Girl Talk

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"…and improvements should be made.' At which point it just stops." Xander looked up from the scroll and raised an eyebrow. "Now I notice that half of you are laughing and the other half are trying to hide their faces, what's with that?"

The laughter from the crowd of students redoubled. It was interesting to see the Hall of Elements actually set up as a lecture hall for once. The students were all sat in cheap looking chairs with desks attached to the front, arranged in a semicircle around the central fountain. It made the place feel worryingly like a hall in the Synod. A familiarity offset by the fact that Xander was stood at the front of the crowd rather than sat as a part of it.

He rolled up the comically awful student essay he had just read out to the class, and continued. "Now that wasn't one of yours, it was written by an ex-student a few years ago that's had pride of place in the hall of Countenance ever since. And I'm not saying yours are quite that bad, but if they're close, we should be worried."

He put it away, and started pacing. "We've got a lot of very bright students in this school. I know, I was studying among you not that long ago. But that doesn't mean anything if you don't know how to write it in a legible, persuasive manner. You've got the substance, now you just need the style. Trust me, having seen Cyrodiil mage schools, it's easier to learn the latter than the former."

The strangest part was that he actually had their attention. It was probably just the leftover awe from him saving the school mere weeks ago, but all the faces he recognised were staring at him with genuine interest.

I know I swore to myself I'd never fail so hard I became a teacher, but this isn't as awful as I'd thought. Maybe it's because I don't have to do the marking…

"The point of this little guest lecture I'm running (if 'guest' is appropriate, I run the school) is essay technique." He continued. "I'm going to teach you some of the tricks I've learned to better articulate yourself. How to organise your thoughts, how to put them on the paper, and—"

Listener.

The whisper appeared between his ears with zero warning, almost making him trip up as he walked.

Not now.

I would speak with you.

Daughter of a…

"—And spare your teachers the undeserved headaches they've been having to put up with." He finished. "Because there's a war on, and getting enough alcohol in to work through twenty nonsense essays is rather difficult."

There was laughter again (okay you lot have low standards, that wasn't that funny), and Xander pulled a different scroll out of his robes.

"Now, your Master Wizard (if she would be so kind) is going to read this out for you. Miss Ervine?"

Mirabelle (stood to one side watching the lecture) looked surprised to be put on the spot, but was still quick to approach and take the scroll from him.

"Just keep going until I come and stop you, please, I need to take a minute." He whispered as he handed it over, smiling gratefully at her nod and walking out of the limelight.

Once he had moved behind one of the pillars, he was able to close his eyes and think 'What?' as irritably as he could.

Go to Markarth. Bid the night mother. Speak to Muiri, at the Hag's Cure.

A heavy feeling settled in Xander's gut.

So that's it then. He thought. That's the way you want to play this? I will set you on fire and—

If you refuse the contract, it will be her soul, not yours, that I condemn to my husband.

Xander's eyes snapped open again. You…what? Why?

I am compromising. The Night Mother's voice continued. Go. I believe you will take the contract.

Wait wait wait, I can't just cross the country! Xander protested. Markarth's the better part of a week away! I have a school to run!

Swifter transport will be arranged. (came the unbothered response.) Ready yourself, then go to Winterhold's outskirts.

Transport? What do you mean transport?

No reply.

He cursed under his breath, shook his head, and stepped back out from behind the pillar.

"Thank you, Miss Ervine, that's all I needed." He interrupted Mirabelle, taking the scroll back and returning his attention to the crowd. "So, how was that compared to the first example? Not perfect, but better, right?"

Nods from the students, as he tried to shift his brain back into gear.

"Great. Now, I wrote that for a mid-term a few years ago. And if you pay close attention, you'll realise what I was saying didn't actually make any sense…"

8˂

Delvin Mallory, gently as a mother cradling her newborn babe, set the Eye of the Falmer down on the cushion beside its counterpart.

He coughed. "Right. I…can't sell this."

L'laarzen sighed, even as Brynjolf threw his hands up and Karliah complained "What? Come on!"

"I'm sorry! But—" The normally brusque yet charming man leaned back in his chair, exhaling tiredly. "Even going by carat alone, these things are just worth too much. People don't have that kinda gold, mates. There's nobody to sell them too."

"How much are they worth?" L'laarzen asked, having expected this answer since she first laid her eyes on them. "For my own amusement."

