Svala had made her way back to Vilemyr Inn only to find that Brynjolf was not there. While at first she had felt disappointed, she knew that it would've been unfair of her to think that he would've continued to wait for her indefinitely. With a sigh, she had decided to stay for a drink, admitting to herself that perhaps her and Brynjolf were an impossibility in her current life.

"You look like someone who can hold their liquor," a Breton had clasped her on the shoulder, grinning at her. His golden eyes were sparkling with mischief and there was an undefinable quality about him that gave her pause. "How about a friendly contest to win a staff?"

She snorted. She had bested men bigger than her in drinking contests when she was still a child. "A drinking contest? You don't stand a chance."

The Breton laughed with a wide smile, showing rows of too-white teeth. She began to feel a peculiar warmth spread through her, as though she was already tipsy. "Ha! We'll see about that. This is a special brew, very strong stuff. Let's get started," with a flourish, the man produced a skin of liquor from his robes and took a healthy swig before offering it to her. "Your turn."

"Here we go," she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows before downing the liquor. It certainly tasted like mead, but with a darker, headier undercurrent.

"One down, my friend," her drinking companion smiled. "One down. And another one for me!" He gulped another long swig of the brew before handing it back to her. "And how about you?"

"A second drink, easy enough," Svala shrugged, taking the skin and gulping the drink with gusto. She could feel the alcohol making her skin tingle. Perhaps she should slow down, but there was the matter of this staff (and her pride) at stake.

"So says you. I think I've hit my limit on these things," the Breton grinned at her, passing the drink back to her hand once more. "Tell you what, one more and you win the contest."

"One more. No problemsh," Svala answered confidently, too inebriated to notice the definitive slur her words had taken. She chugged what was left in the wine skin before tossing the empty vessel to the floor. "Now gimme my staff...uh...what'sh your name??"

"Sam," her drinking companion said quickly before continuing, "Wow, you've really done it! The staff is yours."

"Thrash grape!" Her head had begun to spin.

"You know you're a pretty fun person to drink with," Sam said with an appreciative glance at her (or was he just openly ogling her? She was too drunk to tell properly). "I know this great place where the wine flows like water. We should head there! Hey, you don't look so good..."

The next thing she knew, a bucket of water was being dumped on her and she was spluttering awake on a stone floor, next to a pile of her own vomit. "Wake up! That's right, it's time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer." A very feminine voice told her, deeply irritated.

"Lydia?" Svala croaked, rubbing her eyes and trying to ignore her pounding head. "What...where am I?"

"Of course!" A priestess took form in front of her. The question remained, however, which temple that was. "You don't remember getting here."

"Blasphemer?" Svala asked, almost afraid to hear what she had done.

"I see," the priestess clicked her tongue at her. "So you don't remember fondling the statuary then?"

A vague flash of memory passed before her eyes, and she could see herself holding a statuary of Dibella against her groin and joking with Sam that her "staff" was bigger than his. Sweet Talos, she was fucked. "Unh, my head..."

"Yes, your head hurts and you don't know where you are. I'm guessing you also don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage and a goat. Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple." Venom dripped from every word.

"I'm sorry," she tried to aplogize (as humbly as she could through a blinding headache and roiling stomach). "I don't even remember how I got here."

"Oh I'd love to help you figure it out, but I'm too busy cleaning up the mess you made of our temple," the priestess snapped. "Now if you were to help clean up and apologize afterwards, I might be able to help you."

Svala sighed- she didnt have time to play maid to a bunch of Dibellans. "Tell me how I got here and I'll pay for the damages."

And so, she was pointed in the direction of Rorikstead, where upon entry she was met with angry shouting. Apparently, within her drunken adventures with Sam the Breton, she had stolen a prized goat from a Redguard farmer and given it to a band of giants. Needless to say, the farmer was none too pleased with her, and she had to threaten him in order to continue to retrace her steps. In hindsight, she supposed she could've just paid him off like the priestess, but she had been far too frustrated at the time.

It was within the trek to Whiterun (her next destination, apparently) that she began to suspect there was something...more to this particular quest. For one, it was hard for her to imagine how it was possible to travel from Ivarstead to Markarth to Whiterun all in the course of one night without magical aid. For another, every time she tried to replace her dirty, soiled robes for some respectable armor, said armor would change into the skimpy loincloths of the Forsworn women once it hit her skin.

Now Svala knew enough not to mess with the daedra. She had had a couple of run-ins with some of the daedric princes earlier in her travels, but after a disembodied voice spoke when she picked up some kind of orb and finding a talking dog on the road to Falkreath, it didn't take much convincing not to explore any further. People who willingly convorted with the daedra were only asking for trouble, either in their current life or the next. However, it seemed like she had drunkenly broken her own rule, and as tedious as the entire journey had become, she wasn't quite sure what would happen if she didn't see it through. Daedra were funny like that- especially since she wasn't entirely sure which daedric prince she was dealing with. Besides, she had been lucky so far in the sense that she had managed to remain undetected during her drunken romp, but she wanted to make completely sure that she had survived the night unseen by the Thalmor.

