"I'm not going to ask again," the companion stated while clenching the front of a man's tunic, her voice growing ever more threatening, "Where is Joric Ravencrone?"

His hold on the mug dropped into a clatter and splatter of ale onto the floor. How had it escalated so quickly? One minute he was enjoying a pint of ale, making small talk with the young Redguard lady, and then she had struck out with a fast and fierce grasp.

The patron shook his head and swore that he had no idea.

Braith didn't believe him—the shifty look in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders were telling enough—suddenly a splash of blood washed her knuckles and left him with a split in his lip.

"That's enough, take this outside at once!" The publican of Frostfruit Inn shouted and slammed his hands on the counter to emphasize the point. Braith's focus on the patron turned briefly to the publican and she threw him a dissatisfied glare, but otherwise acquiesced and dragged the patron out the front door still with the front of his tunic in hand and threw him to the wooden planks in front of the entrance.

"I swear, I haven't seen the lad," the traveler said, desperately climbing to his feet.

Braith kicked at his ankles, causing him to lose balance and fall once more. "I have it on good authority that you have seen the Thane of Hjaalmarch."

"How can that be? I heard he was dead."

His right cheek met with her left hook. He reeled backward, nearly seeing stars and the muscled young woman gathered him upward and back to his senses.

"You were assigned to his guard in Morthal—why did you flee? What were you running from?"

The man's eyes widened in panic and he opened his mouth to no doubt deny her claim but she raised her fist in a promise of another beating should she not like his response. He closed it and only seemed to swallow a lump that had formed in his throat instead. He would have two other lumps on his head to match by the next morning.

"I yield! I yield" he pleaded and her fist unfurled to his relief. He licked his bloodied lip in thought and then released a discouraged sigh, "What you seek is in Markarth. That is all I can say."

Braith shoved him to the planks in frustration. He clamored up and didn't bother returning to the Inn to buy a new drink. Instead, he took off running down the cobbled path like he was being chased by a daedra. Braith stood still on the porch of the Inn; the only movement coming from the tundra winds that picked up her short strands of dark hair and whipped them against her cheeks. She was furious. She had been following leads for a week on Joric's whereabouts and now she was being sent off on just another chase.

She had been hired along with several other companions to find out the fate of the Thane and retrieve him if not dead to bring him back to Whiterun to answer for his wedding disappearance. Aela and Skjor had gone to the north, Ria and Njada to the east, Vilkas and Farkas to the south—and she was sent west.

She wasn't alone, either. She brushed her hands across the mid-section of her studded armor, ridding them the best she could of blood on the leather material. Frostfruit's publican opened their mouth to protest her re-entry but she held up her blood-smeared palms signaling that she would cause no more trouble. At least...she would try not to. It tempered him; he gave a curt nod and continued to wipe at the counter.

Torvar, her shield-brother and fellow companion that was sent with her on the mission to find the lost Thane of Hjaalmarch, was leaning lazily against the bar with a mug of ale in hand and at the sight of him, her annoyance at his nonchalance flared into her features.

"Some help you were at extracting information!"

"You 'andled him well enough," Torvar replied and took another swig. Braith slapped his mug out from his hand and the ferment went splashing all over the front of the publican's clothes, not to mention the counter top that he had been so diligently cleaning. Torvar quickly picked it up and found, with relief, that not all had spilled.

"That's it! Both of you get out, now! Before I call the guard!" the older man shouted.

"You have no respect for the honored companions!" Torvar lifted an arm in agitation, but also turned the same annoyed eye onto his shield-sister for starting it. The Redguard did have a short temper and fists always itching to fight. If Torvar wasn't a member of the companions, she'd likely have beaten him up by now for the sheer joy of it.

It was one reason she had joined the faction—so that she could let out some of her pent-up frustration and knock a few heads together without the city guard being called on her. She'd been in and out of the Dragonsreach dungeon a handful of times, much to the embarrassment of her family, for initiating brawls in her younger teenage years.

Torvar gulped down the last of his drink and left the mug on the bar-top. Braith was already out the door and waiting for him; at least she had shown that much restraint and didn't leave him behind in her ire.

