hell's bells, it's that day of the week again! which day? that's for you to decide! don't expect all the answers from me, dammit. back in my day i had to find all the answers on my own w/o all these handouts and has derailed okay. thx maximsk as per usual for baiting the waters and away we go
10. Bony Borns Bash Baby Bats to Bed. And Breakfast.
Solitoodles.
According to a poor, terrified Cynric, Solidmood is the headquarters for the Arboreal Region, which is the border patrol bumbling bees, while the Starvedcorks are the racist rabbits over in Whimsicelm. That does not make sense to me, though, because the Limpingeel Season were meanies trying to arrest me at the border, but the Storkcoach guard said I was nice and tried to save dogs that I almost killed—Daedra forgive my transgressions because I can never forgive myself. All these factions are quite confusing, but I remember that I remember them because my father made me remember them through repetitive remembrance exercises.
The only ones I have not yet met are the Saladmore, who are the stealthy sticklers who want everyone except themselves to go die. I can sympathize with that sentiment, but I will not go die just because someone other than myself told me to, so I think all the Talosmer should go die. They do not seem to be very receptive to constructive criticism, but maybe they will listen to me if I tell them to jump into a volcano. Or Cynric. Cynric has a nice voice, after all.
While I am debating the ways to throw people into volcanoes with just the power of my voice, Shadowmere trots right up to the stables and snorts a little tendril of flame.
I have discovered a rest stop, he says snottily. You are obliged to present me with shiny, crisp apples posthaste.
"Okay," I agree.
I drop gracefully off Shadowmere's back and Cynric just about falls as he tries to emulate me. He immediately sits down and begins rubbing his legs with a depressed expression on his face. I fish a couple of apples out of my pouch that had fallen on my head as Shadowmere was crashing through the undergrowth and hand them to him. Shadowmere nuzzles his soft, velvety lips against my hand and crunches on the first one.
"Why do you carry apples with you?" Cynric asks tiredly.
"Why wouldn't I?" I ask right back. "Apples have many a use."
"...Like what?"
"What if I need to capture some worms for the books?" I retort. When he does not reply, I huff in satisfaction. "Exactly."
Also, I require many an apple in payment, else I would be laboring as a slave, Shadowmere adds.
"That's true," I agree as I offer him the second apple. Shadowmere gently munches on it. His mouth is soft and velvety like the rest of his fuzzy fur, and I pet him happily. "You're a good boy, Shoddy Near," I tell him.
Obviously, he replies with an aloud snort. I require another piece of produce. Immediately.
I comply by pulling out some lettuce and carrots. He happily munches on those with his velvety mouth next, and then he seems satisfied. He swishes his tail back and forth and dances a little on his adorable hooves of swirling darkness.
"Where the hell do you keep all that?" Cynric inquires, seeming a bit alarmed.
"In my pouches," I explain as though to a small, confused child. In case he is still confused, I gesture to my pouches. "These are my bags," I tell him in case he is still confused.
"But… they're so small," he says.
"That's rather rude," I retort. "I have been told many a time that my bags are in fact rather large. And fun."
"That's…" He sighs heavily. "Fine."
"I am, aren't I," I preen. Happy again, I pat Shadowmere on the nose and then turn to the stablemaster who has been hovering nearby. The man looks quite frightened as he stares at Shadowmere. "I can't bring Shearing Matter in the city," I tell the stablemaster gravely, "so I will leave him in your… hopefully capable hands." I draw my mace and rest it against my shoulder to emphasize my point. The stablemaster gets it, if his paling pallor is of any indication.
"I'm ain't takin' no demon horse," the man sputters. "He's got glow-y eyes!"
"They are beautiful," I agree, "so take very good care of him. He likes regular vegetables and fruits and horsie grains and he sometimes eats the souls of animals and I think a human gutter rat once." I turn to Shadowmere, and he snorts in satisfaction. "He might puff some fire out of his cute little nose,"—I give Shadowmere a kiss on his cute little nose—"but it shouldn't be enough to do any serious damage. Just make sure he's not right next to any dried hay or tinder or a particularly flammable child."
