This adventure ended up being a bit longer than some of the others, but it is a longer questline, so I decided to spit it into two chapters just so it wouldn't be lengthy ;) This is one of my favorite quests in Skyrim, if nothing else for the sheer silliness of it (that, and the staff is...mostly...worth all the trouble.) XD


Chapter Seven: Most Days He Is Tolerable (Part One)
Borgakh

When I finally track down Brand, he is in the Temple of Dibella in Markarth. He looks terrible and is being berated by a very irate priestess. I walk in and lean against one of the giant statues of Dibella, waiting with crossed arms as Brand gets his dressing down.

"In the sacred pool no less!" the priestess shouts.

Brand winces. I notice now that he is soaking wet, shivering and dripping little puddles of water all over the floor. He looks smaller than normal somehow. If I did not know otherwise, I would laugh if you told me he is a Nord hero. Right now, he is simply a bedraggled, wet and confused wood elf.

With a terrible hangover judging by the way he shies away from the light and the priestess' voice.

"I swear I don't know how I got here," Brand says, his voice hoarse, as if he's been shouting (or singing a lot of rowdy drinking songs.)

"Of course you don't." The priestess scowls and puts her hands on her hips. "And I suppose you don't remember trashing our temple either? Or Shouting your way in here like some lunatic? You do know that the inner sanctum is only for female initiates, don't you?"

Brand bites his lip and looks away with a wince.

One side of the priestess' mouth is lifted in a cruel smirk, but her expression softens a little as she looks at my exhausted, wet, Dragonborn. "You didn't make it that far, Dragonborn," she says, a little more gently.

An expression of immense relief crosses Brand's face.

"But I do expect you to clean up the mess in here." She gestures to the Temple interior and I notice now that there are wine bottles all over the floor, along with random alchemical ingredients, some of which are, indeed, floating in the pool of water on the raised dias in the center of the room.

Brand heaves a sigh.

I decide to take that as my cue to make my presence known. I walk into the light.

The priestess gives me a calculated look. I am female, but I am also an orc, and a warrior. Not exactly Dibella material. The priestess looks displeased for a moment, as if I am just one more thing on her plate this morning, but then she visibly calms herself and smiles.

"Welcome to the Temple of Dibella, traveler," she says. "Have you come for enlightenment?"

"No," I say. "I've come for the Dragonborn."

Brand shoots me a look that is somewhere between desperation and contempt.

The priestess' eyes go wide as she looks over at Brand and then her frown deepens. "You are very welcome to him," she says in a voice colder than a Windhelm night. "After he cleans the Temple."

"Certainly," I agree. "I'll even supervise the cleaning."

Brand groans.

The priestess looks marginally pleased with the arrangement so I strike up a conversation with her as Brand picks up empty wine bottles, giant's toes, hagraven feathers and other weird ingredients from the Temple.

"When did he arrive?" I ask the priestess.

"Last night," she says with obvious distaste.

I sigh.

"If I may ask, who are you?" the priestess continues.

"Borgakh the Steel-Heart." I hold out a hand.

After a moment, the priestess takes it. "And you are his…?"

"Bodyguard." I shrug. "Friend."

The priestess raises an eyebrow.

"He's not normally like this," I say, as if somehow that will make things better.

Her eyebrow goes higher.

"In fact, most days he is really quite tolerable," I say with a slight smile.

The priestess does not seem to find it as amusing as I do.

I sigh. "What did he do here last night?"

"Trashed the place," the priestess says archly.

I stare at her and motion for her to go on.

She pinches the bridge of her nose as she continues, as if the memory is particularly painful. "He barged in here singing something off-key at the top of his lungs. He was carrying a basket full of alchemical ingredients and had three or four bottles of wine tucked under his arm. Which he clearly didn't need." The priestess shoots Brand a disdainful look. Luckily, he's still too busy cleaning to notice it.

"I confronted him and told him to leave. He proceeded to flirt with my priestesses, disrupt our sacred service, throw ingredients around the room, drink all four bottles of wine plus every bottle he found in here, eat our food, and try to bash in our inner sanctum. I think the only thing that saved us was that he was so drunk he couldn't get the words of his Shout out clearly."

I wince.

The priestess nods gravely. "And then he passed out in the sacred pool, after attempting to brew his potion in it."

"Malacath help me," I mutter. "This is worse than I thought."

"What did you say?" the priestess leans forward, eyes alight with curiosity.

"Nothing." I shake my head. "Did he say anything last night that might clue you in to where he came from or how he got here?"

The priestess is quiet for a moment, watching Brand as he sweeps the floor. "Now that you mention it, he did say something about Rorikstead. And a goat. But beyond that, I have no clue."

"Well, that is a start, at least. Thank you."

The priestess nods and goes to give Brand more instructions about how to clean out the sacred pool and replace the defiled water. Brand listens quietly, a little sullen, but strangely meek. Normally he'd be making wise-cracks and pushing all the priestess' buttons. The longer I watch him the more obvious it gets that he's not himself. What did the strange man at the Bannered Mare do to him?