"The man I was questioning said we had to go to Markarth to find out more information on Joric's whereabouts," Braith turned herself so she was pointed south-west, looking at a hill covered in the usual tundra grass that was so prevalent in her home hold.

"I don't want to go to Markarth. Can't we just go back home and say we found a dead end?" Torvar nearly whined and physically slumped, looking the same direction.

He wants to be known as a 'honored companion' without putting in the work to be honorable, Braith only scowled in thought.

"No. We have to follow up on any leads before calling it quits. We can't skimp on a job because you're too lazy to walk up a hill," Braith admonished him and adjusted the steel warhammer on her back so the head of it wasn't falling into her shoulder blades. The Harbinger had always advised against it being her weapon of choice; it was cumbersome and Braith fared better at wielding blades but she insisted on carrying the largest and scariest weapon out on jobs. She loved the sense of intimidation it caused for those around her.

"This isn't about the hill. Have you ever been to the Reach? It's full of those vicious Breton bandits. They dress in furs and skulls and offer their victims up as sacrifice for their blood magic."

For the first time ever, Braith could hear a note of fear in Torvar's otherwise mellow voice. He was such a coward. If she saw one of those bandits she would be brave enough to fight them head on. She'd never backed down from a fight in her life.

"Excuse me, are you companions?"

A young woman maybe a year or two younger than Braith had stopped and asked them on her way into Frostfruit Inn. She didn't seem to be anything more than one of the local farmers.

"Aye, that we are, what is it to you?" Torvar answered. Braith noticed he had slightly straightened his posture, probably to try and catch the young woman's attention.

"I have a lost sister, five years gone—would you be able to find her for me?"

"Five years is a long wait to find a lost person," Braith scoffed, "Your sister is probably dead. Besides, we are already looking for someone and they aren't here. We're leaving."

"I hadn't time to search for her. You see, I help run that farm over there with my papa...but he's...well he died last spring and..."

"Lovely story but not interested," Braith cut her off and moved forward, "Come on, Torvar."

The young woman gave an offended huff at Braith's rudeness, but Braith was done with Rorikstead. It was a nothing little village and there was enough time left in the day that they could start out for Markarth now.

Torvar didn't make a move to follow. He instead put on a voice as honeyed as the mead he loved to drink, "You must forgive her, the Redguard temper makes her act rashly most days. I think we can arrange something..."

"Torvar!" Braith shouted in exasperation. They didn't have time for him to try to impress women by taking on extra jobs. He shot her a mean look and ignored her, instead focusing on the hopeful smile of the young lady. Braith's anger boiled over; she made a rude gesture toward him and started off without waiting any longer.

She got to the top of the hill with no trouble, her anger fueling each and every step but when she turned around, Torvar wasn't even a spec in the distance trying to catch up her pace. So, this is how it was? He had abandoned her? None of the companions liked travelling for too long with Braith, even Aela seemed to tire of her constant bouts of fury. It was great for a fight, but not for making friends—something Braith had never, ever been good at.

But, her mother had always said a girl should learn to take of herself and Braith aimed to do just that. She looked across the valley before her and to the high mountains of the west.

The Reach.

There was a path that led downward and wound into the valley; she figured that if she followed it, she would eventually come across a wooden post with directions to Markarth and then she would finish her mission, with Torvar or not.

Night, illuminated by a faint golden-red aurora, was blanketing the sky when she entered the gates of Markarth. Braith had never been in the city before and had to take a moment to stand awestruck, her head craned back to take in sight of the carved stone cliffs and various waterfalls between them making a low, rumbling sound. Luckily for her, the city's inn was just across from the front gate, and she wasted no time entering. The architecture was like nothing she had seen before, the walls were carved stone but the firelight bounced around and was a dull glint in the corundum on the walls and chandelier. After a moment the publican jolted her considering daze by asking her if she needed something.

"A room for the night," she approached the bar and rifled through her money pouch.

"Twenty gold," he replied and sniffled before wiping at his nose.

"Expensive..." Braith muttered under her breath.