Shadowmere snorts a little bit of flame, and I laugh at his coy little gestures. I toss a smile to the stablemaster and pull my mace off my shoulder so that its head is against the ground. The man jumps at the puff of dirt, and a lettuce leaf or two falls off. The mace, not the man. I need to replace the yarn and lettuce, it seems. Since Shadowmere likes souls so much, I should find some soul gems and add them on there too.
"If Shattered Teal has any complaints when I get back, I will make you eat my mace," I inform him. He pales even more and nods furiously. "With your face," I clarify.
I look at Shadowmere sadly, and he gives me a little nicker, his big, soulful eyes watching me pleadingly. I am desirous for more apples, he begs, and I promise to bring him all the apples as soon as I am back. Then I shall await your return with vigor, is his grave reply. I touch his forehead to mine once, and then force myself to walk away without looking back more than about two dozen times.
During one of those times, I see Cynric give the stablemaster a pouch of gold and pat him sympathetically on the shoulder. I had just assumed that the honor of taking care of my demon horsie would be payment enough, but apparently these Solidtwo residents are greedy piglets. Kind of like the Empirical Lesion. After all, it's not fair that only the emperor gets to wear that pretty crown. I want that crown. Greedy bastard. Probably why he got yelled to death by Oldfreak.
The courtyard beyond the city gates is packed with people, which is unexpected. I casually brush a few with my mace until they clear a path, and I assume Cynric is following behind. If not, then he will have to find his own mace to push through a crowd with. I am disappointed to find the hubbub is only an execution and so I continue into the city. Cynric follows, but I also noticing him eyeing the execution curiously. 'Execute' is a fighting word, but no one has said it yet. A hanging may be a form of execution, but 'hanging' is not a fighting word so I do not bother fighting anyone.
As I trot through nicely tended cobblestone walls, I find myself catching strange words that manage to hold my short interest-span. 'Dragon' is one I hear a few times, and then 'born' as well. I have not heard anything about a dovah baby shower, never mind a birth, and I'm horrified that I seemed to have missed the event. I spin to face Cynric when I hear those words for the third time in a row.
"When did a dovah get born?" I whisper passionately. If I am too loud, people might hear and look down on me for my shameful ignorance.
Cynric frowns in confusion, and then his face clears. "Oh," he says. "Not a dragon—the Dragonborn. They're a person with dragon blood who can kill dragons."
I laugh scornfully. "No one can kill the immortal dovahhe," I inform him confidently. "Even Alduin the World-Eater could only be banished."
Cynric shakes his head. "No, the Dragonborn can actually fully kill dragons," he states. I stare at him, shocked and beginning to doubt myself. "He can absorb their souls and… do something with them. Get power, or such."
"There's someone…" I blink my eyes and shake my head, trying to dislodge what must be a dream, a misunderstanding, a hallucination, a jest, a jape, a jamboree, a jubilee of juvenile jesters, but Cynric's expression does not once change. Cynric is not much for lying or joking. He is serious. By Sheogorath, he is serious.
"There's someone killing dragons?" I screech so loudly that a few people turn their heads to stare or glare at me, I don't care which.
I don't care about anything other than this. This… this… abomination. This murderer of the sweetest, kindest, most innocent and beautiful and free and beautiful and flying creatures in the entirety of existence.
Cynric takes a step back, and I realize that I have my mace held aloft in both hands as though I am preparing to smash his head in. I force myself to remove my right arm so that I have my mace held aloft in one hand as though I am preparing to smash his head in a little less violently.
"Er, yes," Cynric stammers. "Uh, the Greybeards Shouted… uh… doh… vuh… king… or something… yesterday while you were asleep."
"Dovahkiin?" I ask in terror, and Cynric nods. I press my mace into the ground and lean against the hilt, my mind spinning but strangely focused. "I thought the dovahkiin was only a myth," I murmur. "I couldn't believe something so terrible could exist that would…" I shudder. "Oh, there's someone out there killing the dovahhe and they have the gall to have dovah in their title?" I snort and shake my head. "No," I state. "This cannot stand. I will push it over."
