A Missing Thread

She awoke with a gasp, springing into a sitting position. It took her a while of blinking at the surrounding dusk to decipher exactly where and who she was. The room looked familiar, though she could not immediately place it.

She remembered herself first.

It suddenly seemed a thousand years since Ariela had left her humble home in Cyrodiil. First the shack of a house that she'd shared with her small family, then the prison cell of a dorm room she had inhabited as a scholar at the Scholar's Guild of Tamriel at Skingrad. She had loved both of those humble abodes dearly. Yet she'd also been excited to leave everything familiar behind, and embark on her adventure to Skyrim. And even after her misadventures and misfortunes, she realized she was still excited.

Excited and terrified!

Then what of the strange dream? The one she'd just woken up from, her heart beating like it was trying to break out through her ribcage. What had it even been about? Where had it taken place?

She realized that the details had already blurred out of her mind. Yet she could still sense the remnants of a presence, of some immensely powerful person or being whom she had encountered in the dream. It frustrated her to no end, but she could not for the life of her summon any details into her awoken consciousness.

Who or whatever it was, it feels like they're still with me!

She shivered, scanning the room. The upstairs room of the Inn was compact and orderly, not containing anything out of the ordinary. There were the strangely comforting noises carrying from the drinking part of the establishment, bleeding though the floorboards. There was Ariadne, the willful young mage, huffing away at the other end, fast asleep. She was sleeping awfully deep for someone who had just been nearly killed just a few hours ago. Killed or worse. Most likely worse.

And don't forget the lich!

Truth be told, there were many aspects to their past predicament besides that one that she would havegladly forgotten. But she had to keep some things fresh in mind. They were not safe yet. Something terrible was in the works in this province, and Ariela knew she had to play her part in stopping it. Whether she liked it or not.

A group of mages with sinister intentions had gotten a foothold in Skyrim and had corrupted at least a couple members of the College of Winterhold. She had seen with her own eyes how they had summoned the spirit—or lich, or whatever the thing had actually been—of Mannimarco himself, intending to bind him to their will! They had fortunately failed, as the deceased—or ascended, depending on who you believed—wizard had played them for fools. Fools indeed—to have imagined that they could bind such a powerful entity!

Ariela shuddered at the memory of Mannimarco addressing her before taking his leave. The things he'd said to her . . . she could not even bring them to mind presently—demonic lies, certainly!—but the impact of them still echoed within her soul.

A wave of overwhelming tiredness suddenly swept over her. She gazed longingly at the night stand. But the herb she'd been eating every night for a year now had been left in the fort. The herb had kept her vivid dreams at bay. They had always been vivid, but ever since she had come here, they had gotten far worse. Emphasis on worse, since they were almost always disturbing ones. And based on her dream just now, it was evident that they were back.

Sighing, she laid back down. It was still dark enough to sleep for a couple more hours, the earliest birds tentatively starting their song. Ariela decided to face whatever the night would still throw at her, and so she closed her eyes.

Too tired to care

Come what may.

She fell right back asleep, and did not dream of a thing.

That she knew of.

Runa leaned against the railing, breeches around her ankles, while Thorgir the Meathead fussed with the front of his. She took a draw of the almost finished bottle of brandy, and gave a drunken snicker. She spat a long string of spittle down in the filthy water of the Riften canal. In the background, the sounds of merriment and drunken arguing from the Bee and the Barb, momentarily amplified whenever someone opened the door, which was frequently. "Are ya gonna get it ready or what. I ain't—" She belched, and almost spewed up her last swig. "Ain't got all night, do I?"

"A minute, lass. Sheesh, so impatient!"

"If only it was something to actually look forward to, I might play a different tune."

"Are you trying to make me lose it?"

"Pfft! I know you. This kinda talk only puts you in the mood!"

"Smacking you in the head would do it!"

"Ah, now you're talkin' my language!"

