Skyrim belongs to Bethesda. Any OC/plot twist you do not recognize belongs to me. This chapter was very fun to write, and I hope you all enjoy it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. But, hehe, you know, reviews are nice little inspirational presents that make me want to write more... and yesterday was my birthday. Juss sayin'. Enjoy!
Waking up was a pleasant feeling: the senses returning to the body, one cell at a time, fingers twitching and toes curling as he shifted in the grass, a quiet groan sounding from his lips. He peeked one eye open, his vision blurry, and blinked its mate, his brows furrowing when he was greeted by a ray of sunlight slanting against his eyes. He grumbled something unintelligent and wiped a hand over his face. Last night's dream was a peculiar one: he dreamed of holding the sun in one hand and the moon in the other. As if that didn't puzzle him enough, Francis decided to steal his way into his dream, and he started juggling the moon about, and then the moon had morphed, twisted, grew wings, and turned into a flock of dark birds.
He ran a hand down his chin, frowning. He'd have to shave soon, else he'd have a beard like Vimund's. Well, almost like Vimund's, he thought as he scratched his neck. If my hair didn't grow in patches, then—
Both his thoughts and his hand froze. His frown deepened, and he pat his collarbone, opening his mouth in confusion when he did not feel the collar of his tunic. Pursing his lips, he was even more confused when he didn't feel any of his clothes. Nay, his fingers drummed against his bare chest. He blinked when something shifted on his legs, and with a gasp, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked himself over.
Mabel laid draped over his hips and thighs and perpendicular to his body. She lolled her tongue out and thumped her tail against the grass. He blinked again, opening and closing his mouth when he noticed he was not wearing anything save for the dog. If she ate my clothes...
The dog woofed at him and wiggled her hindquarters when he tried picking himself up. She seemed adamant that he stay on the ground with her covering his—How would Francis put it? Ah, yes. My stones. The dog is my makeshift undergarments.
"Mabel, be a good girl and—no, don't make yourself heavier. That's it," he cooed, pushing the mass of fur off of him inch by inch. "Now if you'll just let me—no, no no no, don't move like that—!" He gasped when her elbow pressed against a part of his body that was never made to be pressed. He grunted and, with a huff, shoved the dog off of him with his knees.
He must have overslept—he must have, for pilgrims woke early to worship Kynareth in morning's early light. He knew that he must have slept for a few more hours than necessary when a group of pilgrims walked by him. A blush spread across his face and swept down to his neck when he saw that they were female and giggling at him. With stiff movements, he jerked his arms and covered his manhood with his hands, too embarrassed to make eye contact with the women. If he was Francis, he'd probably enjoy the attention and 'let the jewels swing about.'
He glared at Mabel when the dog still wagged her tail. "I know you had something to do with this," he huffed. Mabel merely tilted her head to the side and whined. Her ear lifted, and her tail wagged faster when she heard splashes. Isben heard them too, and without warning, Mabel bounded off, leaving him be. He clicked his tongue and stood to follow her, pausing only briefly when he considered more people seeing him in a state of undress. Shrugging, as he didn't have many other options, he padded after the dog.
She stood at the edge of a pool, her tail still swinging to and fro, and barked at the water. Isben sidled up next to her, his expression lifting when he saw his clothes—No. These aren't mine. He unfolded the garbs and looked them over. They were made of fur, soft linen and leather, and looked like they would fit him, but they were not his tunic and trousers. With a sigh, he was about to fold them back up, but movement and a splash caught his attention. He raised a brow and walked along the edge of the pool, following its curve, and stopped in his tracks.
There she was, hip-deep in the water, wearing clothes unfamiliar to him and not wearing warpaint. That alone should have shocked him, but the fact that she returned made him smile a dumb smile that she would most likely find annoying if she looked his way.
And, of course, she did. Their eyes met, and without a word, she resumed her task. She was cleaning clothes, and then he noticed she was cleaning his clothes. She scrubbed down a boot, its pair already clean and drying on the grass. He cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his way over to her, feeling some hope when she looked back at him.
"Useless," she grumbled. She wasn't speaking to him, he realized; she was speaking to the dog. "I told you to stay put. Stupid dog." Mabel growled, but her tail was still wagging and slapping against Isben's hip. Rolling her eyes, Shêza ignored them.
