Hello all. Just to give you a heads up things may start to really go AU in these next few chapters in order to make sense. I'm still going to stick to the quests as much as possible, but look forward to some loose interpretations or "embellishing" to tie lose ends together. Thanks for all your support!
**Spoiler warning** Rest of "Innocence Lost", Start of "A Chance Arrangement"
Chapter 7
Murder, Maudlin, and Mayhem
Schyre drummed her fingers lightly on the table in time with Luaffyn's jaunty rendition of "Ragnar the Red" while basking in the heat of the central fire pit of Candlehearth Hall. The tune was just loud enough to cover the hushed tones of Schyre and the courier Geir as they discussed business. Schyre knew it was risky sending a message to Whiterun, but she couldn't just sit back and do nothing. Perhaps if Jarl Balgruuf knew the Stormcloaks were preparing to move against him, he would be apt to side with the Empire instead of merely sitting on the sidelines.
She had devised the plan to send Whiterun a message on a whim. After purchasing a room for the night at the Winhelm inn, Schyre had been led to a table and served a humble meal. She had positioned herself with her back to the wall, facing the entrance to survey for trouble. Sure enough, trouble had come, though surprisingly not for her. From out of the blistering cold came a gnarled Imperial man in his late forties. His graying hair and beard seemed to run together into one huge wind-swept tangle, frosted with flakes of snow. As he approached the bar, he clutched his trademark courier's cap in his bony hands at heart-level like a makeshift shield, his eyes darting around the room nervously. Schyre watched as he respectfully asked for a meal, carefully placing his gold on the counter, never taking his eyes off the tavern patrons. Schyre noted hers were not the only eyes that followed the man as the barmaid led him to a table. As the courier sat down to a plate of roast pheasant, one man stood up from his table and stumbled towards him in a way that screamed of drunken aggression.
"I don't want any trouble," the courier said, immediately cowering. "Just want a hot meal and warm bed, then I'll be on my way in the morn." The drunk sneered at him and knocked his plate of pheasant on the dirty floor. "Too bad- trouble found ya. Now, be a good Imperial dog an' eat on the floor like yer shupposed to." The drunk laughed as the older man stooped slowly to pick up the remains of his meal off the floor. As the courier picked up his plate, the drunk knocked it out of his hands again, braying like an intoxicated mule. "Take yer meals in th' Gray Quarters with those Dark Elf spies of yers. You'll find no welcome here." The mucus-filled spit wad the drunk was working on never had a chance to meet its intended target. Just as the nord arched his head back to launch it, the old courier arose from the floor with fire in his eyes and landed an uppercut squarely on his jaw. Schyre unsuccessfully suppressed a laugh which came out as more of a snort when the drunk looked at the courier in disbelief, thoroughly stupefied.
"Y-You Imperial shwine!" The drunk lurched at the older man, trying to throw him to the ground, but he was too inebriated to catch him as he sidestepped away. "I'll kill you!" he shrieked. Schyre smiled as the old courier dodged the drunk's clumsy attempt at a punch. Tough and spry Schyre thought, impressed. Several men got up from the table that the drunk had been sitting at, ominously approaching the altercation. Schyre jumped up from her seat when it became apparent that no one else would intervene; the courier would soon be outnumbered and probably severely hurt. Hand on her dagger, she stepped between lone man and the advancing posse. "Out of the way, lizard!" slurred the original drunken man, "This isn't your fight!" "Four men against one? I think it is," she replied coolly. From behind the bar, the proprietor Elda Early-Dawn yelled at the drunk in her thick, accented voice, "S'bout to be another comin' soon, Rolff Stone-Fist! You cause any more trouble and I'll go get your brother!"
The drunk visibly paled at the mention of his kin's name and Schyre took the opportunity to jump in. "Stone-Fist?" she practically purred, "Ulfric's second-in-command? I just came from the Palace of Kings, and he was in an important meeting with Ulfric. No doubt he'll be ecstatic for the interruption AND to have to come here to straighten out his brother's mess!" It was a gamble, but from Rolff's reaction she was willing to bet he was afraid of his sibling. Rolff thought for a moment then shook his head. "You ain't worth it, cur!" he said, gathering his men and disappearing through the door.
"Thanks, friend," the courier said, once again picking the remains of his dinner off the floor. Schyre motioned to the barkeep for another meal and knelt to help him clean up the mess. Once settled, the courier introduced himself as Geir and offered to buy her some mead. "What's an Imperial doing in this town? Seems like a death wish," she inquired as she sat at his table. Geir explained while digging into his fresh plate of food that normally any sane Imperial would give Windhelm wide berth considering the current political situation, but it was the closest major city to Winterhold. This meant it was the only stop for supplies before heading to Riften or Whiterun. "Courier's life ain't easy. Gotta be strong. Ride fast and hard through blizzards and blinding snow. Good pay for it though. Especially with that college in Winterhold. Those mages," Geir said around a mouthful of pheasant, "Always wanting something. Deliver all kinds of odd things there. Powdered bones, Dwemer artifacts, even parts of something Daedric one time. Going to Whiterun this time to pick up some kind of reagent."