So Svala pressed on, reentering Whiterun with an elk skull on her head and gratuitous face paint. The Thalmor presence was still noticeable, but she was relieved to note that it wasn't as oppressive as it had been during her last visit. She ultimately found the young lass she had accosted for a wedding ring on that fateful night.

"So you're finally back," she said with a disappointed look. "Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me."

"Okay, how much do I owe you?" Svala groaned, already reaching for her purse.

"It's not about the money, really," the jeweler (Ysolda, maybe? Was that her name? It sounded right to Svala.) said plainly. "I wouldn't have given you the ring on credit if you weren't so obviously in love," Svala's stomach lurched uncomfortably- who had she been thinking of with such a purchase in mind?? Sam? Brynjolf?? Ulfric??? "But if there isn't going to be a wedding, the least you could do is give me my ring back. That was one of my best pieces."

Her head was beginning to throb as if she were still hungover. In fact, as she pondered this, she realized she had felt this way ever since meeting Sam in the inn...fucking daedra. "Do you know what I did with it?"

"You went right to give it to your fiancé! Don't you remember where you left him?" This woman was growing more and more disgusted with her by the second. "And after that sweet story of how you met in Witchmist Grove...I can see why he left you."

"I don't care about the fucking ring!" Svala roared, unmoved even when Ysolda's eyes widened in fear. "Tell me what else I said!"

"All right, all right. You're mean when you're sober," she pouted. "You said that the ceremony was going to be in Morvunskar. You said your friend Sam was going to be your best man." Well, apparently her thoughts hadn't been on marrying the Breton. Still, that left Svala with an uncomfortable question: Brynjolf or Ulfric?

Morvunskar turned out to be a ruined fort occupied by hostile mages. Now Svala wasn't as close minded as most Nords when it came to magic and mages- her mother probably would've gone to the College had her father not needed her help on the farm- but her imprisonment with Trearil had definitely solidified a healthy mistrust of them. She managed to take out the sentries and make her way into the fort, when she began to realize that clearing the entire compound was probably too big of an undertaking for herself alone. Luckily, she was able to creep through most of the sprawling ruin undetected, until she managed to happen upon a large open area with a shimmering portal in the center of it. There was a single mage sitting out in the open with his back to her, and if she were a decent archer she would've shot at him, but Svala knew her limitations. Instead she decided to make a run for it, narrowly escaping a bolt of lightning shot at her when she leapt headfirst through the portal, uncaring which plane of Oblivion it would transport her to.

Groaning, Svala cradled her head as she got to her feet. She was in a meadow, soft lights twinkled from tree branches all around her. There was a table in a small clearing a few paces in front of her, cluttered with a feast of food and drink, surrounded by a group of very mortal looking guests (much to her relief) who were too busy eating and conversing to pay her much notice. "You're here!" A familiar voice called. "I was beginning to think you might not make it."

She scowled at Sam, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "It was quite a trip. Where are we?"

"I thought you might not remember your first night here," the Breton said with a smirk, a mischievous glint in his eye that she did not care for one bit. "You had a big night. I definitely think you earned the staff."

Svala snorted to herself. Leaving without the damn staff had never been an option. "Cut the crap. I know you're daedra."

Sam's smile grew. "Oh-ho! Look at you! Yes, I picked very well, if I do say so myself. Got it all figured out, have you?"

Her eyes narrowed at him. "Almost. Who are you, exactly?"

Within the time it took her to blink, Sam the Breton was gone, and in his place stood an eight foot tall Daedric Prince in intimidating, spiked, black and red armor. In fact, it was difficult to tell where the armor ended and where the daedra's skin began. It was black as night, and blood red swirls decorated his face and hands. In a flash of morbid curiosity, Svala wondered where else on his body those swirls were... "I am Sanguine. Daedric Prince of debauchery!" He held up his hands in front of himself defensively. "I know, I know, how could I lie to you? Well how could I trust you until we shared a few drinks? But it wasn't before long that I realized you'd make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy-staff than this waste of flesh." He motioned vaguely at a Nord sitting at the table, who had (somehow) become nude and was fiercely kissing the brunette to his right.

"Why did you choose me?" Even in her skimpy armor, Svala was as beginning to feel warm. It was as though just being in the prince's presence was an aphrodisiac.

"Let's be honest here- I don't always think my decisions through," Sanguine came to stand behind her, placing massive, clawed hands on her bare shoulders. The second he touched her skin she gasped; arousal instantly flooded her senses. Involuntarily she arched against him, encouraging his hands to travel the length of her body. "But you...you, my dear, are going places. I've had my eye on you for quite some time," her breath was getting labored as Sanguine's touch hovered over her breasts. "Toying with two powerful men, and not only that, but having them both eating out of your palm? Well, that's something even I could appreciate." One ebony claw flicked a pebbled nipple and she moaned loudly.