"It'd only be an estimate." Delvin admitted. "Considering the fact that anything of this kind is completely unique, the historical value, the size, the matched set of two identical diamonds…You wouldn't believe me."

"Tell us." L'laarzen requested.

He told them.

Karliah produced a noise not unlike a dying kitten. Brynjolf choked on his own gasp and went into a coughing fit. Even L'laarzen's eyes went about as wide as they ever had.

"Aye." Delvin nodded. "See the problem? Nobody has that kind of money, not even if the chairman of the East Empire Trading company managed to sell all his assets. You'd have to sell them to a country. You could trade them for a country. Issue is, nobody's going to pay that. Precious gems are valuable because they're pretty and rare. These might be absurdly pretty and rare, but there's no point buying a status symbol this size; not if instead you could buy a fleet of warships, the secret to immortality, and Solstheim. At the end of the day…they're just rocks."

Karliah summarised for him. "You're telling me that Mercer stole two diamonds so big, they would singlehandedly crash the perceived worth of diamonds?"

Delvin nodded, helplessly.

Everyone stared at the Eyes. They glistened beautifully, even in the dim light of Delvin's private room in the Cistern.

"If you wanted to sell them, you'd have to accept a price orders of magnitude below what they should bring in." Delvin continued. "Or, if I found a jeweller skilled and blasphemous enough, we could break these down into a few hundred smaller diamonds and fence them over the course of a decade or so. That would fetch a few hundred million septims, but I don't know if I could bring myself to do it. I mean, look at these beauties!"

"We don't have a vault big enough to store that much gold." Brynjolf pointed out, when he'd recovered from his coughing. "We'd have to invest it as we brought it in into upping the scale of our operation. Lose millions just on bribes and taxes."

"All of this assuming that the selling process goes smoothly." Karliah pointed out. "Anyone who knows these exist will start getting greedy from them. Anyone we deal with has a good chance of trying to rob us. Even if they don't, once word gets out they have it, the world will set its eyes on them."

"Worthless unless sold, too dangerous to sell." L'laarzen concluded. "What we hold is a cautionary tale in greed. On the upside, if we fail, they may tell stories about it?"

"So?" Brynjolf asked, turning to her. "What do we do?"

She blinked back at him. "You are asking L'laarzen?"

"Well, you did get them. And I don't think anyone else here wants to try and fight you for them." He met her eyes. "Plus. As the—"

"No." She turned away.

"Lass—"

"No. Khajiit is not a—She does not want—" L'laarzen grit her teeth. She didn't think she would be able to say 'Khajiit is not a criminal' without meriting laughter, or at the very least a confused silence.

It was difficult to work out exactly when she had lost track of her original plans. Most sensible people would label the moment she had first spoken to Brynjolf, but there hadn't been anything wrong with her speaking to Veezara and the other businesses about the protection racket, and she didn't regret meeting Xander and Dulurza and the others…

But on the way, she had stopped being able to call herself a hairdresser first, and larcenist second.

"L'laarzen will not become the new guild master." She said, eventually, hoping her tone was final. "At least, not now. She may be competent—"

"Smart." Karliah added.

"Charismatic." Brynjolf chipped in.

"—but she has no experience in such things. Does not even know where to begin." She turned to face Brynjolf fully. "Are you not the obvious choice? You were Mercer's right hand man, you recruited me, you're experienced and you clearly understand the 'business'."

"Aye, but I—" Brynjolf winced. "I don't want to."

"You don't." Karliah reiterated. "Want. To."

"I'm not built to be a leader, lass!" At the unimpressed gazes he was getting from them all, he sighed. "Fine. I'll be guild master for the time being. But they'd better not expect me to go out there and give a speech. And I still don't know what to do about the Eyes."

"Well…" L'laarzen mused, looking to the two jewels. "There is a third option."

"Namely?" Delvin asked.

"If we can't tell anyone we have them without bringing untold havoc upon ourselves…" She raised an eyebrow. "We could simply…keep them?"

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Dulurza coughed, and waved a hand in front of her face. She could barely even see her own gauntlets.

Fog. In a corridor. Why not.

"My Jarl!" She shouted ahead of herself. "Wait! I've lost you!"

"It's a corridor!" came the disgruntled response. "Just follow my voice!" Elisif hadn't even hesitated before plunging straight into the bank of mist obscuring the Pelagius wing. Dulurza would be worried enough by that, nevermind the fact that it might not be Elisif's own mind propelling her legs into motion.