"If you want to save coin you can go sleep in the Warrens on the wet side of the city; it's dank and you'd be lucky to be alive by morning," he growled, apparently, having heard her critique and then looked her over, "Even someone as skilled in fighting as a companion runs that risk."

"I didn't say I couldn't afford it," Braith sassed and landed thirty gold pieces in front of him with a glare, "I'll have an ale and a venison chop as well."

He gave a slight nod of his head and took them.

The Silver-Blood Inn was the hub of evening activity in Markarth, just as any tavern would be in Skyrim. Miners, merchants, and seeming miscreants were present, all with a tankard in hand, sitting at the bar or in front the fireplace listening to the local bard. It wasn't so subtle, the way many glanced at her suspiciously.

In addition to being known for it's rugged beauty, Markarth also had a reputation that its citizens were unfriendly to outsiders. Her mother had tried to teach her the history of the holds and cities of Skyrim, but she was not a very good student and didn't remember much about Markarth; it seemed like the least likely place she would go—it being on the western border of the province—so why would she care about its history? Now, she really wished she would have paid attention as it could have been helpful. She took a seat at the bar and the food and drink she had ordered were delivered in front of her.

She could feel eyes on her back as she concentrated on the food before her. The citizens of Markarth must have been wondering why a companion was in their city. Companions usually didn't travel out this far unless there was a contract to beat some sense into or out of someone. Braith loved those types of jobs; nothing was as satisfying as hitting morons in their face and then getting paid for it. Sure, some might call her a glorified bully—a hired thug—but being a Companion brought a sense of honor to the ruckus. After all, no one was going to slander the Companions' legacy—because doing so would slander Ysgramor himself and none of Skyrim's people would dare.

"Thank you," she heard a quiet mumble to her side and saw a cloaked figure hunched over his own mug of evening beverage. Judging from his smell, he'd had more than one already. There was a strong vapor of barley malt radiating from him when he opened his mouth. Most of his face was obscured by a hood, though the tip of his nose peeped out and caught the light.

"For what?" Braith swallowed a piece of meat and snapped out in question. She assumed he was a drunken idiot from how much sense he was making. She hadn't done anything but sit at the bar.

"Coming in and distracting them. Y'see.." The man hiccuped and interrupted himself, "Before you, they just kept starin' at me."

He took a swig. It was clear that he was also an outsider—a traveler maybe.

"Though, you are much better lookin' so I'd imagine 'san enjoyable activity now."

"You really must be intoxicated then," Braith frowned. It wasn't that she thought herself ugly, but in all actuality she was a plain woman and she knew from experience that her type was not deemed as desirable by most Nords. It didn't help she had a handsome scar on her face that marred her complexion.

"I 'ave to be," he replied but didn't elaborate on why, not that it would have made much sense coming from a drunkard. "But I don' 'ave to be intoxicated t'see a beautiful woman."

She felt herself blush, and hoped it wasn't noticeable. She wasn't used to being the object of any flattery and decided that his drunken compliment was unnecessary and untrue, "Watch your tongue or I'll remove it."

He didn't flinch at her threat, perhaps too stupid or drunk to properly fear her.

To avoid conversation, as well as the stares, she continued to eat and study the interior of the main room. Above the fireplace there were a set of large pipes that seemed to connect the stone mantle to the wall. She wondered if anything was contained within them. Parts of the pillars along the wall had tiled plates of the same corundum material that dully reflected the candlelight.

"Dwemer," the same drunkard said, noticing her careful study of the room.

"What?"

"The style of build we're in s'all old Dwemer architecture," he gestured at the metal plates and then to the indented strips of carved stone along the walls. Instead of the hearty and abundant designs of Nordic knots or symbols she was used to seeing on every building, a strange series of patterns and glyphs were carved instead, "it's not corundum but dwarven metal."

Dwemer. The dwarves of old. The vanished ones. She remembered mutterings of their kind from travelling scholars in Whiterun as she eavesdropped in the Bannered Mare. Again, her memory wasn't very apt for anything of a learned nature so she didn't recall much—histories, sciences, reading and writing—they were all tedious and she found little use for them. It was another reason that caused her parents disappointment, especially her mother.

