Skyrim belongs to Bethesda, but any OC/plot twist or idea that you do not recognize belongs to me! Thank you for the feedback, and enjoy!

The group made their way up the slopes toward the Dragon's den, Isben leading as his feet led him toward the large stone wall looming over them. Maurice trotted alongside him, practically skipping in joy and murmuring more praises about Kynareth's beauty and the Dragonborn. Vimund kept his eyes on the pilgrim, not trusting a mage anywhere near the Dragonborn. Shêza was the last in line, quietly watching the group and observing the scenery.

Steam shot out of cracks and trenches in the earth, doubling the humidity. She wrinkled her nose from the inconvenience, but Maurice outright complained about it. Vimund looked close to relieving the man of his troubles—namely with his axe.

Isben faltered in step when he heard a faint chanting on the wind, and he nearly groaned aloud when he recognized it. He braced himself for the unpleasantly familiar feeling of invasion as he approached the Word Wall.

Vimund glanced about, axe in hand. "I don't like the looks of this. Aye, look at all these corpses. Are those...?"

"Mammoth," Shêza said in confirmation. She'd know a mammoth skeleton anywhere. "These beasts hunt them."

"And not just mammoth," Vimund said as he nudged a human skull with his boot. "Divines, where has mercy gone?"

"Kynareth shows mercy on those who believe in Her and Her gifts," Maurice said with his chin held high. He puffed his chest out. "She is the reason there is so much beauty in the world, after all."

"I'm about to make it prettier with your tongue cut out," Shêza hissed at him. She flexed her fingers and would have followed through with her threat had Isben not chosen that moment to look over his shoulder at her and frown. She growled something unintelligent and stalked toward a skeleton.

Isben sighed and stepped closer to the Wall. The chant was booming now, pounding in his ears and making his skull rattle in his head. He wanted to plug his ears, but he knew even that wouldn't deafen his voice. He felt Mirmulnir and the other Dragon watching, waiting for him to make the final step so that he was touching the Wall. He wanted to scream at the Dragons to stop looking at him like that, but just the thought sent more prodding throughout his brain. He held his forehead with one hand while the other reached out to touch the markings on the wall.

Vimund watched as more of those strands slid from one of the etchings on the stone wall to trail over Isben's form. They eventually found their way into his mouth. The blue light emanating from the markings faded to a dull shine before disappearing completely, Isben having absorbed that as well. The Dragonborn fell to his knees and clutched at his head once the strands had completed their way into his body.

Isben blinked his eyes, trying to regain his vision and banish the darkness swimming around his peripherals. He frowned and held his hands out when he felt something warm slither across them, and he stared as he saw the Dragon's blood slide over his palms before his skin absorbed it. He wanted to gag and spit, but a hand on his shoulder made him turn his attention elsewhere.

Maurice stood over him, a healing spell in hand. Isben heard a yell and before he knew it, Maurice had been pushed away and in place of him stood Vimund.

"Keep that filth away from him, aye," he snarled at the pilgrim. "Kynareth will be witness to your death if you touch him once more with that magicka."

Maurice took in a breath and stood his ground. He and Vimund exchanged quips while Shêza padded around them. She looked down at Isben and shifted on her feet, as if she was uncertain what to do now.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead and eyes. "By the Nine, I hate that."

She was silent as she toed the ground.

"I know how an apple feels when a worm wiggles its way through it," he said with a weak smile. "Making holes this way and that, releasing pressure, weakening the inside. It's a rot." He shook his head and stood on shaky legs. "But it's a fool's destiny, I suppose."

Shêza glanced over at him, but didn't say anything. She had the decency to duck her head, though. "Can you read it?" she asked after a moment of silence.

He looked at the markings on the Word Wall and furrowed his brow. "I don't know."

"It's chicken-scratch."

"It's a language—their language." He moved about the Wall, following the markings across its width. After a few moments, he stood in the center of the Wall and wore a strange expression. "I... I can read it," he said. Without needing prompting from her, he ran his hand over the etchings. "'All praise Bard Lunerio whose golden music became frost here in night.'" He paused and repeated the verse to himself. "Frost," he muttered.

Fo.

He winced when he felt another pop in his mind. He heard the Dragon scream and its hold on him weaken. He held his head and leaned against the Wall for support, certain he would be sick. When his nausea died down to a tolerable level, he eased himself off of the Wall to find Shêza watching him. He wanted to snarl at her to look somewhere else, but he checked himself just in time. She saw the glare on his face though, and turned away from him.