Not for the first time, she wished for an opportunity to just punch Potema in the face.

"Oh, good, the fog's clearing." Said the aforementioned witch. "This had better not have turned us around and sent us back out the front, because if it has I'm going to have to get creative."

"Please, do not get creative." Elisif's voice replied. "I'd like the palace to remain intact."

"Darling, the destruction school is beneath me."

Dulurza frowned, pushing forwards more quickly. There were a few hints she'd picked up on to let her know who exactly was using Elisif's tongue. Potema's word choice, accent, and tone were all drastically different to her host's, not to mention the supernatural echo that seemed to accompany her speech.

But something was different about what Dulurza was hearing now. It was Potema, she was sure of it, but the echo was gone. And the voice didn't sound like Elisif putting on a strange accent anymore, it sounded like someone entirely different was speaking.

Does this mean the possession's progressing? Does anyone understand how this works?

But the fog was clearing up ahead of her, blurred figures visible in the near distance. Dulurza wafted one hand in front of her to check again, finding that now she was able to properly see the glove on her—

Wait. Glove?

She stepped out into a clearing. And promptly uttered "What in the name of Malacath…"

Two women stood before Dulurza, both looking frantically between her and each other. One was Elisif, brown hair and fair features immediately recognize. The other, Dulurza briefly thought was Octavia Meteuse. But no, though this woman had the black hair and sharp features, her eyes were dark grey instead of gold.

"Potema?" Dulurza asked.

"Yes…" The ex-empress' voice was low, sultry, and suspicious. "Well I'm going to assume we're not on Nirn anymore, because if we are this has just—"

She then stopped speaking, because Dulurza punched her in the face.

"OW!" The witch shrieked, stumbling backwards, and clutching her face. "You BITCH!"

"That was for the first hour you spent in my Jarl's body." Dulurza grinned, cracking her knuckles. "We're gonna be here a while."

"Dulurza, wait!" Elisif called to her from behind. "Maybe we figure out what's going on before you beat up the parasite?"

"Oh, I'm not going to let you get another cheap shot like that in, believe me…" Potema straightened, gingerly poking at her nose before deciding there wasn't anything to worry about. "But yes, let's focus. Wait a minute, what are you wearing? What am I wearing?"

That was the other thing that had caught Dulurza's attention.

Potema was clad in rugged green full-plate armour. Dulurza's Orichalcum armour. Looking down at herself, Dulurza found that she was wearing Elisif's getup. Court finery, in muted reds, greens and…beige? What was the fancy word for beige? Cream?

And that meant…

Dulurza looked over at Elisif, and her jaw dropped.

The Jarl was wearing a backless black dress with a plunging neckline, shimmering silk trailing along the grass behind her.

Elisif looked down at herself, squeaked adorably, and crossed her arms over her chest. "What the…I…" She looked over at Potema and glared. "This is what you wear regularly?"

"Well of course, I have an aesthetic to keep to." Potema tilted her head, putting one hand on her hip. "You look good in it, though."

"Ngh." Elisif's face was redder than Dulurza's was green. "How did this happen? Shouldn't we swap back?"

"If you want to strip in front of us both, go ahead." Potema offered, causing the Jarl to choke. "But I wouldn't bother. This reeks of Sheogorath's handiwork. If you try and undo it, it'll probably get worse. What if all the clothes just vanish when we remove them? Want to do this naked?"

Dulurza viciously clamped down on her errant thoughts and coughed. "Stop it. Where even are we?"

They were, to all appearances, in a clearing in the woods. The fog that Dulurza had entered through was gone, apparently, leaving nothing but trees of seemingly random species spreading out to the horizon on all sides. The sky above was moonless, but still bright, and the stars were multicoloured. Ahead of them was a path, though, lined by flowers and winding through the trees.

"…It feels a bit stupid to say it, but we could go that way?" Potema offered.

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Sometimes, when dealing with higher powers, Xander got exactly what he expected. Other times, he got something he would have never expected.

Somehow, the Night Mother had managed to do both at the same time.

Behold. Her voice resonated between his ears. Shadowmere.

Xander, packed for travel and armed with all his weapons, stared at Shadowmere.

Shadowmere, eyes glowing red, stared at Xander.

