Skyrim Audio-adventure
Chapter 4
(Friends)
Thunder ripped through the afternoon sky but the hunter could barely hear it. He heard hardly anything of the outside world, all was drown out by the constant roar of the deluge on the thatched roof and tin chimney of the sleeping giant inn. He was really only sure of the thunder's register because the floor boards rolled underfoot just as the thunder rolled across Skyrim.
He had been raring to go after Bracknel had brought up the prospect of Whiterun. He'd never been and had always avoided the plains, but with some company, the trip seemed far more appealing. Alas Bracknel needed a day to prepare and Skyrim's ever hospitable weather laid waste to any immediate plans, but the hunter's imagination ran wild as if often did. Besides, the legendary Eorland Greymane was said to live in Whiterun. If anyone could find a sword he could wield with a missing finger, it would be him. How he was to pay for such a thing was another question entirely; a question his mind had been eagerly avoiding for sometime. He hadn't even worked off his dept to Delphine.
The corse bristles of the broom rattled softly as they brushed across the fair finish of the wooden floor. At least a broom didn't require ten fingers, serving drinks that was another matter. A service for a service Delphine had said, and the hunter had accepted for he loathes his depts. What had surprised him was the dress code. Apparently it would not do to have a vagrant fresh out of the wilds serving drinks in bloodstained furs, grinning at patrons with teeth full of charcoal and pine. He'd been sat in front of Delphine's small mirror and had all his illusions of rugged good looks shattered. All this time the undulating surface of Lake Illanalta had done wonders for his complexion, he was a wild thing through and through. He'd been forced to tame his tangled mess of hair till it fell in loose damp curls around his face. He's been made to straighten his scraggly beard buy combing it with a broom. Finally he was wearing a pair of trousers and a tunic that Orgnar had given him. Orgnar being nearly twice his bulk, the tunic hung off him like a low cut dress. "Fitting for a bar maid." Orgnar had laughed before Delphine boxed his shoulder.
So there he was; looking like a child in his father's clothes, hair slick from a mother's hasty spit shine and a beard that would not stay straight and looked as out of place as if it were on Delphine herself, pushing broom to pay off his healed stump of a finger. "It beats getting eaten," he thought as a flash in the high rafters signaled another incoming roll.
He looked around at the dripping ensemble who'd seen fit to take shelter in the inn, tracking mud the whole time. Sven the bard was sitting by the fire tuning his lute lazily. There was Embry, the local drunk who paid for his ale with inane conversation. The hunter wondered if the man had any semblance of a real job. A pair traveling merchants had come by the north road and now were chatting with Embry while an Ork who was apparently their body guard looked on disinterested. Then there were the monks in the corner; or he wanted to say they were monks. They were secluded, hooded and robed in deep blue; but the hand that reached out to take the drinks from him had been clad in vicious gleaming steel and the grip had been sure and strong. Whoever they were, these were not frail wizards or wisemen from the cities.
The door opened and the hunter moved quickly to sweep up any debris that got carried in with the new arrival. Tall and slender, fair skin, deep red lips and blushing cheeks. A beautiful imperial woman stepped in shaking her raven braids from the hood of her cloak. The hunter didn't know why but he flinched and looked away as she stepped in. Turned away even as more townsfolk filtered in looking for a drink. Sven however stopped picking his nose and sat up straight.
"Ahh Camilla, how delightful it is to see you again. Come have a seat, I was just about to begin."
"Oh really, well I'm glad I didn't miss anything. Are you really going to play with racket on the roof."
"Oh please, Camilla with inspiration like you before me the storm is a trifling matter. The rain and thunder shall be my drums."
The Hunter couldn't decide if the handsome Nord was a wordsmith or a fool; part of him was jealous that he couldn't speak so eloquently around women, and part of him was grateful he'd never tried. He moved to the bar to get some distance and swept around the door to one of the guest rooms, ear cocked toward the bard. The raven haired woman pulled up a seat and the pair talked in hushed tones. He could hear her laughing and something in her voice scratched at the back of his mind, he couldn't place it but he felt that it was important. Then Sven began.
The bard stood and held his lute abreast, and his fingers strummed and plucked out a simple but infectious tune.
