A couple of people have reviewed/ messaged me asking whether Virani and Erandur are going to get down to anything more romantic than killing dragons and the answer is no, sadly. I've only ever seen them as friends, but I think it's important to note that romantic relationships aren't just an upgrade from friendship; them being best friends is just as important!

Anyway, thanks for continuing to read this.

…

"Would you like my opinion as a priest, or as your friend?" Erandur raises an eyebrow, and makes me shove a poultice down my throat.

"Uh… both?"

He laughs, bless his miserable heart "As a priest, challenging Torbjorn to a fight is morally wrong, and you should go to pray at the temple." He corks the bottle, and places it back in his pack "As a friend, your left swing has improved."

That almost sounded encouraging. Forcing some grieving, overfed bastard to try and hit me is usually a tactic reserved for bandits, but he might as well have been one with the way he was treating those Argonians. Don't get me wrong; I'm not going to whip my robes off and start screaming about Argonian rights in the Palace of Kings, but dealing with one racist does make me feel a bit better about myself.

Maybe I'll go for that Rolff fellow next. He always gets this weird, half-disgusted and half-terrified expression on his face when Erandur and I enter Candlehearth Hall in all our dumner glory to make the other patrons nervous.

Erandur looks like he's going to go pick Torbjorn off the floor, but he manages to roll himself back onto his feet. I won't lie; he doesn't look particularly pleased with the end result. Not sure I'm emotionally prepared for round two just yet, so I'll let Beardo handle this one while I slip out the back.

"Nice punch" The Nord says, wiping blood from his lip "Bastard"

He'd be saying more than that if he knew I'd drank about ten potions to boost my performance. Trade secrets of the mage. Dabbing at a bit of blood on my cheek with a numb finger, I notice that the priest is already talking to my latest vanquished foe.

"A shame it had to come to this" He tuts, checking for any serious injuries on the Nord. I think he's seriously overestimating how hard I can punch. I'm still impressed I won in the first place; I'll be honest, I thought my aspiring career as a bar brawler was over when Burguk almost gave my brain damage.

Torbjorn seems to consider the end result for a moment, and all of a sudden Erandur's grasp on his shoulder seems more like a warning than a check to make sure my potion-induced combat skills had actually done any damage. I've always found Nords to be a little too unpredictable for my tastes, and sadly being Dragonborn doesn't come with hazard pay.

"Always thought you grey skins weren't good for a real fight." Torbjorn shoves Erandur's peasant hands off his fancy fur cape getup, and looks at me with the focus of a man who's been drinking since at least six in the morning "But maybe some of you are. I'll pay those boots a proper wage. We'll see if they're worthy of it."

Off he stumbles. What a catch. Erandur looks on as he almost falls into the forge with a strange mixture of pity and reverence.

Or maybe he's just cold. He likes to complain a fair deal about just about every type of weather, but the cold's always seemed to bother him the most. I only really wear a cloak for appearances at this point, so it's easy to forget that the poor mortals can actually feel things. I left my sense for the cold with my morals back in Cyrodiil, according to Hulda. Evil crone.

"We should go tell Scoots-Across-Marshlands we've got his boss to pay him a bit more than a beggar earns in a day, I suppose."

"… His name was Scouts-Many-Marshes, Virani." He's continuing to exert his gift for giving disappointed stares. It always makes me feel like I've done something Nirn-shatteringly wrong, even if it's something minor like forgetting to put pepper in the broth. Not like it matters to me; everything tastes like dishwater to these undead tastebuds.

Whatever. I've never really bothered learning about Argonian naming patterns, considering the vast majority I've met were hostile. Physically hostile. The actual sacking of Morrowind by our scaly friends was a bit before my time though, thank Boethiah.

The ones in Skyrim are considerably more pleasant considering they're not trying to commit dumner homicide. Spies… I mean, Scouts probably doesn't even know that Argonian and Dark elf hate is deep rooted, and told Erandur and I pretty much straight away that Torbjorn was a fat n'wah that needed to have his patriotic teeth knocked in (Probably not his exact words, but that's essentially what I heard).

