Complications

Bashnag opened his eyes and stared at the dilapidated ceiling. It took a minute for the dream world to fade away completely and for him to return to this so-called reality. The transfer was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The problem with living in a world like this was that it was difficult to tell whether you awoke from a bad dream or into one.

Too early for that.

He rubbed at his face. Then recalled last evening. He quickly turned his head to find the other side of the wide bed empty. She had left. Thank the gods. He rubbed at his face again, shaking his head. Not soon after the first time, they had done it again. And soon again. None of the times had been much more spectacular than the last; nor would Dura have expected any different. "You sure know what a girl likes." Had she actually said that? She had indeed. Bashnag shook his head again. Unbelievable.

I'm just surprised you actually had it in you to act like a real man for once! Even if it did take your every effort to feign it.

Ignoring Malacath's derisive voice, Bashnag pushed himself off the bed. He winced at the pain in his back. It, as the sore muscles about his loins, was from yesterday. He then suppressed a shiver. The hearth had long been cold, and of course there were no servants to stoke the fires. His every breath was a faint puff of mist. The dampness of the earth surrounding him seeped through the many cracks in the walls.

Bashnag scowled. He hated this place. Hated everything it represented. He could not get out of here soon enough. But he would do his best. Quickly collecting his things, he stormed out of the room and up the stairs. No one had better try to encage him or they would be truly sorry. Gods, how he hoped not to run into Dura, yet was unable to count on his luck.

He would go out and collect his horse, growl at anyone who in any way tried challenging him, then ride out as fast as he could—not that he had any way of controlling the horse, hopefully it would be smart enough to get to where he was supposed to go—without as much as a glance back. If he was lucky, which he never was, he'd never have to come here again. Perhaps he could try to explain to the Nightingale—

No, out of the question.

Almost out, the door in sight. And no Dura. Though no doubt she'd be waiting outside. There, walking past Bashnag in the hallway now, was that girl, the poor Nord from Ragnar's room. Something about her caught his attention . . . No, spare her no thought. Pushing things away, yes: right after breaking people's bones, that was the one thing he was good at. Almost there now—

Bashnag stopped. The girl.

He just couldn't push it away.

Spinning around, he caught up with her in in a few long strides. Took her by the shoulder, felt her grow tense as she stopped. She would not turn or otherwise seem to acknowledge him, simply submitted to the fact that her movement had been arrested. When Bashnag gently brought her around, she kept her eyes on the floor, the tangled snarl of her hair hanging in front of her face. She did not resist as he tenderly took her by the chin and lifted her face, swept the tangles aside. She would not meet his eye.

Bashnag scowled. Around one eye, there was a fresh purple bruise, reaching down over the cheekbone. He suddenly remembered what Dura had said. Supposedly he'd made Ragnar livid. And if there was one thing weak men did it was take their helplessness out on those more vulnerable than them.

That's how his own father had been. Now that's laughable. The great warlord a weak man? Who would ever believe such a thing?

Fools wouldn't, that was for sure. To them, a man like Bashnag's father was not only strong, he was the solid foundation on which they could lean. His words inspired such fear in their weak souls that they were regarded as truth—as law. He could do no wrong. He was strong, as so he was wise. This was the sort of sort of stuff they ate up like a swarm of locusts. Then go seek out some other fools whose skulls to bash in. Welcome to Nirn.

The drunken slur of the old man's angry words rang in Bashnag's ears as he felt the world grow dark around him. Could still feel the memory of the blows, could feel that old instinct to hunker down and cower away. And, even more fresh, remembered his own bloody oath that never again would he do so.

Bashnag realized that he had balled his hands into fists, so hard that his overgrown nails bit into his palms. He could barely feel the pain. Then he realized that the girl was no longer in front of him. In fact, he himself was longer where he was and was now on the move. In a fevered step, his own legs, as though out of their own volition, fast propelled him forward. But it wasn't towards the door.

Where he was headed to was Ragnar's chambers.

Some two dozen frantic, pounding heartbeats later he stood at the bedroom's double doors, gave them three hard thumps. "Ragnar!" he boomed.

"Go away, I'm busy!" The man's gruff voice of ire, replying after a brief silence, hid a different emotion.

"You and I gotta talk! NOW!"

"Who do you think you are? Get the hell out of here, I told you—"

Bashnag kicked the doors in, the one of them coming off one hinge, a broken board clattering across the floor.

The wide-eyed bandit, still under his furs on the bed, after a stretch of bemused muteness, swung his eyes toward the corner of the room where his scabbarded sword leaned against the wall. Then his eyes returned to Bashnag. Calculation.

He scrambled out of the bed, and dove for the weapon.

