19 Last Seed, 4E 201, Riverwood
A big man was Ivar Ragnarrson, and tireless at the forge, but the day had been very long.
Up before the sun. Hours at the forge, to build a set of armor out of good Nordic steel. More hours to hunt game, some of it two-legged, on the north side of the White River. By the time he returned to the village, carrying more bandits' gear for Alvor, he felt almost too tired to pay attention to the price.
At least the armor turned out well-made and properly fitted. Alvor inspected the pieces, grunted with approval, and gave him a new journeyman's mark. Then the gear served him well during his expedition across the river, deflecting arrows and turning blade-strokes.
Still, it felt good to strip the armor off, clean it carefully and stack it inside Alvor's house, and then walk down to the river for a bath. Cold water sluiced away hours of fatigue and sweat. Ivar felt almost human when he emerged from the river, lolling naked on the shore to let the mountain breeze and the last rays of direct sunlight dry his skin.
At one point he felt eyes on him, but he pretended to take no notice.
Must be Sigrid, he thought with some small satisfaction. Let her see what she refused, then. Talos preserve me from a smith's sharp-tongued wife.
Whoever it was, there was no sign by the time Ivar rose to put on his trousers and tunic for the evening.
The hush of late twilight had set in by the time he slowly climbed the steps of the Sleeping Giant, opening the door to step into warm firelight. The tavern seemed busy enough, a few of the villagers already working on an evening meal or a mug of ale. A trio of Redguard men sat at a table in a dark corner, keeping to themselves and watching the rest of the company with sharp eyes. Ivar heard comfortable tavern-sounds: rumble of conversation, short burst of feminine laughter, a would-be bard assaulting a lute.
He sat down at an empty table. The serving-maid was older and rather cold in manner, he noticed, and decided not to try a moment's flirtation. He ordered bread, goat-cheese, sliced beef, redroots, and ale.
He had finished his meal, and was enjoying a third tankard of ale, when a shadow fell across his table. He glanced up and saw two villagers standing close at hand, watching him. Both of them were Imperials, smaller and darker than most Nords, and Ivar saw a clear family resemblance between them. The man looked ordinary enough, but on the woman their shared features took on a sharp-edged, almost feline beauty. She was slim but sweetly curved, Ivar noticed. He smiled inwardly.
"Good evening," said the man. "May we share your table for a time?"
"I suppose." Ivar rose for a moment as they seated themselves, his gaze lingering on the woman. "How may I serve you?"
"Thank you," she said, her voice low and musical.
"Eh? For what?"
"How may I serve you," she quoted. "It's so good to meet refined manners, for a change."
"I lived in Cyrodiil most of my life," said Ivar, "and it's obvious you have a boon to ask."
"In fact, we do." The man glanced at his companion, who continued to watch Ivar with an intent stare. "My name is Lucan Valerius, and this is my sister Camilla. We own the trading post up the street. We've been hearing a lot about you ever since you arrived in the village. Surprised you haven't come by our store."
"Haven't had time yet, that's all." Ivar gave Camilla a small, lazy smile. She returned it. "I'm sure I'll have reason to stop by before long."
"Well," said Lucan, clearing his throat nervously. "There's a favor you might do for us. We keep a token in our store, almost a good-luck charm. A claw made out of gold. It's been stolen."
Ivar took a sip of his ale. "Go on."
"It happened just before you arrived in Riverwood. Someone broke into the store in the dead of night, so quiet neither of us heard a thing. We only realized when we came downstairs in the morning, found the door forced and the Golden Claw gone."
"No common bandits," observed Ivar. "That kind of sneak-thievery isn't something you'd expect from Nords."
"No," agreed Camilla. "We think we know who was involved, though we can't prove it. A dark elf came through Riverwood a week ago. He stopped at our store and asked about the Claw. At the time we thought he was only curious . . ."
Ivar nodded. "But if anyone could steal it out from under your noses like that, it would be a Dunmer thief. I'm sorry, but your trinket is probably long gone by now."
"We suspect otherwise," said Lucan. "We've been hearing rumors for the last few days, of bandits taking up residence across the river, up around the Bleak Falls ruins. Most bandits are smart enough to stay far away from there. So I was thinking . . . what if the Claw has something to do with the barrow? Maybe the thief is after something bigger than our little good-luck charm."
"Hmm." Ivar began to shake his head. "I know I've been hunting bandits since I came here, but it's not my proper work. I'm just a smith."
"A smith who is also talented with a blade," murmured Camilla. "Please, Ivar. We can afford to pay a substantial reward . . . and I would be most grateful."
Ivar watched her, none of his thoughts showing on his face. You can't be saying what I think you're saying. Not in front of your brother, and who knows how many other village men who must lie awake at night, thinking about that lovely face.
He had to admit, she was quite pretty. After a moment, he found himself nodding in agreement.