Black-footed travelers +
Gsus
Sit round, drink well -
Am Em
listen to the story +
Csus
that this bard will tell -
Am Em
They say there's a storm at the throat of the world -
Asus D E
a storm thats been blowing since time was unfurled +
Asus D E
The storm puts the bite and the fight neath the skin +
C D G A
of all of the children of Skyrim -
D Am Em
A father collapses +
and knows he is done -
He calls to his daughter +
that she must go on -
They say there's a storm at the throat of the world -
A storm that gives strength to the little boys and girls +
Its your turn to struggle and never give in +
to fight for the future of Skyrim -
Boy sees a begger +
in the streets of windhelm -
Maam why do you linger +
in such a cold realm -
She says there's a storm at the throat of the world -
My blood is kept warm for as long as it whirls +
All the drifters and gamplers and pettlers of skin +
We all have a home here in Skyrim -
A jarl is watching +
his solders all train -
They work even harder +
as it starts to rain -
He looks to the storm at the throat of the world -
The blizzard that raged there through decades of war +
To the solders and the warriors who fight through the grim +
Your names always echo through Skyrim -
Now we sit at the foot
of that great mountain side
We sing of the storm
that gives us our pride
I don't know if its up there but I know its inside
C G D A
So pick up your heads and take up your glasses
G D C G
Up out of your chairs, you horses asses
G D C G
I know that you learned it now lets make a din
Am G Am Em
We are the children of skyrim
D Am Em
da dada da, dadadadada
Asus D E
da dada da, dadadadada
Asus D E
dada dadada, dada dadada
C D G A
dadadadada, dada da
D Am Em
one more time
da dada da, dadadadada
da dada da, dadadadada
dada dadada, dada dadada
We are the children of skyrim!
When Sven had finished the whole inn was alight with shouts, grins and spilling tankards. The hunter couldn't help himself he had been stomping right a long with everyone else. He look around to find that the inn had become crowded while he'd been swept up in the wild revery. Countless strangers with a few faces he recognized mixed in. Hod had his arm around Gurder who was sitting on his knee, a position she would never allow herself to be seen in if she wasn't already quite full of mead. Alvor and Sigrid where holding each other in the middle of the floor having just danced a jig. The kids Dorthe and Frognar had somehow gotten into the rafters and Embry was so taken with the moment that he didn't notice stump the dog drinking the ale from his loosely held cup. The hunter's heart began to beat wildly at the collective mirth so alien to him. His gaze met Orgnar at the bar and he cocked his eyebrows as if to say, "is this normal?" Orgnar only grinned and turned to serve a woman the hunter didn't know.
"Play the age of aggression!" came a call from the crowd.
"Lets not get political." chided Sven easily.
"How about Ragnar the Red." came another voice.
"I can do that. How about you all join me." the bard set down his lute and jumped up on his chair holding his arms out like a conductor.
Oooohhhhhhh
There once was a hero named Ragnar the red
Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead
and the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade
as he told old battles and gold he had made
but then he when quiet do Ragnar the red
when he met the shield maiden Matilda who said
oh you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead
now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed
and then there came gnashing and clashing of steel
as the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal
and the braggart name Ragnar was boastful no more
when his ugly red head rolled around of the floor
And so evening turned to night in the tavern, the rain kept up though the thunder subsided. Lucan the shrewd if a bit hapless owner of the Riverwood trader came rushing in at one point and pulled the raven-haired woman out of the inn whispering worried words as he did. Sven looked a bit crest fallen but continued performing intermittently through the night.
When the inn at last began to empty the hunter saw that he had his work cut out for him. The floor was filthy. Sven was plucking idly at the strings of his instrument when the hunter passed by washing the floor with a thick cloth.
"You're that vagrant they dragged in a few nights back aren't you."
The hunter looked up at him surprised, it was the first time the bard had spoken to him. "Yes I am."
"I hardly recognized you. When they first brought you in I thought you were a some kind of large cat. Don't you get hot wearing all that fur?"
"I'm from higher on the mountain?"
"This mountain?" Sven nodded behind him in the direction of the throat of the world.
"Yeah. From around Helgen."
"I've never been. I heard there's an Impirial garrison there. Was one of your parents with the garrison?"
"No."
Sven waited for a moment as if expecting the hunter to elaborate but the half-breed had no intention of doing so. "...Well," Sven began awkwardly, "What's your name?"
"You can call me Stranger."
"How'd you like the performance? Do you have a bard up in Helgan?"