"Shêzanaré," he said, standing just behind her on the edge of the pool. She turned her head to the side and grunted. That annoyed him; he had stayed up all hours of the night waiting for her, he'd worried, he'd paced a trench in the ground, he had worried, and she just...
Taking in a deep breath, he let the words spill forth. "Wheredidyougoyesterdayandwhydidyoutakesolongtocome back—andwheredidyougetthoseclothesand—wherewereyou —andwhyareyouwashingmyclothes?"
She blinked her eyes at him, both her and Mabel's head tilting to the side at his garbled words. The dog whined and nudged him with her nose while Shêza stopped her scrubbing. Silence stretched between them, as it usually did whenever he wanted an answer from her, and without preamble, she took action.
She threw the boot at him. He scrambled to catch it, cursing himself when he had to move his hands away from his privates.
"Then you wash your clothes," she spat, crossing her arms. "You stink. You smell like a spider. I had to sleep with that smell all around me." She looked him up and down as he finally found purchase on the boot, and he held it up to his groin, trying his hardest to conserve his modesty. His body had changed, she noted, and the muscles in his arms, legs, and torso, while not as pronounced as the big Nord man's, were still there. It was a definite change from the girlish scholarly figure he'd had when he first came to Skyrim, and it was only proof that the province was affecting him in a positive way.
"I just—I didn't mean—" He sighed and was about to shake his head when another dumb smile replaced his disappointed expression. I had to sleep with that smell all around me. Before he could mull over her words too long, he was upset when she rolled her eyes. "Where were you?" he asked in a whisper.
Her posture stiffened, and she looked down at the water. "Nowhere," she said. She glanced at him and dug her toes into the pebbly bottom of the pool, not at all fond of the disappointment on his face. "I took a walk," she tried again.
"Oh." More silence dawned, and Isben cleared his throat once more. "It's none of my business, anyway." He shifted from foot to foot, running his thumbs over the coarse leather of his boot, refusing to meet her eyes. He heard more splashes and jumped when Shêza stood in front of him, poking him in the leg.
"Give me the boot," she said.
"What? I'm sorry—"
"Give me the boot," she said with an annoyed breath. "There's soap in the bowl over there. Wash yourself, and give me the boot." Without waiting for his compliance, she snatched the boot from him, but he held firm.
"Can you please turn around, at least?" he asked, feeling another blush work its way onto his cheeks.
"Can you not be so stupid?" she snarled back at him, pulling harder on the boot.
"It's just—it's not proper!" He yelped when she jerked the boot from him. The motion upset his balance, and he was yanked into the pool. It was shallow enough to stand in, but the splash he made had water soak Shêza to the top of her head. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line, and she looked close to killing something. Namely, himself.
"Scrub," she bit out, turning her back to him while she cleaned the boot. He did as she said, feeling like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, and scooped a handful of soap from the bowl. He was thrilled to see the spider guts, webs, and dirt slide off of his skin, but the thought that they used to be on his skin nearly made him gag.
He might have coughed up something, though.
"Thank you," he said after a few moments. It brought back a memory of déjà vu for her, one that involved a certain Alpha male's son and a hot-spring.
Whatever for?
But he was not the wagtail. No; this was the twatty half-elf Dragonborn. The cowardly twatty half-elf Dragoborn. Who had done nothing to deserve her venom. At least, not yet.
"For what?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral and level.
"For coming back," he said, throwing a small smile her way. She ducked her head, biting her lip as she hummed in reply. "Just out of curiosity," he began, lathering soap on his underarms, "did you take my clothes off?"
She looked at him and couldn't help but to feel amused by the flustered blush on his face. It was creeping down his neck, and if she didn't know any better, she would've found it charming.
Then you obviously don't know better.
It was an opportunity she could not let slide from her grip. "No," she said, hiding her face when she turned around. She could just picture the awkward squirms he was making, and anticipated the even more awkward question coming forth.
"Oh." A pause, and then he braced himself while he asked, "Then who did?"