I'll admit, even I felt a bit moved by how dignified he was despite it all. Eight septims a day is (was?) his wage. Eight! It costs ten to stay at your average flea-ridden inn. Beardo insisted we help, and then I had the idea to get as high as a silt strider on alchemy and test out my hard learned lesson from the orcs.

It worked, but probably only because he was drunk enough to be seeing two of me. I'll leave that part out, and pray that he was in enough control of his faculties to remember I slapped him silly. I definitely don't think I'll be pulling a stunt like that again anytime soon.

The walk to the docks always keeps you on your toes. By virtue of both of us being dumner we're often left alone by the thieves that seem to spawn from the filth down in the Grey Quarter, but there's always one fetcher willing to test his luck. Huh, Sofie usually runs over and makes Erandur spend our hard-earned coin on shrivelled up flowers. Guess she's already retreated to her barrel for the night.

Sweet Beardo drags me from my thoughts "We're almost here. Scouts said he would try to stay awake until we returned." He shakes his cape a little, and huffs at the snow. It's started settling in his beard, and a deep part of me feels offended that the weather can even touch such godly facial hair. I tried to tell him to go wait at the inn while I dealt with this entire sordid affair, but he wouldn't hear it. Stubborn bastard.

The Argonian's hovel was always very well locked considering it's such a shithole. Perhaps they got tired of the Nords trying to break it down.

"Well. I'll break the potentially good news, shall I?"

Knocking, I hear a few muffled curses and pans getting knocked over. A voice deeper than the one I recall talking to about Torbjorn suggests slamming the door open in my face. I politely suggest through the keyhole that the voice should fornicate itself. Erandur puts his head in one of his hands.

"Neetrenaza, enough!" A rasp that I assume belongs to Scouts chides the other, and deftly unlocks the door. He looks a little taken aback for a second, as if he was half expecting to open up only for Torbjorn to drop kick him into the Assemblage for daring to ask for a liveable wage.

"Come in, you fools!" The Argonian says, and he's all but shoving us out of the cold. A few other dock workers are gawking, but not in the way I thought. They look hopeful. Erandur's noticed as well, and starts to talk before I can say another word.

"Lady Mara smile upon you" (Neetrenaza mutters something at the mention of Mara and I make a vague finger across throat gesture out of the priest's view) "We've brought good news"

The rude one shuts up at that, and all the lizards in the room listen with rapt attention. Looking at Scouts almost gets my cold dead body pumping blood again. Nobody should be this excited over a potential 12 septim raise.

Scouts invites us to sit by some chairs next to the fire, and pours what I'm hoping is soup into a couple of chipped wooden bowls. Erandur accepts graciously, and I'm thinking about a way to subtly dump it to the side without anyone noticing.

"We had a, um, discussion with your employer-"

"I beat the shit out of him!" Ha. Totally worth the death stare from Erandur. It seems to amuse the dock workers, who are going to fall over if they lean in anymore.

Erandur whips his head back to the audience "… Thank you, Virani. Regardless of the method, he's agreed to pay you the equivalent of a Nord worker." He smiles, and gives them time to take in the news.

Silence. Spooky. The only female Argonian seems deep in thought. Some mutter of 'About time' from the old guy at the back. Scouts abruptly stands up and says something I can't hear, then pulls a few vials out from a nondescript sack under his bed. I think it's a bed anyway. One of the legs has rotted through, carrying on with the support of a lone crate. Got to say, the one next to it isn't looking much healthier.

"Please, I want you to have these." He doesn't go to Erandur, but to me. The back of his hand brushes mine as he places the potions in my palm, which I'm not really sure what to make of "This isn't much, but I did tell you that cargo goes missing from the Nord's shipments sometimes. Maybe we won't have to resort to it anymore"

Neetrenaza carries on eating his soup, with a surprising amount of dignity considering he keeps spilling it everywhere "Maybe you won't resort to it anymore."