Thus, the idea had formed in Schyre's mind to send Whiterun a warning. Still, she had not survived all these years without being cautious- sometimes overly so. She wasn't about to blatantly write to Balgruuf, especially not while still in the Stormcloak controlled territory. She retreated to her room for a brief moment to write in privacy. She thought carefully about how to frame her message- it needed to be subtle enough to not be confiscated by nosy Stormcloak soldiers, but plain enough that the people of Whiterun would understand its real warning. After a flash of inspiration, she dipped her quill into the inn's generously supplied inkwell and began to write. She ended up with a pretty official-looking flyer warning the citizens of Whiterun to protect their horses from a bloodthirsty bear approaching from the east. Since the crest of Windhelm was adorned by a bear, just as Whiterun's flag boasted a mustang, she hoped that it would be enough to get her point across without raising suspicions.
She hesitated, staring at the parchment, unsure of how to sign it. Maybe I should sign it "Argonian" since that's how most of these warm-bloods address me she mused sarcastically. After an internal struggle, she signed it "DB"- Dragonborn. She hoped the weight of the word would be enough to convey the importance of the message. When the letter was sealed with wax from a nearby candle, she passed the notice, along with a sum of gold to Geir with strict instructions to deliver it only into the hands of Irileth. Geir agreed to meet her back in Windhelm in a fortnight with any return message. Weight semi-lifted from her shoulders, Schyre bade him good night. She had a long journey to Riften ahead of her and no doubt that more dragons would follow.
Great Divines this is boring, guardsman Dannick thought as he flipped his knife in the air, skillfully catching it in his hand every time. Guarding Riften's north gate was a tedious job: checking merchant papers, rifling through crates and wares as the stench from the nearby stables permeated the air. Dannick glanced at his companions: the two other guards were leaning against the wall, discreetly playing cards while trying to avoid the sun's glare off the freshly fallen snow. Dannick sighed in frustration. Ever since they had caught him cheating they refused to let him play. Now, he had to sit here and be bored. Or not. Working the north gate did have one perk- shakedowns. Beneath his helmet Dannick smirked as the female Argonian approached. She was well-armed and wearing a rather nice suit of armor. To Dannick that meant one thing: gold. Dannick chuckled to himself. Sucker born every minute he thought, positioning himself in the Argonian's path.
"Halt!" He said with bravado, thoroughly excited about the prospect of gold to gamble with tonight. "In order to enter the city of Riften, you have to pay the visitor tax." The Argonian stopped for a second and gave him a deadpan look. "Visitor tax? Really? What's that?" she asked in a dry tone. Dannick faltered for a moment. She's questioning it. No one's ever questioned it before. Underneath his helmet, he licked his lips in uncertainty, "Why, it's the tax all visitors must pay to enter Riften, of course." The Argonian fixed him with a solid stare, crossing her arms in front of her. "Uh, huh," she drawled, "Seems more like a shakedown to me." Shakedown! Damn! Dannick was beginning to panic, "All right! Keep your voice down…" He glanced nervously over at the other guards, "You want everyone to hear you? I'll let you in… just let me unlock the gate." The Argonian gave him a smug look and strolled into town. Dannick cursed and punched the wall, earning him a mild glance from the other guards, plus a now-throbbing hand. Brynjolf is gonna kill me, he thought as he closed the gate behind her.
Ok… NOT what I expected. Schyre wasn't sure what she expected of Riften, but this certainly wasn't it. She felt dirty just walking down the streets of the town. Everything was grimy: every window was heavily curtained with dusky colors on the inside and covered with greasy looking dust on the outside; the cobblestones of the street had deep grooves of dirt scoured into them from countless boots grinding in dirty slush and no one to care enough to wash them down occasionally; even the wooden siding of the houses seemed like they'd been aged in tea and rolled in dirt for that perfect patina of absolute filth that the whole place displayed. Cramping the streets, the oppressively dark and dingy buildings loomed over the walkways, creating many shadowy corners for danger to lurk. The structures seemed almost haphazardly stacked on top of one another, roofs touching and windows within easy reach. As she walked around, she noticed the winding waterway that divided the city in two, creating easy escapes routes that led to the sewers: a thief's paradise, indeed.
On her way into the city, a passing guard warned her about the Rat Way- sewers that coursed throughout the town. He called the Thieves' Guild a myth however, utterly dismissing its existence. Schyre wasn't so sure now that she was in the city. Dark and seedy, it seemed the perfect place to hide in plain sight. She stopped for a moment and looked around. Ok, now what? I can't very well stop and ask someone to direct me to the Thieves' Guild. Schyre stood quietly, idly scratching the base of the horns rimming her head. In the entire time she had focused on getting to Riften, she never really thought about what to do once she got here. It's not like a member of the Guild is going to randomly approach me and ask me to join. She sighed, rubbing her scar. Well…. This was stupid of me.
She looked around town for a while before coming up with a plan. She thought about entering the Rat Way, but she wasn't too keen on the idea of bumbling around the sewers in the dark. Instead, she figured she would watch the marketplace. In a town of thieves, it was logical that someone would be looking for a mark, and the marketplace seemed the best area to find a target. All she had to do was follow the thief… and not get stabbed in the process. She entered the main square and examined the peddlers and their wares- just another potential customer to any onlookers. There was a red-headed Nord promoting a variety of odd looking potions, a Dunmer with a heap of general merchandise, a rather sour-looking Nord woman selling armor and… and a rather handsome Argonian man selling jewelry. Schyre put on her best smile as she sashayed towards the Argonian, appraising him more than his merchandise.