"Oh, a few agreeable women," she said over her shoulder. "They were all too eager to help, and I couldn't bear the thought of breaking their hearts." She snickered when he gasped. She heard splashes behind her and found an enormous victory in making him squirm and shift this way and that.
It was an enormous victory short-lived, as she felt his hand on her waist. The water had made the ends of her poncho pool about her, leaving the skin just below her midriff bare. She gasped, jumping in the water, and whirled around, almost elbowing him. She wasn't sure what caught her off guard more: his hand, or him standing there with barely an inch between them. Her hand went up instinctively to put space between them, but before she could push him away, his own hand shot up and held her wrist.
"Is that so?" he murmured, inclining his head so his forehead just brushed against hers. His proximity was startling, and she had to restrain every urge to bite anything within reach, especially his fingers. She thought she would burst with undeniable confusion when his thumb lightly stroked her side, feeling the lean muscles beneath her skin coil from his touch. To only add to her state of distress, he pressed her hand against the center of his chest, and she found herself even more confused when the rhythm of his thudding heart matched her own.
Droplets trickled from her palm, finding their way through the hair on his chest and down his torso. It was too familiar, too similar to what she had done to the wagtail, but Hircine curse him, he was not the wagtail.
Oh, his mother would maim him if she knew what he was doing. He wasn't even wearing trousers, for Divines' sake! But still, with her so close that he could see every color of steel-blue in her eyes, he could not help but to press his luck. "Shêzanaré?" he whispered, his breath fanning across her face.
In an instant, whatever tale her eyes carried was gone, replaced by the never-ending annoyance toward this half-breed of a man. Her face scrunched up, and she said the first thing that came to mind. "You have the boniest bottom I've ever seen."
His jaw fell slack—his ego deflating even more—and he had no time to prepare himself for the sudden shove she gave to his chest, making him stumble backward. By now, his hair was a complete mess in its holder, and once he regained his balance, he pulled the leather strip out. He took a moment to feel about his ear, frowning when he felt the point tingling. It was sending jolts through his body, and it only ever did that if something aggravated it or—No, that is definitely out of the question. Did I sleep on poison ivy last night? He brushed the feeling away, sure that it had to do with the grass.
"So I've been told," he sighed, then uttered a hollow chuckle. He regretted his words when he saw Shêza's posture jerk into a rigid one. Quickly, he brought his hands up and stuttered, "I-I didn't mean it like that, no!"
She grunted a hmph and showed him her back. She smirked when she heard him bob his way toward her, and before he could reach her, she splashed water at him. Shêza snickered when some went into his mouth, and she finished cleaning his boot. This time, when she threw it at him, he caught it. Without wasting any time, she pulled herself out of the pool and wrung her hair out. "Dress," she said while sidestepping Mabel's ever-wagging tail, and with that, she let him be.
"You know," Isben said as he tossed a stick for Mabel, watching the dog dart through the geysers to chase after it.
"No, I don't know," Shêza said, swatting a bug that chose the wrong person to land on.
He rolled his eyes skyward, but his smile still remained on his lips. "I'm not a huge fan of fur and leather, but these," he said, tugging on his new garments, "are quite nice." They looked similar to his robes at The University, except those had been made from the finest of cotton, enchanted just so to utilize his alchemy to the fullest potential. His new tunic was a muted red, accompanied by a fur shawl that would be very convenient in Skyrim's chillier terrains, but not so much in the geysers. The linen trousers he wore were breathable, and the leather greaves over them, much like Shêza's, did not impede movement and fit snug as a bug—like the one still tormenting Shêza—in his boots.
He glanced at her, chuckling when she still flung her arms this way and that. She hissed at the bug, and he blinked when he saw what she was trying to kill. Without a second thought, he grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. "Stop," he whispered, not daring to raise his voice. She looked positively murderously at him, but her gaze was soon directed to the little pest that landed on her shoulder.
"Get it off of me," she growled, feeling her hackles rising.
"That's a blue dartwing," Isben said, not taking his eyes off of the little insect while his free hand slowly drew closer to it. "They're very fast."
"It will be very dead if you don't—" She gasped when his hand was suddenly on her shoulder, his fingers pinching the dragonfly's wings together.