A cold northern wind whipped past them both.

Night Mother. He thought. This is a horse.

Indeed.

When I said it would take too long to get to Markarth, I was factoring in owning a mount.

Shadowmere is no mere steed. She is an agent of the Dark Brotherhood.

Right…

Xander hesitantly approached the horse. Her fur was jet-black, and, no, yeah, that wasn't a trick of the light: She had glowing red eyes. He stretched out a hand, moderately concerned she would try and bite the entire limb off. But the horse simply bowed her head and allowed him to stroke the fur of her nose.

"Well, alright then." He muttered. Shadowmere was saddled, thank goodness, so he put one foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into position. She didn't even buck, accepting him without the slightest hesitation.

"So, I'm just going to take this as a replacement for the horse Cicero murdered." He decided. "Okay, giddy up. Maybe if—"

He didn't get the chance to finish. At 'giddy up', Shadowmere sprung to life, making her way down the road at a trot, then a canter, then a gallop, and then faster—

Oh, right. No mere steed. I shouldn't have doubted you.

Xander's surroundings began to blur. Winterhold vanished into the distance behind him, and he started screaming.

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Margret walked calmly up to Druadach redoubt, and wondered exactly how she'd let Hjar talk her into this.

The road up to the encampment was a long, winding one, leading up the side of a mountain. It was broad daylight, and the Forsworn on guard near the top had plenty of time to see her making her way up it. They didn't attack, though.

One of captain Octavia's favourite techniques was the Walk Of Confidence. It was exactly what it said on the tin; walking briskly but not hurriedly in the direction you wanted to go and acting like you had every right to be there. It was difficult to master, but once learned, it was surprising just how effective the move was at getting a person into a place they really weren't supposed to go. People just tended to assume 'well, they seem to think they're in the right place, who am I to question them?'

Apparently, Octavia had once walked into the elder council chambers during session, picked up a councillor's wine goblet, and left without a word. Nobody had so much asked for a reason.

Margret didn't claim to be as skilled socially as the Captain, but the principles could still apply here. The Forsworn were functionally at war with…everyone. Outsiders were attacked on sight. But she kept her head high, and her back straight, and made her way calmly up the path. And even wearing blatantly Imperial garb, she wasn't feathered with arrows as she moved.

The meat of the camp was actually within a mountainside cave. The entrance to it was guarded by one of the Forsworn in the really silly hats, and while two she'd passed so far had allowed her to keep walking with naught but suspicious looks, this one moved to get in her way.

"Halt." He said, generically. "Who are you? No outsider may defile the sanctity of the Forsworn!"

"Oh, no, not your sanctity." Margret rolled her eyes. "I'm here to deliver a message to your leader, as well as whoever's relevant."

"Is that so?" The man moved closer to her. He had no shirt on, and it made it even easier to smell him, which didn't improve the situation one bit. "What message might that be? And from whom?"

"I think she wants to introduce herself." Margret admitted, frankly. "And the message is 'don't fight the werewolf'."

"What do you-"

A great white beast crashed down to the path behind Margret and growled. The Forsworn stumbled backwards, swearing and fumbling for his weapon. He paused, though, when the beast failed to attack.

Margret glanced back at Hjar and raised an eyebrow. "That entirely necessary?"

Hjar let out a sound that might have been a laugh, and padded past the frozen Forsworn and into the cave.

Once Margret followed her through, the muffled noise from within grew into a cacophony of human chaos.

The camp was overcrowded, that much was clear. Too many Forsworn from Markarth had conglomerated here. Men, women, and children all bustling around each other, doing whatever it was terrorists did when they weren't terrorising.

'Freedom fighters', Margret. Can't call them terrorists, we're supposed to work with these ones.

The werewolf padding in through the entrance was quick to catch everyone's attention, however. Hjar let out a low rumbling growl, and the crowds of people quickly fell silent and still.

This was the hard part. The situation could devolve into complete panic at the drop of a headdress. So Margret did not drop a headdress. She walked up to Hjar's side, cleared her throat, and shouted "Who is the leader here?"

There was more silence, but people's heads started to turn further up the cave. Margret waited patiently, and after a few seconds, a woman emerged from a tent higher up the cave before striding down towards them.

She was half naked. Why were all the Forsworn half naked?

"I am Kaie!" the Breton shouted. "I lead this enclave. Who are you, and why do you bring this beast here?"