Finally Thorgir managed to get his pecker more or less hard and cram it in. He started to hump away. Material for a letter home it wasn't, but it got the job done. Plus, as sauced as Runa was, she wasn't really feeling much down there to begin with. But a little rub still always felt in order when you were having an otherwise good time. Seemed to go with the whole.

And while fellas sure came prettier than old Meathead, at least he wasn't lacking substance where it counted. Word was, it wasn't his upper head earnt him his moniker. Runa could see credibility in that.

A couple of middle-aged nobleborns in mighty fine clothing then chose that moment to stroll past. What they were doing at this time at this part of town Runa would never know, but she could well picture that she and Thorgir were quite the sight. You could see that in the scandalized expressions of the couple, too, especially the lady whose eyes were nearly popping out of her liberally fed, plump face.

"Evening," Runa said. "A nice night for it, huh?"

The indignant pair could not have gotten past fast enough, coupled with all the huffing and puffing and eye-boggling you'd expect.

Runa giggled, tossing the now empty bottle into the dark water below. It made a moderately satisfying splash.

"Hey, you laughed me out!" Thorgir grumbled.

Runa pulled up her breeches "Ah, you were done anyway."

"No, I wasn't!"

"Yes," she said, lacing herself up, "you were."

Then, as Thorgir moped like a little boy, she rolled her eyes. "Look, if it's so important to you, I can finish you off with my hand." She started working her mouth to prepare enough spittle for the job.

Now he even managed to look indignant. "No thanks, Runa. I'd rather not be humiliated."

"Humiliated? Many a man would pay for it!"

"Many a man would pay to be humiliated," he replied.

She gave it some thought. "Good point. I think."

Thorgir gave a hearty laugh, as if to shrug off the awkwardness. "No matter, lass. I'll just go find someone else willing!"

"I hear Jorgen Half-Foot is feeling frisky tonight."

"I'll plow Arctus the Bear's hairy ass if that's all I get, but I ain't going to bed without blowing off my junk."

"Man with such a silver tongue, how could anyone not fall for you."

He waggled the said tongue lewdly at her. And then he was on his way.

Runa leaned against the railing, and the smile soon faded from her lips. Looking down into the fetid, murky water, she was revisited by the memory of the corpse she had once seen floating there as a kid.

A corpse . . . sorta like the Nightingale.

Yeah, there was still that. Carousing all night had not made her forget what she'd just done. No biggie, really. She'd only killed the most prominent crime boss in Tamriel. The leader of the super organization previously known as separate entities of the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves' Guild, now the most leading force of corruption and lawlessness in all the land. The man who had the High Queen in his pocket. Maybe even the Emperor himself by this point.

Yeah, no sweat!

Even if she hadn't in reality acted alone, she'd promised to take both the credit and the heat. And even if the whole thing had turned out to be a ruse. For all she knew, the Nightingale had been nothing but a red herring. Covering up for . . . who the hell knew!

Well, no one knows that other than me, so for all intents and purposes . . .

She'd have to figure out what she was going to do now. So far, she hadn't a damn idea.

They're not gonna just let it slide, that's for sure. If they even suspect it was me—and nothing tells me they ain't gonna—that'll mean tough times for ol' Runa.

Well, she'd been through some damn ugly situations before. Never mind that this was even uglier?

The door swung open again to let out a tottering woman muttering to herself, and in the brief splash of golden light, it was almost as if Runa could for a second see her position exactly as it was—and pretty it was not. But the sounds and the smells of live bodies pressed together in a shared, willful illusion of happiness was luring enough to pull her mind off her morose meditations.

She spat down in the water, and hauled herself back toward the sounds of cheerful distraction.

She'd think more on it come morning.

The morning had always been Erik's favorite time of the day. Everything fresh and still waiting to unfold. No matter how disappointed you had been at the day before, it felt new. You could make it how you wanted, it was all up to you. Better yet when the morning was like this one: the start of a hot late spring day, already warm with the caress of a gentle breeze, not a scrap of cloud in the sky, birds warbling in their melodic choirs as if their song were there for you. Yes, such a morning without fail met him in a good mood.

