The remainder of Captain Wayfinder's men were just as friendly as their boss. Over the three-day journey that it was to the city of Windhelm, they taught Gwynileth the basics of sailing, a few sea shanties—they even introduced some Nordic ale to her, which she wasn't particularly fond of but still drank seeing as they were being so kind.
If she were able to say the same about the Nords in the city of Windhelm, Gwynileth would've been very pleased with her decision to leave Morrowind indeed. Unfortunately, Captain Wayfinder's words about the inhospitable nature of the north-easternmost city had some merit. Everywhere she went—the pier, the streets, the inn—Nord men were eyeing her from darkened corners in great disgust. A few of them even spat at her as she walked by, uttering the words, "Damn dark elves," as though they were a horrid curse.
And yet, as Gwynileth sat quietly by the fireplace of the Candlehearth Inn, trying to enjoy a meal of dried bread and day-old cheese, she could not help noticing something familiar about the way they glared at her.
It took her a few moments to place it, but when she did, all the color vanished from her face. Their looks were similar to the one that Jenithar had given her on that night… one filled with complacency, a feeling of superiority… and no small amount of lust.
So it was that at the crack of dawn, Gwynileth took the carriage to Falkreath: as far away from Windhelm as she could go.
Within only the first half-hour of the journey, the Dunmer was able to see that everything she had heard of the natural beauty of Skyrim rang true. The countryside was awash in golden lights of the early morn; birds roosting in the trees relayed harmonious songs; the steps of the two horses driving the carriage were little more than soft clops as they traipsed the weathered dirt roads. Such peace she had not experienced even upon the three-day journey of the Northern Maiden, surrounded by good men that she would now consider friends.
There was great variety in all of Skyrim's landscapes. Gone was the tundra of frozen ice and rock—they made way for mountainous cliff-sides, below which lay valleys of hot springs and geysers. Following those were everlasting plains upon which dozens of flowers and weeds grew; Gwynileth could not help smiling as she saw such flora, for such bright petals were a thing unheard of in Morrowind.
Apparently noticing her delight for such pretty flowers, the carriage driver deftly leaned to the side and plucked a particularly tall stem. "For you, milady."
Gwynileth daintily took the offering. It was a simple thing, all things considered, and yet it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. A grin cracked her lips as she noted a tiny bug with a red back and black spots was nesting within the innermost petals. "Thank you, sir."
After a number of long hours during which Gwynileth's back and bottom were beginning to grow sore, the plains faded away, and lush forests of pine trees appeared. The color green was so prominent here that the Dunmer could not help but stare—leaning slightly out of the carriage, she asked her escort, "How far do the forests extend?"
"All across the southernmost region of Skyrim!" replied the driver. He chuckled and glanced at her over his shoulder. "Fresh from Morrowind, I take it?"
She swallowed hard and retook her seat, one hand running through her ebony hair. "Was it that obvious?"
"Don't worry, it's not a bad thing. Bit of a strange time to be arriving to Skyrim though, considering the war."
This was the second time that Gwynileth had heard about a war brewing in this country—she had failed to ask Captain Wayfinder or her other friends about it, seeing as she was so busy learning flash lessons on Skyrim's geography. "What has happened? Please tell me."
So it was that her companion informed her of the war between the Empire of Cyrodiil and the Stormcloak faction of Ulfric Stormcloak. It had all been started by Ulfric, who murdered the High King of Skyrim and then made an open challenge against the Empire for bowing to the Thalmor of the Summerset Isles so readily many years before.
"Ah," said Gwynileth, her lips pursed. "The Thalmor, I am familiar with."
And she was: the Altmer group was not one that she looked favorably toward. Most of the people in Morrowind were perfectly content to ignore them entirely and focus their support and loyalty towards the Empire; and while Gwynileth did not hold many sentiments in common with her fellow aristocrats, her dedication to the Empire was one that she did.
"Aye, hard to ignore them these days," grumbled the driver. His hair was fair, and it gleamed in the late afternoon sun. "It's said a lot of Ulfric's motives were spawned by them starting to patrol the country, looking for Talos worshippers."