She didn't bother to respond to the man and simply nodded. She was a much better visual learner. To see something before her had more impact on her memory than learning about it beforehand off the pages of a book. That's why she always tried sneaking around the backside of Jorrvaskr as a girl to watch the Companions spar. That, and because her father refused to teach her how to swing a blade. But if he'd have ever paid the slightest bit of attention he would have known his little girl wasn't as delicate as he imagined her to be. Anyway, watching how the companions fought was how she learned, and how she came to be accepted among their ranks when she came of age.

A shine caught the corner of her eyes and saw that the man wore a few rings on his fingers as he reached for his tankard to ask for a refill. The rings were silver, and one set with a sapphire. Before that moment, she considered the man a mere vagabond but if he was wearing jewelry like that, there must have been something more to him. She could feel so in her gut.

"So," she took a swig from her drink to wash down the savory taste of the venison chop, "what's your business in Markarth, traveler?"

"Din't the guards tell you when you entered the city that if you ask too many questions, t'could get you 'inna trouble?" He replied with increasingly slurred words.

"And why would asking you that get me into trouble? You aren't from here," she raised a brow.

"I ne'er said such a thing, m'lady," he reached out and retrieved his refilled mug from the publican and took his own swig of ale, "I said that you jus' took the stares away with your beauty."

"So you're from Markarth then?"

"Diddn' say that either."

She frowned. He was being awfully evasive by not wanting to answer questions about himself. What was he hiding?

"What about you, companion? Why're y'here in the city of stone?"

"I'm looking for someone," Braith didn't need to hide her purpose.

"Whom might that be?" he set down his drink with keen interest and she could barely make out a smile from what light managed to pierce the shadow his hood cast on his face.

"A man," she replied and lifted the edge of her mug to her lips.

"A lover?"

She nearly spat her drink out at him for such a personal question. She curled her free fist in anticipation of use. She was losing tolerance for his bad flirting.

"A thane."

He made a noise similar to a scoff at the back of his throat, "Thanes'n Markarth are few and far b'tween. Igmund doesn' give the title freely."

"I'm not looking for a thane of the Reach."

He seemed puzzled by her response, "So what makes y'think you'd find a thane of any other hold drinking 'ere in Markarth?"

Braith smiled slightly, "I never said I was looking for a thane that was drinking."

Then in a fast movement she kicked the stool he was sitting on, out from under the man. He fell with a thump and his drink fell onto him, reminding Braith of her encounter all the way back in Rorickstead. He scrambled up, albeit unstable, from the alcohol he'd been consuming and lifted the stool in front of him as a makeshift shield. The patrons of Silver-Blood Inn backed away as she raised her leg and easily kicked the furniture out of his startled hands before charging him and wrestling him to the floor.

No one lifted a finger to help him—either a testament to how little they cared for outsiders, or intelligence for not getting involved in a ompanion's fight. The man struggled and made a cries of protest as Braith pinned him down onto his stomach, forced his arms behind his back, and wrapped his wrists in tough leathers to bind them. She let off her weight and tried to pull him to a stand by his hood but it slipped off, revealing his face—and it was what she had suspected.

"Joric Ravencrone, by order of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, you are to return there and explain your absence on the day of your wedding."

He stopped struggling and turned to her with his ruddy cheeks, and he looked close to tears, "NO! You don't understand!"

He kept saying those words over and over and before he could make more of a spectacle, she gathered him up and pushed him forward into the room that she had secured for the evening. Joric was pulling his arms apart to try and test his strength against the leather bonds so she shoved him again and he fell to the ground, into a sack of vegetables. He was momentarily stunned before struggling to lift himself up into a sitting position and then continued to mumble the same words again.

She pulled the heavy doors closed so everyone in the taproom wouldn't be privy to any conversations they might have.

"You don't understand. You don't understand..." Joric kept muttering and moaning in desperate despair. Braith had no sympathy for the coward. He had attempted to fake his death to avoid marriage! True, the Jarl's daughter wasn't the most pleasant person in Whiterun and Braith had often daydreamed about punching the brat when she was younger, but Joric should have grown some stones and dealt with his lot in life. There were many people much worse off than him.

