Last Time: Dulurza talked to her Dad, Hjarnagredda talked to her granddad, L'Laarzen talked to her boss and Xander talked to a weird floating ball.
Acting
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Mirabelle Ervine watched, smiling, as Alexander Meteuse helped one of the other students with their spellwork.
"Oh dear!" Brelyna Maron gasped, looking down at a rabbit that was looking unusually green. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I almost did that to you!"
"It's alright." Xander laughed easily. "It might be nice that Winterhold has less rules and regulations than the Mages guild, but those rules are there for a reason. 'Don't use sentients as test subjects' is a fairly sensible one, I think."
"I'm so sorry." The Dunmer woman was blushing, "I shouldn't have asked, you must have thought I was trying to kill you-"
"It's fine." Alexander insisted. "It's better you came to me than, I don't know, Osmund. You might have turned him into a horse!"
Brelyna laughed, relaxing, and he continued. "I can't promise to have the answers, but feel free to come to me if you have questions or just want advice. I know what it's like to have questions that seem 'too stupid' to ask a teacher. Heck, I know what it's like to make these kinds of mistakes. Rest in peace, Synod's brand new west wing, you will be missed..."
"You...do?" Brelyna asked hesitantly. "You know what it's like to make mistakes?"
"Yes, of course. Why, did you think I've never messed up?"
"Well..." Mirabelle looked on with amusement as Brelyna's posture shrank in on itself even further. "I mean, you're you."
"Uh." Said Alexander, eloquently.
"You've helped all the students at one time or another, you went into Saarthal and you found, well, that." She pointed at the Eye of Magnus floating in the centre of the hall, which (Mirabelle made sure to note) Xander had been the one to identify.
Brelyna continued, "And people are saying you broke into a fortress full of rogue mages! And you fought through all of them just to retrieve some books for the college, is that true?"
"Well, I mean, I had help." Now Alexander was the one blushing. Mirabelle had seen it more than once; exceptionally talented students who struggled to admit their own brilliance. He coughed, trying to compose himself. "That's a lesson, I suppose. Everyone makes mistakes. I bet even our Archmage has done some dumb things from time to time."
"Right. Thank you, that's good to hear." Brelyna nodded. Hesitantly, she asked "I...don't suppose you could show me the proper way to do it? You could try it on me, if you want. Consider it my apology, I'm sure you won't mess it up the way I did."
"Um." Alexander suddenly looked very nervous. "Ehehe, here's the thing-"
Ah. He doesn't want to isolate himself further. Mirabelle recognised. If he does it correctly first time she'll be disheartened, but if he deliberately gets it wrong, poor Brelyna might be glowing blue for the next half a day.
She decided to bail him out. "Mister Meteuse?" She called, walking over. "A word, if I may?"
"Of course." He replied, giving her a grateful look that she returned with a subtle wink. He looked back at Brelyna and said "Don't worry. You're from the Maryon family, I'm sure you'll nail this in no time."
She looked down, lips pursed, which Alexander clearly noticed. He continued "Buuuut, I get the feeling I've just said the wrong thing. Sorry."
"No, it's fine!" The girl reassured. "It's just...I came here because I didn't want to be judged based on my family ancestry."
"Ah. Then I really am sorry." Alexander did genuinely look it, eyes downcast. "I know what it's like to want to get away from a family name."
"You...do?" She asked, eyes widening.
"Oho, yes. When everything you do right is the family's win, and you're terrified of doing wrong for fear of it reflecting poorly on them...Er, excuse me." He shook himself as though trying to lose a thought, gave her a small bow, and walked over to where Mirabelle was waiting, leaving Brelyna staring after him in awe.
"That was skilfully handled. Well done." Mirabelle told him once he reached her. "The line between hubris and false modesty can be a thin one, but you walked it like you had a clairvoyance spell telling you where to go."
"Well, I've had lessons." He chuckled. "Knowing the right thing to say is one of the few things I'm actually good at."
"Well, I'd imagine magic is another?"
"Oh." He blinked. "Right, yes, obviously."
