabble over the crown. Maybe when we know more about the threat they pose, then we can choose one side or the other."
Jakt looked unconvinced. "How can you be sure this civil war and the dragon reappearances are just coincidental?" he asked skeptically. "The way I see it, that dragon arrived in Helgen just in time to save Ulfric from the headsman's axe."
"So, let me get this straight," Drake replied, his face skeptical, bordering on smug. "You think the dragons' return is some sort of divine providence, the Eight throwing in their lot with Ulfric Stormcloak?" He laughed spitefully.
Jakt recoiled. "It's possible," he said defensively.
Drake shook his head, grinning, looking to Lysana for agreement. When she chose to remain quiet, his laughter faded into a sigh.
"Listen, lad," he started, his tone well-meaning, if a little condescending. "Windhelm is a long journey from here. In the meantime, the Throat of the World-" he gestured out the open window to the colossal mountain towering off in the distance - "isn't nearly as far. And besides, the Greybeards might have answers to questions like that, answers that Ulfric don't know himself."
Lysana caught his eye, mouthing a quiet word of thanks. Drake obviously understood the importance of what he spoke, for as he met her gaze she could tell he was resisting the urge to wink lewdly. Instead, his eyes shifted back Jakt, who sat silently, absorbing his words.
Finally, the young nord spoke. "You have a point," he admitted grudgingly. "The Greybeards most likely know more about all this. But none of this explains why I ought to let you tag along." He pointed at Drake. "Him I understand - he just wants a slice of the glory, and as far as I'm concerned, he's welcome to it."
Drake smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Jakt ignored him and leaned forward, staring into Lysana's face. "But what about you? What's your angle?" his voice was quiet, more curious than antagonistic. At least he isn't half as stubborn as half the nords I know, Lysana thought to herself as she absorbed his words; he can admit when he is wrong, it seems. But then, admitting he was wrong was not the same thing as admitting that she was right, something that a great many people who knew Lysana seemed to have trouble with.
She leaned back into her chair, unsure of how to answer his query. The College of Winterhold liked to keep to its own: a fact notorious throughout Skyrim, and one that had earned it a lot of ill will, perhaps deservedly so. Revealing their official business was like to get her a sharp reprimand, at the very best. At the same time, much was at stake. She remained quiet for another minute before Drake, his curiosity piqued as well, chimed in.
"Why were you in Farengar Mammoth-Breath's study when we delivered him the Dragonstone, anyways?" She flicked her eyes to him in annoyance. The imperial was sharper than his immature demeanor let on: most likely a purposeful charade. She cleared her throat and spoke.
"The sudden reappearance of the dragons touched off a whole manner of anomalies and inconsistencies in the flow of magic," she began, aiming to keep her answer short and to the point. "The College soon decided that it was a matter worth looking in to. Farengar, although a mediocre mage, is a worthy scholar, and a bit of an expert on the dragon cults that populated ancient Skyrim. He owed the College a favor, so they sent me out to collect it. I was to be included in any research and discoveries he made into reasons for their reappearance."
She paused. "Call it a hunch, if you will," she said, letting a little sarcasm slip into her tone, "But I figured that traveling with the Dragonborn might lead to some answers a lot faster than traditional research methods."
"Do the higher-ups at the College know about that little decision?" Drake asked, his mouth twitching smugly.
Lysana fought down a surge of wrath at his question, anger not directed at him, but rather towards the College. As if the upper echelon paid her a second thought when they sent her off on their little errand. She tried unsuccessfully to keep the iciness from her voice as she answered him.
"The College will appreciate my prompt results," she said haughtily, pushing her seat backwards and standing up. "They value efficiency and timeliness, unlike petty thieves and drunken mercenaries." She cast a disapproving glare down on the two. Drake shook his head, smiling at the insult. Jakt merely raised his eyebrows.