She undid the ties of her gauntlets and unwrapped the cloth under them that protected the hard leather from rubbing her wrists raw.

"You'd better shut up. If I can't get to sleep because of your blabbering then I will beat you into silence," she warned as she sat down on the stone bed to pull off her boots.

"I'm waitin' for her. I'm waitin' for Dibella. Dibella will tell me f'its true..." He kept on vomiting words that made no sense. "Dibella will know."

Why he was invoking the name of Dibella? Braith couldn't know but if she had to guess he was not knowledgeable in the least in the Dibellan arts so maybe he was inferring Dibella would know how to guide him once he was married?

She removed the warhammer from her back and set it against the wall. The weight decrease was significant, and she felt like she could nearly float away if the breeze was strong enough without that anchor.

"Time int' right. Time s'off. We aren't suppos'tbe here in this place at this time. Can't you feel it, companion? Feel like you are suppos'tbe elsewhere?" His hazy eyes swept across the room, in delayed consideration of everything in its place and then his gaze landed on her, "I wasn't'be married...there is a wound in time and t'seeping malicious, unrealistic expectations on the world..."

"You talk as though you've been touched by Sheogorath," Braith interrupted and then threw one of the fur pelts from the stone bed at him before crawling on top of it and wrapping herself in the remaining one, "Now shut up and go to sleep. We have a lot of ground to cover come daybreak."

"But I 'ave to ask Dibella..." He whimpered, "t'be abs'lutely sure."

"I suggest you pray for answers then."

"But she's returnin' tomorrow after eighteen years away, I 'ave t'be here to ask her."

Braith rolled her eyes; Joric was clearly still ill. She had seen him once before many years ago in Whiterun when he had visited the Temple of Kynareth. She never spoke to him, just saw him enter the temple while screaming absurdities and remembered he was an odd little boy that probably couldn't take a punch.

Studying him now, there was hardly any traces of what he had once looked like. The stout roundness of his boyhood face had curved into narrow cheeks that tapered into a pointed jaw. He was skinny, likely to break in half if she hit him hard enough. He was not much taller than her either—on the shorter side of what a Nord adult usually stood—as if he had stunted his growth somehow. His dark brown hair was cut in a short fashion the way an imperial soldier might have been sheared and despite looking a bit worse for wear and dirty, he had little stubble which indicated he couldn't grow a full beard even after adolescence.

She decided she'd had enough and rolled over so her back was to him, pulled the fur covering up to her chin and closed her eyes—intending to finally sleep. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel that was this mission now that she had apprehended him alive.

"Y'think I'm crazy," he muttered, "But I know something in this world is wrong. Something that shouldn't 'ave happened did or something that should've happened, diddin' and t'caused time to fester. Soon we'll all be in Oblivion."

Braith couldn't take his madness anymore. In one quick movement, she rolled over and out of the bed, grabbed the breast of his tunic into her fists and jerked him forward. He winced, anticipating a blow but when it didn't happen, he opened one eye in slight surprise. She stared hard at him and said tersely, "If you say another foolish word I am going to knock you into Oblivion, got it?"

Joric bit his bottom lip but gave a weak nod to indicate that he understood. She finally let him go but not before pushing him backward to get her point across that she did not like him nor his company and wouldn't hesitate to beat his hide if he woke her up prematurely.

It was the uncomfortable stone that woke her up. After tossing a turning all night her body revolted against the strange bed and it was clear she wouldn't get any rest until she was on a softer surface. Even the ground outside would have been more welcoming for sleep.

Joric was huddled against the wall, his head resting against the stone. He didn't look very comfortable either but Braith didn't afford him any amenity the way she had bound him. Besides, if she couldn't be comfortable, why should he? He'd managed to cover himself with the fur pelt at least.