"Wait…" Cynric looks around nervously and then steps closer. "This isn't a bad thing," he says. I snap my head towards him furiously, and he backs right back up. "I-I mean, they're saying the World-Eater is back," he continues shakily. "Alduin."
I gasp happily and stand up straight. "Alduin?" I cry. "Alduin, the lord of the Dov has returned?" I grab my mace as I bounce up and down. "Oh, I want to meet him! I've wanted to eat worlds just like him since I was little!"
"If he eats the world, we'll die," Cynric reasons.
"No, I'll be a dovah by then," I inform him confidently. "Then I'll find my scarlet bloodless dragon and we'll have little baby Alduins who will eat the other worlds." Cynric gapes at me, apparently unable to reply to my ingenious plot. "If the dovahkiin is here, though," I continue savagely, "then everything is ruined. He has the potential to ruin everything." I point my mace at Cynric suddenly, and he jumps away with a yelp as I nearly graze his chin. "Tell me everything there is to know about this bastard," I snarl.
Someone yells nearby, loudly enough that I turn to look. "By Talos—"
"Friend, we are in the Solitude city, yes?" a cloaked person next to them hisses loudly.
"Er… by Akatosh!" the first one corrects himself. "It's the Dragonborn!"
I waste no time in shouldering my mace and dashing towards the cloaked figure and the burly Nord gaping at a man rifling through a journal of sorts. When the Nord said 'Dragonborn,' the man looked up and blinked red eyes.
A Dunmer.
A wonderful Dunmer is the damned dovahkiin? Ohh, the gods have a sense of humor.
When he catches the Nord's eye, the Dunmer snaps his journal shut and stands up tall. He crosses his arms and sniffs delicately. " 'Tis I," he says like the little snot he probably just sucked up his naval cavity. "I have come to save all of you lesser beings even though I am a superior—"
"Die, scum!" I yell as I run at him, mace held threateningly. He shrieks and spins around before running away much faster than I anticipated. Three different pairs of hands grab at my delicate arms and drag me to a stop as the bastard flees like a bastardly dastard. "Let me go!" I scream. "I will bisembowel and dehead that sock cucker and he will die by death by my hand! Mace! My left hand which holds the mace!" I should find a way to sew my mace to my hand so that I don't have to draw it all the time.
"Liar, stop!" Cynric yells, and I feel one of the pairs of hands tighten.
I will kill Cynric too if he keeps me from my killing spree. I struggle, but the other two pairs tighten as well. I will kill all the hands in the entire uneaten world if it means I get to kill that poor excuse of a proud Dunmer.
"This one recommends you listen to your friend," the voice of the cloaked figure purrs. The sound is soothing, like a little kitten nuzzling up against me, so I immediately relax. I feel Cynric's grip slacken, and then his voice pipes up.
"Wait, you're a Khajiit!" he says.
I look back to see the cloaked person nervously tug at his hood with suspiciously-gloved hands. "Th-this one—er I am n-no… no thieving cat," he says in a heavily accented voice. "Those, ehm, those sneaky feline... beast… carpets... are not to be welcomed within the—our—cities," he finishes clumsily.
The Nord laughs and claps his cloaked friend on the back. "Of course you're not a Khajiit," he says jovially. "If you were, I'd have to arrest you!"
"This one is aware of such a thing," the not-Khajiit says anxiously.
Cynric stares at the hooded figure suspiciously for a few moments, and I can see a pair of very catlike eyes staring back from the slit in the not-Khajiit's mask. I have no choice but to believe him.
"I'm Liar," I say to both as is only polite. I do not remember how we all met, but the two not-Khajiit seem kind.
"Hadvar," the burly Nord says with a friendly smile. He holds out a calloused hand and I hold out mine as well. We both stand there with our hands out for a moment, and then he reaches forwards and clasps my hand in a hearty shake. I shake back. After a moment of stillness, he gently extracts his hand from mine.
"I am called Ma'dran," the not-Khajiit says. "It is pleasing to meet you."
"Cynric," Cynric says.