As she passed the red-headed potion peddler, she did a double-take as he thrust one skyward and claimed its properties could endow one to "perform like a saber cat." Schyre looked dubiously at the concoction he held aloft, doubting it would do much of anything except make someone sick. In all her alchemic experience, she had never seen such a creation. It looked like someone had bled into the glass vial and mixed it with swamp water from Black Marsh. Curling her lip in disgust, she passed the merchant before focusing her full attention on the Argonian. "Greetings, Marsh-Friend," he said genuinely. "So good to see a sister of the Marsh here. Welcome to my jewelry shop. How can I, Madesi, help adorn such a lovely lady? How about some beautiful rubies to compliment your scales? Hmm, no, I think that the rubies would be jealous of such radiance. Then, perhaps a necklace of citrine to bring out that mischievous sparkle in your eyes? All handmade with fine Argonian craftsmanship." Oh, he's good, she thought, grateful her red coloring wouldn't show her deep blush. Maybe Riften does have a few good aspects. She gave him a flattered smile, amused as the crest that topped his head flared in excitement. So… not just sweet talk to sell his wares, but real interest. There must not be many Argonian females that come through here. It wasn't what she was here for, but it was… tempting.
Schyre was just about to drop her best line when a solid hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around. She found herself staring at the barrel-sized chest of the red haired Nord, who swished a potion dramatically in her face. She recoiled slightly as its contents sloshed around in the vial and the man brought his face unsettlingly close to hers, "You don't want his products, lass. No practical application for a warrior such as yourself." He began guiding her back towards his stall, grinning broadly all the way, "Instead, direct your attention to my fine products. Now this will give you the strength of a mammoth and the swiftness of the artic fox." The Nord shoved a few glass containers in her hands. Startled, Schyre struggled not to drop them as he piled more into her arms. The Dunmer merchant, obviously irate, left his stall and began ranting at the Nord. "Brynjolf! Stop pestering our customers, you fraud!" the dark elf spat, "She doesn't want your business. Go peddle your fake miracle potions elsewhere."
The potion peddler Brynjolf smiled easily at the Dunmer and replied jovially, "Let the lass decide who she wishes to do business with, Brand-Shei." He then turned directly to Schyre and dropped his voice so only she could hear, "Besides, I think you'll find the nature of my business very… lucrative." He drew her eye to the pouch he now held in his hand, tossing it gently in the air enough that the clank of coins was easily discernable. Schyre's eyes widened at the site of HER coin purse resting in the Brynjolf's hand. What the? How? She glanced at her side to check her purse, and lo and behold it was missing. He must have grabbed it when he shoved all these potions in my arms. I didn't feel a thing! He must be a member of the Thieves' Guild.
Schyre placed the potions back on the stall shelf and eyed Brynjolf for a moment. "All right, I'm listening," she replied, gesturing for her coin purse. I'll need to count that later, she thought as he delicately placed the pouch in her waiting hand before she re-secured it to her belt. The Dunmer threw his hands up in disgust and returned to his stall as Brynjolf led her to the other side of his own stall on the edge of the bazaar, away from prying eyes. Though his voice was pitched to a low and silky murmur, he addressed her formally, "I am Brynjolf. No doubt you have already guessed my profession." He flashed a knowing smirk as he regarded her appearance, "You have the look of someone who hasn't earned all of her money through back-breaking, honest work." What is THAT supposed to mean? Is it because I'm Argonian? Before her temper could flare, Brynjolf continued, "You also handled the situation at the gate very well. No violence or unnecessary attention, just quick wits and a sharp tongue." So… he was responsible for the shakedown. Schyre tilted her head quizzically to the side, "And you are telling me this because?" She looked at him expectantly. Brynjolf leaned in closer, the whiskers of his trimmed beard practically brushing her cheek scales, "I'm telling you this because I believe you have potential. I believe you possess skills that a certain Guild is looking for. Do you want a chance or not?"
Schyre stepped back to escape the intimate closeness, and to be at a safe distance where she could watch his hands. "What's the job?" she inquired quietly. Brynjolf grinned, pleased, and tilted his head sideways towards the rest of the market. "That Dunmer, Brand-Shei," he stated, "needs to learn to mind his own business. He has interfered with my affairs one too many times." He turned his face to Madesi's stall, "I will create a distraction in the bazaar while you pick the lock on the Argonian's jewelry case. There's a rather valuable ring inside- I want you to plant that ring on Brand-Shei. A 'concerned citizen' will then summon the guard to investigate a suspected theft, and that will be the end of that." Brynjolf's grin went from sly to predatory as he winked at Schyre. "Let me know when you are ready, lass."