"She's no beast." Margret replied, simply.

Hjar took the cue, closing her canine eyes.

Her form shrank in on itself, and fur fell away. Moments later, Hjar was stood in her human form before the eyes of the entire camp.

It's a different culture to yours. Margret desperately told herself. It's perfectly normal that your girlfriend is stood completely naked in front of dozens of strangers. This is fine…

She had offered to bring a cloak. Hjar had said that would make her look afraid.

"My name is Hjarnagredda!" The werewolf declared. "Daughter of Greta, granddaughter of Madanach. The king in rags."

That caused the people to start whispering among themselves.

"I am the Champion of both Hircine and Molag Bal." Hjar further stated, spreading her arms. In one, the dark lord's mace appeared as if from nowhere, and Hircine's ring glinted on the other.

Hjar grinned. "I'm here to set things straight."

The Forsworn really were a different culture. In Cyrodiil, confessing to Daedra worship would have gotten her flogged. But Hjar had explained that the Reachmen worshipped 'The Old Gods', made up of the Nordic interpretations of Aedra with a few Daedra sprinkled in.

Hjar was basically rocking up to the Forsworn like Martin Septim appearing to relight the Dragonfires. Of course, much like the end of the third era, there were complications.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here." Kaie retorted, stopping her walk while she still had the high ground. "I was there in Understone Keep. I saw what you did."

"Thought I recognised you." Hjar mused, before turning to look across the crowds. "For those not in the know: After I singlehandedly broke into the keep and killed Jarl Igmund, I also murdered my grandfather."

Shocked gasps echoed through the cave.

"Traitor!" Kaie snarled, drawing a sword, but—

"No!" Hjar swept her arm through the air. "I killed him because I had to! Because he would have doomed us all to further years of hiding in the mountains!"

"You lie!" Kaie refuted. "You killed him to claim his power for yourself!"

"I was already his successor!" Hjar spat, disdainfully. "If I had wanted his power, I would have simply smothered him in his sleep when we escaped and claimed it! No, Madanach died because he was a fool. Because he was an old man stuck in the past, whose reign brought nothing but suffering for those underneath him!"

That was clearly the final straw for Kaie. The Forsworn roared and jumped down, conjuring a flesh spell in her offhand even as she brought her sword up high.

Margret put a hand to her daggers but Hjar turned and shook her head, walking forwards alone to face her attacker.

A leader not relying on their spies to solve their problems. I'd call the Forsworn weird again, but I think that's more of a Skyrim thing.

Kaie swung her sword, and Hjar ducked away. The blade had more range than the mace, but it wasn't as substantial (the ridiculous thing was made mostly of wood and bone). Hjar evaded two more swings, then parried the third, and her mace snapped straight through the makeshift weapon and powered through to graze Kaie's shoulder. The Forsworn stumbled backwards, aided by a kick from Hjar to her chest. She grimaced, and pulled a dagger from her belt, lunging in with that in one hand and the remnants of her sword in the other.

Hjar narrowed her eyes, magic flashed in her offhand, Kaie feinted with one blade then went in with the other, Hjar batted that brutally away with her mace and swung in with a punch from her off-hand that cracked along Kaie's jaw, Kaie's other blade launched in and dragged along Hjar's arm—

—skittered along the magical barrier there, only cutting a small red line—

And then Hjar kneed her in the chest, grabbed her by the throat, put one leg around behind her and threw her over it.

Kaie hit the ground with a thud and a groan.

Hjar stamped on her chest with one foot, redoubling the groan, and looked up to face the crowds.

"Is this what the Forsworn are?" She demanded. "Scrapping among themselves in mountain caves? Raging and biting against everyone around them, until the world thinks we are animals? Is this how we will win our freedom?"

She looked back down, removed her foot from Kaie's chest, and crouched next to her.

"Good fight." She said, quietly. "Need a hand?"

Kaie glared, and shook her head.

"Suit yourself."

Hjar stood back up, returning her attention to the rest of the encampment. "I want every man, woman and child in here to ask themselves something!" She called. "What do you want?"

The question merited confused looks, the crowd glancing between themselves.

"Do you want your freedom?" Hjar asked, spreading her arms. Silence. "I said do you want your freedom?"

Some nods, that time. Some quiet affirmatives.