Hadvar smiles at me. "Will you put that mace of yours away?" he asks. "I have to arrest you now for having the potential to commit crimes against Skyrim and her people."
"Oh," I say and do as he requests. "Alright. What'd I do?"
"Ah, you just tried to kill someone," Hadvar says dismissively. "It'll be a small fine, probably, but I should drag you to Jarl Elisif just in case."
"Alright," I agree. Hadvar gestures towards a ramped road of rampant cobblestone nearby, and I trot after him.
"Whoa, wait!" Cynric calls as he hurries to my side. "Liar, you're getting arrested!"
"Yes," I acknowledge patiently.
Cynric seems to have a habit of pointing out things that are clearer than the day and much clearer than my mind. The day is actually quite cloudy and depressing, though, so I suppose it wouldn't be too difficult to be clearer than a day like this. Or maybe that's the point. I don't remember. My mind isn't very clearing. There's no grass around either.
"But… why?" Cynric asks.
"Hadvar seems nice," I reply and Hadvar blushes a little. "And if I almost killed someone, I almost committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. I'm no murderer, not like that dovahkiin fellow."
No one has a reply to that, just like I thought. If the so-called dovahkiin were here, I'd bash his silly little face in for what he's done. I should look for him. If only I knew what he looks like. Or she, I remind myself. For all I know, I'm the dovahkiin. That would be horrible because I don't want to kill dragons, but it might be a good thing because it would mean that no one else could kill dragons. I should climb the mountains and mountains of steps to speak to the scholarly fellows all the way on top of that tall grey beard and ask if I'm the dovahkiin so we can scream together.
"So, how's your day been?" Hadvar asks me shyly. I smile at him, happy to be asked about the day since it is, after all, day. The day, in fact.
"It's been cloudy," I inform him, and he nods. "Also, my demon horse ran me and Cynric here and his name is Shiny Beer—the demon horse, not the Cynric."
"That's a good name," Hadvar comments. "A strong, proper Nord name."
"Oh, I also got arrested!" I gasp, and Hadvar looks at me sympathetically.
"That's a shame to hear," he says sincerely. "Where'd you get arrested? It was probably one of those Stormcloak holds, the sick bastards."
I nod, probably agreeing. "It was in… um… Solaltitude," I remember.
"Hm," Hadvar muses. "I'm afraid I've never heard of that. It must be so far into Stormcloak territory that I've never been."
"It must be," I agree. "I know it's somewhere around here that's here," I inform him. "Where are we?"
Hadvar looks around. "Well, we're on our way to the Blue Palace right now, so I suppose we're just in the market. On the street."
"That makes sense," I say.
We walk in a pleasant silence for a few moments as I look around. Sordidmoot is much like a city, what with its cobbled stones and stony scaffolds. There are people about too, but no one stands out as much as the hooded not-Khajiit. He seems to be trailing along with us, staying in the shade of the various storefronts while keeping his catlike eyes fixed on us. I smile and wave at him, and he quickly glances away.
I sigh, a bit bored. We have been walking for seconds, and I have done all there is to do. I wish there were a dovah here that I could have an intelligent conversation with, but I think there is a dovahkiin around here somewhere, so maybe I could go have an unintelligible conversation with him or her or it as I bash his or her or its head in. I feel a little bit of saliva pooling in my mouth at the thought, and I stare dreamily into the distance. So dreamily, in fact, that I am quite surprised when I knock right into someone and send him or her or it sprawling to the ground.
"I'm sorry I'm Liar," I say as is only polite while holding a hand out in front of me. There is no one in front of me to take the hand, though, so I do not know whom I bumped into.
"You dare defile my superior bloodline with the earthy scum of the ground!" I hear a familiar voice shriek, and a form scrabbles to its feet at my feet. He curses when his head smacks into my outstretched hand, and I pull it back. I should have held my hand downwards, I suppose.
I stare at the owner of the voice, surprised to find that it is a Dunmer. I am not sure where I've met this man before, but he looks rather put-out. In fact, he is furiously brushing nonexistent dirt off of his fancy velvet clothes while cursing some common Dunmer curses. Oh, he's a Dunmer! I don't think I'm related to him, though. That's racist.