Schyre leaned over the rail, watching the sunlight flicker on the waters below. She had told Brynjolf she would need time to prepare and excused herself, retreating past the temple of Mara to seek shelter under the eves of a nearby building overlooking the lake. She wasn't sure why, but his request bothered her. She knew that there was no honor among thieves and hadn't expected much of a moral ground when it came to a guild full of them, but she still couldn't ignore how WRONG it was to send an innocent man to jail. No doubt there were people in this world that deserved such a fate, just as some people deserved to die. Schyre herself had no qualms about dispensing justice or even death if the offense warranted it. But this… condemning a guiltless person for her own gain? The prospect made her feel unclean. She thought back to the event that first made her head down this path to try to join the Thieves' Guild- being mistaken for a thief when she tried to shop in Bruma all those weeks ago. Maybe they weren't the only ones mistaken about me being a thief…
Schyre picked up a pebble from the boardwalk and skipped it along the surface of the water, watching as it bounced a few times before sinking. "Wow!" a high pitched voice exclaimed to her right, "Can you teach me to do that?" Schyre half-turned and saw a blonde child had taken up position next to her, dangling her feet off the edge of the walkway. She waggled her dirty bare toes in the breeze, seemingly unaffected by the cold. Schyre smiled at her warmly and earned a shy smile in return before the girl bashfully averted her eyes. Schyre picked up another pebble and cast it beyond the rail into the softly undulating waves, earning her a delighted giggle as it skipped fours times before succumbing to gravity. "I sure can," Schyre said, "if you tell me your name." The girl stood, brushing off her dress with both hands and chin set proudly as she replied, "My name is Runa Fair-Shield. I am ten years old and strong and would work real hard for a mommy or daddy who wanted me." She plucked the rock from Schyre's hand and threw it into the river. It sank, well, like a rock and Runa puffed out her cheeks in frustration.
Schyre was amused at her energy, but immediately noticed when the little girl's enthusiasm faded. Runa looked wistfully out over the water with a sad grimace. "I wish someone wanted me." It was barely a whisper, nearly lost on the breeze. Schyre knelt down eye level to the girl and tucked a stray piece of hair behind Runa's ear. "Hush little egg," Schyre cooed, using a term of endearment from her people. "Who wouldn't want a daughter as strong and pretty as you?" She turned to Schyre, her innocent eyes wide and filled with cautious hope, "You really think someone will take me?" Schyre nodded, "Of course child. Why would you think otherwise?" Runa bowed her head and fidgeted with the lace on her dress, worrying it into a tangled knot. She shied away from meeting Schyre's eyes, slowly backing away from her and finally said, "Well… Grelod said-" A withered hand snaked out from the shadows at that moment and grabbed the girl roughly by the arm. From the doorway of the Honorhall Orphanage emerged an old crone, face twisted in anger. "What Runa meant to say," she interjected in a voice like dry leaves, "is that Grelod said only good little girls get adopted. Not guttersnipes who disobey their elders and go outside when they have been instructed to scrub the floors." The edge of her lip curled in disgust as she regarded the kneeling Argonian, "Or mingle with riffraff." With a vicious shake, she dragged the girl to the doorway. Runa was helplessly yanked along, but her fearful, pleading gaze never left Schyre.
Schyre stood and followed the old woman, hands folded in supplication as she began, "There's no need for that, ma'am. The child wasn't bothering me. I-" The crone turned and glared hotly at Schyre. "What do you want? You have no business here! Riffraff! That's all you Riften people are. This is an orphanage, not an inn. Be gone from here!" With that she slammed the door in her face, followed by the sound of a lock being secured. Schyre stood dumbly for a moment, staring at the door. THAT was Grelod the Kind? No, it can't be. That means… that means everything the boy said was true. Schyre pounded on the door for a few moments, but after no response she quickly scanned the area before kneeling to pick the lock. It took several tense seconds, but she finally heard the satisfying click of the tumblers aligning and pushed the door ajar. Immediately she was bombarded with the harsh sound of Grelod's voice screaming furiously at the children. Stealthily she slipped into the hall, silently closing the door behind her, and rolled to the other side of the room past a dining table. She pressed her back against the wooden wall next to the pantry door and peered around the corner.
Grelod the Kind had positioned herself in the center of the room like an unholy queen staring down at her subjects. A meek, mousy-looking woman stood behind her, head bowed in submission, as Grelod addressed the children. Each child was lined up before the row of beds; tiny soldiers at attention while Grelod went down the aisle and inspected them. Runa stood nearest to the entrance, silent tears rolling down the vicious welt that was forming on the side of her face- she seemed to know better than to cry out loud. Schyre caught her eye for a moment and brought her fingers to her lips in a "hush" gesture. Runa gave her a slight nod and returned her attention to Grelod. "Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" Grelod yelled loudly, pacing the aisle. "Yes, Grelod!" the orphans answered in unison. "And one more thing!" Grelod said, grabbing Runa by the ear and dragging her towards the center of the room. She threw the girl to the dingy floor, an example for the rest of the assembled children. "I will hear NO more talk of adoptions! None of you riffraff is getting adopted. Ever! Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world." Runa gasped sharply as Grelod yanked her to her feet by her golden hair. "Now, what do you all say?" Grelod asked, grinning sadistically. "We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness." Runa and the others supplied automatically. The sound was monotone and well rehearsed- completely devoid of sincerity or life. "That's better," Grelod replied haughtily. She released Runa, who scampered back to her place before her bed. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes. And don't forget- those who don't finish their chores don't get to eat. Constance!" The meek woman visibly flinched and followed Grelod towards the dinning area.