"They're excellent ingredients for potions made to resist shock," Isben said, inspecting his catch. She felt her stomach turn when its legs wiggled as it struggled for freedom. Isben dug through his pack, producing an empty vial, and stashed the dragonfly away. He smiled at Shêza and held the vial up for her to see. "Isn't it amazing?" he breathed out, his face full of excitement. She took a step back, her face going sour.
"Fascinating," she bit out.
"What, you don't like it?" He pouted for a moment, then his eyes lit up with playful mischief. "You're scared of them, aren't you."
"No," she said, crossing her arms. "I don't like them."
"Oh?" He held the vial closer to her, laughing when she took another step back. "They're harmless, you know. Well, to people, at least. I used to keep them around The University."
"You kept them as pets?" She scowled, and Mabel came trotting back, the stick held victoriously in her mouth. The dog dropped the stick at Shêza's feet, looking expectantly at the woman, her tail nearly a whirlwind. Shêza mustered up a fake smile, took the stick, and snapped it in half. She let the two pieces fall to the dry ground and smirked when the dog stared in confusion at them.
"No," Isben said, frowning at her handiwork. "They eat mosquitoes. The ones that didn't do their job, well," he chuckled, "it was into the alembic for them." He tucked the vial back into his pouch. He continued his babble about their alchemical properties, and she found herself growing more bored with every second that ticked away.
No wonder he is not married. She exhaled, picking her brain for anything that would shush him. She looked down at Mabel when the wolfhound butted her head against her leg. A sneer spread over Shêza's face as she finally found her solution.
"—and the blue ones also have a property to them that helps the body heal minor injuries—"
"You had a full bladder," Shêza interrupted, her voice and face clear of any emotion.
Isben paused for a moment, his lips still moving but no sound coming from them, and asked, "Pardon?"
"This morning," she clarified, pushing Mabel away from her with her hip.
He tilted his head to the side, not comprehending her words. "I'm sorry?"
She took a step forward and trailed a finger slowly up his neck, feeling his Adam's apple bob up and down. "You had," she whispered, "a full bladder this morning." She felt him swallow again, and could only guess that his mouth had gone dry. Her finger reached his trimmed chin, and her middle finger joined it to gently toy with the hair there.
His face went as red as her poncho, and his voice came out in a squeak. "I did?"
"Oh, yes," she murmured, her face still betraying no emotions whatsoever, but she felt triumph sear its way across her entire being when he bit his lip. "It's why I had Mabel cover you." She smiled, all teeth and gums, when he tried to reply, but his words were jumbled and he was tongue-tied. She stepped away from him, whistling for Mabel, and walked like a free woman: head held high, shoulders back, gait even.
Hircine must have cursed her instead of him, for her next words came out without even the smallest thought given to them. "Don't worry; I've seen many of them before." She halted mid-step, her foot in the air, her eyes blown wide, and did not dare to look back at him.
A shameless smirk stretched over his mouth, and he hovered behind her, his breath catching her neck. "Oh?" She had no choice but to put her foot back down, else she would have fallen over, especially with Mabel leaning against her side. Even with both feet on the ground, she still wavered a bit, but his hands were on her arms, steadying her. She tossed her head over her shoulder, her expression dumbfounded as she gaped at him. Another man had worn that same smug smile just the day before, and that man had, too, directed it toward her.
The similarities were striking; they had the same olive skin, the same earthy eyes, that same damn look on his face! His eyebrows were raised, his mouth still turned slyly, and his eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction.
"I did not mean it like that," she said, hating the heat that threatened to break out over her face.
"Really," he said, a chuckle escaping his lips. Her eyes turned into narrow slits, and without warning, she leaned into him, making herself heavier, and toppled him. He squawked and fell over, and Mabel promptly attacked him with a barrage of wet canine-kisses.
"Really." Shêza cackled and started walking off, but he was quick to rejoin her. "Where are we headed?" she asked. Whatever banter they shared was forgotten as he took the lead, again.
"Ivarstead," he answered with a firm bob of his head.
"Again?"
"There's..." He paused, took in a breath, and let it out slowly. "There's something I need to see there."
Her curiosity piqued, she stole a sidelong glance at him, a brow raising in his direction. "Is there, now?"