"Well?" the Dunmer snaps, still staring at his spotless outfit. "Grovel, you s'wit." He snorts imperiously and runs a carefully-manicured hand through his painstakingly-styled black hair. I am tempted to slice off that one asymmetrical braid that hangs down the side, but I resist. "What do you Skyrim savages say?" he grumbles rhetorically. "Ah." He snaps his fingers. "Milk-drinker, is it? How droll." He finally lifts head to glare haughtily at me, but then he squeaks in a thoroughly undignified manner and scampers away to hide behind Hadvar. "Don't kill me!"
I tilt my head and stare at him curiously. "Why would I? Wouldn't. Why wouldn't I?"
All four of them—Cynric, Hadvar, the not-Khajiit stealthily hovering beside Hadvar, and the slightly familiar Dunmer—stare at me blankly. I mirror their action, trying to stare at all of them at once, but I have to turn my head back and forth a bit.
"Er… you don't… recognize me…?" the Dunmer asks nervously, and I shrug. He blinks, clears his throat, and struts out from behind Cynric. "Ha!" he says snottily—oh, wait… "That will be your last mistake, for I am the Drag—"
I gasp and point at him. "You're that!" I shout, and he freezes, the expression of fear returning to his face.
"I will Shout you into Oblivion, or 'Sovengarde,' as you savages say," he says, but he is clearly trembling.
"Yeah!" I agree happily. "Yelling and volcanoes and friendship! Hell's Gin!"
The Dunmer blinks, and then gasps and points at me just like I did him. "B'vek, you are the brain-addled prostitute who talked to me at the border!" he cries.
"You weren't doing so sane yourself," I rebuke him, and he immediately glowers at me.
He crosses his arms and raises his head snootily—no, snottily. "I was dehydrated and starving, fetcher." He snots—no, snorts—again and raises his head even higher so that I am looking at his chin. "I was fighting bravely to save your worthless Nordic world, but my cowardly opponent fled from my supreme presence."
"No," Hadvar suddenly interrupts, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You screamed and ran," he says slowly. "I offered to cut your binds, but you spat in my face after calling me a cannibalistic barbarian and then ran out of the city screaming. I remember."
The Dunmer turns to him with a snarl, his head finally tilted down to eye level. "You dare imply that Serjo Redoran Elliyas is a liar?" he snarls.
"That's me!" I supply.
Serjo Red… er... Ellis spins to glare at me next. "Oh, and who are you? Some daughter of a n'wah thinking that you're some uppity sera worthy of respect just because you discarded yourself into this cesspit of a dung-infested poor excuse for a country?" His voice grows steadily louder until he is essentially shouting at me by the end.
I blink at him. I do not know why he thinks my father was some sort of slave, but I do know that it was intended as an insult. I do not like him, so I take a deep breath. "My name is Sera Hlaalu S'tharon Valirerlillie Milvlsea Lyssyssrys, Sheogorath'm gah'amer," I state without once pausing.
There is a moment of perfect silence that delights me, but I cannot keep quiet for long.
"Since I have more words in my name, I'm more important," I point out.
Ellis gets over his shock at an apparent Breton having a Dunmeri state of address, and scoffs snottily.
Snottily. What is it with that word?
He scoffs again before I can think too hard. "What did you say?" he asks. "S'tharon? Ha! What kind of family name is that? You are nothing but a half-breed with Hlaalu blood so far up the line, it has rotted within you," he says with a toss of his head. "I am directly of House Redoran." He watches me imperiously, apparently waiting for a reaction. "The most important house," he adds, but I only blink some more. "The noblest of nobility!" he shouts in frustration, and I nod.
"I'm not that," I reply, and he points at me furiously.
"I know! You're just some half-Mer without a proper name," he hisses. I am about to remind him that I actually do have that—quite a lot of that, actually—but he continues being a snot without giving me a chance. "Your father is a disgrace to all Dunmer for not killing a sordid abomination such as you within your mother's womb," he snarls.
I think that is a bit harsh, but I'm caught on the word 'abomination'. It reminds me of 'snottily'. Oh, this feels important.