Schyre cursed silently when she saw them heading her way and carefully tried the panty door. It gave without much protest and she slid into the dark, musty room. She left the door open a crack; the thin stream of light that filtered in was barely enough to see the outline of the shelves. She watched as Grelod and Constance sat down at the table. "This place is filthy," Grelod said to Constance as she tore into a piece of bread. "I've a mind to cancel all town privileges unless those brats start pulling their weight." Constance met Grelod's eyes for the first time. "There's no need for that, Grelod. I'll take care of it." Grelod harrumphed, downing the last of her bread before brushing the crumbs onto the floor. Constance appeared aghast for a moment, but quickly schooled her expression by the time Grelod looked up again. "The stores are running low. We'll need to water down the milk again. Besides, we don't want the little darlings getting fat." Grelod's tone was so venomous Schyre wondered if she could bottle it and use it as a reagent in a poison- such a thing would kill instantly with just a knick. "Okay Grelod, I'll take care of it," Constance said, rising to her feet. "SIT DOWN!" Grelod yelled, "I'll do it! It needs to be done properly! And you were far too generous last time." Grelod rose, grumbling, and headed for the pantry door. Shit! I need to hide. Schyre thought. With seconds to spare, she crouched behind a dusty shelf as Grelod entered the pantry with naught but a candle to light her way.
The crone placed the candle on a shelf and reached for a large clay jug filled with fresh milk. She poured herself a full mug, sighing with satisfaction as she gulped the beverage down greedily. She smacked her wrinkled lips and placed the milk jug on the floor, now three-fourths of the way empty. Her shriveled hands grabbed a water jug from the shelf and began pouring its contents into the milk jug. As the water mixed with the milk, the liquid went from a creamy white to a brackish pale fluid. Hag! Schyre thought. Not only does she beat them and belittle them, she steals from them too! Unfiltered rage filled Schyre. She had been selected to be a nursemaid to hatchlings once. She had seen firsthand how precious new life is: how delicate and dependant each tiny being was. Innocent, and trusting. She had held her clan's hatchlings in her arms and swore to protect them. Now this witch was stealing from these children, lessening their chances for survival in an already harsh world.
Before Schyre knew what she was doing, she crept forward with her dagger drawn and seized Grelod by the hair. I may not be with the Dark Brotherhood, she thought as she dragged her blade across the woman's throat, but Aventus will get his wish. Grelod tried to scream as the blood flowed from her neck, but it just came out a strangled, gurgling cry. The old crone clawed feebly at her assailant's arm, but her strength was already leaving her. Schyre let Grelod slowly fall to the ground and watched with no remorse as the light left her eyes. This isn't murder. Schyre concluded. This is justice! Without a sound, Schyre glided undetected past Constance out the door. She had just latched the door behind her when she heard Constance's scream of horror and the children's jubilant cheers.
Geir reined in his gelding on top of a gradually rising hill. The snow stung his eyes and he pulled his courier's cap lower to offer him some shelter against the flurries. He could just make out Dragonsreach in the distance, maybe a day's ride away. Geir grinned. He had made the journey in good time. He was worried that the sudden snowstorm would slow him down and his rendezvous with the Argonian would be delayed, but luckily it seemed that would not be the case. He spurred his horse down the slope. They were halfway down when his horse suddenly shied. Geir clung to the gelding, only years of riding experience keeping him in the saddle. "Easy boy," he said, giving the horse a soothing pat on the neck. "What's wrong?" The horse balked again and Geir was forced to spin the gelding in a circle to keep it from bolting. Geir didn't notice the shadow descending upon them until it was too late. In the last excruciating moments of his life, he felt his flesh freeze: bones turned brittle and his lower half fused with that of his horse under the frost dragon's deadly blast. The horse gave an agonized scream as its fragile frozen legs shattered under the weight of torso and rider. As their bodies broke into pieces, the frost dragon landed for a leisurely meal.
Schyre knocked gently on Aventus' door. She had arrived back in Windhelm a few days early. With all of the excitement over Grelod's death, she thought it best to leave Riften and just wait for Geir to return. No doubt Brynjolf would be annoyed that she passed up her chance to join the Thieves' Guild, but somehow that didn't really matter anymore. Upon reaching Windhelm, she decided to check on Aventus Aretino and inform the boy of Grelod's fate. She knocked again, and after no answer picked the lock and slipped inside. Aventus was sitting in a wooden chair far too large for him, his feet dangling about a foot from the ground, and staring lifelessly at the wall. He appeared even skinnier than the last time she saw him- Schyre wondered if he had eaten at all since fleeing the orphanage. She shuffled her foot on the worn floor purposely to alert him to her presence. He ever so slightly turned his head and stared at her with sunken eyes. For all she could tell, he must have thought she was a hallucination- he certainly didn't seem to comprehend that she was really standing in the room with him. "It is done," Schyre said firmly, breaking the overwhelming silence. The change in Aventus was instantaneous: tears flooded his eyes as his whole face lit up, weary but alive again. He slid down from the chair, almost afraid to believe her words, "It's over?" Schyre gave a small nod, and Aventus ran over to Schyre, throwing his arms around her. Shaking uncontrollably, he buried his face into her armor and sobbed, "Is she really dead?" Schyre didn't hesitate this time- she wrapped her arms around him and tried her best to chase his demons away.