"Yes," he said, his knuckles going white as his fingers clenched the straps to his pack tighter.
Brynjolf was a man accustomed to taking newly minted thieves under his wing and teaching them the basics of survival in the Ratway's dog-eat-dog world. He had taken protegés on for years, ever since Mercer became Guildmaster and he became his right-hand man. He had experience dealing with the young lads and lasses ever eager to stuff their pockets full of gold and valuables. Unfortunately, he had plenty of experiences losing those young lads and lasses to their greed and ambition. A thief's life was a dangerous one, except if the thief knew how to play their runes correctly.
Above all, Brynjolf was not a man to be kept waiting, nor was Mercer Frey. Especially Mercer Frey.
Keerava kept her head down as Brynjolf swept through The Bee and Barb, not daring to look him in the eye, not after the Guild—that damned Francis—blackmailed her into repaying her debts; she knew better. She had a good hunch as to why he would visit her piss-poor tavern, and she wanted no part in Thieves Guild affairs. If he had just climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, she would have no idea. If his booted feet made no sound against the squeaky floorboards, Keerava would have no knowledge of this.
Which was why Francis nearly fell out of bed when he stood in the doorway, a dark scowl on his face. His bed-mates groaned and snuggled further into the Imperial man's chest, indifferent to the master thief staring them down.
"Let me guess," Francis yawned, stretching his arms over his head, "the guildmaster finally wants to meet me?"
"No," Brynjolf said, his tone level, "he doesn't. But I'm making him meet you. I'm not a delivery boy, lad. That's your job. You deliver to the Guild."
"I arrived late last night," Francis said in his defense, propping himself on his elbow. He shoved an arm from his chest, not caring that the woman it belonged to snuffled and groaned. "And you're the one who told me to check my eager haste to take on a job."
He couldn't argue with him there, but when it came to Mercer Frey's demands, 'arguing' was a word that held no place in his presence. "Aye, I did," Brynjolf said. "But the Guild has no space for lazy louts, lad. Now get to it. The Cistern, five minutes top." He turned on his heel, the door clicking shut just as softly as he opened it. Francis couldn't even hear his receding footsteps, and briefly, he wondered if he was waiting outside of his door.
Huffing, the thief threw his legs over the bed—and over his bed-mate—and dressed himself.
"This place never changes," Shêza said as she looked out over Ivarstead. "The people here are like Dwarven machinery; they do the same tasks every day, over and over again."
"I suppose their survival depends on it," Isben offered with a shrug.
"It must be so mundane," she murmured.
"Was your life not mundane until the Dragons?" His real question was left unspoken, but she could decipher what he really wanted to say.
She grunted and followed the cobblestones, mindful of the chickens scurrying by. Mabel growled at them, and Isben gave her a stern look, warning her that she was not to chase the birds. Shêza hadn't noticed he paused by the bridge, as she was making her way toward the inn. Two men, one Bosmer and the other Nord, leaned against either side of the bridge as they spoke with one another.
"On your way up the Seven Thousand Steps again, Klimmek?" the elf asked. He was a cheerful looking sort, his face bright and a smile shining on him.
The Nord, on the other hand—Klimmek—looked weary and older. "Not today, Gwilin. I'm just not ready to make the climb to High Hrothgar; the path isn't safe."
Gwilin frowned and rested his hands against the wall of the bridge. "Aren't the Greybeards expecting some supplies, though?"
Klimmek sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly, I'm not certain. I've yet to be allowed into the monastery. Perhaps one day, though..." His voice trailed off, and he gave a shrug to the other man. "Wilhelm's been wondering about my delivery, too. The old man says to take my time, but I can't help but feel I owe the Greybeards something. It just feels... wrong to keep them waiting."
"It isn't like they ask to be given supplies," Gwilin mused aloud.
"That is true, isn't it?" Klimmek chuckled.
Isben walked toward the two men, Mabel on his heels. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He braced himself when both men looked him over, apparently not finding anything impressive about him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shêza pad over to him, and in only a few seconds, her long legs brought her to his side. "I'm heading up to High Hrothgar myself," he added.
Shêza's eyes darted away from Klimmek and Gwilin and settled on the Dragonborn.
