Alcohol consumption was a fundamental part of Nord culture, as deeply ingrained into society as sword wielding, meat carving and breathing. It was natural for taverns to be treated with a similar reverence as one would treat shrines. One could visit any time one liked, but there were some things that one simply did not do once they had crossed the oaken doors: nasty things such as killing or gambling, although brawling and betting, usually on brawls, were perfectly fine. It was where father and son became brothers, rivals became friends, and the ugliest hag became a radiant angel blessed by Mara herself. It was where one practiced and celebrated Nord values, freedom from the burden of thought, and life in general, truly a place for joy.

To have Lydia's birthday celebration anywhere other than the Bannered Mare, the best tavern in Whiterun, would be an insult of the gravest degree.

The tavern was in full swing that night. Everyone from the lowliest door-watcher to the Jarl himself was there, making merry, wading through courses of beef and lamb with a manner that would give a bottomless pit a run for its money. Hulda was up to her arms in roasts, and had built four more makeshift cooking fires just for the occasion, roasting and hacking at the carcasses feverishly. Ysolda had stopped taking orders long ago; all she had to do was ferry as much beer as she could carry from the kitchen to the other side of the room, and the servings would solve themselves. The place was filled with stinging smoke, delicious aroma and raucous laughter, a full-on assault on all the senses that could be considered enjoyable only through the assistance of more ale.

The large scale of the party was uncommon, but certainly understandable. Lydia the housecarl was well-liked amongst the soldiers, partly on account of being young and female; her popularity had peaked even further when word of her exploits were passed around and exaggerated in the way of all market gossip. There were rumours of her slaying a dragon with her bare hands in the hills of Windhelm. Someone's brother's friend's sister-in-law claimed to have seen her walk out of the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary, a string of freshly-lopped heads trailing behind her as proof of her gruesome victory. But the tale that championed over them all, possibly the only one that was true, was that she was companion to the Dragonborn, saviour of Skyrim, and that she was destined for greatness alongside him when the time came for them to liberate the world from the dragon onslaught.

"And now," proclaimed Aela, master-of-ceremony for the night, "we invite the one and only Dragonborn to present us with a song!"

Instantly the tavern exploded into a wave of fresh applause, and Three was shoved roughly to the front and made to stand on the chair that acted as a stage. He looked up and found a sea of bloodshot, unfocused eyes eagerly awaiting whatever entertainment he had to offer. He made a quick inventory of possible performances, and decided that he had none.

"I'm not very good," he began, swaying slightly from the sixth cup of ale forced on to him, but all hope of escape was quickly shouted down with mixed cries:

"You're the Voice user! Of course you can sing!"

"Come on, be a good sport!"

"That's okay, none of us are, even Mikael!"

"That's right," nodded Mikael happily, too drunk to object. This amused everyone greatly, and they burst into yet more laughter. His bard's lute was pried out of his hands gently and passed to the Dragonborn.

"Well," he said at last, "I do have this one song. It's in the Dragon tongue, and I think it's pretty catchy."

Judging by the immediateness of their cheers, Three thought, with considerable rue, how he could have sung nursery rhymes and they would lap it up anyway. There was no point in trying to back out; he might as well make the best of it. Besides, the ale added, it might even be fun.

"All right, but I want you all to sing along with me! Can you do it?" he yelled.

"Yeah!" shouted the chorus in reply.

"Can you?!"

"Yeah!"

"This song is called Dovahkiin. Sing with me!" A wide grin split across his face as he picked at the lute. He could forge swords with the blink of an eye; playing an instrument like this was no problem for him. "Hoo, hroh, hah! Come on, hoo, hroh, hah! This is the intro, come on... And you, you there, go 'Hoooo'... Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin! Come and save us far in! Cut your eye! Cut your cool! Far die arse must hide! Come along, come afar, so your sausage is raw! Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, oh my gawd you're hot!"

Meanwhile, at the counter on the other side of the tavern was Lydia herself, sitting with a young, blonde-haired man.

"I wonder what all the ruckus is about," frowned Lydia, turning. Her view was blocked by the wall of burly bodies of curious soldiers trying to get a look. She promptly gave up and settled for a smile as she shook her head.