She chuckled. I like him. "But I didn't just call you over here to save you from an awkward situation with your classmate. Tolfdir told me that you were asking questions about the Staff of Magnus?"
"Oh, yes. That." Alexander scratched the back of his head. "Funny thing about that; ancient relics wielded by gods in the Dawn Era aren't exactly easy to track down."
"I imagine most people would say the same thing about the Eye." Mirabelle pointed out. "And in this case, I do have a lead for you. Some time ago, a few members of the Synod arrived at our doors."
"What?" Alexander's face went white. "When? Why? Did they mention me? How did they know I was here?"
"Relax." She reassured him, smiling at his (obviously put on) overreaction. "This was months ago. The Archmage has briefed me about your...'unique' situation. I wouldn't tell them about you if they asked."
"Oh, thank you." He sagged.
"I'm bringing this up because they were asking about the Staff as well." Mirabelle explained, remembering the event with a frown. "They seemed to believe we had it stuffed in a closet somewhere. Anyway, once we finally got them to leave, they said they were heading off to Mzulft."
"Mzulft?" Xander frowned. "That's the, uh, the Dwemer ruin, right? Why would they be heading there?"
"I'm not sure." Mirabelle admitted. "From their words...I might be remembering imperfectly, so allow me some leeway, but it seemed more like they expected Mzulft to help their search, not that they thought the staff would be there."
"They'd have to have been either certain or desperate." Xander replied, thinking. "Dwemer ruins means two things; automatons and Falmer. To go delving in there they'd have to be either stupid or..." He paused, eyes widening in realisation.
"Or very powerful." Mirabelle completed the sentence. "If you were a normal student, I wouldn't be telling you about this. Yet, and I hope you don't mind me saying this, we both know you aren't. If you want a lead on the Staff of Magnus..."
"I'm going to have to go down there." Alexander's expression was difficult to read. "Oh, perfect...Well, if the Synod went first, they probably cleared most of the natives out, right?"
"I think I'd rather fight a Dwarven Centurion than negotiate with Synod mages." Mirabelle joked. "But I suppose you'll have to see when you get there." She stepped forwards and put a hand on his shoulder. "Stay safe, understand? It would be a loss for you to perish in some forgotten dungeon."
"Oh, trust me, I have every intention of minimising danger as much as possible." He reassured her. His eyes narrowed. "Whereabouts is Mzulft?"
"Somewhere between Windhelm and Riften, unless I'm mistaken."
"Oh, perfect. I don't suppose the College has horses I can borrow?"
"Not usually." Mirabelle gave him a sly smile. "But, I'll see what I can do."
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Dulurza leaned slightly to the left, and as quietly as she could whispered "So I just...kill him?"
Jarl Elisif the Fair, looking distractingly resplendent in her choice of dress that morning, leaned slightly to the right. "That's the general idea. By cutting off his head, ideally."
"Hn." Dulurza nodded. "So, why's it such a spectacle?"
The two were stood on the raised dais where executions took place in Solitude. There was a worryingly large crowd waiting at the bottom of it.
"Imperial culture bleeding over." Elisif whispered back. "As I understand it, these affairs are far simpler in Windhelm. But there's been an assassination attempt on the Jarl, and you're the big hero who saved her." A smile rose to her lips, more bitter than Dulurza was used to seeing there. "This isn't about justice. The people want a show."
"Hmph. Alright, I'll give them one." With that, Dulurza walked forwards, crossing behind the ominous chopping block and stopping in front of the executionee.
Ahtar looked up at her, eyes narrowed. The irony of the executioner being executed was not lost on Dulurza (this was going to make a great campfire story) but it wasn't particularly important to the moment. Instead she just cracked a grin and said "How's your head?"
His glare intensified. There was a large, dark lump in the middle of his forehead from where she'd bashed it against the cage bars and then slammed the butt of her axe into it. "Not bad." He grit out. "Don't suppose I could say it rejigged my brain and made me realise the error of my ways?"
"Heh." Dulurza turned her head out to the crowd. "I don't know, can he?"
There was a resounding "BOO!" from the audience, which wasn't technically a yes or no, but even for someone who wasn't great with social cues, it was pretty telling.
