Lucia would have traded anything to have a warm bed and loving family when she was younger. She would watch as other children scampered about playing, as if they didn't have a care in the world. Because they were from entirely different worlds.

Fighting to survive had become her way of life. Trust, was not something others easily earned.

In her tenth spring, she found herself stranded in Whiterun, begging for coin. It was Breniun's idea; he was the local beggar, an old Redguard drunkard, and the only one to show her kindness when she arrived. No one else seemed to give a passing glance at her.

Begging worked—a few folks took pity on her and the longer she stayed, the more of them lent a helping hand. Danica Pure-Spring would invite her into the temple to sleep on the coldest nights, Carlotta Valentia would let her help herself to unsold produce after the market was over, and Olava the Feeble would chat with her on sunny days when she didn't feel too tired. Lucia was by no means ungrateful but didn't understand why, if they could afford her those little generosities, what was keeping any of them from caring for her as their daughter?

She supposed they had all had their adult reasons, but it made her feel as if no one could ever love her.

Things changed though, when she reached adolescence—begging for charity no longer worked. People expected an able-bodied youth to be able to work for her gold. Breniun would rather beg all day and drink all night than lift a finger to work and she didn't want her life to end up like his. She did try offering her services on one of the nearby farms, tilling soil for vegetables, and it worked for a while but was laborious. Hours were long, pay was miniscule and there were more places in her body that ached than she could count on her fingers and toes.

She once asked Arcadia if she could apprentice and be of help in the alchemy shop. That gig lasted only a week, ending when Lucia began to daydream and ruined a whole batch of healing potions by adding the wrong flower to the concoction.

Maybe her horrid aunt and uncle had been right to throw her off the farm in the first place. She wasn't 'good for anything.'

Now, in her eighteenth year, Lucia found herself crossing the taproom of the Bannered Mare, taking orders, tripping over outstretched legs from the benches, being laughed at and ogled. It wasn't ideal—there was no loving family but a warm bed did come with it.

As did rumors and gossip in overheard whispers—which was much more lucrative than farm work.

She scurried over to a table freshly occupied by the blacksmith and her husband, "How was your day, madam Avenicci?"

Adrianne leaned forward, "Some newcomers came to the shop today."

"Oh?" Lucia raised her brows in interest and noticed Adrianne slightly tip her head to indicate two gentlemen across the room at a different table that Lucia had yet to tend. She didn't recognize them but they looked to be speaking in low tones to one another. The very picture of conspiracy.

There was a variety of new faces in Whiterun, actually. The city had more travelers coming and going—merchants and visitors, especially since roads to the north and south had been cleared of war skirmishes and were deemed safe in recent years.

"They were keen on finding a particular blade. Don't know what for, but maybe you could welcome them, they seemed a bit...lost," Adrianne winked and her husband, Ulfberth, told her to stop gossiping and playing matchmaker with the young-folk, then asked what was being served that evening.

"There's tomato soup and roasted chicken available tonight."

"Is the soup Hulda's recipe or something Ysolda cooked up?"

"The latter," Lucia confirmed and knew then that they were going to be eating grilled chicken.

"Then we'll have the latter," Adrianne put a few gold coins on the table top. Lucia nodded, quickly gathered the cost and delivered it to Ysolda, who stood behind the bar.

Hulda was no longer publican of the Bannered Mare, having retired a few years ago. Ysolda, an aspiring merchant in the city, had made good on her promise to buy the establishment and seemed to be doing a good job in all but one aspect. Ysolda was nowhere near as good at cooking which caused long time patrons to grumble in dissatisfaction at the drop in meal variety and quality. However, Ysolda had been the one to hire Lucia to help at the inn, so she was forever grateful for that opportunity.

