The Wanderer crept around the corner of the Windpeak Inn. This new body felt... different. Taller. Stronger. Some extra... baggage... in the front of those pants. A strange sensation. Nothing like it used to be. Everything was the same, but everything had completely changed.

Passersby walked up and down the stony path that trailed around the small town. They're looking at me and thinking, 'He has an awkward way about him', thought the Wanderer. Him. His. He. That would take some getting used to. I'm a 'he' now, he realized. The thought struck him as uncharacteristic. All he'd known was Cat's body. That small frame and those mounds of flesh – as meager as they were – across her chest. Cat never was a proper female, though. The Institute didn't give her any internal reproductive organs. No pregnancies. No bleeding. No problems? This new body had the same result, but only because it was a proper male, with all the proper sex organs. The muscle tone was different. The hands and shoulders were different. So many small differences that combined into one big jump. One great leap onto the next passing train.

Regarding his old body, the Wanderer grieved a little, but not as much as one might think. That poor vessel had been put through the ringer no thanks to Doc Crocker and a hungry dragon. Cicero, thought the Wanderer, ...will Cicero ever accept me? He didn't want to think about it. Not only was the switch from one body to the other so drastic, but the body the Wanderer now inhabited belonged to the damn Courser for whom Cicero had nothing but contempt!

To convince a stubborn redhead of anything is a feat, thought the Wanderer. But to convince a stubborn, redheaded, violent, and altogether madly lovesick Daedric princeling? The Wanderer's handsome face dropped to an unbecoming frown. Fuck me. The Wanderer fought that age old desire to just run away. No matter what body a person inhabits, some things never change.

He wasn't ready. The Wanderer couldn't see Cicero just yet – he had to sit and gather his thoughts. Pressing on, the Wanderer approached the entrance to the Windpeak Inn. Pushing the door open, a family of Nords pushed their way out. As they bustled down the exit's steps, he noticed one of the young men dropped a leather and fur hooded cape. Such a thing caught the Wanderer's eye, so he bent down to retrieve it. The cape would be a good way to go unnoticed, in addition to hiding that laser rifle holstered to his hip. He swung the cape over his back, securing it to his shoulders just before pulling up the hood. Having fashioned a disguise just barely good enough to slip through a crowd, the Wanderer entered the Windpeak Inn.

Wiping the surface of a wooden table, Thoring looked up from his cleaning to greet the hooded patron. "Food? Drink? A bed?" he asked, gesturing to the tavern all around with a wet rag.

"Could use a drink," admitted the Wanderer. That was the first time he spoke in his new voice. It was deep and hard, with a sort of richness to its overall resonance. It felt beautiful. Powerful. Different.

"Follow me," said Thoring.

The two approached the bar. The innkeeper walked around behind the counter and crouched to the floor. Meanwhile, the Wanderer took a seat, leaning forward on his elbows, trying to keep his head down.

Thoring stood, placing an empty tankard just in front of the hooded man. "What'll it be? Ale? Mead? Brandy?"

The Wanderer searched his leathers to see if X1-81 had carried any coin. Not a cent. That Courser must have spent very little time shopping and dining during his stay in Skyrim. Shame, really, but what else could one expect from Coursers? Drab and boring, they were. Consumed with duty and following commands. No wonder the guy was so pent up. The Wanderer sighed, then shook his head. "I don't have a single septim. Water will do. Sorry for wasting your time, innkeep."

Thoring eyed the strange, hooded man. The visitor had a quality about him that didn't seem familiar to the area. The innkeeper nodded to the Wanderer, as if he understood the man's predicament. "You look like you have quite a way of staving off the sun and snow." He pointed to the hooded man's dark goggles strapped across his face.

Nearly forgetting he had them on, the Wanderer touched his fingertips to the accessory covering his steel gray eyes.

"Care to make a trade?" asked Thoring.

The hooded man pulled the goggles from his face and slid them toward the innkeeper. "I'm not particularly attached to these. They're yours." Then he nodded, pointing to a nearby pitcher. "I'll take an ale."

"A solid choice," grinned Thoring. He removed the goggles from the counter top and stashed them beneath the bar. Then, the innkeeper poured the pitcher of ale, generously filling the tankard to its brim.

The Wanderer sipped his drink, savoring its bitter, hoppy flavor.

Thoring raised an index finger and added, "I might have something else for you, traveler." He crouched down a second time, then stood, setting an iron box on the counter top.

The container was round and very small – able to fit perfectly in the Wanderer's palm. The hooded man lifted the box's lid. Revealed inside was a black, paste-like substance, and on the underside of the lid was a tiny, crudely shaped mirror.

"Irritates my skin," frowned Thoring. "Go on, take it. It'll keep the sun from your eyes. Nords use it like nobody's business this far up north. And if you're particularly creative, you can paint something across that prettyboy face that might actually send your enemies running, should you have any."

"I'm no artist," nodded the Wanderer, "but I can be particularly creative."

"Well," smiled Thoring, "it sounds like you're a Jack of all trades."

"...and a master of none," the Wanderer whispered as he lifted his ale to his lips.

"So, what's your name?" Thoring asked politely. "What brings you to Dawnstar?"

His thoughts echoed the innkeeper's words. Jack of all trades. "Jack," said the Wanderer. "My name is Jack."

"Well that's an interesting coincidence," laughed Thoring. "You gotta surname, Jack?"

"No," the Wanderer shook his head. "I'm a wanderer. I've only had one real name."

"Ahhh," Thoring said with a wink. "Gypsy Jack, it is. You a seafaring man?"

The Wanderer looked up and nodded. "I could be. But on land, it's by horseback – when the horse is calm, that is." Taking another drink of ale, he shook his head at the very thought of that god damn animal. Then the Wanderer gulped down the last of his beverage and stood. He thanked Thoring for his hospitality just before he turned and left the warm, welcoming confines of the Windpeak Inn.

It was time for Jack to confront the jester.