"The performance was good, you know how to work a crowd. As for Helgan I've seen a few come through, but none stay. The garrison doesn't like wanderers sticking around."
"Would you say they don't like strangers?"
The hunter couldn't help but smirk at the obvious joke. "I suppose I would. I liked that first song you did; the one about the storm. Did you write that?"
"Well every bard puts there own spin on songs but the original I heard from a wanderer. Torgar? Talsgar, I think his name was."
"It's a good song. If I might ask, who was that dark haired woman you were speaking with before you started."
"Woman? Ah, you must mean Camilla Valarius the Flower of Riverwood."
"Oh, so she has a title."
"I'll say she does, my future wife."
"You're engaged?"
"Well no, not yet. But camilla knows I'm the best man in Riverwood. You weren't eyeing her were you? Things are bad enough with that wood-elf hanging around her so much."
The hunter blinked rapidly as a cloud information devoid of context was thrown in his face like a fist full of dust. He hadn't any idea what this nord was walking about. "Last time I eyed someone I lost a finger, no don't worry about it."
"Oh good, well I mean not good that you lost a finger, I wasn't going to ask about that so as not to offend, but... tell you what would you like to make a friend?"
The hunter had been about to wave off the finger comment when the word friend stopped him dead. "Friend?"
"Yes, a friend, you need one of those don't you?" Sven had gone oddly still, his eyes were intense and his loot had stopped singing. "You do something for me and in the future if you ever need my help you can count on it."
It had been ages since he'd had friends. They were a good, rambunctious lot back then; but over the years the meaning had sloughed off the word like dead skin. Now he wasn't sure he recognized what lay underneath. It seemed to make enough sense, friends did help each other. "I suppose that'd be fine" he heard himself saying.
"Splendid." Sven set down his loot and made for the bar. The hunter had thought that he'd somehow earned himself a drink on the house but the bard instead produced a slip of paper and a quill. Feverishly he began scribbling, offering no explanation to the bemused hunter.
"Here," Sven said when he'd at last finished writing. "All you have to do is deliver this letter to Camilla at the Riverwood Trader."
The hunter stared at the note, the gears in his head audibly turning. Camilla was the woman Lucan had snatched earlier, they shared a last name but she was being openly courted, "Oh she's his sister..." he mumbled as a small mostly irrelevant piece of the puzzle slid into place.
"What are you talking about?" asked Sven.
"Oh nothing. So just go over and deliver this now?"
"Now, of course not now. Its too late. Do it tomorrow first chance you get."
The hunter squinted at the marked-up paper. "What is this suppose to do?"
"It's quite simple, this will keep Faendal away from my Camilla.
"Faendal?"
"That wood elf considers himself my romantic rival, as if Camilla would ever see him that way. You know Bosmer eat their dead? Disgusting people."
"So when I give Camilla this letter, she'll choose to be with you?"
"Precisely, just think of it as a way to expedite the inevitable."
"Ok," the hunter noted dryly. He'd understood most of those words. "So all I have to do is give her the letter, and you'll be there when I need help?"
"Yes, yes but perhaps mention that its from Faendal, just to really sell it. Now quick stow this away." Sven shoved the letter into the hunter's grasp. "I should head back home to see after my mother. You can do this."
And with that the bard turned and strode out the door taking up his loot as he went. The hunter stood awkwardly by the bar, the paper clutched to his chest. He blinked for a moment then folded the note and stowed it in his pocket. Looks like he had some late night reading to do.
Delphine was kind enough to let him stay in one of the quest rooms as long as a partron didn't have need of it. In case of that eventuality he'd be moved to the cellar to sleep on hay and stone. You wouldn't think that hay and furs on a wooden frame would be very comfortable, but it was, too comfortable, the sensation was so alien the hunter had a fair bit of trouble sleeping. So instead he read Sven's letter.
He had his doubts that Sven believed he could read but it was apparent to the hunter that the hand that had so hurriedly scribbled out this letter was indeed a skilled one. The script was very fine, typical of bards who had received training. It was quite clever as well, it wasn't anything venomous, no proclamations of hate, it read more like a very clumsy and unfortunate love letter. Like a sonnet where execution had failed in the worst way. It proclaimed Camilla's charm, how she was strong and simple like a cow. It spoke of her beauty and how her boils gleamed in the moonlight. It compared her to a flower, in that she too would be delicious to eat.