"Now," she began, placing her hands on her hips, "This little interrogation is over. I suggest we-"
Lysana broke off as a nord female suddenly appeared at their table. She was taller than Lysana, and looked quite strong: her bare arms were toned, and a long, jagged scar rippled over her right bicep. The rest of her body was dressed in steel armor, reinforced with fur and leather and engraved in the nordic fashion. She had a sword belted to her side and a shield swung over her shoulder. She looked young, a feminine nose decorating a striking, angular face that men might find quite attractive, but her hard eyes and set jaw emanated experience. Her hair was darker than that of most nords, falling to brush her shoulders. Two small, ornate hair braids framed either side of her face.
"My thane," she said, bowing low to Jakt. Unsure of what to do, he stood and watched her uneasily.
"Uh," he started, at a loss for words, "Who are you?"
"I am your housecarl," she answered, "Lydia."
All of a sudden Drake stood. "Carl!" he exclaimed, his mouth twisted in a delighted grin. Lydia eyed him in confusion for a second and then turned back to Jakt.
"My what?"
"Your housecarl," she explained, impatience seeping into her tone. "Your sword and shield, and your servant." Lysana could tell right away that she was not a woman who liked to mince words.
"Oh, right," Jakt said, and Lysana could tell from the sudden understanding that flashed on his face that he was just now remembering that Jarl Balgruuf had effectively made him a Thane of Whiterun Hold. "And, uh, what exactly does a housecarl do?"
Lydia straightened up. "I am sworn to travel with you, Thane, to bear your every burden, and protect you and all that you own," she said, her voice clear and strong. "With my life, if necessary."
"What about your Thane's friends?" Drake asked, his voice trim and sardonic, his grin maniacal. "Are you sworn to bear their burdens as well?"
Lydia shot him a look, yet remained quiet. It was one of antagonism, mixed, perhaps, with interest? Lysana, for all her book learning, was hardly an expert in the realm of social interaction. She sighed inwardly. The strange ways of men and women bored her in all but a clinical sense.
Jakt cleared his throat, unsure once more of what to say. Clearly, he had little experience in matters of delegation - off the battlefield, at least. "Right," he began awkwardly, "Well, you look stout," he broke off when Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Er, that is, not stout, but rather, you look, ah, quite fit-"
"What he's trying to say is, he'd be honored to have your service," Lysana said, flashing Jakt an annoyed look. They were wasting time.
"Of course, lady mage," Lydia said, inclining her head. There was, to Lysana's relief, none of the usual suspicion that most nords reserved for magic users in her voice.
"Right then," Lysana said, gesturing to the two seated men, "Are we ready to get on the road then?"
Jakt and Drake exchanged a quick glance. The nord sighed, and then stood.
"The Throat of the World it is."
Jakt spent the afternoon walking next to Lydia, his new charge, trying to familiarize himself with the shieldmaiden. Initially put off by the bizarre and novel experience of having someone under his command, his discomfort faded slowly as they walked and talked. Lydia did most of the talking: she was the first nord he'd spent much time with since he and Ralof had gone their separate ways, and Jakt found himself asking many questions.
In the process he learned a little bit about her background. Unlike Drake and Lysana, who were as tight-lipped as he in that department, Lydia spoke openly about her past. Jakt found her honesty refreshing. She had grown up in Haafingar hold, raised by her now-estranged father, a legionnaire-turned-farmer who had desired a son. A capable soldier, made bitter by the Great War, he had instructed her in the more strategic-minded swordsmanship of the Imperial Legion, rather than the savage, traditional nord manner. By her seventeenth summer, owing to her increasingly drunken and abusive parent, she had run away, finding employ as a sellsword until the worsening political climate of Skyrim forced her to turn to desperate measures.
"Aye, but Jarl Balgruuf runs a tight ship," she was saying, her eyes downcast. "Whiterun hold has no patience for highwaymen, it seems, and his neutral stance on the war leaves him the manpower to come down hard on folk like us." She grinned at him ruefully. "That thrice-damned black elf of his and her guardsmen tracked us down near as soon as we set up shop. They gave the survivors a choice: swear service to the Jarl, or rot in the dungeons. Wasn't a hard choice."