Eventually, his tormented sobs quieted down to sniffles and he disengaged himself from her waist. Aventus turned, wiping his snotty nose on the back of his hand, and began purposefully scavenging for something among the rubble in a chest against the wall. Schyre took the opportunity to put some food on the table for him: a cheese wedge, bread, cooked pheasant meat, and a few apples. "Here this is for you." Aventus held up a large dinner plate and gave it to Schyre. "My family treasure, just like I promised. Errr… I wish I had more to give you." Schyre held up the plate, admiring it in the dim light. It wasn't worth much, maybe a hundred gold at the most, but she hadn't done this for the gold in the first place. She gave him a gracious smile and helped him into the chair, motioning for him to eat. He ravenously dived into the food, barely coming up for air. "When I grow up, I'm going to be an assassin! That way I can help lots of children, just like you," he said happily, juices from an apple running down his chin. Some role model you are, Schyre! "Um… why not just focus on being a kid for a while. A HAPPY kid," Schyre emphasized, cutting the cheese for him with her dagger. "There's plenty of time to think about all that adult stuff later. Now, little egg, once you're done here you must go to the guards and have them take you back to Riften. It's safe there now and Constance will look after you. Also, you must never tell ANYONE about our arrangement. Okay?" Aventus looked crestfallen for a moment, but nodded in agreement, "I promise I won't tell anyone. I'll go back to the orphanage in a while. I'll give them time to, you know... clean up the mess. Will… will I ever see you again?"
"I don't know, little egg. Perhaps." Schyre was already walking down the stairs. She was almost out the door when she heard him call out softly, "Thank you."
The Argonian Scouts-Many-Marshes watched the new female help Shahvee on the tanning rack. The two women had developed a fast friendship and were now chatting like a pair of gossipy old hens. He chuckled lightly as she playfully bumped Shahvee with her hip, nearly causing the other Argonian woman to lose her balance. Her scales were unlike anything he had ever seen: red as dried blood and hued with flecks of gold, they glistened in the sun like a priceless treasure. Redclay. Schyre Redclay- that was how she had introduced herself. She told him the name originated from the terra cotta clay that lined her village's shores. Since he had been born in Skyrim, he rarely had the chance to meet a native of Black Marsh. He found her, and her stories, fascinating. The story about how she got her scar had been riveting, although he was sure she glazed over some of the details. This was the third day she had come down to the docks of Windhelm. I guess the Nords haven't been particularly welcoming to her, either. She had said she was waiting for someone. Scouts-Many-Marshes hoped whoever it was would be delayed. Other than Shahvee, there was a serious shortage of Argonian women in this area, and Shavee was already being courted by Neetrenza.
While on his break from the docks, he had caught several salmon that were now had slung over his shoulder. Feeling rather playful himself, he took one off the hook and tossed it at Schyre's turned back. With a wet splat, the fish landed squarely on her spine, sticking for a moment before dropping onto the dock. "Thank the Divines that wasn't a leviathan, Schyre, or you'd have another beauty mark to match the one above you eye." Schyre stopped her tanning and glared at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. And I am dead, so very, very dead! Schyre sheathed her dagger and stood with the grace of a saber cat, salmon in hand. She brandished the fish like a weapon, waving its limp body in his direction with a sly smile on her face, "Is that a challenge, Scouts-Many-Marshes?"
He smiled in earnest, "Depends. What's the prize?" Is it you? His mind supplied scandalously. "Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You'd have to beat me first! Name your challenge!" Schyre grinned at him, tossing him the fish. He caught it in midair with what he hoped was impressive flourish. "Ah, but I am only a humble dock worker. I'm afraid my skill set is not the same as yours. You would no doubt beat me at archery, as I would defeat you at rope-making." When she laughed at his joke, he felt a surge of excitement. "Damn, and I was so looking forward to rope making," she teased. "Okay, name your stakes. If I win, I claim those fish you have for supper. What do you want if YOU win?" It was a loaded question. He thought for a brief moment before answering, "If I win, I still give you the fish… with the exception that I get to cook them and you join me for dinner." Schyre feigned indecision for a moment, then turned and conspired with Shahvee. After a few claw-biting moments, she turned back to him with a cool, straight face and replied, "Very well, Scouts-Many-Marshes. I challenge you to an underwater race from the end of the dock to the furthest bank. Do you accept? Or do you yield?"
She gestured to the snowy bank across White River, a good half-mile stretch. He balked slightly. The water was ice blue and freezing: mini glaciers drifted along downstream, following the current out to sea. "Do you yield?" she asked again, a challenging grin set on her face. She's toying with me! I can't back out now; she'll think I'm a coward! "Never!" he exclaimed, handing his fish over to Shahvee. I'm going to freeze to death. Why did I agree to this? He stripped off his vest and positioned himself to dive in the water. Shahvee rolled her eyes and muttered something about them being insane as she took Schyre's bow and quiver. Schyre stretched unhurriedly and walked to the edge of the pier, lining up with Scouts-Many-Marshes and assuming a diving position.