"Why does no one want my tomato soup? It has fresh tomatoes," Ysolda nearly pouted once Lucia informed her. She bit her tongue to keep from speaking the truth; for one thing, tomatoes in Skyrim could never be fresh – they were unable to be cultivated in the cold soil of Skyrim, so it wasn't like Ysolda had them in a garden out back. The closest to fresh was underripe ones imported in crates from Cyrodiil and sold at Carlotta's stand. The second truth she held back was that Ysolda didn't know how to season her food. It was as bland as the color grey. Bleaker than Bleakfalls Barrow. How Ysolda spent time and associated with Khajiit caravans and never learned the secret to making food taste good was beyond Lucia's understanding.

She crossed into the small side room where the pot of soup simmered and two plucked chickens hung roasting over the open fire. She cut into one, carving out two meaty portions and placed them onto wooden plates, then delivered them to Adrianne and Ulfberth.

Her eyes wandered back to the two strangers that Adrianne had mentioned; she bit her lip with curious interest and moved in closer, patting out wrinkles in her skirt and putting on the same sweet smile she did with all patrons, "Hello there lads, may I fetch you anything from the front? We have hot meals and cold mead!"

They looked harrowed, wearing nothing but thin tunics under worn padding and breeches tucked into boots that had seen better days. There were a few cuts on their faces too. One even had his leg wrapped with bandage.

"No thank—" the one without, started to decline, but Lucia interrupted, full of concern.

"Sir, your leg looks like it's been through a lot! Have you been able to see a healer at the temple yet?"

He flashed an appreciative smile paired with a nod, "I did, thank you for your concern."

"Have any of you been to Whiterun before?"

"I did a few times when I was younger lad," the same one answered, adjusting his sitting position, still smiling at her pleasantly. His companion looked annoyed or bothered that Lucia was still standing there, asking questions, when he had more or less declined her offer. Ysolda always told her to keep at it until she made a sale though. Plus, she was curious about these men, and any information, even rumors, could be worth its weight in gold.

Secrets were invaluable.

She already knew a few that would intrigue the common populace.

Of how the Jarl's Thane of a son could be seen slipping through the shadows in the evening with the vegetable merchant's daughter on his arm.

Or of how at least two hooded figures visited Arcadia's several times over the past fortnight, early in the morning, and were found to disappear into Dragonsreach after leaving.

The question was, when and where could those secrets be unleashed to benefit Lucia the most?

She focused back to the task at hand.

"Glad to have you back in town, what brings you our way?" she flashed a look at the other man, the unfriendly one—he had hair the color of honey and a few fresh nicks on his chin as if he had been careless with his dagger while shaving. He seemed to glare at her with heavy eyes, bags had already formed underneath them—an obvious sign of his exhaustion and general grumpiness.

"That's none of your bus—" he seemed to snap but was cut off by his companion.

"Bandit Highwaymen. We were on our way to Riften and they attacked without warning. They hurt my sister, and stabbed me in the leg," the other man explained and not without a touch of dramatic candor. She carefully studied the honey-haired man's reaction. His jaw tensed and eyes flashed something fierce toward the injured man.

She put on a sympathetic face, "Are you brothers?"

The injured one nodded in affirmation as the grumpy one bluntly blurted, "No."

She smiled with puzzlement, waiting to hear the reason as to why they had contradicted each other.

"You'll have to excuse him, he's being very literal—he will be my brother," The injured man explained but not after throwing an inconvenienced frown at his companion, "He is engaged to my sister, that's why we were going to Riften. Now, the wedding is delayed because of our wounds and they stole our funds, which is why sadly, we cannot currently afford to buy much from you."

She briefly considered telling them about a Priest of Mara she'd heard resided in the Pale, which was much closer if they needed to get the marriage done as quickly as possible. However, she decided against it when she suddenly, clearly, heard the boot of the future brother-in-law kick the other's from underneath the table, and saw the friendlier man grit his teeth. She pretended she hadn't noticed, and held back an amused laugh, "Well if you need coin, we always need firewood chopped. I'll leave you for now, but please give me a shout if you change your mind. My name is Lucia."

"We will. Thank you, Lucia."

She turned from them and couldn't hear the words exchanged, only the disgruntled tones in which they were spoken. She had to wonder where Adrianne's piece of information about them looking for a dagger fit in with this story.