"Are they truly that dedicated to wiping out such worship?"
The driver sighed and nodded. "They are. People have died at his shrines. It's a gods-damned shame no matter your personal views on Talos."
Gwynileth folded her hands in her lap. Perhaps it was just the mood of the conversation, but it seemed as though the shadows had stretched towards the cart, and now the plentiful foliage was dark. "Agreed. No one should be persecuted for who they worship, so long as they do not harm anyone in the name of their faith."
Her driver smiled and nodded curtly before returning his attention to the road.
Within the next hour, they had reached the city of Falkreath. The sun was beginning to set in the far-end of the western sky, and Gwynileth was exhausted and ready for a night of good sleep, which she had not received when so many Nord men were leering at her the night before.
Just before she could step off the carriage in the direction of the inn, her day-long companion said, "Good luck, miss. And if you happen to need to travel anywhere else in the country, try not to go alone, eh?"
"Thank you," she replied, and then she shouldered her bag and stepped into the street.
As they had during the entire carriage ride, trees loomed over the buildings of the hold of Falkreath. Although it was supposed to be a capital city, Gwynileth could not help but think that it was rather… small. There were only a few houses along the main road, accompanying the inn and what looked to be a blacksmith. The hold of the city was easily recognizable, as purple banners were swaying lightly in the breeze, and it was the biggest structure within sight.
Gwynileth exhaled somewhat and turned towards the inn, within which she could hear drunken laughter and conversation. Before she could lose her nerve, she reached out to the door handle and stepped inside.
There was no doubt what the Nords of Skyrim liked to do in the evenings: drink and be merry. A roar of laughter met Gwynileth's ears; a bard was bowing in the corner, grinning cheekily, as undoubtedly he had just concluded some bawdy tale. Plenty of bodies caused the temperature of the inn to spike—at the far end of the room, a woman's voice was calling out orders for patrons to pick up.
Figuring the bar was the place to go to pay for a room, Gwynileth approached the counter and took one of the seats. She nodded towards the woman with a smile to signal that she would wait for her to finish serving orders.
Her patience was duly rewarded. When the woman turned to face Gwynileth, there was a smile upon her face as she said, "Welcome to Dead Man's Drink. Something I can get for you—a meal, a bed?"
"How much would a bed and a meal for a week be?"
"It'll be a hundred septims for basic food and lodging over seven days."
Gwynileth drummed her fingers upon the countertop. After paying for the boat ride and the carriage to Falkreath, she was only down to two hundred septims, and she wanted to purchase a dagger from the blacksmith for self-defense as well. Therefore… there was no doubt that she would need to find work at some capacity.
Still, food and lodging came first. Gwynileth fished the money out of her little coin-purse and placed it upon the counter in front of the innkeeper. Biting the inside of her cheek, she then asked, "Is there anything I could do to help the inn and earn some coin during my stay?"
The woman's eyes narrowed somewhat; but after only another moment, they softened again. "You could chop some wood for me if you've a mind, and I'll give you a discount. I'm Valga—it's nice to meet you."
A relieved sigh escaped Gwynileth's lips; a light silver flush filled her face, but she kept herself composed as she replied, "You can call me Nerussa. It's nice to meet you as well."
The remainder of the night passed in general easiness and frivolity. Although Gwynileth couldn't help noticing that she was the only mer in the tavern—the rest were men, although there was a variety of Redguards, Bretons, Imperials, and Nords—she did not feel excluded or ostracized in any way. Valga did a kind job in making sure that she was never alone, and always had a cup of water to drink; and she also kept Gwynileth abreast of any gossip, whether it be local or more exotic.
"Any sign of the war here?" asked Gwynileth with a light frown.
Valga shook her head and placed a hand upon the back of her neck. "Thankfully, no. Although I'm not holding my breath. Sometime or another, they'll show up. War always does."
Before she could further explain what was happening, another patron called for an order of ale, and Valga disappeared with an apologetic look.
Gwynileth sat alone for a little while, her drink very close at hand. Everything almost felt like a dream: was she truly sitting in one of Skyrim's inns? Was she not simply asleep in her bed back in the Nerussa estate?