Dulurza turned back to Ahtar, and while the noise continued, quietly asked "You're a Redguard. Born in Skyrim?"
"...Came here when I was young." He answered, after a moment. "Never felt like I fit in."
"Hm." She nodded, slowly. "So, do you want to die on your knees, with what the Nords call honour?"
His gaze hardened. "No."
She stepped back, looked at the guards to either side of him, and called out "Cut his bonds! And give him an axe."
The crowd went silent.
The guards shifted uncomfortably as Ahtar smiled, and Dulurza stepped backwards, drawing her own axe (the executioner's axe) from her back. "If he goes for anyone except me, gut him. If he kills me, gut him. If he wins and spares me, let him leave."
"Are you out of your mind?" Bolgeir Bearclaw walked up and grabbed her by the shoulder, hissing into her ear.
"If he wins, he's earned either my life or his own." Dulurza explained, still addressing the crowd. "Of course, he won't," That got scattered laughter and whoops, "but a warrior deserves to die with a weapon in his hand."
"Do as she says." Elisif's voice echoed out over her, cold and commanding, and the guards (obviously uncomfortable) obeyed.
Ahtar didn't really seem to know what do with his expression, as the binds were removed. He rolled his wrists to work blood-flow back into his fingers, and took the steel axe he was offered tentatively, as though expecting to get feathered with arrows the moment he took it.
Dulurza just let herself fall into an easy stance, testing the weight of her own axe in her hands. Is this necessary? No. But will it be fun?
She grinned, and called out "Are you ready?"
"As ready as a man can be to face his death." Ahtar took a few test swings with his axe, and then faced her, eyeing her critically. "Not sure how I feel about you. On the one hand, you ruined my life. On the other, you at least did it with some semblance of honour."
"You're welcome." Dulurza chuckled. "Wanna kiss and make up?"
Ahtar paused. Looked down. "...No." and then his axe was flying towards her head.
She ducked past the swing, laughing. "Hah! Me neither, you ugly bastard!" And then her own axe was flying back at him.
It was a bloody good fight, all things considered. Ahtar knew what he was doing, maintaining a wide two-handed grip on his weapon and keeping his guard strong. Far from the chaos of conflicts with stupid draugr or vampire mages, this was a duel, the two combatants circling each other and launching strikes from every angle, testing each other's defences. It was a welcome relief for Dulurza, who hadn't had a chance for proper one-on one combat since she'd started this mission weeks ago.
She allowed herself a brief few seconds to focus her shortfight on just enjoying herself; savouring the burn in her muscles, the clang of steel on steel and the whoops of the crowd.
And then she focused on ending it.
Dulurza was bigger and stronger than him, because of course she was, and she started to leverage it, forcing him backwards across the platform. To his credit he didn't crack under the pressure, his breathing was even and his grip remained firm on his weapon. Heh. When grandma said Redguards have impressive stamina, I thought she just meant in the-
A clever counter-swing from him almost cut off her nose, drawing a red line across its bridge, and she scowled.
On their next clash, she stepped in close, closer than anyone with a polearm weapon had any right to. Her lead arm held onto her axe high up the shaft and she blocked his next swing one handed, bringing her other fist round to punch him across the jaw. He staggered, but didn't fall, but it let her push his axe round and down towards the floor. Her boot came up, then down, and with a roar she snapped the haft of his weapon in two.
The crowd roared their approval as she swayed back beyond his retaliatory swing with the (now hand)axe, then darted back in and slammed the haft of her weapon into his forehead.
"Will you stop that!" He roared, stumbling, as she rushed in, hooking her axe around his front, putting one leg behind his, and twisting her hips. He was off the ground for less than a second before slamming into the floor with a grunt.
Dulurza stepped back and allowed herself to showboat a little, raising her axe high into the air (though she never once took her eye off of him. Her father had once pulled a fast one on her while she was showing off, and she'd never lived it down).
"Come on, Redguard!" She told him. "You said you didn't want to die on your knees! Get up!"
"I've made up my mind." Ahtar growled, getting his hands underneath him. "You're a real nasty bitch."