Except for this one.

At face value, everything was as it was meant to be: the sight of Riverwood tugged on the heartstrings as it ever did, bathing in the morning sun's golden light. The rough timber and the thatched ridge roofs of the houses, the gently flowing river glimmering in the soft, slanted light, the street lined with ferns and clover, grass growing in the cracks of the flat cobble stones, the patinated sign of the smithy, that faint smoke of the forge drifting lazily over everything, and all this comfortably nestled in between the surrounding conifer trees and mountains. Without a doubt, Erik's favorite place in Skyrim.

He now frowned at the roofs and the road and the grasses. Thing was, there would always be something to remind you how you could never take such nice things for granted. Hard as it was to believe it at moments like this, the world was an ugly place, full of ugly folk intent on making it even uglier. Or maybe they just wanted to make it us ugly for everyone else as it was for them. He wasn't sure.

Whatever the case, such ugly folk were who he was after. A gang of bandits who'd been wreaking havoc on good honest folk around here for the past few weeks. Erik's long-time employer Maren Dragonheart, had sent him scouting. He always did what she told him to, without question. But this time there had been little need to tell him twice.

Erik took a deep breath, set his jaw, and tried to let the anger boiling inside of him settle.

Riding in the town, the first person he saw was old Alvor, the local smith. The burly fellow was stoking the forge, his tools laid out ready. Ever the early bird. Such a sight never did fail to lighten the mood, as a reminder that something in this world could always be relied on.

Alvor took notice of Erik and let go of the bellows. "Slayer!" he cried with a big smile on his gray-bearded face, waving a big hand at the end of a beefy arm, the fat of age enfolding still-knotted muscles heaving with the motion.

Erik cringed. He always did when people used his old moniker. Erik the Slayer. He couldn't believe now that he'd taken that to be a fierce name in his youth! He waved back. "Hey there, Alvor! Waking everyone up with your racket again, are ya?"

"Racket? It's called honest work, boy. Your lot woulda never heard of it." He looked around. "And early? Those of us that don't need a drink to get outta bed call this day, sonny!" He bellowed out a hearty laugh.

Erik walked his horse closer. "Aye," he said. "Well, us dishonest lot are good for something, you must admit." He left the horse and stepped onto the creaky porch in need of repair, despite the obvious attempts at doing so. For a man so apt in smithing, Alvar sure was a lousy carpenter. "Like dealing with the really dishonest lot. I hear you've been having trouble with just the sort."

"Aye." Alvor spat, his jolly mood gone. "The bastards came here just the other day. The guards manage to fight them off, but not before they'd killed Hod's cow. Imagine that! What's the point, killing a man's cow? What for? Just to be cunts is why!"

"Aye." Erik stretched out his bag, eying the mountainside behind the smithy. "So any idea of their whereabouts?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Ain't none of us so foolish as to follow them."

"No, of course. I wouldn't expect that."

"Still. Not too many spots they could be at, since they've now come 'round more'n once."

"Aye. Well, I have a couple good guesses. I'll be looking into those." He caught Alvor's skeptical look. "What?"

"You're not planning to go after them alone, are you?"

"Of course not." It had crossed the mind. Maren would definitely have chewed his head off for trying something so foolish, assuming he still had one to chew off. Never mind that that's exactly what the lady would have done in her prime. But then he wasn't exactly her in her prime, now was he. "Just scouting, to report back to Maren. I imagine I'll take her crew with me to deal with this."

Alvor still looked skeptical.

"What?"

"Just." The man brushed his beard with one big hand. "I've a feeling this is a larger bunch than we've seen so far."

"What makes you think that?"

"Something one of the guards overheard. About getting 'more people from the hall'—Those were their words, you see—and setting the whole place alight. An empty boast, probably, but it makes me worry. Maybe there's a bigger gang about, thinking of taking over the area. You know, shaking down people to 'protect' them and all that. You know, stuff of the larger world. Things are changing, son. We no longer live apart from the big folk's problems. The world's shrinking. And it ain't getting better while at it."