She shook her head, then looked up and smiled at him. It was a warm smile, a carefree smile, despite the hardships of her earlier life. "Housecarl to the Jarl's cronies isn't such a bad job though, begging your pardon, my thane. Little more than a body guard, I am, and my sword-arm serves its purpose well. I guess I have pa to thank for all this after all." She patted her sword hilt good-naturedly and laughed at the perceived irony.
"I never knew my father," Jakt heard himself admit, unthinkingly. Suddenly aware of Lysana walking close in front of them, he clamped his mouth shut. Lydia's emotional honesty was infectious. The breton mage did not register his comment, however, if she'd heard it at all.
"I envy you that, my thane," Lydia said, smiling wryly.
"Please," Jakt started, uncomfortably. "just Jakt is fine."
They made camp before sundown. Lysana insisted they camp off the roads, to avoid patrols or other disturbances, so they traipsed off into the woods until they came to a small clearing. After setting up their furs and bedrolls, Lydia and Drake, who had been giving each other strange looks throughout the evening, went off hunting. Jakt had a sneaking suspicion that "hunting' was some sort of double entendre. So, while he sat laboring over slightly-damp brush and kindling, Jakt found himself alone with the breton mage.
Lysana watched him trying to light a fire for a little bit, then pulled out a book from her satchel. Jakt finished his task and pulled up a log, warming his hands and his feet. He looked over at Lysana, buried in her book, oblivious to the world, and sighed. She was quite pretty, even with her face scrunched up in concentration: her auburn hair, slightly tangled from their afternoon of travel, shone in the firelight, and dancing shadows traced soft outlines of her delicate features.
He tried to think of something to say, but his mind kept drawing blanks. He soon gave up and pulled out his new sword and the whetstone he'd bought along with it, and began to polish and sharpen the blade. He'd sold the draugr's greatsword at Avenicci's in Whiterun, netting himself one of her fine steel longswords in the process. Shorter and lighter than the greatsword, it was nevertheless longer and thinner than his old imperial blade, fashioned with a finely-embroidered crossguard and a hilt wrapped in supple leather. The pommel was carved in the image of a ram's head, with curled horns that made it appear roughly spherical. It was no Greymane, to be sure, but it was well balanced and finely crafted, and did not take long to polish. Jakt could tell that a sharpening was hardly necessary. He ran the whetstone along the blade a few times anyway: the quiet sssshnkk of stone on steel was strangely soothing.
Sheathing the sword, he looked over at Lysana. She was looking at him, her brow furrowed, a strange expression on her face.
"What?" he asked, confused. She didn't look annoyed by his noisy fidgeting - rather, she seemed deep in thought.
"Tell me something, Jakt," she asked, her face softening a little. "Are you lettered?"
Jakt laughed before replying. "Yes, actually. Are you surprised?"
Lysana smiled a shy smile, a hint of embarrassment flicking across her face. Something in the back of Jakt's brain clunked, like a horseshoe hitting an iron post, at that rare, sweet smile.
"A formal education isn't really the tradition here," she pointed out in response, somewhat reproachfully, her smile twisting into a frown.
"Yeah, well," Jakt answered, furrowing his brow at what could have been a slight, but deciding not to argue. "In my line of work, illiteracy can be damning. Mercenary companies like to prey on the unlettered, filling their written contracts with subterfuge. At worst, it is akin to forced servitude."
Lysana cocked her head. "Doesn't the Fighter's Guild in Cyrodil police that sort of thing?"
Jakt laughed again, but this time with a touch of bitterness. "Hardly, though it tries. The Fighter's Guild is a relic of the Septim Era. Like the Empire itself, its influence waned after the death of the last Septim Emperor. Private companies have no qualms against trickery, once freed from Imperial supervision, as it turns out."