She had thought he was still asleep, but slightly jumped, and immediately felt weak for such a reaction, when he turned his head to regard her. Her shame melted into uneasiness when she looked at him. His eyes, which had been dark green the last she noticed, were now glazed over in a milky white. His expression was impassive when opened his mouth. The clear, sober words he spoke made her skin crawl with bumps.

"Dragonsreach in flames.

Daedric Princes take fate's reigns

The Dragonborn was lost with time

Innocent but accused of crime

All could be undone

If Braith of Whiterun

To me, would swear her soul

And join the search for the Elder Scroll."

She immediately knelt beside him and slapped him across the cheek to get him out of...whatever state this was that he was in. His eyelids fluttered rapidly until the whiteness faded and his eyes were back to normal. His vision seemed to clear and he looked miserable.

"Good morning, companion," he managed to say with a tone of pleasantry despite the very unpleasant situation he was in. His words were far clearer than they were the night before. He grimaced and cracked a knot in his neck by tilting his head sharply to the side.

"How do you know my name?" Braith demanded to know; she had not introduced herself to anyone in Markarth. How was it possible he knew it?

He arched a thick brow, "I don't, unless your name is 'companion' which would be quite the coincidence..."

She interrupted his idiotic musing, "Liar! You just said it!"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did! You recited a poem about the Jarl's palace on fire and something about the Dragonborn. After that, you said my name."

He looked bemused at her, as if the situation from last night were switched and she was the one being insane. Then a realization seemed to dawn on him and he gave a long groan, "I was rhyming?"

"Yes, and you're a terrible poet. Don't hold your breath if you try to apply to be a bard."

He scowled at her insult but continued on, "It wasn't a poem. It was a vision—something that happens to me every so often...and alcohol is the best way to stave them off."

He squinted in the dim light of the room as if he were just waking up and seemed to be staring at something particular behind her, "I'm parched, could I please have a drink of whatever that is on the table?"

Braith followed his gaze and sure enough there was a small cask meant for the guest that rented the room and it was likely filled with ale. Should she really be enabling the Thane's obvious drinking problem? She'd seen enough of it with Torvar the past few years, but if what he said was true, and alcohol prevented him from having these...visions...then maybe it was in her best interest to oblige.

She gave a sigh and stood, grabbing one of the two empty tin cups and held it under the spigot as she twisted the knob to free the liquid inside. She handed it to him, half full. He gave a look of incredulousness and cast a glance over his shoulder to his bound hands as if asking her how she expected him to hold it.

"I'm not going to untie you," she stated and held the cup to his lips, nodding he should get to drinking. He hesitantly leaned forward and put his mouth on the edge and started gulping while she gradually raised the angle to make sure he was getting the drink he needed. When he was done he let out a breath of relief.

"I must deliver you back to Whiterun as soon as possible," Braith said and tossed the cup back onto the table, then she went about re-dressing into her boots and gauntlets, "So stand up."

"I must ask Dibella if time is truly corrupted," he grit his teeth, seeming to bite back a cry of pain as he pushed weight into his shoulder against the wall and managed to stand. Though he was still off-balance, either from a sure hangover or because his limbs had all but fallen asleep in the uncomfortable position he was in all night.

Braith rolled her eyes—there he went again with his nonsense. How did one ask a divine anything without the process of prayer anyhow? He made it seem like he was to see Dibella with his own eyes and chat with her just as they were now speaking together. It was commonly known that the divines didn't interact directly with their worshipers, so why did Joric Ravencrone think he could seek the ear of a goddess like some court sycophant to a Jarl?

"Would you consider freeing me for a generous amount of gold?" he wondered. She turned a sly eye on him. He didn't look very wealthy in his stale clothes, with his stale smell—but she supposed he was trying to disguise himself after escaping his wedding vows and no one expect to find a Thane so slovenly even if they were from the swamps. It wasn't like she needed the riches—she had a place to sleep and enough funds from her previous jobs to cover her travels to complete new ones.

"No," she replied.

"You are stubborn as you are vicious," he sighed.

"I've been called worse," she grabbed him by his arm to lead him out of the room. She purchased a cheese wedge and green apple for breakfast from the innkeeper. The room was desolate compared to the previous evening so there was room in front of the fire place for her to sit and eat. Joric looked paler than before, so she offered him a bite of each, which he took but didn't thank her. He didn't even seem to want to converse anymore after being so talkative the night before.