"Erm, excuse me, madam."
She blinked and glanced over to see a young man—an Imperial, if she was correct—waving hesitantly in her direction. He was fairly handsome, with hair the color of the sun and a scraggly beard. His robes were of fine make, certainly finer than most in Skyrim, but there was a lack of confidence in his bearing that screamed he was an outsider just as Gwynileth herself was.
"Hello," she said. She clutched her cup tighter and positioned it closer to her chest, further out of his reach.
Apparently encouraged by her greeting, the man cleared his throat. "I don't normally do this, but I have a proposition for you."
Gwynileth's lips twisted somewhat. He was obviously nervous, and well-off financially based on his manner of dress…
Color drained from her face, and her eyes darted down towards the cup in her hands. Did she truly look so out of place, that he might mistake her for a working woman of the night? Trying in vain not to express such embarrassment, she murmured, "Are you… flirting with me?"
"Flirting? Good gods, no! That's not what I wanted to—I mean, not that you aren't—eugh. May I try this again?"
The shock to his voice was enough to convince Gwynileth that he had not meant to come off as someone looking to purchase a night of company. She met his eyes again; there was a true apology within them, and so she nodded.
He sighed in relief. "Thank the divines. My name is Lucien Flavius, and I am a scholar from Cyrodiil in search of a traveling companion. I couldn't help noticing that you seem to be… how do I put this… well-acquainted with hardship and travel?"
"How did you come by that assumption?" asked Gwynileth, cocking her head sideways. He was a strange man, but not unpleasant, at least.
"I've been residing in the inn for a couple of nights and noticed you were new to Falkreath! I'm in need of someone to protect me as I travel across Skyrim for my research—I had hoped that perhaps you are an adventurer of some sort?"
A quaint smile traced Gwynileth's lips. What a change that would be to her life indeed, were his words true: aristocrat to adventurer. "I am a recent arrival, but I am no warrior. I only arrived upon Skyrim's shores yester-eve, and have little knowledge on how to defend myself, much less others."
"Oh! My apologies, I must have misread the situation," said Lucien. He cleared his throat once more and shifted his weight. "Well, I won't keep you from your evening. In case you end up traveling across the country and need someone to keep you company, however, please let me know."
"Of course. Thank you, Lucien."
Lucien smiled brightly and began to turn away—but then he stopped and returned to her side. "Erm, if it isn't too much trouble, may I get your name?"
Gwynileth's crimson eyes scanned his face, his bearing: for some reason, he reminded her a little of Captain Wayfinder. And so it was that she felt comfortable enough to reply, "You may call me Gwynileth."
"It's nice to make your acquaintance, Gwynileth. That's a nice name! Not very common among Dunmer, though, is it? Except for within the newly risen Great House of Nerussa, of course, seeing as its first matriarch in Year 83 was—"
Gwynileth's face turned near as white as a Nord's. She leapt to her feet, her water forgotten; the cup landed sideways on the floor, its liquid spilling across the wooden panels and Lucien's shoes alike. Without bothering to say as much as a good night or a farewell, she began to rush off in the direction of the room that Valga had said was hers—
"Wait!" cried Lucien, a hand extended in her direction. "Gwynileth, I only—"
That would teach her to use her real name in the future. Most fortunately, due to the ruckus throughout the rest of the pub, her absence was unnoticed by everyone else in the inn. Ignoring Lucien's fervent apologies, Gwynileth was able to retreat to her room and shut the door solidly behind her without anyone else the wiser as to who she was.
Although she wanted to remain at Dead Man's Drink in relative comfort—even if that comfort was only a hard mattress and heavy stews for seven days in a row—Gwynileth no longer thought it safe to remain in the inn. If one man, a stranger nonetheless, was able to connect her ancestral name to the place from which she fled, then she would not be using it any longer.
After explaining that she had to leave to Valga and receiving a refund for most of her coins, Gwynileth left the inn. She took a deep breath upon stepping outside: it would be best to lay low for a little while, that much was certain. It might even be possible to save some money that she would've spent on food, were she to purchase some traps and a bow and arrows to hunt with…
She'd get to reacquainting herself on shooting the bow later.