Brand finishes the rest of the chores in silence and looks relieved when the Temple is finally cleaned to the priestess' standards. She bids us a chilly good-day, and makes sure that I've got a firm hand on Brand's arm before she lets us out of her sight.

As soon as we step outside, I turn to Brand. He is paler than usual, a little shaky, and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week.

"What in Malacath's name were you thinking?" I shout.

Brand winces and covers his ears. I let go of his arm so he can do it.

"Not so loud, Borgakh, please."

"Alright then," I say, a little quieter. "What in Malacath's name were you thinking?"

He looks up at me with the most desperate expression I've seen on him yet. "I don't know. I really don't know," he says. "I don't remember a thing."

"Do you remember me telling you not to accept drinks from strangers?" I ask.

He gives me a half-shrug.

"I had to cross half of Skyrim to find you, you know," I grumble.

"What?" Brand blinks at me, confused.

"We are in Markarth, Brand," I say slowly.

"I...I know," he says. "Didn't we start here?"

"No."

"No? Borgakh, what have I been doing?"

"You tell me," I say. "You got into a drinking contest in the Bannered Mare a few days ago and you've apparently been gallivanting across Skyrim on a drunken rampage ever since."

Brand groans. "Half of Skyrim?"

"From Whiterun to Markarth, from what I can tell. I only picked up a few of your tracks. Luckily they were enough to lead me here."

"Great. Just great." Brand presses his arms across his stomach, looking pale and unsteady. "Not only have I humiliated myself in front of the priestesses of Dibella, but apparently half of Skyrim, too."

I cross my arms. "Well, on the bright side, you probably cannot humiliate yourself much further."

Brand opens his mouth as if to reply, but instead lurches forward and promptly loses the contents of his stomach all over the front steps of the Temple of Dibella.

"I stand corrected," I murmur as I step out of the way.

He gives me the most heart-wrenching look before his eyes roll up in his head and he crumples. I lunge forward and catch him, scooping him up into my arms. His head lolls against my shoulder.

"You know," I say as I carry the unconscious Dragonborn down the stairs. "This would be a lot more romantic if you did not reek of ale."


"Rorikstead?" Brand groans as we top a rise in the traderoad and the hamlet appears on the plain in front of us. We're riding our horses (I brought Brand's along when I set out to find him) and the steady clop of their hooves accompanies our conversation.

"That is what the Priestess of Dibella said."

"Why Rorikstead?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "The priestess said you were ranting about a goat."

"A goat? Oh, Divines." He shudders.

"Surely there cannot be that many unholy things you can do with a goat."

The look Brand gives me suggests that there are many unholy things you can do with a goat that I have not even considered. I shrug again, but I fight a smile.

"You're enjoying this way too much," Brand mutters.

"You enjoyed your drinking contest. Now it is my turn," I say.

Brand groans again.

As soon as we descend into Rorikstead, we're met by an angry farmer. "You!" He shouts and points as soon as he sees Brand. "You've got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again!" He abandons his field and runs up to us. We stop.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" He runs up and yanks Brand out of the saddle. Brand could easily have kept his seat if he wanted to, but he lets the farmer pull him off his horse, controlling the move so that he lands (if not gracefully) on his feet. The farmer throws a punch as soon as Brand's feet hit the ground. Brand lets it connect, but he rolls with it so that the blow isn't so bad. It still rocks him back a step and leaves him massaging his jaw.

"What was that for?" he demands.

"My goat! You sold my goat to a giant! My Gleda. For some sacrifice for all I know."

Brand stands there blinking for a few seconds. "Giant? Goat?" he finally says.

"Oh, don't act like you don't know! The whole town saw you!"

Brand holds up his hands placatingly. "I'm sorry...Ennis," he says, looking half-surprised that he dredged the name up out of memory. I wonder if that means he dredged anything else about his drunken rampage to memory, but I don't ask.

"Oh, so you remember my name now, do you?" Ennis crosses his arms. "It's not going to do you any good. We're not friends."

"Ouch," Brand mutters.

Ennis scowls.

"Look, I, uh, I'm sorry," Brand begins.

"Sorry won't get my goat back."

Brand sighs. I can tell he's trying very hard not to Shout at this farmer right now. "Ok, ok. Right. Look, if I go get your goat back, will you tell me what happened here?"

Ennis looks skeptical. "You mean you really don't remember?"

"No. I have no idea. Was I with anybody when I was here?"

Ennis opens his mouth as if to answer, then shakes his head. "Goat first," he says. "Then we'll talk."

"Right. Goat first. But, uh, do you know where I took the goat?"

Ennis throws his hands up. "How should I know? You grabbed her in a drunken stupor and carried her off while ranting about a giant named Grok or Grog or something like that. Find the nearest Giant camp and start there. You were so staggering drunk, I was surprised you even managed to keep your feet that night."

Brand closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Great. Nearest giant camp. Alright." He opens his eyes. "We'll be back with your goat shortly."

Ennis eyes me as if noticing me for the first time. Then he shakes a finger in Brand's face. "You'd better be, elf, or the next time I see you in Rorikstead I'm calling the guard and letting you rethink your decisions in a dungeon."

"Duly noted," Brand says as Ennis walks away.

Brand looks up at me and sighs.