"Hey!" Ellis screeches. "I am speaking with you, half-breed!"
I wave my mace distractedly at him, still concentrating, and he skips back with a squeak of fear. It was something about the dovahhe. I want to be one of those, but someone can kill them. Someone who dares… abomination… snot…
I gasp and point at Ellis with my mace. "You!" I shout, and he jumps, valiantly trying to keep a lordly expression on his reedy face. I crack my neck side to side and prepare to bash that lordly expression right into his skull so that it flies out the other end and splatters all over the city. "I will murder you, murderer of dovahhe," I hiss, but, before I can, three pairs of hands grab at me and Ellis runs away with his metaphorical tail between his legs. "I will eat your heart without even adding honey to the strawberries! Your guts will hate themselves!" I shout after him, and I am satisfied to hear him yelp and speed up.
"Liar, was it?" the Nord, Hadvar, says kindly, but I do not look at him. I am still furious. "Remember what I said about trying to kill people? It's not a good thing."
"I don't care," I growl and strain after the quickly-disappearing form of the fleeing Dunmer. I will remember his name. Elliyas of House Redor—no that's not it. Uh, Ellis of Reedramble. Yes.
"Ma'dran cannot understand you, friend," the not-Khajiit purrs. His voice is even dreamier than Cynric's and I am tempted to hug the person who is not a kitty but sounds just like a kitty. I relax, and it is then that I realize I have been speaking Dunmeri ever since Ellis Ragwimple insulted my father. I will throw cinnamon into Ellis Rubalcohol's eyes, mark my thoughts.
With a huff, I relax my arms and wait for the trio of hand pairs to release me. At Hadvar's apologetic order, I sheathe my mace and continue walking. My murderous thoughts eventually fade into the background over the next couple of seconds, and I yawn. The lack of sun is making me sleepy.
"Oh please, please someone help me," a pitiful-sounding voice wafts in from the left, so I blink awake and turn to face it. All old voices sound pitiful, to be honest, but this one sounds particularly pitiful because it asked for help. "Help an old madman, someone, please…"
Always happy to help a kindred spirit, I skip up to the holder of the voice and am delighted to see that he is a Dunmer like half of myself and someone that I hate, I think. I do not hate this one, though. "I'm Liar," I say as is only polite. "How may I help?"
The old Dunmer sobs in what I hope is joy and shoves a bone into my hand. "Go to the Pelagius Wing," he sniffles, "in the Blue Palace. Bring back my master, please!"
I look at the bone. Thankfully, it is nice and clean, no blood to be found, so I stick it into my breastband for safe keeping. "Alright," I tell him as Hadvar taps me on the shoulder and gestures towards the direction we were going in with a sheepish expression on his face. "You have a good day now," I say as Hadvar asks me kindly to keep moving so that he can drag me before the Jarl for judgment.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, kind soul!" the old Dunmer shrieks. "Just tell my master that Dervenin begs him to return from vacation! Please! He might not kill you! Maybe! Not that it really matters to me if he does! As long as you give him the message before he does!"
"Okay," I say cheerfully. I wave but then turn to follow Hadvar again. "Where's the Blood Malice?" I ask him.
"That's where we're headed right now," Hadvar states. "How convenient!"
I nod. "It's a good thing you arrested me, then," I reply.
Hadvar laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sure you won't get executed," he says. "You're no Stormcloak, right?" He suddenly halts and turns to give me a piercing glare. "Right?" he repeats fiercely.
I shrug. "I don't even know what that is," I retort, "and I hardly think I'm something that I don't even know what that is."
Hadvar's smile returns and he keeps moving. "Wonderful! I wouldn't want to hang such a cooperative young lady."
I flutter my lashes and preen a little bit. "I've never been called cooperative before," I admit, a bit embarrassed. "That was very kind."
"I'm just here to help out anyone I can," Hadvar replies bashfully.
"Liar, he's arresting you!" Cynric breaks in. I forgot that he was following.
"I am arresting her," Hadvar agrees at Cynric, "and I don't want to arrest you too for resisting me arresting her."