The explanation seemed simple enough, but if there was one thing Lucia was good at, it was detecting lies. She had to if she was going to weed out false rumors and keep the best for herself. There was nothing honest about the tale; there was no bandit attack, and the grumpy man was not engaged to the injured one's sister, if she even existed.

There was an easy way to check the latter claim.

Acolyte Jenssen was seated at a small table facing the hearth and eating his supper. Ever since the casualties of the war ceased, he had come out of the temple more and more, seeming to enjoy what Whiterun had to offer.

Sadly, he had no music to listen to, the inn was void of lute, flute, and drum melodies and had been, ever since Mikael was thrown into the dungeons nearly a week ago. Lucia had dreams of being a bard when she was a child, and had offered to sing in his absence but Ysolda said Lucia was of better use working on orders. What Ysolda didn't say, but had implied, was that she would more comfortable having someone who had trained at the college singing for the patrons of the inn. No one had arrived to answer her missive though, so meals were only steeped in a low rumble of voices.

Which, made it easier to pick up on gossip in Lucia's case.

Lucia sidled up to the table and asked the Acolyte of Kynareth how his meal was, and if she could get him anything else.

"No, thank you, my dear. The chicken was enough," he answered then looked at her like he was about to share a secret and lowered his voice a pitch, "Though I do wish more salt would have been applied to it."

Lucia rolled her eyes. Ysolda's lack of seasoning had struck again and not even the chicken was immune from it. Chicken! The easiest type of meat to prepare!

"Next time, let me know as soon as you taste it and I can bring you a salt pile for no extra charge," Lucia offered then licked her lips, coming to the true reason she had stopped at his table, "Acolyte, did a woman come into the temple for healing very recently? One attacked by bandits?"

He raised a brow, "Why yes! Poor thing had bruised ribs and a head injury. I had to work on her for a few hours earlier today and she's now resting. How did you know?"

"Her travelling companions mentioned it," Lucia frowned, certain it had been a lie. It only confirmed there was a woman who had been with them, not that she was attacked by bandits, nor related to either of them.

But she had been injured, there was no denying that.

"The lads were so worried for her when she was brought in. Apparently, there was more to it than just a robbery," Jenssen explained, and his taunt for details baited Lucia to lean closer intently and nod for him to continue, "The brutes took the lass prisoner, left the lads to die. The lads pulled themselves together enough to intercept the bandits and escape with her, beaten, but still in one piece."

He shook his head with sympathy, "Those poor people, I pray to Kynareth they will recover from their ordeal."

Lucia took in that information but was quick to find issues in the scenario they had fed to the Acolyte. If they had been bested by bandits once, it was unlikely they would have had a successful re-match, especially with no weapons. She glanced across the room at the two men again; they didn't any carry weapons she could see.

The story was obviously fabricated, but to what end?

The doors to the inn opened and more arrivals stepped in for supper. Travelers, by the looks of them; a man and a woman.

The woman had a lute strapped to her back and a spike of envy ran up Lucia's spine. If she was the gambling sort, she'd bet the inn's bardic vacancy would soon be filled. The man by her side wore leathers and was adorned with two swords sheathed at either side of his hips. He took one look at the bar and smiled as if he had found a lover.

Lucia bid farewell to the Acolyte and kept an eye on the newcomers, who moved toward the counter, where Ysolda was tending drinks. Lucia strained to hear but the chattering of the all the patrons was too varied and she couldn't make anything out. She busied herself by clearing empty plates and bottles of mead.

Luckily, Ulfberth called her over so he could order some ale and she gladly took his coin and delivered it to the bar. As she approached, she could hear the woman say to Ysolda, "I'm afraid I don't have my own drum but I can play lute and sing everything from classic poetry to trendy tavern songs."

I could sing trendy tavern songs, Lucia thought to herself with disdain.