"And you had Falk killed." Dulurza shot back. "So I'm all you deserve."
"Enough." The voice cut through the banter like ice through the hull of a ship. Dulurza turned to see Elisif as it's source, eyes unusually dark and cold.
"Finish this." The Jarl demanded. "Now. End the traitorous scum."
That was so far from Elisif's usual manner of speaking that Dulurza was genuinely taken aback, giving her Jarl a confused look.
The distraction cost her. Ahtar, in a final surge of adrenaline, cried out "For my ancestors!" Jumping up to his feet and snatching up the snapped wooden haft of his weapon. Before Dulurza could turn and defend herself, he had charged her, jamming the stick into her midsection.
It was a serious blow. Or, it would have been, had she not been wearing the best armour forged in Haafingar. The wooden spike skittered along the Orcish mail and dug into her lower abdomen at an odd angle, breaking through her under tunic and then skin with a sharp sting of pain.
Dulurza saw red. She brought her axe haft down on his forehead, then up under his chin, snapping his head upwards, before driving it into his throat and forcing him off of her. He gargled, but didn't have time to do much else. She kicked him in the groin, and when his arms naturally fell, stepped to the side and swung her blade upwards.
She'd kept her promise. He was still on his feet when his head went flying off his shoulders.
The crowd went wild, as blood spurted and the head went to hit some poor guard in the chestplate, turning his armour even redder. They went even wilder when Dulurza yanked the wooden haft out of herself and buried it right in the body's heart, making it flop backwards onto the stone.
She checked if she was bleeding, concluded that she was but it wasn't that big a deal, and turned back to her Jarl.
Elisif was still staring at the body, initially with a look of cool indifference, but that gradually morphed into one of clear discomfort, and even confusion. She winced, taking a step back.
Dulurza was at her side in an instant.
"Are you alright, my Jarl?"
"I'm fine." Elisif put a hand to her forehead, face drawing into a frown. "I just have a headache, it's..." she shook her head. "I grow tired. Bolgier, dispose of this mess. I'll be in my quarters."
"As my Jarl commands." Bolgier saluted, and set to work, ordering the guards about as the crowd began to disperse.
Elisif started her walk back to the Blue palace. Unsettled, Dulurza followed her.
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As an Imperial spy, Margret's current predicament was far from her first time in a prison cell. This one got an...eight out of ten, on the pleasantness rating.
That was largely because it wasn't really a cell. It was a room, in fact a very ornate room, in a very ornate house in a very ornate area of Markarth. That last part was what dropped it from a ten though; seriously, this entire city's architecture looked like a prison anyway. Probably why their actual prison has to be a mine, otherwise none of the citizens would even appreciate that they're being punished...
Still, she had a bed, a desk and mirror, a fireplace and a table to eat at. The door to the room was mercifully left closed (though locked from the outside) and the guard posted at the entrance was polite enough to knock before coming in, leaving her at least a modicum of privacy. Using which she could...read, and that was about it. She had a bookcase, but it was full of such riveting titles as 'Modern History of the Reach, Volume IV'. Is this all the rich have to do all day? No wonder they all start so many wars, they must be bored stiff...
There was a knock at the door. Margret glanced at it, considered actually getting out of bed, and decided she didn't care. "Come in!"
The door clicked open and in walked Betrid Silver-Blood, carrying a canvas bag.
The woman gave Margret a look that immediately had her feeling self conscious, before sighing and walking over to the table, pulling a chair out for herself. "I suppose I can't judge you for presentability. Not like you have much need to make a good presentation now you're caught..."
Feeling somehow sheepish (why am I embarrassed? I'm her Divines-damned prisoner!) Margret hopped up out of bed, walking over to the table.
"Um, no, I suppose." She said, before floundering. What was she supposed to say?
Betrid reached into her bag, pulled out a bottle, and put it down on the table. "Here. A gift. I know how dull it can be trying to pass the time stuck in Dwarven halls. This is the best method I've been able to come up with."
Margret eyed the bottle's label as she sat down. Firebrand wine? Expensive gift... "Oh. Thank you...Why?"