She really tried sometimes—to be nice—but hardly anyone was nice to her so what was the point?

When they left the Inn, he seemed to slump and drag his feet, turning his head up to look up at Dibella's temple with regret.

"Please, could I just..."

"No. I have a job to complete and that consists of delivering you back to Whiterun," she cut him off. If the inner circle could see how well she had done on her own with this mission then maybe they would respect her more.

Joric suddenly pivoted so that he was facing her. It caught her somewhat off-guard, "So deliver me back to Whiterun after I speak to Dibella. I can pay you for your troubles and you can keep a close eye on me even, but I beseech you to allow me to see her."

He looked so pathetic that she considered his request. She didn't know how he was going to go about it but she might as well squeeze some gold out of him if that was the offer on the table.

"Ten gold for every day we aren't in Whiterun," she said with finality; there would be no more bargaining.

He leaned forward so close to her that she could feel his breath on her cheek and responded sharply, "Done. Now untie me."

"That wasn't a part of the deal."

He gaped before his brow plummeted into a deep frown, "Dibella can't see me like this!"

"She can and will," Braith snapped. To her surprise, he didn't change his direction toward the temple but kept walking to the front gate. She took a few quick steps to keep up with him. He was no longer dragging his feet but moving with determination. He was the oddest man she had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Once outside the city, past the guard towers, the mining settlement, and on the road she asked, "Where are you going?"

"To speak to Dibella!"

"Her temple is back that way!" Braith pointed behind her toward Markarth. This man was such an idiot.

"That's not where she is!"

Despite being only a few feet apart, they had resorted to shouting at one another. At least they were on the road toward Whiterun; it was the same path Braith had taken on her journey to Markarth the day before. She frowned at his nonsense and then was reminded of his earlier nonsense in the form of a rhyme.

"Does Dibella have anything to do with that vision you had this morning?"

"I have no idea...they are just pictures in my head," he halted suddenly and seemed to stare off into the distance, not looking at anything in particular, "Almost like memories that don't belong to me...and not ones from the past either."

She found that explanation to make just as much sense as his bad poem. She stopped and waited to see if he'd say anything else. A mountain goat meandered across the path ahead, and then ripped a patch of grass out of the earth to munch on.

He started to walk again, "Anyhow, I don't remember anything of the rhymes, just the images."

"So, have you seen an elder scroll before?"

"No, why?" He whipped around with wide eyes, surprised.

"Then how would you know what one looks like if it was a picture in your vision? It was a part of your poem," he opened his mouth to protest but she corrected herself, "Vision...whatever. That must mean you saw an image of it."

He thought about it for a moment and then closed his eyes to concentrate harder, "Yes! There was an Elder Scroll but...it was on your back! You carried the Elder Scroll which means our meeting wasn't a happenstance. You were meant to find me."

Braith scoffed; an Elder Scroll was something so abstract and important that she doubted she would ever lay eyes on one. That was one thing that did stick with her from her mother's teachings. She couldn't help but to roll her eyes yet again and push him forward to continue on.

"You don't believe me?" he seemed offended.

"I think you are insane," she replied honestly, "Elder Scrolls, the Dragoborn—who is only a legend, by the way—are some very unlikely things for us to ever see."

"It's not the first time someone has accused me of unsound sanity," he said softly, sadly and she could barely hear it—as if he was speaking to himself. They passed a few waterfalls and Braith had to flatten more than one pesky mudcrab with her warhammer to protect Joric since he was unable defend himself. They still hadn't found Dibella.

All of a sudden Joric let out an uncomfortable moan and it was loud enough that it echoed between the mountainsides; Braith grabbed her warhammer and held it ready—expecting to be attacked, but when nothing came at her she frowned at the thane and asked, "What's your problem?"

He seemed reluctant to say at first but finally faced her, his face red with embarrassment, "I have to...uh...relieve myself."

