Hey all you readers and lurkers (and reviewers. I love you guys) :) So this chapter was getting ridiculously long, so I've chopped it into parts. The following is part one:

-)

The Twenty-Fifth of Evening Star dawned bitter and cold, but the sun was shining and even the unlucky thieves of the Riften Guild were in good spirits. Perhaps they were just anticipating the impromptu party they'd throw later, or maybe it was just the general atmosphere of the New Life Festival. We all pretty much escaped the Flagon, making preparations for our end of the bargain—hot food and some alcohol.

My first stop of the day? The Bee and Barb.

I padded softly into the main room, not wanting to alert Keerava, who was busily wiping down the counter. I had already asked to use the kitchen earlier, and she hadn't minded, so long as I stuck around long enough to chat with her. And of course I would; the woman was like the mother I wish I had. Instead I got the one who sold me to the Thalmor as soon as I started bleeding.

"Keerava?" I called softly, fishing a brown-paper-wrapped parcel out of my knapsack. "Are you…?"

"Tiberia!" She seemed genuinely happy to see me, and that cut through me like a knife. She couldn't abide this whole Thieves Guild business, but the Guild was becoming a second family to me, in the same vein as the Companions. There was just no way to make everyone happy, when it came to my life. "Happy New Life!"

"Happy New Life," I smiled, handing her the parcel. "I made this for you."

Her brow furrowed in delighted puzzlement. "Little Elf, you didn't have to get me anything… And I have nothing for you."

"I give gifts because the recipient deserves them, not because I expect anything in return," I replied swiftly. "And don't call me Little Elf."

Her face softened, just a tad, and she unsheathed the dagger at her belt to cut through the string. The paper fell away to reveal the blanket I'd painstakingly woven the night before. I'd been sure to use muted, Argonian colors in the yarn—especially amethyst. Tonilia had poked fun at me as I wove, but I just played the 'Hey, I'm an Elf!' card and she eventually got bored. "You made this?" The Argonian seemed to be in shock.

I nodded. "In my family, it's tradition for every newborn to receive a blanket woven by one of the women in the family. I figured you could use it to line the nest."

Her face broke into a real smile. "Divines bless you, Tiberia."

I bowed my head and swallowed my pride. "And you as well, Keerava."

I spent most of that morning preparing the dish I was bringing to the Flagon. It was an old favorite of mine as a child, something my mother would make on lazy Sundas afternoons—deep fried gourd. She would slice it thin, coat it in flower, and set it sizzling into a pan layered with butter. I couldn't tell you why I'd always loved this old, elven tradition, but I did. Of course, it is deep-fried; what's not to like?

I set the first batch onto a wooden plate just as Brand-Shei wandered into the tavern. Perfect. He's right on time. "There you are!" I called, commandeering a table. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

With a smile, my single Dunmeri friend claimed the chair opposite mine. "You were pretty vague when you invited me," he faux-scolded. "Now I'm just curious."

I pushed the wooden plate closer to him. "Recognize these?"

"You made fried gourd?" He seemed surprised that I cooked than anything else, but happily so. "I haven't had these since I was last in Morrowind!"

"New Life is the one day I year I actually can stand being in a kitchen," I quipped. "The rest of the year, I'm on the Battlefield."

"I think armor suits you better than an apron," he joked, and we dug in.

Once Brand-Shei left, I fried up the rest of the plants I had, then disappeared down into the Flagon by means of the Ratway. Who would bother a wanderer on the day of the New Life Festival? Even the lowlifes in the Guild had more class than that. It was mid-afternoon by the time I finally got into the Ragged Flagon, and I discovered the party was just getting started. Vekel waved me over the bar, and I set down the bottles of Honningbrew Reserve I'd saved from titular job, as well as the wooden plate laden with deep-fried gourd-y goodness.

I disappeared into the Cistern to change into my Guild armor, and was just buckling my boots when Brynjolf appeared out of seemingly nowhere. You'd think living with a bunch of thieves would make me used to that. You would also be wrong. He greeted me with a hug and a "Happy New Life!" which I promptly returned, and then we both said in unwitting unison, "I have something for you, by the way."

We were both surprised at that. "You didn't have to get me anything," I said, offhandedly.

Brynjolf shot me an oh-come-now look. "Sure I did. But we're even, so…"

I laughed, and dug around my trunk for a moment for the last parcel I'd wrapped the night before. "So I found this on one of my jobs, and it sort of spoke to me. So I figured that would go double for a master thief like you."

"Flatterer," Brynjolf accused with a grin, slicing through the string with the Orcish dagger from his belt. The strange pink stone I'd found at the Castle Fletchers was nestled in its box, winking through the semidarkness at the both of us, and Brynjolf broke out into a smile. "You know me well, Little Elf."

"Okay, you're not allowed to call me that either," I said, beginning to get annoyed at the epithet. "There is one man in Tamriel who can call me that, and you are not him. And he only gets away with it because he's the size of three of me and could probably rip me in half with his bare hands if he felt like it." Thankfully, Farkas wasn't that violent on a day-to-day basis, especially now that he'd given up the Beast Blood.