"Do you want to be able to pass through your own lands without being hunted? Do you want to be able to worship your own Gods? Do you want to be able to walk the streets of Markarth without being butchered? Do you want to be able to live normal lives?"

Each rhetorical was followed by a pause, and in each pause, the noise from the crowd grew louder. Eventually, they were roaring their assent.

Hjar waited a few seconds. Then, lower and quieter, "And do you want revenge?"

Some cheered at that too, but the response was quieter. Probably due to recognising the change in her voice rather than a lack of bloodlust.

"I'm not Madanach." Hjar admitted. "I'm not going to promise you everything, and then give you nothing but dirt in your mouths, as your blood coats the silver you mine for your masters! Because that's all you'll earn, brothers and sisters, by throwing yourselves at the city walls and butchering travellers in the street. Blood with no silver."

Behind her, Kaie stumbled back to her feet. Scowling, the Breton reached down for her knife…only to stop, as she felt a point digging into the small of her back.

"Ah-ah-ah." Margret muttered in her ear. "Let's not interrupt the show, shall we?"

Still going, Hjar clenched a fist. "I don't offer you blood. I offer you a chance at something much sweeter. Follow me, and I will lead us to a brighter future, a real future! One where we don't have to run with our babes in our arms from raging mobs! Follow me, and you'll get a chance to kick out the Thalmor that deny all the gods of Skyrim!"

Some members of the crowd were whooping now. Not all of them; some stood silently at the back watching with sullen gazes. But a good number, and more joined in every word.

"Follow me, and I promise you that we won't have to take the walls of Markarth!" Hjar concluded, grandly. "The Nords will open the gates, and they'll LET US IN THEMSELVES!"

The result was a raucous burst of cheering and applause. Noise which gradually solidified into "HJAR! HJAR! HJAR!"

Hjarnagredda stood basking in it for a few more seconds, before turning back to Margret.

'Good?' She mouthed.

"Good." Margret replied, full volume. "Now please put some clothes on."

8˂

"Which is about the extent of it, good Lady." L'laarzen finished, with a small bow.

Up ahead of her, Jarl Laila Law-Giver nodded slowly from her throne.

The report had been a fairly accurate (if heavily censored and simplified) version of events. Mercer Frey had been stealing from many other nobles and tradesmen throughout the city, and committing many other crimes in order to cover it up. L'laarzen had worked with some of her associates to uncover evidence of his foul dealings (evidence had, of course, been invented for this purpose), reveal it to the hold at large, and had then tracked him down on his attempt to flee.

Mercer had resisted attempts to apprehend him, and so unfortunately had been killed.

"And you two are together in this?" Laila asked, glancing away from L'laarzen to the figure stood respectfully to one side.

"Yes, my Jarl." Said Maven Black-Briar. "I began to suspect that Mercer was dealing in poor faith with myself and my associates, and hired L'laarzen here to investigate. She is a trusted agent of mine; we have worked together before."

L'laarzen's ears flicked, and she tried not to let her annoyance show. Maven's obvious attempt to imply dominance over the situation was to be expected, and L'laarzen could hardly deny it without revealing things best unsaid. For a mead-peddler, this woman has such an ego…

"I see." Laila nodded. "And what of the tales I am hearing from my guards, of this Mercer wielding impossible strength and speed?"

"Mere tales, good Lady." L'laarzen answered. "Mercer was indeed strong and skilled, but not inhumanly so. Enhanced by spells, potions or enchantments, perhaps, but often that is all one needs to appear unstoppable to the common soldiery."

"Is that so…" Laila gave L'laarzen a penetrating look, but soon relented. "Well then. I would like to thank you both for what you have done. While I would always recommend taking such concerns to our guard, you have demonstrated resourcefulness, initiative, and strong moral fibre in acting to resolve this threat. I am proud to have such fine women in my city, and you may pass the same sentiment on to the others you worked with in bringing this villain to justice."

Ahnu and Padomay…L'laarzen didn't want to roll her eyes, but she almost couldn't help it.

"Maven, it appears once again you have undertaken a responsibility above and beyond your position." The Jarl said to the businesswoman. "I will be happy to reimburse you the full cost you paid to your team for this task."

"I…Thank you, my Jarl." Maven bowed. The barely concealed distaste on her face suggested she had been hoping for more.