Shahvee stood behind them as they readied themselves. When both racers were braced to jump, Shahvee announced the start, "Ready… Go!" Scouts-Many-Marshes launched himself in to the frigid waters, gasping and inhaling a mouthful when the temperature hit him like a blunt weapon. Go, you idiot! She probably got a huge lead on you already! Forcing himself to ignore the cold, he commanded his limbs to propel himself forward, using his powerful tail to boost his speed. The coldness of the water stung his eyes, but he could see clearly ahead. I'm winning! He thought in triumph, for Schyre was nowhere to be seen.
He made it about halfway to the bank when he risked a glance behind him and saw nothing but a few fish and water plants. Where is she? He broke the surface of the water, only to see both Shahvee and Schyre doubled over with laughter. She never jumped in! He realized with dawning embarrassment. He swam back to the pier feeling rather foolish and dodging the ice floes. Schyre offered him a hand up once he reached the dock. He stared at it, silently seething. I guess now she'll tell me the wager was all just a joke, too. "Guess this means you won," she said with a smile. Scouts-Many-Marshes perked up immediately. Hey! She'll do it! That means…! Anger gone as quickly as it had come, he accepted her hand and hauled himself up.
Shahvee was still laughing. "I can't … believe… you …did that!" Shavhvee said gasping for air. "Ha ha ha!" he said mockingly, flicking cold water at her. She shrieked and hid behind Schyre. "So, about that dinner I owe you?" Schyre said. Scouts-Many-Marshes was about to answer when an earth-shattering roar shook the dock. Descending rapidly, a blood dragon's massive wings shredded the clouds as it approached the city. "RUN!" was all Schyre screamed. There was no need; he was already sprinting for the gate.
"Argonians aren't allowed in the city!" the guard announced shakily, blocking the gate with his pole arm. "There's a dragon attacking, in case you failed to notice. Let us in!" Schyre cried as the blood dragon made another pass at the city, spewing flames and blackening the walls. The three other Argonians she had become friendly with huddled as close to the gate as possible, trying to escape the dragon's wrath. Schyre grabbed the guard by his breastplate, bringing her face dangerously close to his. "Let us in now, or the four of us will throw you off the edge of the pier. In all that plate mail, how long do you think you'll be able to swim?" Schyre hissed menacingly and Neetrenza joined her. "Um... um… okay, okay. Look, just don't tell anyone I let you in," the guardsman said, opening the gate. Somehow, I doubt they'll notice. Schyre thought dryly as she ushered the others inside. You know, with the giant fire-breathing dragon flying around.
"Follow me!" She urged, leading them to the Candlehearth Hall. The citizens of the city were panicking, knocking each other over and trampling those too slow to get out of the way. The dragon caught an updraft and circled the skies, his powerful jet of flame setting the rooftops ablaze. The stone walls echoed with the cries of the wounded, the fearful, and shouts for water to put out the flames. Schyre saw a small group of archers line up along the battlements and unleash a torrent of arrows at the beast as she finally got the others to the inn. "Get inside!" she gestured, holding open the door as they filed into the building. Scouts-Many-Marshes had just passed the threshold when the dragon landed on the Palace of the Kings, trumpeting so loudly the buildings shook. "Maybe we should have stayed at the docks?" he asked uncertainly. Schyre shook her head, "Too late to go back now. Get inside and try to keep everyone calm. And stay on the ground floor." Schyre pushed the door closed and bound for the nearest stairwell to ascend the perimeter wall.
Ahead, the dragon released a great roiling fireball at a group of guards, sending them flying into the air. Schyre knelt and treated her arrow with a particularly virulent poison she had crafted before sprinting up the stairs. She snuck over as close as she could while the dragon was distracted and shot the arrow into its neck. The dragon roared and thrashed its wings and tail in pain before taking flight. As Schyre followed it along the wall, she had to yell at a pair of guards that were in her way, stricken. "Move!" She shoved past them and leapt onto the shingled roof of a nearby house, using all her skill to stay balanced. The poison was taking effect and the dragon's strength was failing as its flight patterns became more and more erratic. She got off several more shots before the creature turned around and pinpointed her as the target. Abandoning her pursuit, she turned and fled for the safety of the wall so the dragon would be forced to glide by overhead. Unexpectedly, the creature lost altitude and crashed directly into the wall, sending both her and it tumbling down to the hard stone below.
As she lay there stunned and winded, Schyre was vaguely aware that they had landed in the courtyard that led to the Palace of the Kings. She tried to focus on moving her unresponsive limbs; though painful, she was grateful that she could still feel them. Slowly, she stood and began limping away as the thick dust settled around her revealing the terrifying form of the dragon not far from her. Panting heavily and badly hurt from its many injuries, the blood dragon gradually picked itself off the courtyard floor, shaking debris from its wings. Schyre had made it to the stone archway to distance herself from the creature and heal herself. Her right shoulder was dislocated, and she was fairly certain she had cracked a rib or two. Wishing she had had more experience in the healing arts, she gritted her teeth against the pain as her ribs fused together and her shoulder snapped back into place. The intensity of the pain left her lightheaded, and she steadied herself against the archway wall.