Yet for all the letter's cunning this plan lacked subtlety. Why couldn't Faendal simply deny this? Had Sven never written to Camilla, wouldn't she recognize his handwriting? Why trust this to a stranger, did Sven consider him a simpleton? Had he not considered how massively this could backfire if I got back to him? This was wrong, it just seemed wrong. Lies on this scale shouldn't be the start of love, he was sure. However he had to admit that he was no expert with women. As a matter of fact, in light of resent events, he felt he could safely say that no one else in all of Tamriel was less qualified than him in matters of the heart.
He eventually decided to remove his pillow from under his head and this at last when paired with the lite taps of a dying storm, carried him off to sleep.
He did not dream a proper dream, his sleep was far too shallow for that, just a bizarre series of sensations. The sight of snow ladened pine needles, the sound of hollow clattering in a cavern, the smell of waterlogged wood, the pressure of someone lying on top of him. He felt soft breasts against his chest and hot breath over his neck, he couldn't help but wrap his arms around the pressure and hold it too him. Someone was yelling, screaming, pleading, it was rising in volume, rushing into him like torrential flood. He woke up with a jolt, clutching his discarded pillow to his chest.
"Useless," he thought, "Useless and dumb." Whatever foolish fixation was swimming around in his head he resolved to leave it there with the pillow he threw down onto the bed. He sat up and looked to the window. The glass was thick roughly hune, there was nothing to see except the shade of ambient light outside. It was a dim blue, the sun was hours away from rising. The early morning was silent, the rain had stopped. He would be traveling today.
The hunter cursed the dream, and the letter that had led to it. He rubbed at his sleepy eyes and began to pull his shaggy furs over his legs. He fixed the twine straps and pulled on his boots, buckling them nice and tight. He was about to pull his furs over his upper body but decided that the cold would do wonders to wake him up. He took up his bow, Laria, his thick fur gauntlets and slung his quiver over his bare chest. Just before he stepped out the door he looked back at the letter sitting on the bedside drawer. Was this a doomed thing? What would a friend do? Keep his friend from doing something stupid, or just do what his friend asked?
He stood for a long moment, could have ten seconds or ten minutes. Then deciding to damn the whole affair, he took up the note and carelessly crumpled it and shoved it into his pocket resolving to chuck it into a fire when he got a chance.
Outside the sleeping giant inn the hunter found a low fog hanging over the town. The minute water droplets kissed his naked chest and set his skin on edge. He looked at the muddy path below the front porch and elected not chance it; stepping carefully, he stuck to weeds and rocks skirting the edge of the muddy slip and out onto the road. The fog was almost as bad as a moonless midnight. He could barely see anything farther that 30 feet away. Still it was good enough for what he was planning. Ears peaked for any threat he made his way north past the archway out of town and into the woods off the bank.
When at last he came to the spot he remembered he stood next to a tall stump and counted out 20 paces away from it. He turned and appraised his target. He'd tried this before after Delphine had closed his finger. It had been an unmitigated disaster, normally he drew his with his right hand; one finger above the nock and three below effectively pinching the arrow in place. Now that wasn't an option anymore. He tried to involve his little finger more but the angle off and his draw strength was abysmal. All he'd been able to achieve was a sore arm, three very sore draw fingers and a wasted hour trying to track down all his arrows.
Today he'd try something different. For a start he'd try to only fire one arrow, moving to retrieve it after each shot. No sense in blunting all his arrows. Whats more he was going try something he really didn't want to try if for no other reason than it was admitting how important one finger was. The hunter sighed and took out an arrow, slowly he nocked it, aimed and drew. The muscles in his back and shoulders protested loudly as if it was their first time doing this. He steadied his breathing and shot left handed.
A sharp stab of pain shot up his arm and he dropped his bow clutching his throbbing right hand. He gritted his teeth and let out a stream of curses for all the trees to hear. Getting whipped by the fletching is a beginners mistake and thats bad enough, but he'd gotten whipped right on the way out, right on the sensitive new skin over his stump of an index finger. It was like feeling the finger get cut off all over again. Tears welled up in the hunters eyes as he hopped in place, turning circles and stamping.
As he turned he thought he spotted a familiar set of ears outlined in the gloom. "What are you looking at?" he called into the wood, "a little close to town aren't we?" A stiff breeze came through the valley and set the foliage in motion, it pushed some of the fog aside revealing some ear shaped bushes. "Damn it all, now I'm going crazy to boot."