He huffed and looked over at Vimund and Maurice. He rolled his eyes when he saw them almost at each other's throats.

"So, you think my magicka is a threat? I'll have you know my spells have saved lives!"

"Ohoho, saved lives! Your curse can burn a whole village down if not contained properly!"

"What? I don't see you wanting to murder the Dragonborn for having special talents! He's more unstable than a necromancer!"

Vimund's nostrils flared and his face flushed with anger. "Do not even compare him with those vile creatures. You have nerve even saying the term! I should cut you down now and save a poor, hapless wanderer from your recklessness!"

"Knock it off already," Isben spat at them as he walked away from the Wall. "We're wasting daylight and we still have the Eldergleam to see to. So put your differences behind, start walking, and stuff it."

Vimund glowered and bristled with raw anger, and Maurice looked just as appalled. Whatever words they had to say had no sway on Isben; nay, he already had his map out and was halfway down the slope with Shêza a few paces behind him.

"This place is..." Isben's voice died out as he stared in awe of the cavern before him. He blinked, expecting to wake up from a dream, but still the surreal grotto surrounded him.

Maurice joined him and smiled. "It is a piece of Kynareth's beauty in Mundus. It is truly a blessing from Her."

Isben dumbly nodded as he glanced about Eldergleam Sanctuary. Herbs ranging from mountain flowers to earthy moss, butterflies fluttering hither and thither over logs, pools with waterfalls cascading into them, travelers who'd taken the time to pay homage to Kyne, and above all of that—

Above all of that stood the Eldergleam, her branches spread out in welcoming of all to visit her sanctuary, offering shelter and peace to the weary traveler.

Shêza sighed. Nyssa and Helena would have loved it here. She could see her sisters playing in the grotto, spending their time beneath the Eldergleam's branches, sunbathing in the patches of sunlight that fell through the holes in the cavern's ceiling. She yearned for her home and family, and wished more than ever that she could see them.

She was brought back to reality when she spotted Isben approaching a landed butterfly like a wildcat on the prowl. Her lips twitched when she saw the concentrated expression on his face, and she snickered when Maurice came squawking over to him, berating him for trying to 'take advantage of Kynareth's gifts.' She shook her head and wandered farther into the sanctuary, taking in the breathtaking scenery.

"Miss Shêzanaré," Vimund said with a bowed head as he joined her in the grass. He sat beside her and let out a breath.

She made a noise at the back of her throat and continued to stare ahead, too engrossed with nature to pay him any real mind.

The tension in his shoulders died away as the sanctuary worked wonders on his soul. "There is something in the air here. Aye, there is a feeling to it, one that I am familiar with."

"It is peace," she said quietly.

He nodded. "Aye, it is. Felt it whenever we were victorious in a battle during the War. Back at our camps, those who'd survived would sit around the fire, a bottle of mead in hand. There would be no talk, as we all knew what the others were thinking." He exhaled and rubbed his face. "Lost many friends, aye. There was never a real victory."

She made another sound and turned her head when she heard Isben walking past them. Vimund followed her gaze and heaved himself up from the grass.

"We'd best be off. Still have to get to that tree, aye?"

"You go on. I'd like a moment."

He raised a brow. "Some fresh air, eh?"

She chose to give him a wry smile instead of a reply. He shrugged his broad shoulders and followed after Isben and the pilgrim up to the Eldergleam.

"The Eldergleam is protected by her roots," Maurice explained as he and Isben followed the path leading up to the tree. "It's been so long since anyone's actually been near the tree. Of course, there is the fabled Nettlebane that is said to be able to repel the roots and open the path up to the Eldergleam, but—" Maurice almost fainted when he saw Vimund pull the blade out from his pack. "N-N-N-Nettlebane!"

Several of the other travelers turned their heads toward them with shocked expressions. Isben rubbed his brow and accepted the blade from Vimund.

Maurice hurried around Isben to block his way. He outstretched his arms in plea. "You mustn't! To hurt the Eldergleam—even her roots—is a sin! Kynareth will surely take vengeance on you! You must not hurt the tree!"

"Do you see any other way up?" Isben asked. "Listen. This isn't my choice to make. If Nettlebane will make these roots recede, then it sounds like the best option to me. I don't want to disappoint Danica. The woman's been waiting long enough for a solution to the Gildergreen's current state."