Erik thought about the man's words. Old man's woeful chatter about the glory times long past, perhaps but . . . he himself could not deny that the overall development of Tamriel over his lifetime had not been too favorable for honest folk.

Gods, am I getting old too?

"Aye," he said slowly. "You think Maren isn't enough to intimidate them?"

"You've gotta admit. While by no means old, she isn't getting any younger either. And her glory days, sorry to say, are long in the past. Her name just don't hold the sway it used to."

"Aye," Erik said, stretching out his back again. He really was getting old! He spat. "Aye."

He tried to change the subject to happier matters for a while, so he didn't have to leave the poor man in gloom. Or perhaps it was his own gloom he was worried about. But in any case, he soon bade farewell and departed, off to accomplish what he had come here to do.

But riding out, thinking about the smith's words, doubt overtook him. If indeed there was larger development happening, he might need some more information. Mostly sticking to a relatively small geographical area, he had no knowledge of the larger changes in the underworld lately. He might be in desperate need of a recap. He would need to consult someone better versed in such matters.

As he left the town, he had made up his mind. He would need more information and had enough time to take in order to acquire it. So instead of going to scout out the known hideouts in the close vicinity, he headed east.

He'd have to try and find Runa.

Ariadne scowled at the splintering ceiling rafters. Upon waking, the first thing she'd seen were those damned things, the lingering dream-smile melting right off her face. What was it that she had dreamed of, anyway? Quite possibly about some lovely boy, as those were the sort of dreams that were the surest to put a smile on her lips. Probably in the dream she had still been at the College, still on her way to becoming the greatest destruction mage that institution had ever seen. The good old days—which had come to a violent end during the last short twenty-four hours.

She yearned for those magical days. Back when it hadn't become apparent that the duplicitous bastard, Calisto . . .

Of gods forbid, I hope I wasn't dreaming of him!

Ariadne gave her head a firm shake, then kicked off her blankets and got up to stand up next to her bed. She scowled at the other side of the room where the scholar was still happily snoring away.

So unfair! Why would that scrawny little shrimp still get to . . . ?

Calm down!

She buried her face in her big hands, collecting herself. She was trying to overcome this Ariadne. After what she and the slumbering scholar over there had just gone through, she couldn't continue her previous . . . uppity ways. She'd need to be more mature, to grow up. She'd have to learn to get on with people better.

And she had to forget about what problems she'd harbored with Ariela, too, as she had recently come to find a new respect for the runt.

The way she acted with that ghost! Gods, I would have never—

"Ariadne?"

She quickly removed her hands from over her face, seeing Ariela frowning at her, still half-asleep.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," Ariadne replied curtly, sniffing. "Yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Yeah." Ariela yawned, rubbing at her eyes. "Of course." She bounced out of bed. "Well, I need to poop."

"That's nice to know."

"Oh," Ariela grinned, blushing a little. "Sorry. I was just thinking out loud."

"No harm done." Ariadne gestured toward the door. "Please, don't let me stop you."

"Yes. Yes, of course." And Ariela traipsed past and out the door, heading down the stairs to the inn lavatory.

Ariadne shook her head at the closed door. I need to poop! Then she smiled. There was something disarming, in the end, about the scholar's awkwardness.

That smile soon faded as her thoughts then returned to where she'd left them. The ghost. Or whatever. Had it truly been Mannimarco, the King of Worms, back from either the dead or then whatever god-realm others believed him to now reside in? She could not believe it, but then there was very little in the way of alternative. If it walked like a duck, quacked like a duck, and swam like a duck, then it was usually . . . an undead necromancer turned god?

She gave her head a firm shake. It was too early to try to set things straight in her head, but then what else she was supposed to do? There was nothing to do here, in this small room of the Inn. They had spent a whole day here already, waiting for word from Sissel that the course was clear. They were probably still being searched for by the treacherous cult of renegade necromancer mages, or whatever they were.

