A vicious pain seared through my head, the pulsing and pounding forcing me into a dim excuse for consciousness.
"Wake up," said a harsh voice. It sounded distant, like someone was trying to speak to me from miles away.
Someone groaned miserably, and only after listening to the voice for a moment did I recognize it as my own.
"That's right, it's time to wake up you drunken blasphemer."
Blasphemer...?
Slowly I managed to force my eyelids open, trying to blink away the bleariness of my vision. I could tell the room we were in was dim, but every light source seemed like a sun to my throbbing head. My cheek was pressed against something cool and hard, and after a few seconds, I realized I was sprawled rather unceremoniously on the floor, which explained the crick in my neck, and the ache in my spine. It took almost all my strength to push myself into a seated position.
"Unh, my head," I said. After the enormous effort it had taken to sit up, my head now felt like someone was trying to slice through my skull with a dull butter knife (it could very well be that the speaker was actually doing that, judging from its incredibly displeased tone), and I had to rest my head in my hands again.
"Yes, your head hurts and you don't remember where you are," the voice drawled, sounding exasperated. "I'm guessing you probably don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage or a goat. Which means you don't remember coming in here and throwing trash all over the temple either."
I could barely hear the voice over the blood rushing in my ears, but after a few deep breaths, I finally managed to dull the pain in my head enough to look up and take in my surroundings.
A short, angry woman in a hooded yellow robe stood in front of me with her hands placed firmly on her hips. An irate scowl marred her otherwise pleasant and motherly features that instilled a deep sense of shame in me, though I honestly had no recollection of why.
We were indeed in some sort of temple. It was made almost entirely of stone, lit only by four braziers that surrounded a large, round enclosure of water at the center of the room, and a couple candles that cast long, flickering shadows on the walls. Stuff was strewn everywhere: bowls and plates and cutlery had been knocked off the tables; food and brown sacks littered the floor; a couple of bottles lay awkwardly around the room; and one of the red banners lining the walls had been torn down as well and curled dejectedly in a corner.
The place was a mess, and if I had judged the woman's character correctly, she had probably already cleaned up quite a bit of it before I had awoken.
"Gods," I breathed. "Did I do this? I am so, so sorry. I don't even remember how I got here."
"Oh, I'd love to help you figure it out," the woman answered bitterly. "But I'm just so busy cleaning up the mess you made of our temple."
"Listen, I'm sorry," I apologized again, staggering to my feet. "I'm not usually like this, I swear. Could you please tell me where I am? And... and..." Flashes of some night that seemed like ages ago began to reappear in my mind. "Was there a guy named Sam with me?"
"Dibella teaches love and compassion," the priestess softened a bit, answering my first question with disguised sympathy. "But that doesn't mean we're going to just tell you what you want to know and let you walk away from this."
The Temple of Dibella? I reeled, the weight of what I'd just heard making my knees feel weak again. I traveled all the way across Skyrim to Markarth? Dear gods, Delvin is going to murder me.
"If you were to tidy up your mess and apologize again afterwards, however," the woman continued. "Then I might be able to help you."
With that, the priestess turned smartly on her heel, making it clear that our conversation was over for the moment.
Releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding, I slumped against a nearby wall, trying to keep myself from freaking out as I racked my memory for anything that had occurred from the last drink I'd had with Sam at the Bee and Barb to the present. Any sights, any scenes, any clips of conversation – anything – but I came up empty handed. With nothing but a big, gaping hole in my memory, I began to feel panic building in my chest like a flock of a hundred terrified crows until I felt I was going to retch.
Sam.
Oh, how could I have been so stupid? I didn't even have that staff he promised me.
Of course you don't, dumbass, I kicked myself mentally. You take booze from a total stranger and expect him to give you a staff after you've drunk to the point where you don't even remember anything? Of course you don't have his goddamn staff. Just be grateful that nothing else happened to you.
I pinched the bridge of my noise, appalled by my stupidity and the situation I had landed myself in.
Okay, Kashyra, I thought, trying to organize myself. One step at a time. Help clean up this temple while you get over this wicked hangover, and then you can find out where Sam went so you can kick his ass to Oblivion and back. Okay.
Refueled a bit by my newfound determination, I pushed myself off the wall, and proceeded to tidy up the mess I had created.
The clean up took longer than I expected, probably because every time I bent down to pick something up, I experienced a rush of dizziness and had to wait until the vertigo passed. Even with some help from the priestess (who, I had learned after lots of polite prodding, was named Senna) when she thought I wasn't looking, by the time the temple looked half decent, at least an hour and a half must have passed.
"Senna," I said when we were finished, approaching the shorter woman who was sitting on a chair slowly as if she were a cave bear. "I truly don't even remember leaving the tavern I was at, never mind coming in here. Please, I've cleaned up my mess, and I really need to know what happened to me now."
"Well," Senna said, still feigning irritation, but by her tone, I figured the woman had finally forgiven me. "You were deep in your cups when you got here."
"I was still drinking when I got here?"
"Yes. You were drinking with your friend Sam and ranting, though most of it was slurred. You did say something about Rorikstead though."