"The Gildergreen?" Maurice snarled and spat the word as if it was the most sinful curse. "You're helping Danica to cure the Gildergreen? It's a shadow of what the Eldergleam is! To hurt something so pure, so beautiful for a little weed is disgraceful! You mustn't cut the Eldergleam with Nettlebane! You mustn't!"

"What other choice do I have?"

Maurice bobbed his head up and down and hurried to explain. "I have an idea, but I will only share it if you swear to Kynareth you will not hurt Her tree."

Isben looked at Vimund for advice, but the Nord only stared Maurice down with a grim look.

"Mages and their trickery," he muttered beneath his breath.

Isben huffed and nodded. "I swear upon Kynareth. May She strike me down if I fail to keep this promise."

"Good," Maurice said with a smile.

"But I still have to cut the roots."

Maurice sighed and crossed his arms. "I... I suppose I cannot offer any suggestions to that."

"There's always my axe," Vimund said with a vicious smile.

Maurice blanched and gulped. "Very well. Use Nettlebane. But please," he added, "be gentle. Offer the mercy Kynareth would upon you." He stepped out of Isben's way and watched as the man approached the large roots with Nettlebane held out in his hand. As he brought the blade closer to the roots, they seemed to quiver, as if they could sense its presence.

Just a small tap, and the roots started to curl away from the path, opening it up for them. Isben continued to tap any root in his way, mindful not to harm them, while Vimund and Maurice stayed close by.

Maurice wrapped his arms around himself and murmured prayers to Kynareth for forgiveness. When they reached the top of the cavern, Isben kept his word and sheathed Nettlebane. He looked expectantly at Maurice. The pilgrim bobbed his head up and down and knelt in front of the Eldergleam. It was even more massive up close than Isben thought it would be.

"Kynareth has always helped the Just and True," Maurice said. "She has always been generous to those who need Her guidance." He bent his head and brought his lips to the soil and murmured softly. Isben and Vimund had to strain their ears just to hear him, but they couldn't discern what he said.

Isben blinked, and in that split moment a small sapling sat in front of Maurice that wasn't there before. Maurice looked up and smiled at the sapling before placing a kiss in the soil. "Thank you, Kynareth, Kyne, Goddess of the Wind and Sky." He tore off a length of his robes and wrapped the sapling's roots in the cloth. He presented the small plant to Isben. "Take this to Danica as an exchange for the Gildergreen. A new tree will grow in Whiterun, borne from the Eldergleam and Kynareth's grounds."

Maurice placed the sapling in Isben's hands like a mother putting her babe in its crib. As soon as Isben's fingers made contact with the little tree, he felt something jolt throughout his entire body. He shook the feeling away and took the tree from Maurice. It was a dainty little thing, hardly any leaves on its gangly stem.

"I wish to stay here a while, to pray beneath the Eldergleam's branches and revere Kynareth." Maurice smiled and inclined his head. "I wish you a safe travel back to Whiterun, friend. Please give Danica my regards."

Isben nodded. "Farewell, Maurice. May She keep you."

"And you, Dragonborn."

As he and Vimund walked down the path to retrieve Shêza and see about their journey back to Whiterun, Vimund grunted and shook his head. "Damned mages and their damned manners. I need a cold drink."

Isben rolled his eyes and took in a sharp breath when he saw Shêza. He blinked a few times, dumbfounded, and Vimund looked to see what caught his eye.

"Lass is probably tired after that Dragon. Aye, I don't blame her. I could go for some furs and a bed myself. After my drink, of course."

Isben walked over to her and stood over her dozing form. She looked like something from nature with her arms spread out and pieces of grass in her hair and clothes—as natural as the spriggans that made their homes in trees. Without a crease in her brow and a frown on her face, she looked safe. As if she wasn't a person who was likely to rip your tongue out for saying something she didn't approve of.

He knelt and set the sapling beside her as he observed her. Her breaths were deep and even, and he dared to take a closer look. It was then that he saw the exhaustion written all over her face beneath her warpaint. He remembered that she'd spent the prior night keeping watch while they all slept, and he felt guilt rear its ugly head at him. What was worse was that she had fought a Dragon with zero hours of sleep. He wanted to apologize to her, but didn't want to wake her.

He lifted his hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He yelped when her eyes snapped open and her hand clenched around his wrist. She twisted her hips and in one fluid motion, she had him pinned beneath her with her knife at his throat. Vimund had taken hold of his axe and was on his way toward them, but a quick shake of Isben's head made him stop in his tracks.