But the Orsimer was faster. A couple long strides and he had Ragnar by the back of his neck, lifted the man up as easily as though he were a child. Bashnag smashed him against the wall. With a grunt, the man went limp onto the ground. Bashnag spun him around, grabbed him by the throat and lifted up again. Pressed Ragnar against that wall, and leaned in close, stared into those eyes brimming with shock and terror. Oh, if only he were able to see himself now. Perhaps there was a chance he'd understand the irony, no matter how slim of one at that.

Bashnag bared his teeth. "I told you not to stretch my patience!" he roared, spittle splattering on the Nord's face. "I FUCKIN' TOLD YOU!"

"I told you," Runa said in singsong as they stepped outside into the already relentless midmorning sun. Heat was already radiating from the cobblestones under their feet.

"What?" Hroar frowned at her. "What are you talking about? Torvar gave us a solid clue."

She shrugged. "I don't think Torvar and the word solid even fit in the same sentence. If you know what I mean."

"I don't, Runa. As usual, I have little idea of what you mean."

Runa hissed with a wave of a dismissive hand. Then gave a sour belch. She winced. The Companions' own brew of mead was damn strong stuff. And she'd had . . . a few. Though, all told, after downing a vial of hangover elixir and grabbing a couple soothing ales to break her fast with, she didn't feel half bad. And that skin of wine she'd stashed in her satchel when she'd been sure no one was looking should tide her through the morning at least.

"Well, I hope Rusty is doing better than you," Hroar said, ignoring her answering indignant glare. "We'll just go collect him and then go head out to look for Vigrod."

"Sounds like a plan," Runa said.

"At least you can still recognize one, then."

"Leave the snark to the boy with the lips for it. I don't suit you at all."

Hroar made no reply, simply grinned with self-satisfaction while keeping his eyes ahead. In fact, the man seemed a damn sight friskier than he had the previous days. Why, there was almost a jaunt in his step.

"You seem to be in an awful good mood," she observed.

He shrugged. "What if I am? It's nice to see family."

"Is it? I guess, if you say so." Runa narrowed her eyes. "You did spend a long time with Njada. Did she . . . do something to you?"

He had taken a break in the middle to see Mila, but had after that once again secluded himself with the old lady for more private time of who knew what. Far as Runa could tell from her own drinking, that was.

Hroar scowled. "How many times do I have to tell you? She's like an aunt to me."

"Yeah, well. Sometimes a really nice aunt can . . ."

He made a face of utter revulsion. "Ech! You're disgusting!"

Now it was Runa's turn to be smirking.

They met Rusty by the gate, a mischievous grin directed at them as they came to him, clearly ready to brag about his last night's escapades. But he was met with Runa's warding hand.

"Don't even go there, Rusty," she said.

A disgruntled look flashed on his face, but he just as soon shrugged it off and went on grinning. "So? Strike on anything," he eyed Runa up and down, "besides a hangover?"

"Oh, plenty, my boy, plenty. A major lead, just as I said we'd find here!" She glanced at Hroar, but he was only rolling his eyes. She waved at them to follow. "Come on, lads, we ain't got all day."

She slunk through the crack of the gate before they guards had had a chance to open it all the way, and the men followed dutifully.

"Where to, then?" Rusty asked. "If you don't mind me asking." His step looked just a tad awkward as he tried to keep pace with Runa, though it might have only been her imagination.

"Actually," she drawled. "I'm not so sure it would be wise for me to—"

"We're looking for Vigrod the Gimp," Hroar cut it.

"Hey!"

Ignoring Runa, he went on. "Remember, that pseudo-mysterious blowhard who used to hang around the Rift back in the day? Not sure where he's been lately. But in any case, supposedly him and a bunch of Rift folk are bandit-hunting around Folkreath, and we're off to look for them."

"I vaguely remember. Not a terribly impressive fellow, to be honest. And, as I recall, not in fact a gimp at all. Why're we looking for him?"

"According to Torvar," Hroar said, before Runa got a chance to get a word in, "he knows things about the Nightingale no one else does. At this point, he may just be our best bet."

Rusty snorted. "Torvar! Are you sure he didn't just make it up?"

"Torvar may be a lot of things," Hroar said, "but a liar he ain't."

"This other guy might be, though."

"Sure. That's always a risk. But it's one we must be willing to take."

"I don't remember anyone appointing you the leader," said Runa, but it came out more forcefully than she'd intended.

Hroar gave her a level look. "I'm not trying to lead, Runa. But do I have to remind you that it was me whose idea it was to come here?"

"Yours?" Runa burst out with as much indignation as she could muster.

"Don't even try, Runa!" Rusty said. "You'll only embarrass yourself."

She pointed a sharp finger. "Now listen, bucko! When and how I choose to embarrass myself is entirely up to—"

"Miss Fair-Shield!"

The attention of all three suddenly went ahead to where the source of the voice stood in their path.

