Chapter Eleven: "I'm Buying You a Dress"
Borgakh

We are in Solitude, running an errand for Falk Firebeard (about the only person with any sense in Jarl Elisif's court) when Brand suddenly spins around in front of me and starts walking backwards.

I sigh.

"Oh, c'mon," he protests. "You don't even know what I'm going to say yet!"

"You are about to suggest that we do something other than report back to Falk about what we found in Wolfskull Cave."

He grins at me. Brand never blushes. Only grins. "You got me," he admits. "Although, to be fair, I was going to suggest that we do something other than report to Falk after we report to Falk."

I roll that sentence around in my head a few times. Why are elves so wordy? We orcs say everything plainly. I have been told I am blunt, but no one ever questions what I want. Brand twists words into pretty knots and ties them into bows. It takes some getting used to.

"So then, what are you suggesting?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing." He shrugs. "After all, we've got to report to Falk first. Right?"

I sigh again. But I will be glad to get rid of this Ritual Master I'm carrying. He has not said much since I bonked him on the head on the way back to shut him up. Brand worried I killed him, but I can feel him breathe where he lays across my shoulder. I do not see why we didn't just kill the man in the first place, but Brand wanted to bring him back to Solitude. For justice, he said. I think it is because he has a flair for the dramatic and walking back into Elisif's court while announcing you stopped a necromantic ritual and tossing said necromancer on the floor at the Jarl's feet is more dramatic than returning to report that everyone is dead.

And that's exactly what Brand does. He marches straight into the Blue Palace (the guards don't even try to stop us anymore), right into Elisif's court (who are in a heated discussion about the palace drapery) and announces the second death of Queen Potema Septim of Skyrim (at which, I toss the tied, gagged, and unconscious necromancer at the Jarl's feet). I have to admit, the silence we impose on the court is impressive.

Brand stands there with his hands out, grinning broadly, as if expecting applause. What he gets is a very quiet and startled "Oh!" from Jarl Elisif.

Falk steps up with a resigned sort of patience. "Who is this, Dragonborn?"

"This, my good man, is the Ritual Master from Wolfskull Cave who was attempting to summon your distinguished Queen Potema from the grave. And if the history books I've found in your moldy old tombs are accurate, I figure Potema isn't somebody you're too keen on seeing again. So, Borgakh and I took the liberty of stopping the ritual."

"Then Wolfskull cave is clear?" Elisif asks.

"Yes, Jarl." Brand gives her a little nod of his head, a short bow. Despite his tomfoolery, he respects Elisif, even though she's inexperienced. Honestly, I think he feels sorry for her. And I understand somewhat. She has lost her husband, and for humans, who don't always arrange that sort of thing, it is more devastating than for orcs. Humans mourn their losses more than we do.

"By the Nine," Falk mutters under his breath. "So Varnius was right for once."

"Seems so." Brand puts his hands on his hips. "He had a whole posse in there with him. They tried to kill us for interrupting, of course, but it's kind of hard to stop a rampaging Orc."

Everyone's eyes flick to me. I used to find it strange, but I have realized that traveling with the Dragonborn means eyes are often on me. I don't pay it any attention anymore. Most people are stunned by the orc warrior following the elven Dragonborn, especially since Brand got me an Ebony chest plate and helm. (From a tomb, of course, which I am also getting used to. Half the stuff we own comes from tombs.)

Falk clears his throat. "Guards! Take this mage to the dungeon. Let me know when he wakes up. We will arrange for his trial before the court. Do you wish to be present, Dragonborn?"

Brand shrugged. "Nah. I trust the court's judgement. Besides, I've got another errand to attend to. You know how it is."

Falk sort of shrugs, as if he does not know 'how it is.' But, like most humans, he does not say what he thinks and he simply nods his head. "Of course, Dragonborn."

Brand grins again and waves at the court. "Good day to the Jarl's court!" he calls out cheerily.

Erikur rolls his eyes and most of the Jarl's court simply ignores Brand. Although Brand doesn't react, I give Erikur a warning glare. He looks away quickly and stuffs a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Good day, Falk. Jarl." Brand bows to Elisif.

She smiles at him. "Good day, Brand," she says. She's one of the few who uses his name and not one of his many titles when she addresses him. I think it is one of the reasons Brand likes her.

And then Brand spins on his heel and heads out of the court. I follow him out.

"They are a cheery bunch, aren't they?" I ask as we leave the Blue Palace.

"Is that a joke, I hear, Borgakh?"

I am glad that my Ebony helm hides my smile. "Perhaps." I find that my penchant for jokes has grown significantly around Brand.

"They're better than the court in Markarth, at least." Brand shrugs.

I do not answer, but I agree. "Now, what do you want us to do?" I ask.

"Oh, don't sound so depressed," Brand chides me. "I thought that today, I would take you shopping!"

I stop. Brand nearly runs into me.

"Shopping."

Brand steps around me so that he's in front of me, looking me in the eye (even though he has to look up to do it.)

"Yeah. For something for you to wear other than armor."

"Why would I need something to wear other than armor?"

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Something he usually does when I ask a "stupid" question.

"Do baby orcs wear metal diapers?" he asks.

"Huh?" I'm caught completely off-guard by the question.

"Baby orcs," he starts again. "Do they -"

"Of course not!"

"And your wise-women. They usually wear mages' robes, right?"

"Yes."

"So then how come I only ever see you wearing armor?"

"Because I am a warrior."

"So am I, but you see me in plain clothes when I'm at home, right?"

"Yes."

"See?"

I cross my arms. "No."