"Rorikstead," I repeated drily.
"Yes."
"Divines help me," I muttered, looking up at the ceiling briefly as if they would actually be there to answer my prayer before returning my gaze to Senna who was standing up and making her way towards a table near the back of the room. "Are you sure you didn't hear anything else? I mean, I know you said I was also raving about a marriage and a goat, but that doesn't make any sense to me. Animals are supposed to like Bosmer, but goats absolutely hate me. Hate. Me."
"I think I recall you saying it was a nice goat," she said with a smirk. "I'm sorry, but that's really all I know. Here's your bow, quiver and dagger. I removed them while you were unconscious so you wouldn't accidentally hurt yourself."
"Oh, thanks," I said, a little taken aback by the unexpected thoughtfulness. Though maybe she just didn't want me armed. "So you really don't know anything else?"
"No."
I sighed, but I accepted my weapons back gratefully. "Well, for what it's worth, I truly am sorry about your temple."
"It's alright," said the kindly priestess, escorting me to the door by the elbow. "You cleaned up after yourself, so I've already forgiven you, and I'm sure Lady Dibella has too. Good luck finding your friend."
After another round of hasty farewells, the temple doors shut behind me. As compassionate as Dibella taught her disciples to be, I was sure that Senna was just as glad to have me out of her hair as I was to have finally set foot outside, even if it was on Markarth soil. ...Rock. Whatever.
I'd always hated Markarth. Compared to this place, Riften was as docile as a bunny. I hated the smoky, miner smell of this place, and its towering rock walls, but most of all, I hated the people. In Markarth you were either well off, in which case you were pretentious and haughty, or you were dirt poor, in which case you were still pretentious and haughty. And no one was worse than the Silver-Bloods. The Silver-Blood family practically ran Markarth, and their name suggested exactly what they did business in: blood and silver. They were the Maven Black-Briars of Markarth but worse, however impossible that seemed.
I snapped out of my ruminations, realizing that I had reached the end of the countless stairs that led from the Temple of Dibella to the marketplace, which one unfortunately had to cross to leave or enter this damnable city. It was as dingy as the last time I'd come with vendors in shabby stalls selling their wares, offering everything from raw meat to jewelry. I had to cringe at the place.
"Please," a drunken voice drawled, just the sound of his slurred words making my hangover return briefly. "Just a septim or two."
I located the commotion quickly to see a beggar clinging pitifully to the green cloth of a guard's uniform.
"Get lost, filthy beggar," the guard sneered, kicking the man away. The harsh nudge toppled the drunk easily, and the man flailed on his back helplessly, resembling an upside down mudcrab. The guard gave him an extra kick in the ribs for good measure, causing the beggar to whimper and curl up into a protective fetal position.
As if sensing my gaze, the guard looked up, catching my eye. I could practically feel his eyes narrow as he examined me, and he stepped over the beaten vagrant towards me. I averted my eyes quickly, unsure if I still had a small bounty in the Reach or not, and tried to quickly move away.
I grimaced as a strong hand planted itself on my shoulder and spun me around.
"Can I help you, uh, sir?" I asked, offering my most sincere smile. My heart thundered in my chest.
"You look familiar," said the guard, grip tightening painfully on my shoulder.
I gave a nervous laugh. "I think you're mistaken," I said as I ducked out from his grip, but he simply snagged my wrist instead, preventing me from turning away. I stiffened immediately, my free hand instinctively flying to where I kept my dagger concealed, though in as public a space as I was, I wasn't sure what I would do with it.
"No, there's no mistake," he said, pulling me closer so I could feel and smell his hot breath through the slits of his helmet, and see his cold Nordic eyes studying me closely through the eye holes. I tried in vain to jerk my wrist free again, but he had a vice grip on it. "We don't get many wood elves around here. Especially none in your particular... attire."
"My attire?" I repeated, sounding appropriately offended. "What's that supposed to mean? This is just regular leather –"
"Don't play me the fool, elf," the guard interrupted menacingly, and I tried my best to shrink away. "I know your kind, and you're not going to pull the hood over my eyes."
I bit my lip as he tightened his grip on my wrist even more. My eyes flickered to the steel sword belted to his hip, my fingers twitching near my concealed dagger. At any other time I might have surrendered meekly or paid off the guard, but I had no gold, and I certainly wasn't going to jail after waking up on the other side of Skyrim with a pounding hangover. Most certainly not in Markarth of all places.
A blood curdling shriek echoed through the marketplace. I would say the interruption was for the better, but a terrified shriek rarely improves any situation. Immediately, the guard twisted around, allowing me to see the scene that had unfolded just ten meters away.
There was a half-second lull in the compass as everyone turned, staring in disbelief at a man dressed in ragged miner's garb. He had one hand tangled into a woman's mousy hair, and the other wielded a blade buried into her back, the tip emerging from her stomach painted red with her blood.
"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" the man cried out triumphantly, his voice severing the delicate thread that had held everyone in place.