The Khajiit gave them an outwardly humble bow. "It is most fortunate that you are here! This one begs that you follow." He eyed the others, "And your companions as well, this one supposes."

The companions shared quick looks, the men wisely seeming to wait for Runa to speak first. "Right," she said. "Of course. So, uh, what's the—"

"Please," the Khajiit interrupted, piqued beneath his obsequious manner. "All questions shall be answered back at the camp."

Without argument, they then followed after him.

"Best you two keep your traps shut until further instruction, hear?" Runa whispered at her companions.

The reply was two pairs of eyes rolling up in perfect synch.

They stalked down the sloping path between Whiterun's inner and outer gate, threading their way through the throng of merchants and city guards going in and out of the city. Runa wiped at her brow with the back of her hand, and it came back sweaty. Curse the heat. She couldn't even remember when it had last been this warm at this time of year. Sure could use a—

"Drink?" asked Rusty.

Runa frowned. "Huh?"

The man proffered a waterskin her way. "Looks like you could use it."

With curt thanks, she took it and took a hearty swig. Could've used more kick, sure 'nuff, but it was better than nothing. Still, perhaps just one ale would be the charm. Then she could concentrate on this . . . well, whatever this was about.

Runa turned her face to the clear blue sky and briefly closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. The warm air blowing at her, the chorus of birds clamoring all 'round, the grind of the sand underneath their boots. Focusing on the minutia of the now, keeping the doubts about the near future at bay. One step at a time, eh?

Break it down to small parcels and even the biggest bite looked doable.

Until, of course, you choke on it—

"Shut," she muttered slowly, "up."

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes to counter Hroar's faintly concerned expression with a nonchalant grin. "Never better. How could I be, with what we're about to do? What, aren't you exited?"

Hroar snorted.

Yeah, he was only trying to hide it.

What are you trying to hide from me? Don't think for a second I won't find out!

Bashnag kept his attention straight ahead on the winding, narrow mountain path as he rode. There hadn't been a word spoken. That's how he preferred it. Though, truth be told, it hadn't been even half an hour since he'd ridden out of the Helgen gate for what he hoped was the last time—but which he knew was unlikely—so there might be time for words yet. Such was his fear. In any case, there had been some words spoken back at the bandit settlement as he'd marched out with his hands covered in blood, but none to him; he had made sure of that by glaring at anyone who'd harbored the intention to. He had a way with glares, tended to shut folk right up. They hadn't said a word about his . . . loot either. Though clearly there were those dispositioned to disagree with his right to take it, but . . . well, what were they going to do, dissuade him?

And they likely found better things to worry about once they discovered Ragnar. Which I'm sure did not take them long.

The most important thing of all was that he'd not seen Dura. And, will Trinimac, never shall I again. He wanted to snort at his own thought. Ought to know my own luck by now, shouldn't I?

His abdomen then tensed as he felt the Nord girl behind him stirring. The arms wrapped tightly around him as they'd been the whole ride, now for the first time showing signs of loosening somewhat.

She cleared her throat. "I . . ." A feeble voice. She cleared her throat again, then said, a little firmer, "I don't really know what to say."

"Best you say nothin'," Bashnag grated, keeping his eyes on the road.

A moment's silence. "Where . . . are you taking me?"

"Away."

What was he going to say, that he hadn't the faintest idea? Taking her to the Nightingale would likely be out of the question. Perhaps I shall drop her at Ivarstead. Should I trying asking her where she's from? No, bad idea. Don't want to know too much.

"I . . . see," she said. Then remained silent once more. Thank the Nine.

Bashnag closed his eyes in an upsurge of dismay. What was he doing? He'd spent his entire working life—if indeed he was audacious enough to use such honorable sounding terms—taking care to stay out of business that was in no way his, had avoided rattling all manner of cages. And now he had just— No, this was not acceptable. No matter how pure his intentions.

He could not cure the world, not one little bit. For all he knew, this thing he had now done would cause far more suffering than it had solved. Deep in his heart he knew it for the truth. He was simply incapable of doing the right thing, of playing the hero. He was a thug, and nothing more, and he had to own up to it for once and for all. His whole life thus far had pointed to this. Being rotten was all he was good for—in a manner of speaking. His actions here had done nothing but invite unnecessary complications, and he'd yet suffer for—

A sudden jolt tore Bashnag out of his dark reveries, the heat against his back which he'd grown accustomed to abruptly absent. Of its own accord, the horse came into a smooth halt. He turned his head back in time to see the girl spring up from all fours, then bolting on the sleet-mixed muck of the ground and nimbly scurrying up the rocky bank, soon vanishing from sight.

His mouth came open only after the passing impulse to say something had vanished into thin air. He sighed, then shook his head. Then grunted.