"Wise decision!" Brynjolf laughed. "And do you know what this is, lass?" I shook my head, so he continued. "This is a Stone of Barenziah. There are twenty-four in all. Legend has it, some thief somewhere tried to cover his tracks by prying them off the Dunmeri Queen Barenziah's crown. My brother found one when I was a lad; been trying to find all twenty-four ever since."

I paused to marvel at my success. And here, I'd thought the thing was just fascinating. "So how many do you have?"

"Six, now." Brynjolf smiled, and said, "So your gift sort of needs an explanation…"

"Oh gods," I said jokingly.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "So I was down at the Apothecary's the other day, getting medicine for Cynric…" The Breton had been sick last week with this nasty cough no one wanted to get. Mercer ordered him on meds ASAP. "…and I overheard Ingun talking about some breakthrough with Elgrim. Being the naturally curious thief that I am, I stopped to listen, and that's where it gets interesting. Apparently, Ingun has found a way to suppress dreams. So I figured maybe it could help with your nightmares…"

My eyes widened. "How in Oblivion…?"

"I don't know, lass," Brynjolf said with a shrug. "That's Ingun, for you. So I asked her if she could make you a batch, and she said she'd try, but given that you're an elf things could get dicey. She needs you there to figure out measurements and things. So drop by Elgrim's the next time Ingun's in; she'll fix you right up."

I was shocked at this random act of kindness. Being a chronic insomniac, Brynjolf was often awake when I awoke in the middle of the night, startled. He was one of two people who knew the true extent my nightmares—everyone else either brushed them off as simple bad dreams, or ignored them. But Brynjolf knew better; Vilkas knew better. "Thank you, Bryn," I said unsteadily, for once unsure of what to say. "Truly."

He smiled wanly, and put a hand to the side of my face. "I just want to see you finally get a good night's sleep." Then his smile reached his eyes. "Now come on; they're probably looking for us in the Flagon."

I glanced about the Cistern, and suddenly realized it was empty but for us. "Probably," I agreed, and the two of us disappeared into the Flagon (Bryn locked the Stone of Barenziah securely into his own trunk before, though).

"Look who finally decided to show up," Delvin harassed good-naturedly as we joined the rest of the Guild, giving both Brynjolf and me a hearty shove. "Somebody get these two tankards!" He called.

Tonilia was grinning in a very un-Tonilia way as she pressed a tankard of mead into my hands and Brynjolf's. She slipped back over to Vekel a moment later, but not before flashing a wink my way. "Now that everyone's here," Vex called with a purposefully dirty look our way, "let's get started."

"Get started on what?" I asked as I took a seat at the bar, sitting so that my back rested on the smooth wood, while the rest of me faced outwards, towards my Guild family.

"Oh that's right, you're new," Thrynn said as though he'd just now remembered. "Alright, someone explain it to Tiberia; I'm gonna go find a helmet."

It was Rune who took pity on me. "It's our usual drinking game," he said, taking the seat to my right for the moment. "Scar or Story. What happens is, we go around the Guild in a circle of sorts, and on your turn, you can show us a scar and explain how you got it, or a draw a story out of the helmet and tell that. We write those down before the game goes, and it could be anything—first time you stole something, first time arrested, last time you did something incredibly stupid while drunk, first time you bedded a woman…" He paused. "Well, man in your case. But just life stories like that. Or, if you like, you can pass, but you have to chug whatever's left in your tankard. If you can't, the Guild dares you to do something, which you then must do."

I nodded. "Sounds easy enough." I'd have to be careful around this game and booze, but it was New Life; I wasn't too worried. Rune got back up and went to find food after that.

Thrynn came back with a helmet and strips of paper. There were a few moments of scribbling entries onto them, then everything was folded and stuck in the Iron Helmet the ex-bandit had dug up. "That should do it," he said, glancing. "Who's first?"

"I'll go," Vex volunteered after a few moments' silence.

"Scar or Story?" Delvin, who was seated on her left, asked.

"Story," she said, and Thrynn passed her the helmet. She withdrew a slip of paper, and with a grin announced, "First time you stole something."

I heard a hearty, scorn-less laugh on my right, and realized that Brynjolf had materialized there without my noticing, yet again. Gods, I would have to pay more attention to my surroundings down here. Anyone could sneak up on me. I was getting too complacent. The semidarkness reminded me too much of Jorrvaskr.

"I grew up in Cyrodiil, in the Imperial City," Vex said, leaning against a stack of crates and swirling the drink in her hand. "My family… we weren't poor, per se, but we weren't rich, either. So there was one day, and I must have been nine, or maybe ten, I was in the Arboretum—the garden with the statues of the Nine Divines—just relaxing, maybe reading a book; I don't remember. And the Emperor's son walks by with his usual bodyguards, but they kept their distance, letting the boy wander. And he trips, near me, and spills the content of all his pockets.