He throws his hands up. "You're impossible. C'mon. I'm buying you a dress."

He grabs my hand and marches me up the main street of Solitude. I let him. If I really wanted to resist, all I'd have to do is plant my feet and refuse to move. He is strong, but dragging a 200lb orc and all of her armor and gear up the street is a feat, even for the Dragonborn.

We stop outside Radiant Raiment. I smirk. We have had a run in with the bossy shopkeep, Taarie, before. She asked Brand to wear an outfit to the Blue Palace. He...did. Although he probably did not present it anything like what Taarie imagined. Jarl Elisif did still place an order with the shop, but that does not seem to stop Taarie or her sister from insulting our clothes.

"Here? Really?" I ask.

"Well, they are the only clothing store in all of Skyrim." Brand shrugs.

"A dress?" I needle him. But I am very curious.

He sighs. "Look if it bothers you that much, I'll buy you trousers. As long as it's not armor."

"Anything but armor?" I ask.

He gives me a long look out of the corner of his eyes, then he nods once, slow. "Anything but armor," he agrees.

Under my Ebony helm, I smile. "Alright, Dragonborn. Buy me a dress."

He shakes his head and pushes open the door.

Inside, Taarie waits behind the counter, while her sister, Endarie sits in a chair by the front door. I've never been properly introduced to Endarie, but then again, I don't spend time in Radiant Raiment. I have no interest in clothes and frippery. Brand once bought an enchanted necklace here, but he usually complains about the prices, the service, and the insults and gives the store a wide berth. Which is why I'm surprised we're here now. But I guess he's right. This is the only clothing store in Skyrim.

"What can we do for you, Dragonborn?" Taarie asks.

"Get you decent clothes, I hope," Endarie mutters.

Taarie gives her a glare.

Endarie shrugs.

"Actually, yes," Brand says. "For once I voluntarily want to buy something from your shop."

Endarie jumps up with a light in her eyes. "I have just the thing, Dragonborn," she declares, turning toward a nearby wardrobe.

"Oh, it's not for me."

Endarie stops.

Taarie looks confused.

"You see, Borgakh needs a dress." Brand drops the sentence like it's a pot of fire on a room full of oil.

I hold back a snicker at the elves' faces. Both sisters stare at me. I cross my arms and look bored, which is very easy to do when your face is covered by a helm.

Taarie finally breaks the silence. "A dress."

"That is what he said," I answer.

"Why would an orc need a dress?" Endarie sneers.

"I don't know," I answer. " I asked Brand the same thing."

Brand rolls his eyes.

Endarie's lip curls.

Brand's eyes flash. "Because she's my orc and I want her in the finest dress from here to Riften. Is there a problem with that, elf?"

I swear the growl in his tone is a near-perfect imitation of an angry orc warrior. Endarie looks suitably chastised, even if the corner of her mouth is still quirked in a sneer.

"No, Dragonborn. No problem at all."

"Good. Because I really wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of an angry Borgakh. Now, I'll wait here. Ladies, work your magic."


True to his word, Brand waits outside of the dressing room while Endarie and Taarie help me choose a dress. Or rather, Taarie helps and Endarie grumbles until Taarie kicks her out of the room.

I chuckle as the angry high-elf stomps out of the room. Elves are such fickle creatures. Although Taarie is as quick to insult an outfit as her sister, she, at least, seems to have a little more tolerance for dealing with people.

"Now, let's see what we can do without that killjoy in here," Taarie says as she shuts the door firmly behind Endarie. "Are we really going for a dress?" she asks.

I pause in taking off my armor. Brand said I could get anything that wasn't armor. For a moment, I consider toying with him and buying something ridiculous, like a set of mourner's clothes, or a blacksmith's apron. But then I nod. "Yes," I say. "A dress."

About half an hour later, Taarie stands behind me at the mirror looking pleased with herself. She chose a deep red ensemble for me that hugs all of my curves and accentuates the war paint on my face. The dress sweeps the floor, only allowing glimpses of the gold slippers I'm wearing. The front of the dress dips low, but still tasteful, and is also trimmed in gold, as are the flowing sleeves. A thin gold chain accentuates my waist. For a long time, I do not know what to say. I have never dressed to impress anyone. I have always dressed for practicality. For war. For battle. Never for...for whatever this is.

But I like it.

"You know, I've always kind of wanted to dress an orc," Taarie says like she's admitting some sort of deep secret.

I raise an eyebrow.

"You Orsimer are always so practical, you know," she says. "Always running around in armor and fur and such. I've always wanted to see if I could clean you up."

I decide to ignore her veiled insult.

She is not entirely wrong.

And I do clean up well.

"Shall we show the Dragonborn?" Taarie asks, with a little smile on her lips.

"Yes. I think we shall," I say.

When Taarie opens the door, Endarie is nowhere to be found. Taarie tells me to wait a moment and gets Brand to stand against the far wall and close his eyes. I watch through a crack in the door as he complies with a sort of mystified grin on his face. Taarie waves a hand in front of his face (I have never understood that as a test of whether or not one's eyes are closed) and seems to satisfy herself that Brand isn't peeking. Then she motions for me to come into the room.

I walk out and stand in front of Brand.

"Ok, you can open your eyes," Taarie instructs.

Brand opens his eyes.

And he doesn't say anything.

I see him take me in - no, drink me in. His mouth is half open, one side quirked up in a grin, his eyes alight with a fire I have not seen in him yet. He sweeps me from head to foot a few times, then puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. It is not a disapproving shake - more a shake of wonder or amazement.

"Say something," I say.

"You're gorgeous," he breathes. And that crooked grin lights up the room.