The blacksmith was a friendly enough gentleman who sold her the bow for a good price, as well as a quiver of thirty arrows. Next was a stop to the alchemist's, oddly named Grave Concoctions, for a manual on the flora that could be used for potions or for eating. Foraging for roots, tubers, and mushrooms was likely to be Gwynileth's best bet for food while she learned how to utilize her bow. Lastly, she took a look through the Grey Pines general store for any other necessities she might require in the open: a bedroll, extra bits of preserved food, water-skins…
And then she took her knapsack and everything else within her possession and hiked into the forest beyond.
It was a beautiful walk outside of the city gates and into nature's greenery. As it had been the prior day, the sun was shining through the canopies of the trees, casting fragmented rays of light upon her face. The birdsongs were still alive and well; it almost seemed as though they sang to one another.
Gwynileth smiled as she trekked into the unknown. A sudden realization caused that smile to grow even still—Captain Wayfinder had been right: it was not even First Seed, but south in Falkreath, it was warmer than she had expected.
Only a few minutes later did Gwynileth find a clear stream to begin settling herself by. The water's surface was clear enough that she could see tiny fish swimming in the shallows.
She plopped down her knapsack and withdrew the rope she had purchased. When she had been younger and still had fruitful relationships with her parents, Lorth took Gwynileth on some of his hunting trips every now and then. He had taught her the very basics and set up targets for her to practice on.
Archery is all about patience and strength, he had said. It is knowing when you are calm enough to focus… to take the shot.
It had been years since she had used a bow, but now was not the time to be hesitant. If Gwynileth was going to attempt to live off of the land, she would need to have confidence to inspire her.
She pulled on the string of the bow—it was of sturdy make, though it was but simple leather and iron. Perhaps her muscles had atrophied beyond even her own expectations; if that was the case, it would take a good amount of hiking and wood-cutting to regain the proper stamina and conditioning…
But that was what the rope was for: to make traps, so she might catch some small game in the forest.
Gwynileth's fingers had always been skilled at embroidery, and at tying knots: she had learned a few traps and snares out of curiosity's sake more than anything else, on days when she would've done literally anything to escape her studies. Only a few of them returned to her in a moment of need, however, and their makeshift was shabby at best.
It would have to do. She sighed to herself and placed them in thick foliage, particularly in places where dirt seemed disturbed. Even she, a Morrowind noblewoman, knew that rabbits burrowed underground in little warrens…
Once back at the stream, Gwynileth uncapped the water-skins she had purchased from the shopkeeper. He had not smiled at her when she entered his store; quite the opposite. His greeting had, in fact, been, "Steal anything from my shop and you'll regret it."
She had brushed off his brusque comment at the time, but now that she had ample freedom to think on it, Gwynileth found it very rude indeed.
It only took a few moments to fill the water-skins. While the stream seemed clean and clear, there were no risks that she wished to take: in order to properly filter the water, she would need to boil it in the pot she had bought, over a fire she would need to start with the fire-starter.
There was plenty of dry wood and leaves upon the ground for Gwynileth to scavenge into a fire-pit, and many rocks to encircle the pit so the flames wouldn't seep to other parts of her encampment. After gathering these things together, she took a spare moment to admire her handiwork—and then she retrieved her fire-starter. The flint was a simple one, but it should be all she needed…
If she could just strike the flint against the rock properly, that was.
"Azura's breath," she whispered to herself. There was no telling how many attempts had passed at her simply trying to start a fire, but it was far too many than she cared to admit. "Please just work."
But the flint was an inanimate object, and would therefore not just work.
Exasperated with her own failings, Gwynileth became slightly more aggressive in her attempts. This, however, only backfired against her; with the last strike against the stone, she accidentally struck herself instead of the rock. The objects fell from her hands as she cradled her thumb, which was already beginning to throb.
"B'vek," she muttered, her eyes beginning to cloud.
It took a few minutes, but after a short time, the pain began to subside. Gwynileth chewed on the inside of her lip as she took a long look at her surroundings. Her encampment was settled in a little grove next to a stream, sufficiently hidden by trees and bountiful leaves. Based on the way the sunlight was approaching from the west, it was late in the afternoon. Birds were perched upon branches, salmon leaping out of the river far below her: nothing was out of place… save for herself.