I can't really say I understand Scouts' expression after that. I can't say I have a great deal of experience- their facial structure is all so foreign to me- but I don't think I'd be able decipher it even if he was more like me. It's only now I've noticed he hasn't taken his hand away. He's looking at me rather than his co-worker now and gently pulls his claws away "You're freezing." He clarifies, since I must look pretty alarmed "That storm won't let up for a few hours. Please, feel free to stay here a little longer"

Erandur says something along the lines of thank you, and heads off to speak to the troubled looking female Argonian. I think Mara put a honing system in his brain for people that need help (She probably told me her name once. I'll refrain from saying what I think it is, in the interest of keeping the Argonians' hospitality).

Sitting by the fire, I'm poking at the weird broth liquid Scouts put into a bowl for me. Maybe it's considered rude not to drink soup if you're a guest in someone else's house in their culture? There's no indication of what I should be doing, here. A century and I still feel like I don't know squat.

"It hasn't got flies in it. Try not to look too offended, dumner" The older Argonian says, kind of looking like he wants to shove the bowl up into my face. Scouts doesn't bother to tell him to stop like he did with the other naysayer, and instead stares through him.

Honestly, I can tell from here he's a skooma addict. Same spasms as any other addict. Same red around the eyes. Guess some things don't change across races. I've never lived in poverty long enough to fall into addiction (unless you consider essentially having to eat people to survive in civilised society an addiction, I guess) but what a lot of people don't understand is that it's easy to fall into, and near on impossible to get out off without someone like Erandur to push you along.

Poor bastard. Not my business, though.

"I'll confess I know almost nothing about you." Scouts says, turning back to me "I wasn't even sure you'd bother risking Torbjorn for our sakes. Are you from Morrowind?"

Ah, small talk. Can't get enough of it. I probably used up my entire life's capacity for talking about the weather in the Thalmor Embassy, but I'll give it a go if it means I don't have to risk the complimentary food.

"Yeah, born and bred. Can't say I miss it" (I'm lying, of course. I lived in Cyrodiil until the little undead incident).

"I've never left Skyrim. Ambarys tells me it's beautiful" Scouts replies a little wistfully, before looking at me expectantly.

"Ah, Ambarys. Of course he would." I like the bartender of the New Gnisis Tavern- sorry, Cornerclub- as much as any other Dumner, but he does have a slightly romanticised view of what's left of our ancestral home. It's never going to be the same after the Red Mountain, and that's the sad truth.

It looks like it wasn't quite what he wanted to hear. He's going to have to get used to the fact I'm just full of disappointments.

"Uh, sorry. I care about the dark elves, but I don't really think Morrowind is all that. It's hostile, and the ash always finds a way to get in your boots."

"Sorry for what?" He laughs "My place is here. Come what may."

He can try and hide it, but I'm pretty sure he wanted me to tell him about Blacklight or something. Not the greatest conversation topic considering the Argonians wrecked the place a while back. Not that I care as much as I apparently should; it was pretty much our fault for making them slaves.

Suppose it wouldn't kill to tell Scouts a little bit of information.

"Maybe I'm biased. We weren't really welcome there, to be honest. My mother was an Ashlander… uh, from one of the nomadic tribes that wander the Ashlands." He stares, not having a clue what I'm talking about. Never stopped me previously. "Well, turns out that if a wise woman gets pregnant by a guard from Balmora, she's not considered that wise anymore. She left with him, and became Velothi. Velothi are the guys that decide stomping around the Ashlands in rags isn't really for them."

Scouts drops a bit of soup off the spoon that was hanging intently by his mouth. It's only when he notices it's falling onto his leg that he puts the spoon down and wipes it off with his sleeve "Please, continue. I had no idea such tribes even existed."

"I'm getting onto that. The thing about Velothi is that they're stuck in the middle, so to speak. The Ashlanders see them as dishonouring tradition, and the Mainlanders see them as second class citizens." The food's gone cold. Oh well. "We lived there, she died, I moved to Cyrodiil. That's what Morrowind is like. Ambarys probably never mentioned it because we're still a bit of a sore subject. It's been a little easier after the Red Mountain erupted, but xenophobia isn't just washed away like the Red Mountain's lava did to our settlements. Funny thing."