Lysana nodded. "The College used to answer to the Mages Guild in much the same way, before it was disbanded. Or destroyed, rather."
Jakt nodded in reply. There was a brief moment of silence, before Lysana brandished her book, her face slightly bashful, and continued. "You might enjoy this book - I picked it up from the Apothecary while you and the thief peddled your sword. It's about the dragon cults, and the Dragonborn - the ancient nord legend, I mean."
Jakt felt a twinge of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. His reaction must have been visible, for Lysana looked confused and a little awkward as she let the book settle into her lap.
"Ah," Jakt replied, after a beat. "I'm not so sure I want to read that."
"Why not?" Lysana's expression changed from concerned to one of disapproval, a frown snaking its way onto her face.
"Well," Jakt began, trying to put his reluctance into words, "I guess I'm not sure I want to believe it's real. Me being the Dragonborn - it just seems too… colossal to be true."
"Refusing to learn about it doesn't make it any less real," she said, her tone sharp and a hint of scorn in her inflection. "That is why we are going to the Throat of the World, and not to Windhelm, after all."
Jakt shrugged, not meeting her eyes. He heard her hmmmph audibly, however, when he deigned to reply. At that moment he couldn't help but feel that he'd failed a test of character. There was a moment of silence as they both stared into the fire. The sun was below the tree line now, and dusk was beginning to settle about.
"So then," Lysana began again. "What purpose brings a company-less mercenary to Skyrim? Seeking to profit, perhaps, from civil strife? Or fleeing reprisal from a slighted guild master?"
Jakt looked at her again. A tendril of anger prickled irritably within him for a second, but he ignored it. She was obviously trying to get at something, or at the very least provoke him.
"I could ask the same of yourself," he started, avoiding her question but meeting her eyes. "Skyrim is hardly receptive to the magic arts, much unlike High Rock or even Cyrodil. And Winterhold is a harsh and unforgiving place, so I'm told - the College even more so."
Lysana hmmphed again. "I expect my answer is the same as yours," she replied shortly. "Quite personal."
Jakt sighed. He did not wish to lapse into uncomfortable silence once more. Instead, he decided to indulge her curiosity, tempered though it was by her standoffish words. "I came here seeking family, I suppose."
"Family? That is… understandable." Her tone suggested she found it otherwise. "But in that case, why are you so intent on seeking out Ulfric Stormcloak and joining his crusade? Has the Empire wronged you so?"
Jakt glared at her, unsure of how to answer without compromising himself. He had no desire to confide in this strange, precocious woman.
"The Empire has wronged us all," he began with conviction that he did not quite feel. "I've seen too many horrors at the hands of the Thalmor not to condemn their inaction. And Ulfric Stormcloak seems to be the only one in all of Nirn with the courage to stand up to the both of them."
"Spare me the rhetoric, I have heard it many times," Lysana began scornfully, "At his heart Ulfric is no better than one of your mercenary companies! The Thalmor are a political boon for him, a convenient daedra to rally against. Without a strong Imperial hand to rein him in, he will abuse the trust of his subjects to achieve his own ends." She paused before continuing, narrowing her eyes. "After all, that is the nord way."
Jakt felt his face redden, his mind wheeling at that unfettered condemnation of his people. He opened his mouth to reply, trying to form a retort, but at that minute, Lydia came traipsing up, a dead deer thrown over her shoulder and a grin plastered on her face. Drake followed right after, whistling a tune, his steps jaunty. They both looked a bit disheveled.
"Good evening, lord and lady," Drake began, sweeping up and throwing himself into a grandiose, mocking bow, "Your meal will be ready shortly. We thank you for your kind patronage."
Jakt looked back to Lysana, but she had stood and moved over to the other two, her back to him. Truth be told, he was a little relieved. He had no desire to continue their verbal sparring. Lysana, it seemed, was even less trusting that he.
A/N: A talky chapter, but necessary! Now that the big bad triumvirate is established, we can get down to business.