Sauntering outside for a walk, therefore, was out of the question, as they were supposed to be laying low. Going down to sit by the fire downstairs was an equally impossible prospect. Even if that hadn't included the risk of getting spotted by some spy, there was the fact that it would take literally seconds for some drunken hero to set his bleary eyes on Ariadne and soon decide to impose himself on her, seeking to impress her robes off with boasts of his many deeds of valor, be they in the battlefields or in the sack or usually both and sometimes simultaneously. Yeah, those guys were everywhere, at any time of the day.

No thanks to that.

So no, visiting the latrines was presently as perilous of an undertaking as they could risk. And even that was a bit . . . shaky.

In a royally bad mood now, Ariadne frowned deeply at the rafters. Long gauzes of cobweb fluttered in the draft. She frowned ever deeper. What kind of a dump were they running here! Was it really too much to ask for them to—

She squawked in surprise, jolting, as the door slammed open. Alarm immediately gave way to irritation, and she bounced up, ready to let the scholar get an earful about rattling her already frayed nerves with such unnecessary racket.

But the admonishments died on her lips. She blinked at the figure at the door. "Sissel?"

The chronically hard-faced woman looked even more grave than usual—although, suppose she had reasons for that—standing there at the door, a bit harrowed, even shocked, as if having rushed to attend a sermon in a temple and found herself in a brothel instead.

"There you are!" Sissel said. Where else did she expect to find her? She looked around. "Where is Ariela?"

Ariadne blinked, things happening too fast for her brain to quite catch up. "She's . . . pooping."

Sissel raised her brows.

"Well, she is!"

"Alright. Well, let's hope she's done soon. We have to go."

"Course's clear then?"

"What? No, no the damned course is far from clear. I mean, they might not be looking for you any more, but seems as though they soon won't have to, if what I fear comes to fruition."

Ariadne wasn't exactly prone to being easily rattled, but she could not deny a stab of unease. "What would that be?"

Sissel studied her, then shook her head. "If you thought Calisto was ugly before?" Actually, before everything, Ariadne had found the man rather dashing . . . Never mind that! "Well, turns out he's even uglier!"

Ariela got off the bed all the way. "Tell me!" Why was she so curious? Why couldn't the damned bastard just clear from her mind already! She couldn't believe how those wonderful eyes had changed right in front of her . . .

The scholar chose this moment to enter the room. Her naturally worried expression got even more worried as she saw Sissel. "Sissel?" she said, needlessly.

"There you are!"

"I was—"

"Pooping, I know."

There was something admittedly comical about the way the scholar's mouth came open at that.

"Look, we don't have much time; get your stuff together!"

Ariela, after looking in the hallway, pulled the door closed. Still looking worried. "I assume it's bad."

"Yeah, well, it's worse!"

Sissel's dire reply seemed to disturb Ariela far less than Ariadne would have expected. The small woman gave a small nod. "I knew it somehow." Still worried enough, though, but not drastically so.

"Hardly takes a seer, does it!" Sissel spat. "When gods start getting involved, you know it's going to be a bad day for someone!"

"So it was him!" Ariadne cried.

"Yeah, of course it was! Who else but the Maggot of Maggots would make such a pompous appearance?" Sissel scowled. "Just yesterday you didn't even know who Mannimarco was."

Ariadne shrugged. "Well, I do now."

"How is he involved?" Ariela asked.

"In no way, far as I'm concerned. He would not be compelled by a cabal of fools. Who knew, right?"

"Well, if he's not involved," Ariadne pitched in. "What does it matter?"

"Are you a bit simple? Of course it matters! They might not have been able to get to him, but they sure did get his attention! And that can't mean anything good." Sissel gave Ariela a strange little sideways glance. "Not at all."

"What's Calisto up to?" asked Ariela.

Even the bare mention of the name got Ariadne to grit her teeth.

"Well, that's the issue here," Sissel replied. "Nothing good, as expected." She waved impatiently.
"Look, just get your stuff together, I'll explain on the way."