He stumbled to the tree stump scanning left and right for the arrow. His sight was so clouded by the pain that it took him a good minute before he noticed the arrows sitting nice and pretty in the wood of the stump, right where he'd aimed it. He blinked as the sky began to brighten above the trees. "Oh no," he said aloud to no one. The breeze carried a wolfish nickering sound to him, "yeah, laugh it up." the hunter grumbled as he yanked the arrow and prepared to do it again.
As the sun rose it burnt off the evening fog leaving the bright clear light of midmorning. The blue sky, the green trees, the orange and purple wildflowers; the world was a technicolor daydream, almost too vivid to be real. The morning sun found the hunter sitting on the Riverwood bridge warming the scars on his back, pensively looking north. Shoot with three fingers or shoot left handed? He had two trees of action and he was prepared to eat from whichever bore fruit first, but shooting left-handed felt like such a steep learning curve. Which made the fact that, all things considered, he had shot better today than before a bit distressing. He had never understood how much his shooting habits were a part of his identity. He shot right handed, that was just of those facts he knew about himself. Changing now almost felt like a betrayal, how stupid and sentimental of him. It would take a long time for his eyes to adjust to shooting left handed and judging by the pain in his back, he'd just activated some muscles that had never seen real use.
"Excuse me mister, are you a fawn?" a small voice to his right made the hunter jump.
"Hm?" He turned to see Dorthe, Alvor's daughter standing by the edge of the bridge gawking at the shirtless stranger.
"A fawn," she clarified "I read about them in book. They have the body of a man and the legs of a goat."
The hunter looked down his shaggy stag fur trousers and snorted, he supposed he was a bit of a fawn. "Oh these are trousers," he exclaimed, "besides, do I have hooves?"
"It's hard to tell from a distance, and I can't see your ears."
"It's been a long time since I've seen them myself." the hunter shook out his shoulder length hair, "No reason they can't have gone all furry I suppose."
"Are you going to stay in town?"
"No, I have to go."
"Why?"
The hunter's answer caught and he chewed on his words for a moment. "Where's your friend?" he finally asked.
"Frodnar isn't awake yet."
"Why are you awake."
"Papa says the key to a productive day is getting as much work done before the sun is high as possible."
"Alvor is a smart man, but why are you out here, on the bridge?"
"I like the sound of the water, I think the trees are greener in the morning."
"Ah aren't they ever!" The hunter's head whipped around at the unfamiliar voice. Approaching from the west side of the bridge was skinny nord man with a pail traveling cloak, a small ruck sack and high spirits. "Riverwood at last. It's more beautiful that I ever would have guessed."
The hunter looked back at Dorthe to see that she had gone. It was just him and this taveler on the bridge. "Fair morning to you." he called turning back to the man.
"Well met hunter." the nord had a short beard and dusty mustache that curled down as he pouted. "Oh no, I've scared her off, precious little thing."
The man sitting on a bridge shirtless on a brisk Skyrim morning, with a bow strapped over his back, wearing shaggy animal skins decided not to question how this newcomer had pegged him for a hunter. "Sounds like you've traveled far, what brings you to the forest?"
"Ah fallow and fortune." quipped the nord, setting down his ruck sack, "I come from the pale, beyond Whiterun. The Jarl of Dawnstar has thrown in his lot with the Stormcloak rebels and claimed ownership of my modest trading post for... moving of war supplies I think. Anyway put me right out on my arse without a thought, and so, south I go."
"That's a load of shit!" the hunter got the feeling that this man had been telling this story to everyone he met in an attempt to process it, so he decided to be kind and display as much interest as he could muster, "Since when could Jarls commandeer someones home like that?"
"Ha you clearly haven't lived through many wars, I figured the pale was as far removed as I could get, then this happens."
"Well welcome to Riverwood for what it's worth, I hope this place with bring you the peace you seek."
"Oh I'm not staying here."
"Then where are you going?"
"This civil war isn't going away anytime soon. I'm getting out, making for Bruma. Just have to work my way there."
"Oh I see, you're laboring as you go."
"Exactly, I'll just stay here and work till I have the supplies to get down to Falkrieth."
"Well I'd be careful on the slops below Helgan there's been some bandit activity there and uhhh steer clear of half-moon mill."
"Any specific reason why?"