"Gods be praised," Gwilin breathed out, clapping his friend on the arm. "I'd wager you found your solution, Klimmek."
"If this lightweight can even walk seven thousand steps," the Nord uttered.
"I can take the supplies up with me if it will be of convenience," Isben said, undeterred by the look Klimmek was giving him. His Bosmeri friend, on the other hand, was bobbing his head up and down and nudging Klimmek with his elbow. "What are you bringing them?"
Klimmek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats—things that keep fresh for a long time. The Greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning."
"I say you listen to him, Klimmek," Gwilin urged, giving Klimmek a subtle push in Isben's direction. "Divines know your legs aren't what they used to be."
"Well, I suppose I don't have a choice," the Nord said, shooting his friend a pointed look. "Here, then. Take this bag, and at the top of the steps, you'll see the offering chest. Just leave the bag inside and you're done." He handed over his pack of supplies to Isben and looked away for a moment before adding, "And thanks. Just make sure that mutt of yours doesn't eat it."
Mabel growled, but Isben nodded and shouldered the pack. "I'll be leaving, then." He walked past Gwilin and Klimmek, Shêza and Mabel following—the dog snapping her jaws just short of Klimmek's leg.
"Have a great day, friend!" Gwilin called after him.
Before Isben could take the first step, Shêza stopped him by standing in front of him just short of the beginning of their scabrous journey. "You are sure?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for a truthful answer.
She needn't look anywhere but his lips, though. "Aye, as sure as I can be."
Satisfied with his answer, Shêza inclined her head and stepped aside. "You lead, then. I will follow."
He smiled and said, "Thank you." He unstrapped the supply pack from his back and called Mabel over with kissy sounds. "Before we begin, this is weighing me down." He cooed at the dog, letting her slobber over his hand and face, and straddled her as he attached the pack to her back, securing the straps here and there.
"He would have a fit," Shêza said, smirking as Mabel wined and swished her tail this way and that.
"Klimmek doesn't need to know," Isben snickered. "Isn't that right, girl?" He cupped the dog's face and shook it a bit. Mabel barked and hopped about, happy to be of service. Taking in a deep breath, he turned to face the steps. "Alright, then. Come on."
The journey was a perilous one. In more than a handful of places, the steps were either destroyed or buried beneath the snow. The slopes were slippery, and Isben and Shêza clung to the mountainside, doing their best to keep their footing. The snow whipped against them furiously, and the higher they climbed, the blizzard surged even stronger. He was grateful for his furs and his Nordic heritage. Even with his Bosmeri blood—his ancestors probably made this look easy—Isben had nearly walked off of the steps and plummeted to his death.
But she was right beside him, tugging him hither and thither whenever he would make a miscalculated step. The conditions were horrible: sight was not a sense available to either of them, not with the clouds marring their path and with the snow slashing at them. She used her other senses, those enhanced by the beastblood.
It was because of this that she smelled the wolves ahead. She had her bow out and an arrow nocked, inhaling lungful after lungful of air to pinpoint their locations. Isben swayed next to her, grasping onto Mabel's fur for balance. The dog growled, for she too caught wind of the wolves, and soon enough, they came bounding over the rocks and snow, teeth bared and growls gurgling in their throats.
Her first arrow hit one of the beasts near its eye. Her second one was a complete miss, her aim poor with the snow blinding her. Isben drew his sword, planting his feet firmly in the snow, eyes darting about to find their attackers.
"There are two of them," she called over the howling wind. She wasn't sure if he had heard her, so she turned her head toward him and repeated herself. It was a mistake on her part, as one of the wolves, the one she had shot, came from above, rushing over the rocky mountainside and leaping on her. She never saw it, and she never had time to brace herself before her feet were thrown out from under her and her bow was knocked from her hands as it pounced on her, its paws pinning her down into the snow. She would never have admitted it, but it was only by luck that her hands locked around the beast's throat, keeping those snapping jaws away from her head.