"Well, you did save my life, remember?" Betrid chuckled. "I'm not so heartless that I don't appreciate that. If there's anything I can get you, feel free to ask."
"You could get me out of here?" Margret tried, giving her most hopeful look.
"Hah!" Betrid let out a short bark of derisive laughter, leaning back. "Darling, allow me to rephrase. You saved my life, which means I'll do anything for you that won't put my life in danger. Specifically, this nice comfy life I hold as the wife of the richest man in the Reach. Otherwise there would hardly be much point in you saving said life, would there?"
Margret tried to hide her disappointment. She'd come to know a lot of women like Betrid in her line of work. The 'apathetic noble' type. Not evil, not actively, and in fact quite pleasant to be around once you got to know them. But selfish, to the ultimate degree. Well, I can't complain. She's commit less crimes than me, for certain, and besides:
I don't have to like her to make use of her.
"May I?" Margret reached for the bottle. When Betrid nodded and gestured, she took it, unscrewing the cork and pouring two glasses.
"Then can you at least tell me what Thonar actually wants from me?" She asked, pushing one glass over to her host. "He's had me locked up in here for days now, and I haven't so much as seen him."
"Oh, he doesn't care about you one bit. Thank you." Betrid took the glass, and then a far faster gulp than a vintage of that quality deserved. "Mm. He's only interested in that girlfriend of yours."
This was the moment where Margret officially gave up on correcting people on that. She took a much more careful sip of the wine, before asking "Hjar? What's she matter to him? She's not done anything besides kill some of his enemies and scarper."
"'Hyaa'. What kind of a name is that anyway?" Betrid finished her glass, and then reached over to pour another. By Margret's eye, she'd probably had something to drink before even entering the room. "Well, I say he's 'interested' in her. It's more that she's just one of a few variables he has to worry about. One side-quest in his journal, so to speak, one he's quite happy to give up a room in his home to account for." Betrid leaned back in her chair, looking up in the ceiling. "It's this Forsworn conspiracy that's had him all worked up recently. He has this board up on his wall with a dozen red strings drawn between names and sketches of different parties. City's gone mad, I say. Almost as mad as that old git who's been stalking around the house lately."
Margret tilted her head. "Logrolf? The gutter-skeever who got me caught?"
Betrid's expression soured. "Oh, yes. That one. I don't know what Thonar is thinking listening to him. Sharp, yes, you can see it in his eyes, but clearly unhinged. He came up with the whole plan, you see: Keep you locked up here, and your shouty girlfriend will come back to try and save you."
"And what does he want with Hjar?" Margret asked.
"Oh, I'm fairly certain he wants her head on a spike. I know a grudge when I see one." Betrid huffed. "But Thonar just wants her out of the way. I mean come on, the woman does not know how to avoid kicking beehives."
"You know, if you let me and her go, we'd probably never even come here again?" Margret tried.
Betrid rolled her eyes. "Heh. Sure. I'll bring it up to the man of the house."
"So, care to give me the run-down on this conspiracy?" Margret asked, watching the level of liquid in Betrid's glass dwindle once more. There you go. This is good. We are learning.
"Hah! Oh, I can try, but it's chaos. I'd need my husband's board." Betrid sighed. "Well let's see...there's the Forsworn, obviously. Madanach lives in the mine and he runs those. Most obey him, some don't. At this point Madanach and my husband have both decided they're going to kill each other, but neither are quite sure how to do it without getting killed themselves, especially since neither are really sure who to trust. Up in Understone Keep, Jarl Igmund (and the Thalmor he licks the boots of) have no idea any of this is happening." She squinted. "He's pro-Empire, do you work for him?"
"He doesn't know I'm here, no." Margret admitted, tilting her glass with a smile. "Though as your husband said, I'm apparently not as good a spy as I think I am."