"All right I'll give you a trial. Play tonight and you'll get a free meal plus any coin the patrons tip you," Ysolda seemed reluctant, eyeing the woman over. She was young; couldn't have been much older than Lucia, so probably hadn't had the chance to become an established bard, therefore lacked experience. The young woman nodded and removed her lute, taking a step toward the hearth, seeming a bit nervous, and thinking of what to play first.

Ysolda's eyes landed on Lucia, seeming to silently ask why she was lollygagging around the bar and eavesdropping. Lucia pushed the coins across the bar top and asked for a tankard of ale on behalf of Ulfberth.

"I'll have the same," the man in leathers stated, also putting coin down, and taking a seat on the stool. He gave Ysolda a charming smile and then asked if she had any leads for work. Ysolda was in the middle of uncorking two bottles and filling tankards with them.

"Take a look at this, a Legion guard brought it by this morning," Ysolda set one of the bottles down, reached into her apron pocket, and handed the man a folded missive. The guards brought those types of notices often, hoping that traveling mercenaries would do some of the work and clean out problematic bandit camps and save them the trouble.

Ysolda handed Lucia Ulfberth's drink order and set the other in front of the man. His face, which seemed so full of cheer a moment before had fallen into displeasure the more he read it. Lucia didn't have time to stick around and wonder about it. She quickly delivered the ale back to Ulfberth and he thanked her in his gruff voice.

After that, it seemed everyone was content in the room for the time-being and no longer needed Lucia's services, so she grabbed a broomstick and began sweeping around the taproom. Her legs ached; she had been running about on them nearly all day but she didn't want Ysolda to catch her slacking off. She needed this job. The new bard had been singing for a few minutes now and Lucia had to admit, the woman had a lovely singing voice. Mikael's had been smooth and stout, and was easy on the ears. There was some kind of perpetual sadness hidden underneath all the layers of notes of the new bard's voice, though, which made Lucia remember her sad childhood.

"Don't ever come back, you good for nothing brat!" her uncle's tongue lashed just about as painful as a birch switch as she stumbled out of the farm house with sodden cheeks begging to stay. She didn't understand why they hated her so. Her aunt only looked at her as if she were vermin and wouldn't speak, to even say goodbye. It had only been a day since her mother was buried and she had been told she was no longer welcome in her own home. How much tragedy could one child be burdened with before they broke?

"Lucia!" she heard her name and whipped her sights in the direction it came from, not realizing she had tears leaking from her eyes. The man with the injured leg was waving at her to come over. She gave a smile of reprieve and wiped at her eyes, hoping they had decided to buy something.

"Make up your minds then?" she asked, leaning against the handle of her broomstick. His companion didn't look any more or less cheerful than he had been before.

"Aye, we'll have each a bottle of Nord Mead."

"Ten gold," she replied and held out her hand, waiting for him to pay her. He didn't make a move to so she turned her eye on the grumpy one. He didn't seem to have any gold on him either, "You do have the coin, don't you?"

"We will, as soon as my friend here, starts chopping firewood," the injured one grinned then snapped, "Up to it!"

For being incapacitated, the man was in good spirits, unlike his so called future brother-in-law who seemed livid and stood but not without a curse under his breath as he asked her where he could chop some wood up. She answered that it was down the way and an axe was available, which didn't lighten his mood at all. Well! At least he didn't have to bother to find his own axe, which would be hard as it was past dusk already.

"Is he all right?" she asked as they watched him leave through the front door with slumped shoulders.

"He'll be fine. We've had...a few rough days but there are better days ahead," he said. The surface of his words held optimism but a sour note hit in his voice at the mention of it, whatever it had truly been. Not a bandit attack, maybe much worse.

"I'll fetch you the mead, since payment is imminent."

She felt pity for him, but knew coaxing flies with honey was much better than vinegar, and a loose tongue spilled more words than tongues drinking milk and water—including secrets.

Lucia accosted Ysolda once more and asked for two bottles of Nord Mead.

"Did they open a tab or something? Where is the coin?" Ysolda asked, grabbing beneath the counter's stash for the bottles.