And then it was chaos. People screamed and fled from the epicenter of the uproar, someone knocking roughly into me in their haste to escape the area. Temporarily forgotten, the guard released his hold on my wrist and drew his sword, charging after the murderer with a battle cry, but with a cruel twist of the blade, the assailant pulled his dagger out of his victim and, hand still clutching the woman's hair, flung her body at the oncoming soldier. I could see the blood spurt from her wound as the guard caught her and I knew it was fatal. If she wasn't dead yet, she would be soon.
I felt the need to retch again and told myself it was just from the hangover. This was not the time or the place to show such weakness.
However, shocking myself, I realized in a quick rehearsed motion I had already drawn my bow and nocked an arrow, prepared to shoot.
Stupid, stupid, what are you doing? I thought even as I exhaled, focusing my sights on my target. You should be using this opportunity to get out of here, not helping the guards that were about to arrest you.
Nevertheless, I let my arrow fly, listening to the satisfying twang! as I released the string. Niruin had taught me how to shoot with a hangover (unwittingly of course; if he knew I'd been drinking heavily the night before, he would have sent me away like a child), a skill I never thought I'd have to use outside our training area, but I sent a silent thank you to him as my arrow hit its mark.
The man screamed as my arrow pierced right through his thigh, and he collapsed hard on his knee at the foot of the stairs he was about to escape up. In a matter of seconds, three guards were on him, wrenching his bloody weapon away.
I watched, breathing heavily with the adrenaline in my veins as two of the guards each grabbed an arm of the murderer and the third guard – the guard who had approached me – kneeled and began to pat the man down.
"Nothing," the guard muttered, standing.
"B-bastard," said miner through teeth gritted in pain.
"Yeah?" the guard asked dangerously, and without waiting for any further response brought the miner's own sword down in a merciless arc, the woman's blood splattering from its edges like paint. The blade met the point where the man's neck joined his shoulder, cleaving clean through his clavicle and undoubtedly the artery in that area. The other two guards released him as blood sprayed them. He fell to the ground, eyes wide and mouth gargling on his life fluids as he writhed on the floor, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood with his hands.
The three of them stared at his twisted body allowing him to suffer for a few moments longer before one of the guards decided to have mercy and shoved his blade through the dying man's chest, keeping it there until the man's twitching stopped.
I froze, lowering my bow in stunned silence at the cold-blooded execution.
"By the Divines, the Forsworn are here in the city," a terrified voice breathed next to me.
The guards glanced up, suddenly aware of the crowd that had gathered.
"Everyone stay back," said one of the guards. "The Markarth city guard have got this under control. There are no Forsworn here."
"He killed Margret," an old Redguard woman sobbed, emerging from her hiding place behind her jewelry stand. "Why?"
"Clear the area," I heard the guard say, and with my wits finally about me again, I remembered that leaving before the guards remembered my presence was the ideal time to flee a scene, not after.
I whirled around again towards the exit, but much to my dismay was hindered once more as I instantly bumped into something sturdy, knocking me to the ground. I whimpered slightly, glad at least that I didn't have my bow slung over my shoulder then or I might have broken it.
"I'm so sorry," said the man I had run into, offering a callused hand to help me up. He was a Breton and had shoulder length red hair that reminded my vaguely of Brynjolf, and the most intricate design I'd ever seen painted on his face.
"It's okay," I said, wincing and rubbing my tailbone where I'd fallen. That was definitely going to bruise.
I flashed a quick glance over my shoulder at the guards, but they were still busy with the two bodies, and the man followed my eyes.
"A woman attacked on the streets in broad daylight," he tsked, misinterpreting my gaze.
"Yeah, that was definitely... unexpected," I said, trying to sound respectful, but it was hard when I was worried that that guard might remember me at any second.
"Did you see what happened?"
Yeah, I shot the guy, I thought sourly.
"No. Sorry," I said distractedly. "I'm in a bit of a rush–"
"No, wait!" he said, grabbing my arm as I tried to brush by him. My fists clenched and I turned my head to face him, eyes narrowed to slits, ready to snap.
"Look here, I've had enough of being manhandled toda –" I met his eyes and stopped short, our faces mere inches apart.
"I think you dropped this," he said meaningful, his pleading eyes never allowing me to look away. "Some sort of note. It looks important."
"But..."
Suddenly and acutely aware of our proximity, he let go of my arm gently and backed away. "I should go," he said, leaving me standing there, completely in a daze as he disappeared into the crowd.
I cannot handle this shit with a hangover, I thought, feeling my headache return as I slipped around a corner and out of the view of the guards. I took a few calming breaths and waited for the headache to fade before opening the note the mysterious man had given me.
Meet me at the Shrine of Talos, it said in simple, hurriedly scrawled letters.
"Oh no. Absolutely not," I said, as if saying it out loud would convince me otherwise. "There is no way I am going to get involved in this."
But the longer I stared at the note, the more I couldn't get the thought of the man with his odd warpaint and deep brown eyes out of my head.
I sighed deeply, massaging my temples at the decision I had already made.
I must still be drunk, I concluded, pocketing the note. Because I am clearly not thinking straight.
Sam and Rorikstead would have to wait for now...