"Hands...off..." Svala panted, trying to clear her mind through the haze of lust that had overtaken her. However, Sanguine paid her no mind, instead ridding her of her top completely. She turned her head to avoid the daedra's lustful gaze only to notice that the other "guests" in attendance were now openly fornicating together in one massive orgy. She blushed and her eyes snapped closed.

"What's the matter?" His raspy voice cooed in her ear, one monstrous hand going to cup her through her smalls. She whimpered at the contact, tried to stop her hips from bucking into his touch. "Afraid I'd spoil you for them? Afraid that," Sanguine's lips trailed down her neck, sharp incisors nipping at the sensitive skin there, quickly followed by a forked tongue soothing the bites. "After knowing such impossible pleasure that you'd never find satisfaction with them again?"

Perhaps that would be easier than having to choose, Svala mused to herself. Besides, the temptation to stay in the grove with the sweet smell of flowers and grass and the sounds of ecstasy around her was growing by the second, with the very embodiment of debauchery behind her tracing circles on her skin. Here she could be nothing more than a sweaty mass of limbs and a vessel of pleasure- not the Dragonborn, the hero, the "savior". "Was there ever a real staff?" She asked him breathlessly as he ground his hips (and sizable erection) into her backside. "Or was it always a euphemism?"

"The staff! I almost forgot!" Sanguine cried, whirling her around to face him. The change in mood nearly made her dizzy. "It's easy to get carried away with you, my champion." The Daedric Prince gave her both a wink and a slap on the ass. The absence of his touch made her whimper in loss, as though she were nothing more than a bitch in heat. "But alas, now is not our time. Oh, don't you worry- I will have you one day, but that day is not today."

"Thanks, I guess," Svala muttered, unsure of what else to say.

"My pleasure," his smile was too wide and showed two rows of gleaming, too sharp teeth. "But I think it's time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up here with the staff!"

The thought hit her suddenly, what she had wanted to ask him. "Wait! Before you send me back- who was I going to mar-" but she was unable to finish her sentence as she had suddenly ingested a mouth full of snow.

Of course. He had sent he directly into a snowbank. Still, at least Sanguine had the decency to, first of all, not send her back into the hornets' nest she had kicked at Morvunskar, and second, second of all, give her some proper clothing for Eastmarch's frigid temperatures. At least Svala was assuming she was in Eastmarch- she couldn't really see anything other than swirling winds and drifting snow.

"This one is hurt, yes?" The purr of a Khajiit came over the howls of winter. "This one needs help?"

"Where are we?" Svala called back. Odd. The Khajiit usually avoided the frigid north. "Near Windhelm or Winterhold?"

"I will take this one," the male came closer to her, grinning at her. "I will help this one, yes?"

"Just tell me where I am!" She stepped backwards. There was something about the Khajiit that was making her pause...something she didn't trust. Her hand went to her belt for her weapon only to find a large, wooden, flowered staff there instead. Her prize.

"This one does not understand. This one will come with me." The Khajit hissed and suddenly dove forward. Instinctively she thrust the staff out in front of herself, unaware of what the weapon actually did. For all Svala knew, it would just turn her into a man or send bubbles flying out of her ass. Luckily for her, it did neither of those things, and instead produced a hulking dremora warrior.

With a garbled battlecry the dremora surged forward and nearly cleaved the Khajiit in two. Howling in pain, the feline collapsed onto the snow, surrounded by a growing circle of red. "Stop! Don't kill him!" Svala cried, trying to stop the dremora from bringing his sword down once more. "I need to know who he's working with!" The ebony skinned warrior stared at her blankly, letting his weapon fall uselessly to his side. He seemed to judge her.

"Ransadar works with no one," the Khajiit wailed. "This one is just confused."

"Oh bullshit," she swore, stepping harshly on the bleeding stump of one of his former legs. "Where were you trying to take me?" She ground her boot harsher when there was no response. There. Let her dremora judge that. "Who sent you?" "Thal-almor," he panted, the fur on his face standing on end. "Burnt face...gave Ransadar so much gold...this one was to be brought alive and unharmed!"

Trearil. With a swift nod to the dremora, Svala turned her back as the sound of the Khajiit's pained whimpers and labored breathing went shrill then silent all together. Maybe Sanguine had done her a favor after all.

"Thank you," she told the dremora sincerely, placing a hand (gingerly) on his fist.

"There could be no other end," the warrior parroted at her blankly, before making another garbled shout and promptly disappearing back into Oblivion.

Svala sighed. Alone again. She began to walk.

She had a scroll to find.