Somewhere in front of her, Isben screamed her name, not believing his eyes when he saw her go down. She had no time to spare for him, though, as the wolf's yellow eyes held a merciless amount of fury in them, promising that should her strength give way for even a second, it would tear her throat apart. Its drool flung in her face as it tried with all its might to sink its teeth in her skin. Her own spittle flew from her face as she bared her teeth, growling and hissing at the creature. Its claws dug into her poncho, puncturing it and her skin, and something was biting into her back. From the back of her mind, she knew she must have fallen on a jutting rock buried beneath the snow. The pain was enough for her to arch her back away from its source, and this gave her a bit more leverage on the ice wolf.
Ice wolves. She hated ice wolves, particularly since not too long ago, one had nearly bitten her leg off. She wanted to reach for her knife and slice this thing's throat open, but that was not an option available to her.
Mabel was all too available to help, though. The dog sprung forward, a vicious snarl sounding from her throat, and she tackled the wolf off of Shêza. The woman rolled and leapt to her feet, drawing forth her dagger and waiting for an opening to strike. Mabel was a people-friendly, happy dog, and even though Shêza was not too fond of canines, there was no mistaking that this dog was a monster when angry. Satisfied that the hound could hold her own, her eyes scanned through the blizzard for the Dragonborn, her heartbeat racing when she realized he was left to face the other ice wolf alone.
He would have to fend for himself, as the ice wolf had freed itself from Mabel's jaws and was running right toward her, and she saw that the dog had clawed out one of the wolf's eyes.
Isben was not faring well. The beast circled him, darting out here and there, trying to take stealthy swipes at him. And the damned thing succeeded, too; Isben had slices on his arms and legs. Whenever he would turn, thinking that the wolf was in that direction, it would spring up behind him. He was growing tired of being toyed with, and his agitation hampered his ability to focus. It seemed to know exactly what it was doing.
It charged from the front, this time, and Isben had it in his sights. He held his sword, bracing himself to drive it into the wolf's chest and up its throat, but he would have no such thing. The snow beneath his right foot gave way with a crunch, and his balance upset his sword arm, angling the blade awkwardly. The wolf launched itself at him, and his sword only grazed its side. He tried to right his stance, tried to whirl away from the beast, but he was going nowhere. He only managed to duck, narrowly missing the razor-sharp teeth angled at his face.
Its claws were a different story. They caught him around the chest, and the wolf twisted itself, twirling Isben away and flinging him into the mountainside. He braced himself with his hands, grounding his teeth together when the rough stone peeled open his palms. He had lost his sword, and when he turned to face the wolf, he saw it lying in the snow just in front of the damned mongrel. The ice wolf was crouched low to the ground, pacing back and forth, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. Its paws sunk into the snow it prowled upon, and Isben heard the crunches it made. It was an idea, a crazy one that was likely not going to work, but he had no other choice. He took in a breath, praying to whatever Divine cared enough for the Dragonborn, and held onto the mountainside when the wolf put its weight on its hind legs.
It sprung again, its pale eyes gleaming with bloodlust. "FUS!" At first, he thought the Word would be too weak for the airborne animal, but it proved to be just enough. The ice wolf was smacked away by the Word's blue waves, and it landed in a heap in the snow. There was another crunch, and Isben didn't breathe as the wolf regained its feet. It growled, saliva flying in strings from its maw, and braced for another leap, one that would undoubtedly kill the Dragonborn.
He wondered what Maurice would have said when the snow collapsed from beneath the wolf. The pilgrim would have praised Kynareth and kissed the ground, no doubt, and Isben himself was close to falling to his knees and thanking the Divine for Her protection. The wolf yelped and whined, and then it was gone, tumbling down High Hrothgar's proud mountain.
Isben heaved out a breath and slumped down into the snow, closing his eyes and murmuring thanks. He heard a bark and something padding through the snow, and when he pried his eyes open, Mabel stood in front of him, wagging her tail and nudging his face with her bloody snout. She left a bloody print on his cheek, but he paid it no mind. He pat her on the head, and she coated his fingers with dog slime.
Shêza trudged over to him, using her bow as support. Once he saw her, he was on his feet in an instant, hurrying over to her side. "Are you hurt?" She jerked her head up and down, letting him usher her over to a rock. She leaned against it, and without waiting for him to ask, she lifted her poncho up, exposing her back. Judging from the hiss he made, it was worse than she thought. He dug through his pack, and she heard the pop! of a cork.
