Svala was on her way to Riften.

Wuunferth had healed her leg, scolding her like a nursemaid about how bad the wound actually was. Apparently the poison used by the Imperials was stronger than she had anticipated and the wound was starting to fester. "You're lucky Jarl Ulfric sent you to me when he did," the old mage had told her disapprovingly. "A little bit longer and you might've lost the leg." Svala had remained quiet (for once), nodding dutifully, before swiping a few draughts of peaceful sleep from Wuunferth's own stash. She was relieved to know that her lock picking skills hadn't left her. Hours later, after downing two of the potions, she stumbled into a spare bed on the second floor of the palace before having the best sleep she could recall in recent memory.

Until Ulfric so rudely woke her the next morning.

Well, rather, it was Jorlief on Ulfric's behalf. A few half grumbled threats had the steward out of her sight quickly enough, but Svala knew she had to face the Jarl sometime. Truthfully, she was a bit embarrassed- when he had appeared at her room in Candlehearth, she had polished off more than few bottles of mead (in order to distract her from the throbbing pain in her leg, of course) and hadn't expected that Jarl Ulfric, of all blasted people, would show...interest in her. To see him so flustered and aroused was something that wouldn't leave Svala's mind quickly, although she tried desperately to purge the images of his blackened pupils and the rather sizable bulge in his trousers. Sure, Ulfric was handsome- every female in Skyrim would probably jump at the chance to warm his bed- but Svala did not have time for romance or bedding, especially with the man who would become High King of Skyrim. It was too messy, too complicated.

That wasn't to say that flirting with him hadn't been a bit of fun, or that she hadn't been supremely disappointed when he had turned her down (even if he thought her joking).

She had groaned at herself, at her stupid impulsivity internally before reporting directly to the source of her embarrassment and trouble. If Ulfric had any thoughts on her behavior from the previous night he didn't show it, instead keeping his face as cool and impassive as always. "We've driven the Imperials out of Whiterun. This is good. Very good," he told her without really looking at her, all business once more. A tiny flame of rage flickered within Svala's gut. Had he he been toying with her as well? Trying to seduce her into securing her loyalty, her power? "We now control the center. It's a powerful position, one I aim to keep." Ulfric continued on, oblivious to the dark thoughts Svala's mind had taken. "We'll call you Ice-Veins now, for the thick blood of our land has seeped into your heart. Take this as well," he handed her an ebony sword, flickering with an enchantment of the blaze. Svala could feel the fire radiating within the weapon's core. It was a fine piece, and she had received a promotion as well, but yet Svala still felt hollow.

"Do you require anything else of me, my Jarl?" she had asked him woodenly, feeling foolish once more. She had gone to see him trying to rid herself of thoughts of him, reminding herself how bad of an idea lusting for him would be. Yet upon his rejection, she could feel an odd coldness close around her heart.

"I suspect you'll be of greater use to us with greater freedom, so you're free to engage the Imperials as you see fit. But I also want you to find our hidden camp in Falkreath. Galmar will have special tasks for you, and will need you when we liberate the capital." With that, Ulfric dismissed her with a simple, "Go with the gods," and Svala was off.

But not to Falkreath- she had no intention of finding any hidden camp. Well, at least, not right away. Delphine had become rather...insistent with her correspondence, and there were only so many couriers Svala could threaten to maim before she would have to start making good on her promises. It seemed answering one of Delphine's many (many) letters would be the easier option.

Dragonborn,

Might I remind you just how serious the current situation is becoming. More and more dragons appear in the sky each day, and since you kicked the hornets' nest our mutual enemy is at our door. E waits for you in Riften. I have a contact waiting for you there, a man named Brynjolf, who might be able to tell you where E is located. Make haste. We will not be able to weather this threat forever.

-D

Svala reread the latest of Delphine's letters before incinerating it in her grip. She had every intention of fulfilling her destiny as Dragonborn (whatever that meant), but couldn't very well do so while there was a civil war raging on, playing directly into the Thalmor's plot. The thing about dragons was that they were on nobody's side but their own, and a little equal opportunity chaos was a good thing, in Svala's opinion. If Delphine wanted her geriatric friend in Riverwood so quickly she should have made the journey herself, Svala surmised as she stood before the gates to Riften. She was sick of serving others, particularly those ungrateful for her help.

"Before I let you in, you gotta pay the visitor's tax," one of the guards at the gate told her gruffly.

Svala barked a harsh laugh. "Or I could gut you and open the gate myself."

"Easy now, keep your voice down," the guard backtracked quickly in hushed tones. "Don't want to let everyone hearing our little scheme, do we? Go on in."

With a curt nod, Svala was back within the city where she had spent most of her formative years. After her parents had been killed by bandits and she had been taken as a slave by her parents' murderers, she had traveled with them to Riften when they had needed to resupply themselves for their continuing journeys. She was lucky that the Guild had taken notice of her attempting to lose the bandit leader but pickpocketing him in the Bee and Bard, after spiking his ale with a paralysis potion she had stolen from the marketplace. The ginger Nord had approached her then, apparently impressed by her boldness and skill, and offered her a place in the Thieves Guild as his protege. Svala had lived with them for 8 years until she was captured by the Thalmor and deported to Cyrodill. Just the smell of the city itself (fish and piss and sickly sweet mead) brought her back to that time.

Finding Brynjolf would be easy- Svala remembered all his usual haunts. She first checked the Bee and Bard, and then his stall in the market, before finally resigning that she would have to make her way down to the Ragged Flagon. Svala had saved that particular location for last, not knowing how well her fellow Guild members would take to seeing her sudden reappearance. She was only glad that she had the foresight to wear her hide armor rather than her Stormcloak uniform.

"Little Lala? Is that you?"

Her hand had been on the door handle to the Flagon when she heard that familiar roguish timbre behind her. Instantly, Svala's body went hot then cold. She turned slowly, feeling like a youth once more. "Hey, Bryn. It's me."