"And as for you." Laila turned to L'laarzen. "I would like to speak to you alone, briefly. Maven, if you would be so kind as to give us some privacy…"

That Maven looked even less excited about. But still, she inclined her head, said the right pleasantries, and left through the main doors.

Laila and L'laarzen were left alone in the main hall of Mistveil keep. Curiously, L'laarzen noted, there were no guards present.

"So." The Jarl said, leaning back in her chair. "How long exactly have you been with the Thieves Guild?"

Internally, L'laarzen swore. "Good Lady?" She said aloud, tilting her head.

"Don't bother playing coy." Laila rolled her eyes, expression tired. "I know that your guild is fully active in my city, and I know Maven is a partner of it. So?"

L'laarzen prepared herself to flee, before answering. "Khajiit partnered with the guild a few short months ago, when she first arrived in the city. If L'laarzen may say, why do you not voice your beliefs in public?"

"Because it would do me no good." The Jarl replied, shrugging her shoulders. "What would happen if I declared a war on crime? Nobody would want to stay in the city. The ordinary citizens would leave on mass, trade would cut us off. We'd be left with nothing but the criminals and the guards, and the former would quickly hire away the latter. Such would damage the Stormcloaks' war effort, too, almost as badly as the damage to our reputation would. And without Maven's support, it would be all too easy for someone even more corrupt to rise up and wrest my position from me. Well, that is if she didn't simply have me assassinated."

She smiled, sadly. "Better for 'everyone to know' that Riften is a den of thieves, than for Everyone To Know it."

"…Is that so." L'laarzen said, slowly.

Laila chuckled. "Let me guess. You thought I was stupid."

"It would be highly rude to say so." L'laarzen responded. "If Khajiit may ask, why are you telling her this?"

"Because I'm curious about you." Laila leaned forwards, steepling her fingers. "I've heard rumours. By all the accounts of my people you're a wonderful woman. Perhaps it would be beneficial for a thief to build up a reputation, if she intended to remain in the city for a long time. But that doesn't justify trekking across the country to complete errands set by the temple of Mara. I want to know what you want."

"An excellent question." L'laarzen replied. "So do I."

Laila raised an eyebrow.

L'laarzen turned away, looking to the doors. "Khajiit did not intend to become a criminal. She expects that few ever do. But here she is, suddenly so senior in a guild full of them. And she is rather unsure what to do about it…but for now, there will be no more riots in your prisons or murders in your streets. Not if L'laarzen can help it."

"Really?" Laila replied. "Well, I suppose there is that."

She rested back in her throne again. "You, too, are entitled to a reward for your services to my hold. Even if, as I suspect, it was only a matter of inter-guild backstabbing. Is there anything simple that you want?"

L'laarzen thought about it. While Khajiit may be rather uncertain about her own future at the moment…a friendship with a Jarl could never be a bad thing. She turned back around.

"L'laarzen would like the right to purchase property in the city." She asked.

"Done." Laila replied. "I'll notify my steward. Can you afford a deposit on one?"

"Not as of yet, but L'laarzen has hopes." She smiled. "And, there is one other thing."

"Go on?"

"Would you consent to Khajiit styling your—"

The doors to the hall slammed open.

Laila surged to her feet, L'laarzen span around, claws unsheathing, and together they readied themselves to see…A small man in mage robes, crashing onto the floor of the hall and groaning.

Just outside, a beautiful black mare shook out its mane.

"Ugh…that was…the most ridiculous horse ride I have ever had the displeasure of participating in…" Alexander Meteuse looked up, blinked, and smiled. "Oh, hey L'laarzen! Mind if I ask you a favour?"

And lo did the author turn his gaze to the aetherius, and declare: 'O, Divines! Of what should I write to grip the hearts of my audience?'

Lo, in turn, did the Divines look down upon this foolish mortal, and whisper: 'economics'.

It amuses me greatly that L'laarzen is sitting on one of the greatest windfalls of her age yet can't even afford to buy a house. Yes, she could probably just demand like 10,000 septims from the treasury for services rendered. But I don't think it's something she'd want to do, and since Mercer's expansive assets haven't been recovered, the Thieves Guild might not have that much.

Xander gets to actually teach (which he can do, when its a subject he knows), Hjar gets to take some real, productive steps towards her goal. And Dulurza...oh I'm going to have fun with her.

Next Time: Someone plays politics, someone feels rather betrayed, and someone is basically on a skooma trip.