"This is going to hurt," he said, holding onto her shoulder.
"It already hurts," she growled between clenched teeth. She was given but a second before stinging agony ripped through her back. Her nails dug into her poncho, and a howl escaped her throat. She bit down on her lips, trying to keep her whimpers at bay. She was positive that she never ever wanted to feel her flesh knitting itself back together again. Finally, what felt like an eternity later, the potion had done its job, and the stinging began to recede. She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, and her poncho slipped through her fingers.
He gripped her shoulder, keeping her steady when she looked ready to fall over. "I'm sorry," he said, staring down at his feet. She stole a look at him, and her eyes found the cuts the ice wolf had given him.
"You need one, too," she said quietly, still trying to catch her breath.
"Hmm?" Isben looked his arms and legs over, his face going pale for a moment when he saw his blood. His expression hardened, and he pursed his lips together. "These are minor; I will not waste a potion on them, not if there are more hazards up this mountain."
She saw his back straighten, noticed him square his shoulders. She nodded and rested her head against the rock. "Give me a moment, and then we will be off."
"Step sharp, lad," Brynjolf said over his shoulder, "and don't give him any of your backtalk." Francis nodded and followed his mentor into the Cistern. The stench alone could curdle milk, and with his beastblood, it certainly did have an astounding effect on him. It had taken him nearly a month to become accustomed to the rotten odor in The Ragged Flagon, and he hoped that he would adapt faster to the Cistern's aroma.
The ceiling was a dome with an opening in the center that let sunlight pour in. It should have made the place look brighter, but it only brought light to the dead things floating in the water beneath the four-way pass. Francis peered up, noticing a vent with water streaming out of it. Sewage, or Lake Honrich? He was sure that he didn't want to know.
Brynjolf came to a stop on the middle of the walkway, and Francis stood quietly behind him, peeking over the Nord man's broad shoulder. An older man stood in front of Brynjolf, the beginnings of grey in his hair, and Francis supposed that if he let his beard grow out, there would be flecks of grey in that, too. His eyes, as well, were grey, though they were merciless and boring right into Francis, as if sizing him up and already forming a judgment on his skill. The Imperial man didn't much enjoy that, no, he did not.
Merciless...
"Mercer," Brynjolf said, pressing a fist against his breast. The man, Mercer, merely lifted a brow at his second in command. The Nord wasn't dissuaded, apparently used to his guildmaster's reaction to his new protegés. He gestured toward Francis. "This is the one I was talking about. He's our new recruit."
Francis tented his brows at his words and gave Brynjolf a look that said, What did you tell him about me? Shrugging and deciding to keep to his manners, Francis waved a hand at Mercer, and said with his best voice—caramel, chocolate, and suavity—and a smile, "How do you do. The name's Francis Ferdin—"
"This had better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf," Mercer deadpanned, not even acknowledging Francis, and instead directing his merciless gaze into Brynjolf.
"He won't be," Brynjolf said, still holding his ground.
"I'll judge that for myself," Mercer grunted. He turned toward Francis, narrowing his eyes at the Imperial. "Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. You play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules, you lose your share. No debates, no discussions; you do what we say, when we say." He loomed over Francis, looking down his angular nose at him.
Definitely a Breton, Francis thought. They all have that snooty nose quality to them.
"Do I make myself clear, little man?" Mercer breathed out, his gruff voice dropping to a dangerous octave.
Francis crossed his arms, tilting his head up at the guildmaster. "It seems a bit hypocritical, no? We are thieves; we break rules. What's the point of them?"
Shadows crossed over Mercer's face, bringing out the angles to his cheeks and chin. He shook his head at Brynjolf, and Francis felt his heart drop to his stomach when his mentor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll let that comment slide because you're new here," Mercer said, flinging his glower back to Francis. "Ask things out of turn again, and we have a problem. Now, are we clear on all of this, runt?"
"Perfectly," Francis purred out, mimicking the man's slight Breton slur. He found some delight in seeing Mercer's eyes narrow the tiniest fraction.
"Good. Then I think it's time we put your 'expertise' to the test."