"Being a 'good, honest citizen of the Empire…'" Vex put air quotes around this, amid general laughter. "…I went to help him gather his things. He's all embarrassed that some commoner had to help, and I'm trying to hide my laughter. He thanks me, and the Penitus Oculatus whisks him away. But what he didn't realize was, I kept one of the gemstones he had in his pocket. Just a little Ruby; he'd never miss it. And I realized then that I rather like the feeling of larceny, so here I am, twenty years later." She laughed, took a swig from her tankard, then turned to Delvin. "Scar or Story?"

"Scar," he said, and pointed to his nose. "Ever wondered why I sound like this?" His broken nose accent was so very pronounced, now that he was getting wasted. "It's simple, really. I had my nose broken three times in the same night."

"How the hell does that even happen?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Mead does that to me.

But Delvin just laughed. "Back in High Rock, I used to run with another gang of Thieves. Don't ask me the name; we never had one. But there was one night we were stealing this statuette out of a nobleman's home, and even though our contact told us specifically thatthe place was empty…" The air of an old bitterness unfurled under his words, and the Guild laughed. "…It wasn't.

"Instead of making off free and clear with the statue, we're running for our lives through town in the dead of night. The first time my nose was broken that night was when we were still in the Nobleman's house. I got into a fight with one of his mercenaries, and he hit me in the face. Crunch! That was the end of that." Delvin winced at the memory. "The second time, we were running for the edge of town, and one of the man's blasted dogs got my leg. I fell hard, face first into the wall around his lands." The entirety of the Thieves Guild winced at that.

Even Thrynn. "And the third?" he asked gingerly.

Delvin shrugged. "We're back in our hideout, and the entire gang is telling me to go see a healer. And I was like, 'Nah, I'm fine guys. Really, I—' And that's when I walked into a doorframe."

Even Vex was howling with laughter by this point. "So when I finally did go see a healer," Delvin continued, "he told me he'd have to break it again to fix it—I guess that's four times in one night—but apparently, I screwed it up so bad that I now permanently sound like this." He turned to Vekel, who was on his left and said, "Scar or Story?"

And so it went through the whole Guild. Some stories were cringe worthy, others had us all howling with laughter. Some scars were fresh, others older than some of the owner's Guild siblings. As the night wore on, I was beginning to see why the Guild did this only once a year. Sometimes it was visibly painful for the storyteller to relive his or her experience, and sometimes he or she told it easily, openly. But since the whole lot of us are so bloody secretive, a drinking game is pretty much the only way anything even close to this would work. And you know, a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

"Story," Brynjolf said in response to Cynric's question. He withdrew a slip of paper from the helmet and grinned. "First job with the Guild." This was instantly greeted with laughter from some of the older members of the Guild.

"By the Nine, this was great," Niruin laughed.

"The Nine?" I jokingly scolded.

"Only the Dunmer are crazy enough to worship Daedra," he shot back, amidst general laughter (some of which even came from me).

Brynjolf was laughing himself as he began. "My first Guild job…" He sounded almost wistful. "I couldn't have been much older than thirteen or fourteen… Delvin, how old was I?"

"About fourteen, aye," the old Breton replied. I realized then that his and Brynjolf's friendship went further back then just Brynjolf's time in the Guild. Call me mad and send me to Sheogorath, but it seemed like old Delvin had raised the red-headed Nord sitting next to me.

"There was a musical going on at the Bard's College, a new one for the Burning of King Olaf that year. It was some one-act about Queen Barenziah, but the thing that made it interesting was, rumor had it they were using the actual crown of Barenziah and didn't know it. So of course the Guild was curious." Some murmuring of assent at that. "So Mercer…" Brynjolf raised his glass towards the cantankerous Guildmaster sitting in the corner nursing a bottle of mead. His fifth so far, given that he'd passed every time his turn came up. "…pays off a few people, and sends my brother Raynor and I to masquerade as part of cast."

"Gods rest his soul," Delvin said solemnly, raising his tankard high. "Raynor was a good lad."

"Aye!" agreed the rest of the Guild firmly as their raised their own glasses high, but Brynjolf most of all.

"So things are going well, we fit into the cast just fine," Brynjolf continued after a moment, "but then the scene where they used the crown came up. I had the part of setting it on the Queen's head, and as soon as I picked it up, I knew it was fake." He shook his head. "All that coin, completely wasted. Wouldn't be the first time either. And that's when I knew the Guild was having a run of bad luck."

"Can you even sing?" Tonilia interrupted.

Brynjolf shot her a look. "Yes."

"Prove it," Niruin scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Seriously?" Brynjolf was looking less-than-pleased by this turn of events. He glanced from face to face, looking for some backup, but found none. "Oh, fine." He began, a capella:

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart.

I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes

With a Voice wielding power, of the ancient Nord Art,

Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes,

It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes,

Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes,

For the Darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,

You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborn's come."

He wasn't a bad singer, not by a long shot. He had a pleasant baritone that leaned more towards bass, and who doesn't love an accent? But what pissed me off was the song. Lying about being Dovahkiin was never something I'd been comfortable with. Never would be comfortable with.

Mercifully, that song is short, so upon finishing Brynjolf merely turned to me and said, "Scar or Story?"

"Story," I said, and reached into the helmet.