Denthryd crossed his arms and replanted his feet. "I suppose there's some inner circle to this plan you're going to, maybe, let me in on, then? I mean, great. You can talk to magistra 'cause she's Boiche, and knows the grande dame because she's old enough, so what? We are getting ready to finish the novitiate, Zuyia, and I would like to be there when it happens, and not in a Whiterun jail cell on suspicion of consorting with," he gestured and inflected the last word,
daedra worship."
Azuyia looked up at him calmly. "And what do we do once we leave their kind fold, Den?"
"What?"
"What do we do once they've finalized our two middling casts and alchemical recipes, what then? Apply for a minimum wage up at the capital? Sell wagonloads of wildflower by day, calm rattles in the afternoon, and work our fingers bloody all night in a hunting tent? Ever thought about what comes next?"
"Hadn't really thought about it. Just want to get through it. Alive."
She looked at her hands. "We have an opportunity right in front of us, Den. We can do this, go pass our exams, and be the first to land a real destination, a magicka destination, within the week. Think about it! They haven't told us shyte about where we really want to go. You want to spend the rest of your life wondering about it, or do it, play the game ... for real!"
Denthryd's left eye half winked as he raised the left side of his face skeptically. "That's a rousing speech. And here we sit. We are novices just about to finish two spells, Azuyia. That alone is worth keeping. This," he uncrossed his arms and pshawed at the crated armor, "drama you have in mind. What, exactly, do you think we're gonna get from her even if we do, singlehandedly, following our professional ensemble, effect her release? You think that Breton bard is gonna stick around longer than we can take a piss break?"
"Yes, I do, Den. Like you say, she's on trial for heresy and these are dangerous times. Most Nords— no offense," she started.
"Nooonne taken," he countered, tiredly.
"Don't like bards who sing much more than smashed skulls and yay-the-king as it is. Tasha Razrtip just channeled the Wild Hunt through a guitar and tore up an entire fiefdom. In the end, it has nothing to do with anything other than taxes and bylaws, but she's gonna get her head separated to appease that unnammed blood god called the mob. They're all tense and tired from a generation at war. They need relief from the fights at the dinner table, so this situation is focusing their attention on a tangible, colorful 'enemy.' Killing her won't settle with the Stormcloaks but it'll have the taverns singing Age of Aggression until every other bard in the area loses their voice and a sanctioned, taxed form of drunken revelry empties every barrel in the hold."
Azuyia was helping him straighten the breastplate and backplate before dawn on the last morning of their stay. She had paid in advance, gossiping with the innkeeper and acting the part of an enthusiastic partier out traveling with her boyfriend to festivals. They would need to slip out very early to pull it off.
"I feel fekking stupid, Zuyia," Denthryd grumbled, standing stock still.
"Oh quit yer," she said, running her hand behind her neck as she stood behind him, then walking in front of him. "Now let's see you walk. C'mon, now."
Denthryd gave her a surly look and affected a walk.
"No, no! Den, we need to practice this."
"I need to get changed, ah ... if you," she twirled her hand, and he turned his back in the exact spot where he was standing.
"Your highness," he said petulantly.
"We," she said from behind him, "need to walk out that door with an understanding, see."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, Den. I know I'm keeping you in the dark, but if we're going to do this it needs to be all the way. Okay, you can turn around."
Denthryd turned and his eyes widened a bit. The lecture buddy had doffed the baggy robe and was now standing in a pearlescent white gown, a long, formal dress that reached her wrists and draped to the floor. The silk had gold filigree and green gemstones up and down the arms. She wore what appeared to be a thick gold chain around her neck with a cast medallion on her breastbone.
"Where did you ... "
"I went shopping, too. Um," she smiled slyly at him, walking over to her duffel bag and pulling out a box. She laid it on the table next to the glowing hearth and opened it. Its lid had a small mirror, and the body had an assortment of small vials and tubes. She sat down and took one of the tubes, pulled at the stopper, ran it across her lips. "Can you help me with my hair?"
"Are those emeralds?"
"Yes. Now hold the band, like this," she said pulling her hair back and up.
"And gold," he nodded at the chain with Bosmer casting.
"Yes, Den. Put your fingers through this ringlet, and ..."