My bow! She realized too late that her bow was missing, probably still among the wreckage. The dragon hissed and snaked its head through the archway, boulder-sized eyes fixated on her. It was too large to fit through the arches though and growled in frustration as it tried to reach her. It would only be a matter of moments before its brute strength ripped the arch asunder, so Schyre dashed forward with the intent to end this quickly. Ignoring the protesting scream her shoulder gave her, she unsheathed her dagger and plunged it up to the hilt into its neck. The dragon roared, rearing its head into the arch above, shattering stones and raining down rubble as Schyre rolled out of the way. Then, like a cart of bricks, the dragon collapsed, its tongue lolling from its mouth, dripping blood and spittle. Dead.
Schyre coughed as she recovered from her tumble, the air once again permeated with dust from the crushed stones. This CAN'T be good for my health she thought as she went to retrieve her dagger. With a solid pull, she freed it from the flesh of the dragon. She didn't even have the energy to try and resist the dragon's soul as it swelled over her in blinding golden light. She closed her eyes briefly against the brightness, feeling the familiar intrusion and the flash of warmth that went with the absorption. As it faded and left nothing but the skeletal remains of her fallen foe, she searched around for her bow, grimly noting the survivors emerging from the husks of buildings. They were gathering around the dragon's remains in awe, and she was more than certain they all witnessed that last spectacle of the soul absorption. She finally spotted her bow. Sadly, it did not survive the battle: it was sundered in two by a stone that had fallen during the fray. Damn. Seeing that it was a lost cause, she left it amidst the ruins and picked her way out of the debris.
She glanced at the faces of the people who had seen the final end of the dragon, and her heart dropped a little when she saw the same dumbstruck expression on her fellow Argonians. The paralysis of awe slowly faded as people's emotions changed to horror, disbelief, hope, and even some pity. The name Dragonborn was whispered over and over again in numerous conversations. "In all my years, I've never seen such a thing," one guard murmured. Like I haven't heard THAT before she thought dryly. Schyre tried to ignore it, she really did, but the pressure, the very weight of the stares was overbearing. She tensely made her way to her Argonian friends that had vacated Candlehearth Hall and approached Scouts-Many-Marshes, only managing to grimace at him. "You're the Dragonborn?" he asked quietly. Schyre shrugged, "Yeah, I guess. Nevermind it though. It doesn't matter. I believe I owe you dinner?"
And that's when she saw his hesitation, his fear. Even among her people, she was no longer Schyre Redclay. Her clan name, rich in history, no longer held any meaning. She was stripped of it and stamped with Dragonborn instead. Everyone she met along way would only recall her as Dovahkiin. She was a myth, a legend, a demi-god. A tool to be wielded by the fates. Her wants and dreams no longer mattered: her Path was no longer her own. And she HATED it. "I… don't think… That is.. I.. well.. I mean…." Scouts-Many-Marshes stumbled over the words, trying to come up with an excuse to back out of their dinner arrangement. "It's ok. Don't worry about it." Schyre said sadly. He looked relieved for a second, but had the decency to mask it quickly. "We should get back to the docks," Neetrenza said, taking Shahvee by the arm and leading her away. "Thank you for saving us," Shahvee said earnestly as they turned to leave. She gave Schyre a sympathetic look before turning for the docks. Schyre watched them go as the rest of the crowd slowly dispersed. Shahvee appeared to be arguing with Scouts-Many-Marshes and punched his arm solidly in response to one of his meek replies as they left the confines of the city walls.
"Excuse me?" someone said meekly behind her. The emotions Schyre had held in check suddenly broke free. She whirled on the inquirer, snarling viciously, "What! What task do you have for the Dragonborn now? Whose skin do you want me to save? Or war I am to prevent? Perhaps I am to end world hunger? Cure all diseases? What is it you need of me now?" Schyre stopped short when she saw her own terrifying reflection in the courier's eyes, wide as shields. The trembling man held a rolled parchment out to her, yellowed with age, "M-m-message for you, ma'am." Schyre sighed, rubbing her scar, "I'm sorry, I just... It's been a long day." The courier nodded wordlessly, still quite shaken. "Is this from Geir?" she inquired, opening the letter. "I-I don't know. I couldn't tell you who he was. He had his hood down," the courier replied, wary of another outburst of anger.
Schyre stopped breathing for a long moment as she stared silently at the paper, oblivious of the courier. Finally remembering as an afterthought, she groped blindly in her coin purse, never taking her eyes from the paper. After grabbing a large handful of gold, she thrust the coins at the courier's chest, releasing them almost before he had a chance to catch them. "Go," she said in a dull voice. The man didn't even thank her- in his haste to get away from her, he even dropped a few coins. Schyre didn't notice. It did not matter. He didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even the fact that she was Dragonborn. She was dead, and in her hand she held her own death certificate. The yellowed paper held only two words: WE KNOW. Above those two simple words was the insignia of the Dark Brotherhood. The Black Hand.