Getting impatient, Faendal began drumming his fingers on his knee. After three months of traveling with the Dragonborn, he had gotten used to the nearly constant rush of adrenaline, and he missed it sorely. It was different than their nights spent at a tavern. Now, he knew Joi was probably in the heat of battle while he waited outside like some obedient pup.
After ten minutes, the silence was deafening, he wished for something—anything to break the tension. His wish was granted a few moments later as one Skyrim's infamous blizzards swept through.
Not exactly what I was thinking, he grumbled, throwing more wood on the fire and reaching into his pack for a bear pelt to keep warm, his fingers brushed against an official looking letter, which he pointedly ignored. Now, there was nothing else he could do but wait. So he did.
Faendal waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
As the blizzard died down, he heard the faintest creak of an opening door. Without wasting a moment, Faendal was up and running back to the crypt's entrance. He felt a rush of disappointment when he saw Mercer ascending the stone stairs. Alone.
"Where's Joi?" Faendal demanded, bow prepared to rush in after her.
Mercer paused for a moment, then said gruffly, "She's dead."
Well? What do you think, huh? Better than the last one? I think so at least.