The slightest nudge of the reins and the horse was walking again. Bashnag kept his eyes nailed straight ahead. He would not sacrifice another thought to any of it.

Relief and deep sorrow vied for space within his heart. He shoved them both aside.

Better this way.

"This way," the Khajiit said, gesturing at the big yurt outside the city gate.

"Yeah, thanks," Runa said. "I got that." She pushed past the bemused looking feline and dove into the redolent tent.

Where she met the perturbed eyes of Dra'Ajira. The Khajiit elder sat cross-legged on the large carpet, frowning—insofar as cats could frown—up at her. "Come in, Runa," the female said, her voice serene as ever despite the look in her eyes. She peered behind the Nord. "And yes, they are welcome as well."

"Er," Runa said. She hadn't even thought about needing to explain her associates. She was then mildly distracted as she took passing notice of Ashni-Do's absence. Ah, now isn't that too bad.

Dra'Ajira's straight line of a mouth broke into an empathetic smile. Another strangely humanoid gesture: one natural to them or a learned behavior? "Yes, of course this one expects you to employ whatever help you need."

Unhesitant as ever, Rusty then shoved Runa aside and after the minutest of glances around flashed the old feline his most charming grin. "Well met! My name is—" His eyes went to Runa, and he sighed as his eyes rolled softly. "Rusty. My name is Rusty. At your service. This here's—" He gestured. "—named Hroar. Hope that does not somehow insult you—that's just what he's called!"

Hroar warily stepped from behind Runa, frowning. He gave the Khajiit a quick nod. "How do you do." Then seemed to try to make himself as unnoticeable as he possibly could with his bulk.

Dra'Ajira eyed the two men for a brief moment, then, seeming to ignore Rusty's jabbering, nodded her head as to give her approval and focused again on Runa. "This one is so glad we met with you here today. Alkosh must be looking out for us."

"What's this about?" Runa asked.

"There has been . . . development."

"Development?" Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good.

Dra'Ajira picked up a folded piece of paper from the low table behind her and offered it to Runa. Runa took it with badly suppressed hesitation and unfolded it.

"It is short," Dra'Ajira said. "And to the point."

"What's it say?" Rusty said, and, scowling, Runa waved the paper from out of the way of his prying eyes. "What? Gotta be something important the way your eyes almost bulged out of your head."

"Did not!"

"What does the note say?" asked Hroar, stepping in between the two.

Runa cleared her throat—boy, it was parched!—and read: "'Should you wish to see your errant kinscat again, go to where the moons remain mum and carefully follow the instructions you shall find therein'." She looked up. "No signature."

A moment's silence.

"Sounds like a trap," Hroar said.

"Sounds like nonsense," said Rusty. "Where the moons remain mum? What the crap is that supposed to mean!"

Runa looked up with a pensive expression. "Where the moons remain . . .," she mumbled. He's right, that don't make no goddamn— She glanced at the old female, who seemed to be studying her with anticipation, something knowing about the expression on those feline features. The cat's mouth was just about to open, when a thought came to her. "Aha! Of course! The Silent Moons Camp." The Khajiit nodded approvingly. Whew, now that was lucky!

A light came upon Hroar's countenance. He nodded, and the look he then afforded Runa was even a bit appreciative. She felt a stupid wave of pride, but soon swept it aside.

"Well, that, at least," remarked Rusty, "isn't very far." He looked at Dra'Ajira. "I take it that you want us to go there?"

The feline bowed her head. "I would never ask of such—"

"Of course we'll go," Runa said. "Part of the job, far's I can see."

Rusty's look was dubious but he wisely kept his big mouth shut.

"This one is thankful beyond words," Dra'Ajira said, once again pressing her face down.

"Still sounds like a trap, though," said Hroar, the appreciation on his face a thing of the past.

"Most likely it is," Runa replied. She patted at the pummel of one of her blades. "But we're well acquainted with those, ain't we?"

"Wait, Runa," Hroar said. "But they don't know about us, do they?"

Runa regarded him.

"Do they?" he repeated emphatically.

"Nah." Runa shrugged, then quickly followed that up by a shake of her head. "No, of course not. Why would they?" She turned to face Dra'Ajira. "Right?"

"There is no reason to believe that," the Khajiit elder replied. "But of course we cannot know such things for certain. We are dealing with a very dangerous individual."

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Runa thought Dra'Ajira meant her and felt the stab of that foolish pride. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, right. No reason to think that. Why you asking?"

Hroar frowned. Then sighed deep. Shook his head. "No reason."

"They'll be expecting Khajiit, then," Rusty said.

"Most likely," Runa replied. She smirked. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

Rusty's frown joined Hroar's. "What are you talking about now?"

She smirked wider.

Truth be told, she had no idea: but she did have the distinct feeling that they were all going to find out real soon.