Gwynileth exhaled sharply, still rubbing the place where she'd struck her thumb. What in the seven hells was she doing? She had never considered herself stupid in any way—naïve, perhaps, but never stupid. Considering all of the Dunmer politics that she'd been forced to juggle ever since she was but fourteen years old, she could never afford to be stupid.
And yet here she was at age twenty-five in the middle of an Azura-damned forest with only a few survivalist supplies, fifty-one septims, and a bruised thumb.
She blinked and stared down at the fire-pit. There was no other option, unless she were to return to Captain Wayfinder and the Northern Maiden and risk returning to Morrowind. But no, she had come too far to simply give up. Maybe there would be another way to get the fire started… if Grey Pine Goods was still open and the shopkeeper had some matches, then—
"It's obvious you've never done this before."
Gwynileth yelped at the suddenness of this new voice and sprang to her feet. The dagger she'd had strapped to her hip swiftly made an appearance, the blade glinting sharply in the white light.
Standing on the opposite side of the stream was a man with great stature and poise, with dark hair that trailed down to his shoulders. He was clad in unusual armor, the style of which certainly couldn't be accredited to the Nords, nor to the Imperials. Strapped to his back were two weapons: a strange-looking great-sword, and a war-bow.
The man sniffed once at the appearance of the dagger, not looking threatened in the least. His eyes scanned her face: they were a most unusual color. They almost reminded Gwynileth of honey, but even that was not quite correct. Honey was too golden to be this color.
Amber, perhaps.
"Even a blind man could see that you're out of your element," said the man. He did not take a step forward, noticing how Gwynileth was standing tense, like a cat waiting to pounce. "What are you doing out here?"
"Camping," said Gwynileth. She didn't necessarily mean to be so sarcastic, but the answer was the first thing she could think of, and honestly, she didn't have a better reply than that.
The corners of the man's mouth twisted, as though he wanted to smile but refused to let himself do so. "Really."
"Really," said Gwynileth. Doubling down would surely be a good idea. "So thank you for your concern, but I'm quite all right."
"And forgetting to bring enough food for you to enjoy your trip—that was part of your plan as well?" he rebutted. "Or were you simply so eager to test your skill at making traps for rabbits or squirrels?" He did not even allow Gwynileth a chance to respond before nudging one of her poorly-crafted traps with his foot and raising a knowing eyebrow.
Gwynileth bit the inside of her lip, uncertain of what to say. It didn't seem like he was hostile, or an enemy of any sort… the thought was less comforting than she had hoped it would be.
The man seemed to sense this new defeat oozing from her being; he held up his hands in surrender. "It's all right, I don't want to hurt you. I've been living out here myself and noticed your arrival. I thought you might need some help."
"Help?" Gwynileth's voice was surprised; she cursed herself.
"Aye. Your traps aren't bad. They could use some tidying up, though." He turned his gaze from her snare to her face once again. "It's been too long since I've seen a friendly face; I'd be glad to have some company here in the forest. And I could teach you how to use that longbow you've been hoarding over there as well."
Gwynileth spared a glance to her bow lying haphazardly atop the rest of her supplies. It was possible she could relearn it on her own, but… she had always learned better with an instructor.
And if push came to shove: Gwynileth was aware that nightshade grew in the thickets of Falkreath, thanks to the little manual she'd purchased at the alchemist's. She wouldn't want to kill him—but if she needed to debilitate him long enough to get away, so be it.
"All right," she sighed. A sharp shink told her companion that her dagger was back in its sheath at her hip. "I… could use the help."
He smiled; it was not one traced with hints of a smirk, either. "All right. I'll gather my things and meet you here. My name is Kaidan."
"Thank you, Kaidan. My name is—erm, it's Anya."
Kaidan exhaled through his nose, as though he was restraining laughter. "No it isn't."
And then he traipsed off through the trees, leaving Gwynileth standing fruitlessly by an unlit fire, and a mind full of confused thoughts.