A wild look invaded her eyes as she stared him down, her lips turned in a snarl. He blinked at her, startled by her actions and expression, but even more stunned by the sunlight framing her figure and making her hair shine.

His mind took him to an old text he'd read while studying at the University.

"'And so it is our greatest mystery to discern whether or not Nature, the greatest gift and blessing of Kynareth, is to be Chaotic in its own Right or Beautiful by Her Determination.'"

She recoiled her head and pressed her dagger further into his skin. She blinked and, once realizing who he was, sheathed her dagger and had the decency to sport a sheepish look.

"Stunning, is it not?" he asked.

She snorted and climbed off of him to stalk to the sanctuary's entrance. He got to his feet and picked at pieces of grass clinging to him.

Vimund cleared his throat and sheathed his axe. "Aye. I'll be needing that drink soon. Might I ask?"

Isben shrugged his shoulders. "It's natural for her to be like this time to time. It's what I've gathered from my observations, of course."

"Aye," Vimund said. "Aye."

Shêza stood outside the sanctuary as she waited for Vimund and that half-elf. She wore a gruesome scowl as she waited—and not very patiently—for them. Frustrated, she shifted on her heels and huffed.

It was then that she caught a whiff of something other than Man or Mer. She took in a deeper inhale and frowned. Curious, she climbed up onto a jutting rock, mindful of the geyser at its base, and sniffed the air. Her eyes widened when she caught the familiar scent of werefolk. She didn't know that they lived here of all places, and she hadn't known that they'd been trespassing on their territory. They were lucky that a Brute hadn't shooed them away. Back at her home, Ivor would patrol their lands and make sure they had no unwanted visitors, like a curious tourist or some rubbish. She knew Ivor never hurt outsiders—he took a strange pleasure in frightening them.

But whether or not these werefolk would be as merciful as Ivor, she didn't know.

And she didn't want to find out.

Had Shêza not been sniffing the air, wondering where exactly these werewolves had their den, she never would have smelled the man perched on the Eldergleam Sanctuary's rocks, waiting for Vimund and Isben to exit so that he could pounce.

He hadn't seen her yet, but she saw him. Her eyes narrowed in fury, and she silently crept toward him. When she was a few feet behind him, she made her move. With a screech, she flung herself at him, sending them tumbling down to the sanctuary's entrance. The man's twin blades went flying out of his hands as they collided with the ground. Shêza tried to pin him, but he struggled and fought her tooth and nail. She growled as he grabbed her wrists and kept her from clawing his eyes out. She fought violently to break out of his hold, but he was relentless.

She hissed and renewed her efforts, straining the muscles in her arms to gain the upper hand. He spat at her and tried to twist his legs around hers, but she took the opportunity to slam her knee into his hip. He gasped and she felt his hold slacken the tiniest fraction, but it was all she needed. With a shriek, she grabbed hold of either side of his face and pelted it into the rock beneath him until his head was nothing but a bloody mass of torn skin.

She panted and crawled off of him to catch her breath. After a few gulps of air, she stood and hurried off to find his swords. Once she did, she gave the weapons a sniff and snuffled in anger. They were coated in poisons. She lobbed them into the pools of water, watching with satisfaction as they sank to the bottom of the pools.

"What barbarian would do such a thing? If this was a mage, aye, there will be repercussions. You can count on that."

Shêza swiveled her head when she heard Vimund shout to Isben. She made her way back over to them, and Vimund gave her a suspicious look. "Did you do this?" he demanded. When she nodded, he frowned and adjusted the grip on his axe. "Why?"

Isben placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm the big Nord man. His hand was shrugged off. He ignored the small exchange he and Shêza shared and instead rifled through the corpse's belongings. He opened the bag at his hip. A small amount of coins, a healing potion, and a folded letter. Curious, Isben opened the letter and started to read it.

His brow furrowed and he looked up to see Shêza and Vimund bickering.

"I saved your pathetic hide, you miserable dog. I suppose that's all the Companions can breed nowadays."

Vimund's knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on his weapon. "Don't try my patience, miss. I'm not the one killing innocents!"

"He was hardly innocent," Isben said. He was ignored.

Shêza bared her teeth at Vimund. "You are trying my patience, Companion. If I hadn't killed him, the two of you would be dead. I did you both a favor—you should be grateful."

"Oh, and I suppose I should be grateful that you haven't bitten my head off? You rabid bitch, you killed an innocent!"