I'm only half-lying, to tell the truth. Mother (rest her soul and all that) was an Ashlander, and she did accidentally get pregnant after an escapade with a Balmora guard. Only difference is the two of them stuck together and moved to Cyrodiil straight away, living in relative mediocrity until Blood Lung took them both. The only sad one was my mother, who used to tell me how the wastes would call out to her from across the plains.

"You've never told me that before. She sounds like a good woman." A voice that distinctly does not belong to an Argonian interjects… and I've only realised now that Erandur probably heard the entire thing.

"You helped us when no one else would. The prejudice of your own people hasn't affected you, it seems." Scouts takes my bowl with his, and nods at Erandur when he leaves. What a polite young… man? I don't know.

Erandur looks like he's going to tell me something, before there's an aggressive knocking at the door. Oh, Gods. Our hosts appear just as concerned as we are, and that means they weren't expecting any more guests.

Nobody wants to answer. I'm sure as Oblivion not. It's like a game of musical statues except the person that moves might die.

Three knocks again, with the addition of "Virani? On behalf of the Jarl, we demand to speak to you."

What? Oh, boy. Was it Torbjorn? Does Ulfric know I'm Dragonborn? Does he know it's been me sending letters to Galmar on behalf of the 'Crimes Against Facial Hair Committee'?

Scouts takes one glance at my expression, and ushers me to stand up. Quick, he whispers, and all but punts me and Erandur behind some crates, masking the noise with some extremely overdramatic complaining about being woken up when they're trying to sleep. Neetrenaza joins in, surprisingly, and kicks some pots around across the floor for added effect.

"The Jarl wants to speak to you, elf." A different voice says, distinctly Nordic. They're guards. I'm going to get arrested for punching people again, aren't I?

The female is the one who stands up to man the cannons. Scouts and the skooma addict attempt to act as naturally as possible (don't ask me how sitting with your legs spread out across your bed is natural).

She leans against the door frame, and puts on her best offended tone "Shahvee has to work early tomorrow. Who are you seeking at this hour?" (So her name is Shahvee, and it's only 8 in the evening. Let's hope being able to tell the time isn't a requirement for a guard).

"A dumner woman, Virani Reynel. We've been informed she'd headed this way" The tall guard (He can be Man #1) coughs awkwardly at the silence that follows "Um, she often travels with a priest. In…" Hilariously, I can see him shrivelling under Shavee's gaze.

"Why on Nirn would a dumner come to the Assemblage?" She cuts him off, leaning further into the safety of her home "We can help you look tomorrow, if you wish. But she isn't here"

She goes to shut the door on him, but the shorter of the two guards (He can be called Man #2) sticks his foot in "Listen, greenskin. Lord Stormcloack wants to speak to her, and you don't just go ignorin' a summons from the Jarl. Alfine ain't never made a mistake before, and she said she saw them both come over here."

Man #1 puts his hand on his buddy's shoulder, but I can't hear quite what he's saying from under the crates; fingers crossed it's about how they should just go. I'd rather stick my head up Meridia's asshole than hold a civil conversation with the Gatekeeper of All Things Skyrim Ulfric Stormcloak.

There's a tense second where Scouts looks me dead in the eye, but he turns back around.

"That may be so, but they would still have no reason to come here, hm?" Neetrenaza defends the metaphorical ship from afar. Good fellow.

Man #2 apparently doesn't like this response, and looks at Shahvee as if he's trying to burn holes in her head through his helmet.

"We should just show ourselves." Erandur whispers next to me. I'm trying not to move my hand too close to his crotch, but the corner of the Alienage isn't very roomy "The guards might hurt them."

"They're not going to hurt them if they find out they're hiding us?" I hiss back, conscious of the fact Man #2 is trying to edge his way in. Shahvee, thank Boethiah, is putting up a fight. I saw the look in Ulfric's eyes as he escaped Helgen. You see a set of eyes like that once in an era, and it's not something I want to be on the receiving end of.

"Just-" The guard takes Shahvee's shoulder, and shoves it to one side "- get out of the way!" Neetrenaza objects, but the kinder of the two intruders tells him to stay put. By the Reclamations, why must everything go hideously wrong? Beardo gives me a look like an ice spear, without any of the usual exasperated affection. I think he might have just channelled Casimir for a split second.