"Quite an interesting man, the Dragonborn," said Liester, with a crisp, light laugh of his own.

"You wouldn't believe half of it," said Lydia, draining her cup. "Heh. But you can guess how things have been. Running around Skyrim really doesn't vary much, once you get into the habit of it. Hills and trees and snow and all that, you see. How have you been keeping? I haven't seen you in ages. I'm frankly stunned that you're the one that pulled all of this together."

"It's the least I can do, after all those years of you sticking up for me," said Liester with a wink. "As for me, I've been fine. Doing well. I'm getting my butt kicked less by Irileth in training, though she still calls me half-elf from time to time. Which, I am, but still."

"You haven't changed, have you? I told you already that you're being too sensitive about that," said Lydia, rolling her eyes. "So you're a half-elf. It's not a problem for me, and it's not a problem for other people in Whiterun. Just because they call you that doesn't mean they mean ill will against you for it. Hell, Irileth used to call me Dolly until I finally proved myself. Ah, memories." She sighed and spirited away a bottle of mead from the clutches of the man next to her, who was in a stupor. "The first time I ever caught a bandit alive. I wonder where he is, now. Last time I saw him was when I threw him into his prison cell. Probably dead, now, if the rats got to him."

"Lydia! There you are. I've been looking for you," a voice broke in. The sleeping man was hoisted gently to the ground and his seat was filled by the Dragonborn. He looked normal, as far as she was concerned. The grin on his face was still there, and he swayed slightly as he gripped the counter for support.

"Eh? Who's this?"

"Drag - er, my lord, this is Liester. Liester, the Dragonborn."

"It is an honour to meet you, sire," said Liester.

"Pretty chap you are, aren't you?" replied the Dragonborn.

"Isn't he, though?" smirked Lydia, reaching out an arm to squeeze him quickly on the shoulder. "I knew him since we were kids. He's half-elf, you know. Only just joined the guard, a couple of months back. Used to work in the cellars of Honningbrew Meadry, then he decided to be a man at last. He's the one who threw this party, by the way."

"Ah," was all the Dragonborn had to say. His back seemed to straighten up, and there was a hint of sourness in his voice, but Lydia was too overwhelmed to think much of it.

After a moment's quiet, Liester said, "Lydia, do you mind coming outside with me for a bit? I think I need some fresh air."

"Sure, let's," replied Lydia, and the two walked out, leaving the Dragonborn behind. He watched them weave their way past tables and staggering people with some difficulty, and a strange feeling started to brew in the recesses of his mind.

Being able to read the flow of nature and functions with ease, Three did not enjoy the state of murkiness his own thoughts were in. After bullying his poor, addled mind into working, he realized that he was jealous. It was not a hard conclusion to reach: despite all the alcohol, there was a single thought, amazingly coherent and focused, looping in his mind, and that was,

She hugged him. She hugged the damn bastard.

"This won't do," muttered Three to himself, and he got up to chase after them.

After stumbling around for a few minutes, he saw them sitting on the river bank, gazing at the star-filled sky. He swallowed hard and bit his lip. Losing his cool at this point would be highly unfavourable. With measured steps, he walked over to them.

"Oh," said Lydia, noticing him - just as planned. "You're out here too?"

"I decided to take a walk. Good for the digestion, walks," Three replied off-handedly. "How's the fresh air tonight?"

"Better than inside, at any rate," laughed Liester. "I'm afraid I was never good with crowds."

"And yet you threw this party?" asked Three.

"Yeah. It's Lydia's special day, after all. She deserves nothing less than a roaring all-nighter. Come on, sit down, plenty of grass for everyone."

"I'm fine," shot Three. "Good for the digestion, standing up."

"I see," replied Liester.

There was a moment's lapse as the two humans resumed their gaze at the skies. Even out there, sounds of cheering could be heard, though distant and muffled. The soft trickle of the river at their feet, which their ears drank in readily, was a sharp contrast to the heated bustle of the tavern, as was the rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was a beautifully peaceful night.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" asked Three, not sounding sorry at all.