Isben managed to worm his way between the two of them. He held the sapling in one hand and the letter in the other. "You call this innocent?" He thrust the letter in Vimund's face, and in a rage, the Nord snatched it from his hands and started to read the paper.

His fury was replaced with concern, and all color in his face had gone. He gave the letter back to Isben, and he offered it to Shêza.

She skimmed it over, not surprised by its contents.

"I won't say anything," Isben said.

Vimund coughed and wore an uncomfortable expression. "Lass, I—"

She shook her head.

Vimund nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, lad. Looks like I was right: people want you gone. And not just a squabbling bard, but the Dark Brotherhood."

"If Shêza could handle them, I'm not too concerned."

"They'll send more once they hear of this," Vimund said sternly. "And not just more, but experienced members. They're crafty bastards, they are. Aye. We need a sharper eye out. Let's not be too willing to trust strangers, eh?"

Shêza rolled her eyes. If only he knew.

They made camp outside of Mixwater Mill again. Vimund had offered to take first watch as a form of apology to Shêza. He also knew that the woman was exhausted and needed her rest. He circled the edge of camp, one hand on his axe as he listened to the forest around them.

Shêza rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. She exhaled and closed her eyes, feeling sleep just a hand's width away from her.

"You don't have a bedroll?"

She could have screamed she was so tired and frustrated. She opened one eye to glare at Isben for disturbing her soon-to-be slumber. But when she saw how haunted he looked and drained, she opted to keep her mouth closed.

He sat on his bedroll and kneaded his forehead and temples. He'd been doing that often as of late.

She shook her head no.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before standing and bringing his bedroll over to her. "You can have mine, if you want. I don't think I'm sleeping tonight. Not with this headache, and certainly not while I know there are assassins out there hunting for me."

Shêza, too tired to reply, merely shook her head again. She inwardly groaned when he started protesting and urging her to accept his bedroll. His words abruptly stopped and he let out a hiss as his headache intensified. He glared at her and spat, "Just take the bedroll, would you!" He swore and started pacing back and forth.

She watched as he practically made a rut in the ground, and without a word, she crawled away from him in search of a quieter place to sleep. She blinked when she saw the sapling nestled between his and Vimund's packs. She inspected the little tree for a moment, unimpressed by its daintiness. He had soaked the cloth around its roots earlier, worried that it would die on them before they reached Whiterun. She hadn't said anything then, as she supposed that since he was an alchemist, he knew how to care for plants better than she did. He knew those things: how to take care of others—

Her brow quirked as she recalled what the pilgrim—she cringed—had said earlier that day.

Kynareth shows mercy on those who believe in Her and Her gifts.

Shrugging, and deciding it was worth a try, she scooped the sapling up and returned to where Isben was. He was still pacing and rubbing his head, speaking nonsense to himself. She waited until he had turned toward her before holding the sapling out so that it rested against his forehead. He gasped and took a step back—why, she didn't know—but she matched it.

Offer the mercy Kynareth would upon you.

Slowly, his nerves calmed and his headache abated. He felt something cool and soothing seep from the sapling into his mind, numbing the headache and hiding Mirmulnir's stare under a veil. Isben felt his entire being relax as Shêza held that sapling to his forehead, and with hands that felt floppy and useless, he took the sapling from her.

"Is it better?" she asked.

"Y-yes." He sighed in relief and closed his eyes. "Much better."

"Good," she spat, catching him off guard. "Now be quiet so I can sleep." She huffed and turned on her heel back to where she was originally trying to sleep. She ignored his bedroll as she curled into a ball on the grass and leaves. He felt a bit hurt by her rejection, but was too relieved and too happy to give it much thought. He couldn't remember the last time he had been happy. The anger, the frustration, the irritation—gone.

All because of a little sapling.

When Danica learned that they did not retrieve the sap from the Eldergleam, she'd been upset and annoyed at the three of them, particularly at Maurice, who conveniently was not there to experience such an inconvenience—Damn Breton-mage, Vimund thought.

But Danica Pure-Spring was an understanding and kind woman of Kynareth, above all else. When Isben explained the sapling to her, she saw it as for what it was: a gift from Kynareth, just as the Gildergreen was.

"If the Gildergreen is truly gone, there is no reason to reject this offering from Her. We will care for this sapling, just as Kynareth has cared for us."

Isben was reluctant to give her the sapling, but he knew he had to. He'd grown fond of it, and not just because it warded off the headaches and Dragon-stares. He'd cared for it, kept it watered and trimmed of any dead leaves, made sure it received the proper amount of sunlight.