"One is chopping you some firewood and that is their payment," Lucia explained as Ysolda handed the drinks to her. Ysolda nodded that it was acceptable to trade drink for more firewood—the hearth was constantly burning and needed to in order to thwart the ever-encroaching chill. Lucia approached the friendly man once more, handing it to him. He took a swig and smiled after tasting it, a respite from a horrible series of events.

Maybe, his travelling companion would find the same cheer in a simple bottle of Nord Mead. She clenched the remaining bottle in her hand and crossed the room, exiting out the side door. The patrons were at a point they should stay satisfied for a few minutes without her, and Ysolda could tend to them if need be.

The air outside was significantly cooler, but welcome on her skin.

Lucia could hear the thuds of a dull axeblade cracking wood open over the sounds of flowing water from Whiterun's canals and chirping night crickets. Those two distinct noises had always calmed her, led her to sleep when she was younger and made a resting spot around the back of the Bannered Mare.

She saw the man as she turned the path, he swung hard and fast— the wood cracked into two pieces and tumbled to the ground where others had fallen.

"Here, I'll trade you," Lucia offered as she approached. The man spun around-seeming startled at her presence. She gave an amused chuckle and held out the bottle. He rested the axe handle over his shoulder and wiped at his brow before taking it.

"Thank you."

She started gathering up the wood he'd already split, "The smith mentioned you were looking for a particular blade, can I be of any help?"

"No need, we have procured it."

"I recall your friend say your coin was taken by those bandits, how did you manage to procure anything without a method of payment?"

She delightfully held in a smile, knowing he knew she had caught him in his lie and wondered how he would explain his way out of it.

He let the axe fall so the blade cut deep into the stump and looked at her. He uncorked his bottle and took a long drink while maintaining eye contact, eyes narrowing in thought. He swallowed.

"Do you make it a habit to interrogate your new customers?"

"The ones that look interesting enough."

"I'm not interesting," he said flatly—seeming to fall back into his prickly, uninterested, demeanor. He was harder to crack than a clam. She hoped there was a pearl inside this one. He began to gather up the rest of the wood and she made a move to help him. Her hand landed over his as they reached for the same piece.

He was the first to pull his away, and she was left to carry the piece as she had intended. She wanted to gain his trust. Why was it so hard?

"I don't believe I caught your name—it's only fair to introduce yourself as you have mine."

He cleared his throat and began walking back toward the Inn, "I never asked for it."

She frowned at his obstinance. What was the harm in knowing something as simple as his name?

As they approached the entrance to the Bannered Mare, it opened unceremoniously. The customer in leathers who had taken the missive from Ysolda shouldered the door, still looking displeased despite having already finished one bottle of mead. He tossed the crumpled parchment into the nearby foliage that grew against the structure and not without another mumbled curse. He seemed to spot the Drunken Hunstman across the way and his spirits lifted, but only somewhat. He stumbled down the stairs, pushing through and clearing more space between Lucia and her staunchly private patron. She watched him as his pace weaved through the cobbled pathway.

How intriguing.

She turned back and made a grab for the piece of litter while her unfriendly contemporary continued carrying his payment inside to put on the hearth, not interested one bit. At least, if it turned out to be nothing of consequence, she would be able to dispose of it properly and not have trash blowing around the fair city.

She held it fast and continued inside, to read it under proper light as she set the wood in the fire next to his. She carefully uncrumpled the parchment.

It was a Bounty note.

That wasn't at all unusual. Bounty notes were a common type of missive sent to Ysolda to hand out for those looking for work. There was something unusual about this one though. It wasn't from the Jarl.

General Tullius was seeking a specific Stormcloak soldier– not a general, and no one of a ranked command nor seeming importance. Just a run-of-the-mill foot soldier to be thrown into the first wave of battle and forgotten about.

What an odd name too.

Hroar the Honor-Broken.

"What kind of name is Hroar?" she wondered aloud before crumpling and tossing it into the fire where it burned as kindling. The man, whatever his name was, heard her question and seemed to perk up slightly.

"Sounds like the noise a lion makes, don't you think?"