Kara took a wide berth around Riverwood. Even with its small community, it was still too much for her. She needed to conserve her energies for Falkreath. The town had a reputation for being cut off from the rest of Skyrim, a green valley of tranquillity. It had managed to escape the civil war without more than a scratch. Maybe that was the sort of place where nobody would be looking for her yet.
She took a detour to an old bandit haunt she knew of: Pinewatch. She needed new clothes to replace her conspicuous rags, and didn't want to steal from regular citizens. Thanks to her elaborate detours, it was night by the time she reached the seemingly-innocent cottage. She knew from experience, however, that a bandit hideout lurked in the extensive basement beneath.
There was no sentry outside Pinewatch, so she kicked the door into splinters. She expected someone with a weapon to come charging at her—and she was angry enough to want it—but there was silence. She wandered inside and down to the basement. The secret shelf door hung wide open. Still nobody leaped out at her. Maybe the Jarl had finally got his act together—which seemed unlikely from what she'd heard of Siddgeir. Maybe some ambitious adventurers had come through and gotten lucky.
Kara searched the cottage first. In a cupboard she found a mostly preserved set of black clothes, the sort someone would wear while in mourning. A character began to form in her head, though she still bemoaned her inability to remove her scars or alter her height. She'd have to grow her hair out after this month, if she ever wanted a hope of going unrecognised.
A visiting pilgrim, she thought. With the impression if the not actual presence of wealth. There was also the publicity to consider. She was making a habit of bloody murders. Maybe something more subtle was called for—poison, perhaps. She descended into the bandit hideout, finding a new pack into which she scavenged anything she thought might be useful for her ruse. The entire hideout was unoccupied apart from some runtish skeevers, which scattered at Kara's presence.
Into the pack went several bottles of ale—the only foodstuffs that hadn't spoiled—along with a pair of drinking horns. Into her new pockets went every loose septim she could find, and a steel dagger through her belt. There was no alchemy lab anywhere that she could see, but, remembering her apprenticeship at The White Phial, she improvised. Several unlabelled bottles were identifiable by their smell to her as poisons, it only fell to her to strengthen them. Once combined and condensed, she was reasonably sure the mixture would fell a bear, let alone a human. However, instead of poisoning one of her ale bottles, she coated the inside of one of the drinking horns, marking a scratch with her thumb down its side. She cleaned her hands thoroughly and held the horn up to the candlelight. The changed interior of the horn was barely recognisable. Pleased with her work, she returned to cleaning out the hideout.
It took her a long time to find boots that fit her, and they were brown rather than black, but matched the higher-than-average quality of the outfit well enough. Gloves took even longer, but the tattiness around the openings of the pair she found could be hidden by her sleeves. A grey round hat squashed over her scalp. She only wished she had some sort of retinue in order to give herself the final seal of important people: having other people around to pay to do things for you.
Still, she felt secure enough as she wandered into Falkreath, late next morning. None of the guards leapt to arrest her and ship her north or east or both. She went straight, as usual, to the inn, Dead Man's Drink. The Dragonborn, during her brief retirement, had lived near here. Perhaps her presence still hung heavy over the populace, or gave the townspeople something to connect themselves to other than the graveyard. Problem was, the Dragonborn had done so much adventuring that even the smallest towns of Skyrim could lay a claim to being part of her history.
Kara took a seat at the bar in the near-empty inn and could tell, from the way she was served by the Imperial woman behind the bar, that her attire was having an effect.
"I'll be right here if there's anything else you need," said the bartender after accepting Kara's gold for her ale.
"Actually," said Kara, "I was hoping you could enlighten me on a matter regarding the town."
The bartender leaned on the bar and said, "In Falkreath, if I don't know it, it's not worth knowing."
"Then I've come to the right place," said Kara, smiling. She took a sip of her drink, remembering not to down it all in one go. "Though it's something of a delicate matter."
The bartender leaned a little closer. "I count my guests' discretion above everything else," she said.
"The matter is this," said Kara, laying her hands flat on the bar. "I am recently arrived from Cyrodiil, making pilgrimage to my father's grave in Solitude."
"My apologies for your loss," interjected the bartender.
Kara inclined her head in thanks. "However, I had a rather narrow escape from bandits just south of the border. My bodyguard assured me he was the hardiest of sorts, but made himself rather scarce rather quickly. This time, I was hoping for someone a little more . . . disreputable? Perhaps with a criminal past?"