"Hmmhmm. Funny." Betrid did what would have been called a giggle from someone younger, but didn't come off nearly as cute from a drunk thirty-plus woman. "Anyway he wants all the Forsworn dead, so once we deal with this for him he'll probably be very pleased with us. That's good for Throngvor, he puts in the work playing politics up at the palace. Wish my man would spend more time working on the political angle, but no, he's quite content to role over and cede all that power to his brother. Course Throngvor hates the Thalmor, so I have no idea how he's going to last up there." She frowned. "Come to think of it, that means he probably doesn't know about Thonar's elf buddies. That's odd, not like those two to keep secrets from each other..."
Oh? Margret leaned forwards. "Thonar has elf buddies?"
That was, of course, when the door slammed open again.
Thonar Silver-Blood (himself having nowhere near enough courtesy to knock) strode into the room, taking one look at the pair of them and scowling. "Oh, for goodness sake...Betrid, dearest, what in Oblivion are you doing in here?"
"I'm talking to your pretty young prisoner!" Betrid retorted, scraping her chair around to face him. "It's not like any of the men in this house have anything interesting to say."
"You're drunk." Thonar glared at her.
"Well of course I'm drunk!" Betrid pouted right back. "What else do I have to do?"
"Which means she's trying to get information out of you." Thonar turned his glare on Margret, who turned away and began whistling innocently to herself.
"Oh, of course she is, 'darling', do you think me stupid?" Betrid huffed. "But I don't care! She can't go anywhere, can she? I could shout 'Thonar has Thalmor contacts!' as loud as I wanted and it wouldn't-"
There was a crack sound.
Beitild looked up in shock at Thonar's forearm, hovering inches from her face. At Margret's hand, grabbing his at the wrist and halting it's progress.
"Come on, friend." Margret gave a smile she didn't feel, her chair abandoned behind her after her lunge forwards. "I get that you're a royal ass, but you don't have to tick every box on the ass checklist. Just makes you boring."
Thonar looked at her for a long moment. Then casually as you please, said, "Your girlfriend's back in town."
"What?" The shock made Margret's grip slacken, and Thonar pulled his arm back, rolling out the wrist. "Oh yes, strolled back in through the gates yesterday afternoon. Annoyingly, Madanach's men got her before I could."
She came back for me? Margret...didn't know what to think. "So she's in Cidnah mine?"
"Oh, yes." Thonar turned his back on her. "My mine. Which Madanach is about to be reminded of. Don't you worry, spy, you'll get your chance to see her soon enough."
Margret's fingers clenched on the table. "If you hurt her-" she snarled.
"You can't threaten me with anything, idiot, you're my prisoner. Curb your indignation." He interrupted, boredly. Without so much as a nod to either of them, he left, leaving the door wide open behind him.
"Hmph." Betrid shrugged. "He has got you there."
Margret scowled, sitting back down. "Shut up and pass me that bottle."
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Skyrim was, in L'laarzen's opinion, the second most beautiful country in Mundus. The first of course was Elsweyr, specifically the rainforests of Pelletine; nothing would ever come close to her homeland. Still, she was being spoiled by her location. Having entered Skyrim in the docks at Windhelm, her route to Riften took her up a gently winding path beside the river, with great peaks to either side and trees dotted alongside it. She didn't know if she'd ever get bored of the walk, especially with the hot springs (hot springs!) she could take a brief break in on the way down. Of course, pretty as it was, she wouldn't usually take the time to stop and muse about it like this. How airheaded of me. What if this forces me to make Mercer wait?
Chuckling to herself, she returned to her walk, ears pricking up at the sound of hooves clopping up the road towards her.
This was the main route between Riften and Windhelm, so there had been quite a few other travellers passing her in both directions. L'laarzen fixed a wide smile on her face and looked to the figure riding up towards her, waiting until she could make out facial features. Sadly, the vast majority of people would see a lone Khajiit on the road and peg her immediately as a thief or crazed addict. Those were usually easy to pick out from their expression alone; the furrowed eyebrows and upturned noses were a dead giveaway. This one...hadn't noticed her, actually. She closed to a hundred paces, fifty, and he still seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his horse was on a collision course with her.
Perhaps L'laarzen should warn him to be careful. It is not safe to travel this wilderness without one's wits about them.