"Nearest giant camp?" he asks.

"Way ahead of you, sirrah," I drawl. He rolls his eyes at the dark elf honorific. I pull out a map of Skyrim. "Well, I have good and bad news," I say.

Brand hauls himself back up on his horse. "Hit me."

"Bad or good first?"

He winces. "Bad."

"The bad news is, there are not any nearby giant camps marked on the map."

"And the good?"

"The good news is, if you were as staggeringly drunk as Ennis suggested, then you couldn't have gotten very far with the goat."

"Borgakh, I somehow managed to stagger my way drunk across half of Skyrim."

I clear my throat. "We start a search pattern," I continue as if Brand didn't say anything. "Start small, near Rorikstead, and expand the search until we find a goat, a giant, or some other clue."

He sighs. "Fine. Yes. Let's go."

It doesn't take us long to find the giant. Or the goat. In fact, they're only about two hours' ride out of Rorikstead. And thankfully, the goat's still alive. It appears that Brand gave her away as a pet and not as dinner, because we find the giant in a little knoll out on the plains leading the goat by a rope tied around its neck. The giant seems content to stroll along at the goat's pace as the two lumber across the plain.

"Well, that's a giant and a goat alright," Brand says at my elbow where we crouch in the grass and watch. "But how do we know that's Gleda?"

"I'm going to say it is a safe bet that there are not too many other giants with goats around here."

"Let's hope you're right. Now, how do we get her back?"

"That's your prerogative," I say.

Brand glares at me. "Well, here goes nothing, then," he says. "I'll be the distraction. You get the goat."

"What?"

But he is already up and away, walking straight toward the giant. I nearly jump up and run after him, but I cannot get the goat if I am spotted so I force myself to stay still in the grass and wait. Stealth is a roll that Brand is much more suited to, but I have found that it has its advantages sometimes. Like when you are trying to retrieve a goat from a giant.

The giant does not seem at all concerned about Brand until he is nearly under his feet. Which is unusual. Giants tend to be hostile. But, then again, giants tend to live in camps with at least one other giant and a couple of mammoths. This giant appears to be a lone wanderer with a goat. Perhaps he is an outlier in more ways than one. Brand starts yelling at the giant, saying something about the lovely weather and how is it up there?

The giant stops and stares down at Brand as if he is confused by the tiny little elf. He probably is. I highly doubt anybody Brand's size has ever stopped a giant for a chat before. I wonder if the giant can even understand him. I have never heard a giant speak before, so I do not know if they have their own language or if they speak the Imperial tongue. Either way, Brand's simple distraction proves effective and the giant is totally focused on him. Gleda wanders around behind the giant, cropping grass, wholly unconcerned with the whole scene.

I slip across the plain and grab the goat, sliding the rope off her neck. I tuck her under one arm and walk back to where we have our horses, securing her across the back of my horse. She's surprisingly quiet about the whole thing and I wave to get Brand's attention. He glances over at me without moving his head and waves a hand near his leg in a "go on" gesture. I tilt my head. The giant still watches Brand, leaning down to get a better look at the small elf.

Brand waves a surreptitious hand at me again. I turn my horse and start riding back to camp.

A few minutes later, Brand gallops up and reigns in beside me, grinning and breathless.

"I take it you did not anger the giant," I say. I'd been listening for any sign of aggression, keeping my horse's pace slow, so that I would be within range to help if the giant got aggressive.

"No, he was actually quite pleasant. I don't know if he understood a word I said. I certainly couldn't understand him, but we had a nice conversation, I think. I just wished him a good day and hopped on my horse before he realized his goat's gone. But I think we're in the clear." Brand glances back over his shoulder. There is no angry giant chasing us.

Gleda the goat bleats softly

Brand give her a baleful look. "This is all your fault, you know," he mutters.

"Right, because the goat is the one who accepted a drinking contest and trashed half of Skyrim," I say.

"Shut up," Brand grumbles.

After we get his goat back to him, Ennis proves to be friendly enough and helpfully offers that Brand was indeed in town with another man. A guy who called himself Sam. Sam seemed to be the instigator of most of the trouble from what Ennis could tell and he even produced a half-destroyed letter that Brand had apparently left behind the night he was in Rorikstead. The letter seemed to offer some sort of apology or explanation for stealing Gleda, although most of it was obscured by spilled mead. The only part that was clear said something about repaying Ysolda in Whiterun.

"Oh Divines," Brand murmured. "Not Whiterun."

"Yes, Whiterun. That's where you started," I remind him.

He groans. "We're moving after this. I'm changing my name and never showing my face in Skyrim again.

"You are Dragonborn. I don't think you are allowed to do that," I say.

"I'm the Dragonborn. I can do whatever the hell I please," he says as he mounts his horse. "But first, we're going to Whiterun."

"Whatever you say, sirrah," I salute him.

"Borgakh." He gives me a disapproving look.

"Hm?"

"Don't patronize me."

"Never."

He sighs and throws his hands up.

I grin as we start the journey back to our home city. Something tells me there's a lot more to this story than either of us are aware of yet. But first, we've got to find Ysolda.

And maybe soothe the Dragonborn's ego on the way.