Scouts is looking at my direction again, shaking his head. Waiting for the guards to pass him he mouths what I think is 'Don't move'. Hard to tell with Argonians. If my heart could beat, I'm pretty sure the sound alone would have lead the two Nords over here.

I grip Erandur's arm to hold him in place. Partly to hold myself in place, too.

"We're telling you, no priest and no woman have been in here. Leave immediately!" The only Argonian who I don't know the name of yet stands right up in their business, and tries to usher them towards the door. Man #2 makes like he's going to test out his gauntlet on the old fellow's face.

"Vigar, Shor's bloody bones!" Thankfully, the other guard's solution to a problem isn't just to start punching "She can't avoid the Jarl forever. There's no point to this."

"There is if they think they can just get away with hidin' greyskins in their nest!" The guard now known as Vigar spins to turn his verbal abuse on Man #1. Just a bit angry all around, isn't he? Someone evidently didn't make the cut for the Stormcloak army.

Nevertheless, Man #1 convinces Vigar to go shout at the clouds or something. The door closes with a slam, and they're both gone as quickly as they barged their way in.

Five minutes of dead silence passes through the Assemblage. Shahvee eventually complains about having to clean the dirt from Vigar's gauntlet of her clothes.

"All right" Scouts-Many-Marshes says, lifting one of the crates off "I think they're gone for good"

It's only now I've noticed that I've been digging my nails into Erandur's robe. Needless to say, he seems less than pleased with how it all panned out. Looks like I'm condemned to the cold shoulder for a few hours again.

"Risking yourselves like that was a kind act" He says, and he lets out a breath he was holding in "As a priest of Mara, I thank you"

The old Argonian shakes his head "They were idiots. I wouldn't want to deal with Ulfric, either."

That made me laugh a bit. Maybe it's just because I felt my spirit leaving my earthly body when the aggressive guard began shoving people around. Some of these Nords have no respect; I'm surprised they haven't singlehandedly chased the dragons off because they're foreigners.

"I think we might go stay at Kynesgrove tonight instead. It's only a half hour walk down." I say it half to the Assemblage, and half to Erandur. He glares at me. It's going to take longer than five minutes for him to forgive me this time, I guess.

"But why would Ulfric want to speak to you?" Scouts asks as we make to leave, giving the docks a quick once over to make sure the fetcher force weren't still skulking around.

"No idea" I lie. I do know, deep down. Even if I like to lie to myself. I'm Dragonborn and he wants to get me on side before Tulius does. Little does he know that I'm going to take the drastic choice not to get involved whatsoever "Either way, I hope sticking up for me doesn't come back to bite you"

"Huh. Me too." Scouts scoffs. He doesn't look overly concerned, truth be told. I guess they're all just used to Nords pounding their chests around here "Once again, thank you for all your help… Feel free to come back, both of you"

With that, the door is shut. Making our way back into the city as quietly as possible so we can make headway to Kynesgrove, Beardo shakes his head at me, and sighs. This is going to get a bit tiresome.

"Look, I'm just… not ready, all right?" Oh, truth time. My favourite part of the week "I can't face him yet."

"You need to be ready at some point, Virani" Ouch, so stern. Sorry Father "We should have done the right thing back there."

"What do you mean the right thing? We were damned if we did, damned if we didn't! Everyone in that room seemed to recognise that but you." It came a bit more harshly than I wanted, but that's the truth. He'll just have to get angry and get over it.

"I… ugh, as you wish. We can discuss this tomorrow." He storms forwards. Suits me.

"There's nothing to discuss, Erandur. I'm not giving Ulfric the light of day."

He storms forwards with a bit more purpose in his hips. Still, suits me. He cares for Ulfric just as much as I do, which is to say, not much. He just has a hero complex and can't bear to stand the sight of people getting pushed about. That's the key difference between him and me, I suppose.

Ulfric can wait on his throne for the rest of his short life. Nords aren't difficult to outlive.