"Gods, this is ridiculous," Cynric mutters, but he does not stop following. He seems a bit irritated. He should stop being so negative about everything and just enjoy life. Like Shadowmere.
Shadowmere is happy as long as he has fruits and vegetables and horsie grains and souls to devour. He lives a simple life, and yet he is joyful and snorts fire and his hooves reach into the depths of Oblivion. I love him more than snow. In fact, he would melt snow. That's a bit of a shame, since snow turns into wetness after melting, but I still love Shadowmere with all my bloody heart. Oh, ew, hearts are bloody. I saw one of those before. A child was eating it—no, just stabbing it. No, stabbing near it. He was probably one of those literate children.
The not-Khajiit is still following for some reason, but he has a nice purring voice and I want to ruffle his ears. I remember that he is a not-Khajiit, so he does not have ears at all. That makes me a bit sad, but I perk up once I see the Hullabaloo Place. It is rather large.
Hadvar politely holds the door open for me and so I offer him my gracious thanks. He graciously welcomes me in return and does not even ask for sexual favors. So far, I am liking Hadvar and his happy Nord demeanor. He seems a good sort, like Shouty but nothing like Shouty. Most people are good sorts if you give them a chance. Like the twins. Oh, no they're not twins. Just because they're both guards doesn't mean they're related. It would be odd if they were related because they look nothing alike. I think.
I am not too good with physical appearance other than my own. My physical appearance takes so much of my attention, so that is probably why everyone else's is inconsequential. Maybe I wouldn't eat all the pretty people as a dovah, then. It'd be hard to separate the pretties from the potatoes. I'd rather eat potatoes anyway, although I suppose eating people is fine. They're not animal meat, after all. Argonians and Khajiit would be unacceptable, though. I'm a little iffy about Orsimer, but I don't think they count as sweet little animal creatures, even though they have tusks like horkers. Only sometimes, though. I think. Orsimer would be a good name for a small child.
"The True High Queen of Skyrim, Jarl Elisif, should be just starting with her court today," Hadvar says genially as I step through the kind doors, "so we might need to wait a tad."
"Fans are not my strongitude," I admit. I can be impatient waiting to be paid attention to. Like Cynric right now. Speaking of, I glance back at my long-term temporary companion and point to the bone nestled against my breast. "Where was this leading to?" I ask him.
Cynric blinks rapidly a few times as he stares towards the bone. His mouth opens just a bit. "Uh. Um." He clears his throat. "The... boob… bone—yes, right. That. Right." He clears his throat again and looks up at my eyes. He seems a bit unfocused. "The… Pelagius Wing, I think."
"Where's the Flaying Thing?" I say to Hadvar.
"Oh, it's thataway," he answers kindly as he gestures in some direction whose name I do not know. "It's locked up tight, though, and a rather severe fire hazard. A lot of spiders too, so I guess burning it down would take care of that infestation."
I eye Cynric to make sure he was watching when Hadvar did his hazardous gesturing and fiery speaking, and it seems Cynric has indeed been doing so.
I yawn and pause behind a pillar. Hadvar looks at me quizzically before stopping as well in that accommodating manner of his. I wait for a couple guards to pass by so that we are hidden from just about everyone, and then slam the hilt of my mace against the center of Hadvar's forehead. His eyes roll back, and he collapses silently, but I catch him before he hits the ground and clangs up the whole place. With a soft smile, I gently rest him on the ground and curl him up as though he fell asleep like a small baby. I poke him with the spiky bit of my mace, accidentally drawing a prick of blood from his cheek—ugh, ew—but he does not wake up. The not-Khajiit Ma'dran suddenly slips forwards and starts stripping Hadvar of his armor for some reason and then hurriedly putting it on himself. With a smile to a stunned Cynric, I trot in a direction whose name I do not know.
"If you're looking for the Pelagius Wing," Cynric whispers loudly enough that I can hear, "it's this way." He glances once more at Hadvar's peacefully curled body that is probably not dead—he's nice, so I didn't kill him—and then pulls me in the opposite direction whose name I also don't know.