"Hmm? Nah, we were just talking about the past," said Lydia. "See, we were in the same orphanage, and he used to be bullied because of his ears. Nobody really spoke up about it until, one day, I decided to. It didn't stop, though, so I've been fighting his battles for a while until the orphanage closed down."

"I owe Lydia a great deal," said Liester, but he was quickly cut off.

"That's nice to know," said Three, "and good to hear, yeah. Anyhow, Lydia, we're leaving tomorrow."

"We are?" frowned Lydia. "But it's been only a week since we came back from Falkreath. What's the rush?"

"We've got to, uh, slay dragons. Yeah. Slay more dragons and save the world."

"That's new," said Lydia. "Well, I guess if you say so..."

"Can't I ask for you two to stay at least a few more days?" asked Liester. It might have been the brightness of the moon, or due to his elvish eyes, but there was a glimmer in his look that reminded Three of a child asking for his very first toy. "We have much to catch up on, and I'd love to hear about your adventures."

"No," sneered Three. "Destiny calls."

"That's a shame," sighed Liester. He sighed and stood up, dusting himself. "I guess I'll just have to ask you to put destiny on hold." He raised himself to his full height and met Three's gaze with a toothy grin. With a snap of his fingers, his body began to pulse with a dark aura.

"Uh oh," muttered Three, stepping back and drawing his maces. "Lydia, you probably want to get back."

"Dragonborn, Dragonborn," said the shadow-covered figure, in a light voice, "You do not want to do that, believe you me." The darkness dispelled suddenly to reveal the familiar form of an old man, richly dressed, with a thick, ebony cane.

"Sheogorath?" Three managed to say.

"You owe me a favour," said Sheogorath, "and I've come to collect."

"Wait, where's Liester?" shouted Lydia, scrambling to her feet. "What did you do to him?"

"My dear, I created him," replied Sheogorath, waving a hand irritably. "There was never a Liester in existence until I made him and implanted him in your memories. Here, perhaps this should help." He stepped forward suddenly and gave her a tap on the forehead with his cane. "Now think. Was there ever a Liester?"

"I..." She screwed her eyes and shook her head. "You..."

"Sheogorath, what's the meaning of all of this?" said Three, gripping his weapons tightly.

"I'm the Daedric prince of madness, my boy," replied Sheogorath with a leer. "You're asking a question that has no answer. But I suppose I was trying to make a point. To draw your attention. Because I want you to do something for me, and I want it done."

"Spit it out already," said Three.

Sheogorath tapped the ground lightly. "The Daedra are getting restless," he said. "There's rumours of an uprising. As a prince, you can see how this would be bothersome for me. Now I'd love to rain fire and brimstone on the lot, teach 'em a lesson the old-fashioned way, but that's not an accepted way to do things. No, I'm supposed to be diplomatic." He rolled his eyes at the word. "It's not good enough to remove the rebellion; I need to win their obedience. That's where you come in." He snapped his fingers again and conjured up the image of a rose-like staff, detailed with thorns along the tip.

"This," he said, "is the Sanguine Rose. In the hands of a mortal, it summons a single bound Daedric warrior, loyal and at your command. But in the hands of one such as myself, it becomes a tool for mass unification. Voile! Problem solved."

"Why don't you get it yourself?" said Three.

"If I could, I would have," shrugged Sheogorath. "It's Bethesda's limitations. We're not allowed to collect artifacts ourselves, only wield them, which is why we need servants and adventurers to sign on to the task. And besides, isn't it more fun to get someone to do it for you?" He gave Lydia a sideways glance. "Consider this to be payment for last time. And if you do well, there might even be tea and crumpets in store for you and for your... companion. Needless to say, you don't want to know what I'll do if you fail. It might put you off your midnight snack. Speaking of which," he added, stepping closer to him, "you seem to have put on weight. Here, look at that belly -"

"Don't touch me," snarled Three, brushing the prodding cane away. "Okay, I'll do it. You could have just asked nicely, you know."

"Could have. Don't want to," said Sheogorath, before bowing low and vanishing upon straightening up.