And now his efforts were over, his role completed. Delivery boy.

He sighed when they exited the Temple of Kynareth. He could feel the beginnings of a headache already.

"I suppose it's back to working behind a counter, eh?" Vimund asked with a chuckle.

Isben smiled. "I believe you are right about that—oh, Gods, Arcadia!" He slapped his forehead and immediately regretted it when it started pulsing. "I forgot all about the store—she'll skin my hide for sure."

Shêza rolled her eyes as he continued to panic. She suggested forgetting the store and leaving Whiterun, but he'd refused and said that he respected Arcadia too much to be such a scoundrel. And yet he beds women he is not bonded to. Swine.

And so Isben trudged into Arcadia's Cauldron with his tail between his legs, bracing himself for the lecture he knew he was going to receive. He felt like a prepubescent boy as Arcadia stared him down with the meanest glower in all of Skyrim—the woman's glare could rank up there with Shêza's.

Vimund let out a hearty laugh as Isben finished reciting Arcadia's emasculating speech. The Nord took another swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth. They decided to dine together at The Bannered Mare to celebrate a job well done. Shêza had declined their offer, saying she had errands to run before the night was over. They didn't argue, but Isben had given her a disappointed look.

"She's making me run deliveries to each of the major cities in the Holds," Isben said with a shake of his head. "I understand being angry at me for foregoing my work to venture off on a quest without telling her, but this is a little too much for a punishment."

Vimund shrugged. "Think of it this way, lad: you'll be able to see all of Skyrim's corners. Well, at least the ones on the surface."

Isben chuckled. "Perhaps. I've always wanted to start a business where I'd cart ingredients and potions to and from the cities. My potions were stocking all of the alchemy stores in the Imperial City, you know."

"And how'd that come to be?"

"Since the University was under Thalmor command, the Thalmor decreed that all wares sold in stores were to be of Aldmeri Dominion origin. I'm no Thalmor—don't look at me like that—but they still forced me to concoct the potions. Want to know how much recognition I received?" He held his hand up in a fist. "That's how much."

Vimund shook his head in disgust. "And the Empire is too lenient to do anything about those Thalmor vermin. This is why Skyrim wants to secede. We're Nords, not some fancy froo-froo 'Aldmeri Dominion' fop."

"No argument there. But tell me: is it elves you take issue with, or is it the Thalmor?"

Vimund leaned forward in his seat and set his brow in a frown. "Let me tell you something, aye? I was sweet on an elf once. A fierce, warrior elven lass." His face softened a fraction. "A real tigress, she was. I have nothing against elves, lad. But the Thalmor? Don't even start me on them. Mages? They're nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Talos take them and keep them away from me and the rest of civilization." They finished their meal in silence, both of them too busy pondering their own thoughts to pay the other any mind. It was when Vimund was ready to head back to Jorrvaskr that he broke the silence.

"I almost forgot. Bloody years on me," Vimund added under his breath. He dug through his pack and pulled out a small ornate box. He closed Isben's hands around it. "Open that in privacy, lad. Don't want too many eyes to see it."

"What is it?"

Vimund chuckled and grinned. "A small token of my appreciation. Word of that sapling has already spread throughout the city. Thanks to you, the Companions are starting to see that I might have some worth to me after all. Tomorrow, I start my first official assignment that doesn't involve fetching mead."

Isben shook his head. "I can't accept this, Vimund. I haven't exactly been... cooperative lately."

"Aye, and I'm sure you have your reasons. Also hoping that you aren't always so irate. But I certainly don't have any use for this—my Harbinger doesn't, either. Maybe you'll have better luck?" Vimund shrugged and clapped Isben on the shoulder. "Sleep well, lad. I'll be seeing you."

When Isben was alone in his rented room at the inn and made sure his door was securely locked, he sat on his bed and opened the small box. He tilted his head in confusion at the small magenta gem nestled on a tiny pillow. It was beautiful, there was no question about it, but it seemed... incomplete. For it to be part of a pendant would be too lacking. It was too big to have once been set in a ring. Shrugging, he stashed it away in his pack.

He'd hold onto the gem, anyways. If he ever ran into a financial crisis, he could always sell it. He was headed to Riften tomorrow—despite the fact that there were people who wanted the Dragonborn dead—to deliver ingredients, and he'd heard many rumors regarding Riften and her inhabitants. Perhaps he'd be able to make a bit of coin off of the gem.

Translations:

Fo: Frost