She shook her head and shrugged but then realized if he couldn't do anything with his hands, then he would need aid in this task and that was not something she was willing to do. She lifted her warhammer and put it back into place in the harness that hung between her shoulder blades, and sighed. An iron dagger was sheathed on the inside of her boot so she brought that out and quickly sliced the leather tie that held Joric's wrists together.

His arms ripped apart and he shook his hands out with pure elation now that they were freed. If he so much as started running he'd get a blade in his back—it would hurt like oblivion but wouldn't be fatal. For the first time that morning, she saw him smile and then he told her to turn around as he positioned himself in front of a bush.

At least Joric had an ounce of modesty; Torvar often whipped his little rock warbler out whenever he felt like it on their travels without any warning whatsoever. She shifted her weight from foot to foot with impatience. She didn't realize until she heard it but she had to relieve herself as well but didn't want Joric out of her site.

"When you are done, stay where you are and don't move a damn muscle," she commanded as she hopped across the path and climbed over a rock to do as Joric did but behind a low juniper berry tree. She envied the men-folk in these situations—taking care of business was so simple out in the wilderness. They didn't have to squat or Daedra-forbid, deal with all the blood.

She crouched and hugged her shoulders, waiting to be done with it when she heard rapid footfalls. Alarm surged through her and she hopped up to see Joric taking off down the road in a sprint. She gave a bellow of outrage and paid no mind to the leftover drips as she leaped over the rock to chase him. She should have just let him soil himself instead of untying him. She could make out his figure ahead of her and screamed, "Get back here you swine!"

He didn't acknowledge her insult or slow his pace. She wouldn't be able to hit him with her dagger from this distance so she sucked in a breath, mentally taking note of how all of her muscles felt at that second. With a release of that air, she pushed a vigorous energy into them that caused her to move quicker without tiring and she started to close the distance between them.

When she was only a few paces behind Joric, she made a mighty leap forward and the weight of her and the warhammer came crashing down onto him. They rolled and rolled across the dirt and cobble, struggling with each other until Braith had him on the flat of his back with her hands on his throat. She wanted to strangle him for being so troublesome.

"I told you not to move a muscle!" She shouted with her thumb pressing on his jugular.

"I wasn't running from you...Dibella was so close..." he gasped but couldn't finish his sentence.

"That's pig shit! You couldn't wait to run away as soon as you were free!"

"Release him," came a forceful voice in front of them. Braith looked up and blinked—not having realized there were people that had witnessed the tussle. Now taking note of her surroundings, there was a fork in the road and she had wrestled Joric in front of a roadside altar...it was small stone monument adorned with hanging moss and pretty, shiny trinkets and tokens of devotion. The dark violet, flower-shaped shrine at the center was evident—this was Dibella's shrine.

But...Dibella wasn't there...the only people who were present was an oddly beautiful woman donned in a man's long belted tunic wearing no trousers, flanked by two imperial soldiers.

Braith let the pressure off Joric's throat but didn't move herself from where she sat, keeping the thane solidly in place.

Both soldiers had their swords unsheathed, seeming to be uncertain of the situation.

"And who are you?" Braith questioned the lady, placing her hands on her hips. The movement caused Joric to squirm uncomfortably beneath her and gasp for more air.

"She's the Sybil of Dibella," one of the soldiers answered, and then sheathed his sword, must having determined Braith was not a threat.

He took a few steps down from the altar and held out his hand for her to take and stand, "I thought you would have stopped beating people up at some point but it looks like you haven't changed."

She raised her eyebrows at the familiar tone he used with her and studied his handsome features, trying to discern his identity and then she felt a slow, creeping, positively embarrassingly painful blush fill her cheeks as she realized who this soldier was. By the nine, how she had missed that beautiful face. She took his hand and he pulled her upward, warhammer and all—she held on tighter than was necessary.

Joric scrambled up and bowed to the Sybil in respect.

For once, Braith didn't have a snide retort, threat or otherwise but it didn't stop her from putting on a frown because out of all the people she could happen upon in this strange morning, the fates decided it had to be the object of her girlhood affection and frustration—the man who she used to call baby Battle-Born.