She opened her mouth to call out a greeting-and blinked, as she finally got close enough to recognise his face. "Mister Alexander!" She called, delighted. "Friend!"
That snapped the young man out of his reverie (in fact, he jerked so hard he almost fell off his horse). He pulled his hood down, winced at the sunlight and squinted at her, before his mouth formed an 'o'.
"Oh!" He said, bringing his horse to a stop before her. "Hi! You're hairdresser lady! Uh, I know your name, hold on, it's got the 'ah' sound in it. Uh...Lars?"
"L'-laar-zen." She corrected, pronouncing it slowly with a good natured smile. "Khajiit shall forgive you. It has been some days since we met, and you were quite drunk at the time. It is good to see you, how have your mage studies been going?"
"Oh, good! I'm working on a thesis at the moment actually-or, well, I was, I'm on something of a mission at the moment." Xander tilted his head. "What about you? How is your...hairdressing...okay when I say it like that it sounds like I'm being condescending-"
"You are fine, friend." L'laarzen laughed. "Have some confidence in yourself. Yes, my work goes well." She glanced behind herself. "Does your 'mission' take you to Riften? I regret that I have missed your stay."
"Uh, sort of." After seemingly thinking for a moment, Xander swung his leg around and (with minimal frantic leg shaking) disentangled himself from his horse, standing in front of her. "Weird question, but you wouldn't happen to know if there are any good mercenaries for hire there?"
"A few, but they are all either corrupt or expensive. Can you not ask Dulurza, your incredibly competent friend from Whiterun?" L'laarzen asked.
"How are you so good with names?" Xander sighed. "No, Dulurza went back to Solitude. I don't even know if this will be dangerous, I just...it's a Dwemer ruin."
L'laarzen's eyes widened. She had never been in one herself, but, "I should imagine very dangerous. Why would you need to access such a horrid place?"
"Well...mage business." He shrugged, looking away. "You wouldn't understand."
"Now that is condescending." L'laarzen told him, crossing her arms and giving him a look.
He saw her face and instantly crumbled. "I'm on a quest for a time wizard and I need to find him a staff or the world might end or something I'm really sorry!" He squeaked out, head bowing contritely.
"See? Not so hard." L'laarzen leant back and scratched her chin with one claw. "Hm...very well. Khajiit will accompany you."
Xander looked back up at her in surprise. "Wait, what?"
"You believe it will be dangerous, and I would hate for such a polite customer to get hurt." L'laarzen explained, simply.
"But-but Dwemer automatons! Falmer!" Xander exclaimed.
"Oh, L'laarzen is more than capable of handling herself." She replied, in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "Now, where is this ruin? I believe I saw Dwemer spires some distance back the way we came, is that it?"
"Hold on hold on hold on." Xander held up a hand, looking at her. "Why are you really doing this? You haven't even asked for money."
L'laarzen tittered. "You are an investment! If you become a famous mage, you can spread word of my business far and wide!"
His eyes narrowed. "Now you're the one being condescending." He countered.
Oh? He noticed? He is paying more attention than he was at the meadery. Or perhaps I am simply being too obvious...
"Yes, Khajiit is sorry." L'laarzen admitted. "She...Hm. She supposes she is doing this because she thinks it is the right thing to do."
"A moral compass?" Xander cracked a grin. "In the Fourth Era? In Skyrim?"
L'laarzen smiled back. "Precisely. The world is in need of such a thing, no?"
"You sure I won't be taking you too far out of your way?"
"Oh, do not worry friend. Khajiit is more than happy to take a detour at the moment."
"That is a mischievous look."
"You must be imagining things. May I share a spot on the horse?"
L'laarzen continues to be best cat. I enjoy writing all my characters for various reasons, but she out of all of them is just consistently delightful to do dialogue for. Except for when I forget to add in the third person bits...
Elisif is clearly not responding to her experiences well, while Margret is handling her imprisonment surprisingly well and Xander gets sent on another fetch quest. Because, you know. It's Skyrim. What would it be without fetch quests?
Next Time: Someone has issues with volume, someone has issues with volume of a different sort, and someone finds themselves feeling rather irritable.