The hunter shrugged noncommittally "There are some aggressive predators in those parts."
"Well I sure appreciate the warning, will I see you in town?"
"Not for a bit I'm headed to Whiterun for a spell."
"Well if we don't meet again thanks all the same." the nord held out a hand for the hunter to shake. As he did a gleam caught his eye on the man at the mans hand, he tensed half expecting a hidden knife. Instead what he saw when he looked down was a dull silver ring, unassuming but for the snarling wolfs head protruding from it.
The hunter had never been much of a jeweler but he was sure he'd never seen the make of this ring. He realized he was staring and shook it off. "Sorry," he said "I must be a little jumpy." He clasped the man's hand and felt a deep chill run through him as his skin brushed the metal of the ring. "You can call me Stranger."
"Nice to meet you stranger, I'm Sinding."
The hunter nodded trying to shake off the chill, "Come on, I'll walk you into town."
Delphine watched the hunter get dressed and gathered his gear. "Promise you'll look after Bracknel?
"Yeah I'll make sure he doesn't lift anything too heavy."
"You know we'll miss you."
"My goodness I didn't know I was so loved, you make it sound like I'm joining the legion."
Delphine smirked at him, "Well I don't relish the idea of doing all my chores again, think I got used to you taking my place."
"It was only two days. I barely saw you."
"And I barely saw you, it was a sublime time truly."
"Ok, I'm leaving."
"Hold on, hold no." The innkeeper gave a placating smile before producing a small pouch and handing it to hunter.
"Wait I don't want gold. I was paying off a dept."
"It's a gift you damn fool and it isn't gold, it's just some dried goat for the road."
"Goat? Did you talk to Dorthe this morning?"
"What? No why?"
"No reason. Thanks for this..." the hunter turned abruptly to leave and just as abruptly stopped and turn back to Delphine. "Delphine, thanks for everything, really. I'd be dead if it weren't for you."
"Eh I'm sure you'd have figured something out. Now get out of here."
"Later Delphine." with that the hunter stepped out of the inn ready to make for Braknel's treehouse. However he was immediately intercepted. The raven-haired woman from the previous night stood before him in a simple dress.
Camilla Valerius's eyes widened a bit at the sight of him. "It's you!" she exclaimed, "I heard that you were leaving, but we hadn't met properly so I want to meet you before you left."
The hunter's brain immediately lost a wheel and grinded to a halt, and as the wheel spun off in some unknown direction he gave a confused groan that sounded a lot like. "Why?"
"Oh well, I just love to hear stories, and tales of adventure and ever since Faendal pulled you out of the river I just knew that you had some stories to tell. I was going to talk to you last night but my brother Lucan came to tell me we had a leak in the roof and I had to go help him plug it."
The hunter stared straight into Camilla's dark eyes causing he to blush slightly and take a set back. "Can you say that again?"
"I wanted to hear some of your adventures."
"After that."
"We had a leaky roof?"
"Before that."
"You were pulled out of the river."
"Yeah, who did you say did that?"
"Oh uh, Faendal, he's a wood elf, works at the mill, he's a friend of mine. He jumped in and pulled you out, it was... well, very exciting."
"Did he..." the hunter breath in long and slow. I released the sigh like he was releasing an arrow. "I'm sorry about this," he said as he reached into his pocket and pull out the crumpled letter. "Sven gave me this. He wanted me to give it to you and say it was from Faendal."
Camilla took the letter she was handed with knitted brow, "I don't understand."
"Like I said I'm sorry, but I don't think you have time for stories." The hunter brushed past Camilla, down to the road and north out of Riverwood. He only glanced back once to see Camilla still standing on the porch, one hand holding the letter before her, the other clasped over her mouth. He was too far away to see if she was crying. He didn't know he was across the bridge till he was scrambling up crags on his way to Bracknel's reclusive home.
When the hunter arrived the latter was down meaning the elder hunter had nipped out for something. The hunter sat there lost in thought for a few minutes before, the grey figure of Bracknel appeared over a log and hobbled up. "Morning Stranger." the old man called "Sorry about that I was just out collecting herbs. Just give me a moment to grab my pack and we'll be off."
"No problem take your time." offered the hunter politely.
"So," Bracknel began, placing a foot on the latter as he did "Two whole days in Riverwood; did you make any friends."
The hunter kept his eyes forward, the slopes, the distant plains, the city of Whiterun. "No."