The bartender laughed. "Ask some people, they'd tell you the most disreputable person in town is Jarl Siddgeir."
Kara had in fact heard that before, but she leaned forward and said, "Is that so?"
"Yes," said the bartender. "Spends all his time feasting and drinking at any excuse. How he hasn't emptied the treasury yet nobody's any idea. No interest in running the hold, treats everyone else in the town like his slave." Abruptly she leaned back. "At least, that's what some people say."
"Of course," said Kara. She rose from her stool and slid a few gold coins across the bar. "I will return later. If you have a recommendation for a bodyguard, I'll hear it then. Otherwise, I'd prefer it if you didn't mention my visit. My family has business interests, you understand."
"Of course," said the bartender, sweeping the coins into a pocket. "I'll find some suitable candidates."
Kara nodded again, thinking it unbecoming of such a character to speak too often, and exited the inn. She trod quickly to the Jarl's longhouse. It would fly in the face of the low-profile death she'd promised herself, but if Siddgeir's reputation was anywhere near reality, she would be doing the town a favour. She was admitted into the longhouse without complaint, though the guard did give her a long look. She found Jarl Siddgeir standing in front of his throne, speaking loudly to his housecarl.
"Very well, but when their emissary comes inform him I want words with him," he was saying. The housecarl inclined his head and backed away. Siddgeir looked at Kara as she approached. "Well, what is it?" he asked.
"Jarl Siddgeir," said Kara, doing a short bow. "It is a pleasure to stop in your town, for however short a time."
"I'm sure it is," said Siddgeir, lounging back into his throne. Kara stood at the foot of the dais. "And you are?"
Kara smiled and said, "My name is Karita Volskygge, and though I hail from the Imperial City, my father was born in Skyrim. It is a pilgrimage to honour his memory that brings me here."
"He's buried here?" asked Siddgeir, sitting straighter at the mention of the Empire's capital.
"Sadly, no," said Kara. "His remains rest in Solitude, though I wish he had breathed his last in such a fair town as yours."
"Don't we all," said Siddgeir. He looked at her expectantly.
"I thought, perhaps, my lord," said Kara, trying not to grind her teeth at the title, "you might honour my father's memory by drinking from his horn. I am sure his spirit, wherever it flies, will be greatly pleased."
"Well," said Siddgeir. Though clearly pleased at the request, he leaned back in his throne and said, "And what would we be drinking?"
"Anything you desire," said Kara. "I am sure your supplies are much finer than what I have suffered through on the road."
Siddgeir smoothed his hair back. "I keep a well-stocked cellar, it is true. Wine!" he bellowed. "You have the . . . horn?"
Kara nodded and retrieved the poisoned horn from her pack. She passed it to the Jarl as a servant appeared with a bottle. Kara held onto her own horn and watched as the wine was poured. Siddgeir seemed to hesitate a moment before directing the servant to pour into Kara's horn also. The pair raised their drinking vessels.
"To your father," said the Jarl with a smirk. They both drank down their horns in one draught. Kara licked her lips as she watched a frown edge onto Siddgeir's face.
"You do my family a great honour, Jarl Siddgeir," said Kara. "I will be sure to mention it to them, and my friends, upon my return to the Imperial City."
"Yes, yes," said Siddgeir, swallowing. "You do that." He tossed the horn towards her and she caught it in her free hand. She examined its interior—not a drop of wine remained. She tucked both horns back in her pack. Siddgeir frowned and rubbed at his throat.
"If my lord is feeling unwell," said Kara, "perhaps I should take my leave."
Siddgeir waved a hand towards the door, starting to cough. When Kara looked back at the door, his face was pale and he was yelling for water. She stepped into the street and headed west. Too many people had seen her, spoken to her, but she thought it unlikely they would connect her to a fur-clad traveller in Dawnstar, or a crazed ragged brawler in Whiterun, if they heard tell of such things.
As she strode out of Falkreath, Kara wondered if perhaps she was positioning herself too highly. The murders in Riften and Winterhold had been of convenience, as she sought to move on as soon as possible. In Windhelm and Whiterun she had killed out of personal taste, taking a disliking to individuals who ways jolted against her own. But in Dawnstar and now in Falkreath, she had killed in order to improve the towns. Judgement calls made on very little information—but then she had no time to conduct thorough investigations. If there was some twisted way she could take Clavicus Vile's orders and turn them to the advantage of the people, then that was what she would do. It would help her sleep easier if she told herself so, anyway. Somewhat consoled as to her mission, she headed for Markarth.
