Chapter 4: To Bleak Falls Barrow
When Daemon left the mill owners' abode, with Gerdur slumbering soundly, he stepped hastily to weave through the streets for the Riverwood Trader, run by Lucan Valerius and his younger sister Camilla. He had some dealing with the siblings outside of their establishment—striking him as decent folk—with him even helping Camilla to resolve the love triangle she was unknowingly trapped in (helping her to see local bard, Sven, for the scoundrel he truly was); but this would be his first seeing the inside of their general goods store.
Stepping both into the store and into the midst of an argument between the older and younger sibling.
"Well one of us has to do something!" Camilla was telling Lucan as he entered.
Lucan barked back in retort "I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"
"Well one of us has to do something about this, huh? Let's hear it." Camilla was still insisting on them addressing whatever it was that had them fighting, at least this time.
"We're done talking about this." Lucan told her, appearing to be at his limit, only then did he notice their third party in the room. "Oh, Daemon…um, welcome."
"What's happened now?" the outsider asked.
Lucan was mute on the subject, Camilla was not. "We had a break-in last night." Her brother was furious, but she continued talking. "They just took one thing, nothing else."
That's it…?
Daemon looked at Lucan curiously, giving him a start talking expression. "Don't leave me in suspense."
"It was a claw object I keep in the shop for display purposes." Lucan finally relented. "The thief was seen heading for the mountain toward Bleak Falls Barrow."
"The Golden Claw, are you serious?" Daemon had heard of it. Camilla mentioned to it a few times when she was sharing a table with him at the Sleeping Giant. It was some oversized trinket Lucan had come across about a year before opening this shop of theirs. It was a strange choice of trophy to claim, on its own. The Riverwod Trader possessed more than a few valuable goods, even if it was his first time inside, Daemon could see objects that would have been worth absconding with as well. And to take it to the Barrow of all places was even more of a bizarre decision. The crypts within were most likely filled with numerous hazards such as traps, trolls, undead abominations, skeevers, and the gods only know what else. If the thief wished to commit suicide there must have been less grandiose methods to do so. Daemon could only burst out in laughter. "What, did you piss someone off with a bad price, Lucan?"
"No, I don't even know who the thief was." Lucan told him.
Managing to get his laughter under control, Daemon asked "Is there a reward for it?"
"Wha…?"
"I'm leaving Riverwood today." Daemon elucidated. "So I'm in need of some extra septims. I wouldn't mind doing one last job before going. Especially if it made my journey on the road simpler."
"Well…I could scrounge something together for you." Lucan said, causing Daemon to smirk and reply "Excellent." before showing himself back out.
It was not an ideal scenario to be in. Assuming that aloof had told Daemon to stay away from the barrow, but it was not as if he had a more substantial route to garner some funds.
Walking out into the street and to the exit opposite of the one he had entered into Riverwood through with Ralof some time ago, using the stone bridge to cross the river and approach the pathway which led up to the Brittleshin Hills, thinking to himself this had better be worth it.
Moving through the pass, he came upon a stonetower of sorts in the colder elevation—which was so cold that one could expect to stumble upon Kaeso Actorius' heart—after slaying a wolf. But unlike the last tower Daemon had been inside, it did not appear to be in danger of suffering damage. His approach did not go unnoticed, a bandit who had been on lookout just barely managed to notice him and called out to her friends to join her.
Two charged and it whilst the look out grabbed her bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at the back of her pants.
One bandit lunged forward with his blade. Daemon dodged and kicked him back before grabbing the second and using them to shield himself from the incoming arrow which planted itself in the human-shield's back before the novice adventurer threw this bandit to his side and to slide down the side of the mountain pass and down to their death. Daemon heard the screams on the descent as he clashed blades with the other one he kicked. Shocking him with lighting and slashing into his throat. Leaving him to bleed to death as he charged at the one with the bow. The archer took another shot at him only for Daemon to deflect her arrow with his iron sword before she was run through.
With them dispatched, Daemon continued. Up into the cold mountains, grateful he had the novice mage robes on, until he came upon the megalithic, cyclopian-like structure. Unable to resist the urge to marvel at a structure he almost struggled to believe humans could have constructed—with the idea of grants undertaking the task more plausible. Treading lightly, so as to not attract attention until he was ready.
As he did so he heard more bandits, and they mentioned a name: "Arvel," and how they couldn't believe they agreed to do this job with him. They mentioned the Golden Claw as well.
Arvel?
That was a name which Daemon recognized from passing mention during his time drinking ale at the Sleeping Giant inn. Arvel the Swift, as he was known by reputation. He was a roguish Dunmer who made a living as a thief that arrived at Riverwood around the frame of time following the imperial and Ralof's advent following the destruction of Helgen.
Hearing enough he began up the steps, cutting swaths through the bandits—one after the other. Slashing into the melee fighters and narrowly avoiding arrows as the ensuing skirmish was under way. Throwing one down the steps in the process, causing them to break their neck. Before taking sanctuary in the tomb from the harsh, crispy frost.
Entering to a decrepit site.
Finding stone pillar/arch, sarcophagus that looked as if they were a few years breadth away from breaking if they had not already, and a source of light down the ways. He crept forward, passing the carcass of a banding in fur garbs and his fingers still clinging onto his warhammer in his deathgrip (perhaps a breakdown in partnerships or what passes for bandit loyalty?) as well as one oversized skeever rat. Finding a small kindling of a fire with two outlaws resting beside it.
They were grumbling about Arvel, as the ones outside were. Bellyaching about how tempted one was to abandon the Dunmer with the ruins and try their luck elsewhere—mentioning how it was possible he may have gotten himself killed on the way in—while the other's greed was compelling them to remain.
If he had been a tad more careful Daemon may have not accidentally kicked a rock and alerted the bandits to his presence and could have managed to get closer. But he wasn't, so he didn't.
Kicking the waddling one into the fire, Daemon dispatched the greedy one then did the same to the smart one as he was pulling himself out of the fire in pain. Leaving the path further inward open to his notice.
He would come across the occasional jars containing Septims, which he helped himself to before he came upon another bandit within the crypts, standing before a ground based lever which he tugged on with his hand one second and in the next a barrage of darks rained down on him. The bandit staggered backward a step with multiple projectiles sticking into his body and swiftly collapsed on his rear.
Once the darts ceased to fire downward, Daemon approached. Taking a gander at the darts to see the bandit was damned to die the moment he pulled the lever, as when he pulled it out there were traces of an ancient and deadly poison laced on them. It had no effect when making contact with the skin beyond a small stinging sensation, but with the darts piercing the skin and giving the poison access to blood flowing veins and past the protected surface beneath the skin its effects were beyond potent and thus killing its victims with hyper lethality.
You'd need to be a stubborn son of a bitch to have a small chance against this.
Dropping the toxin laced dart to the ground alongside the carcass' head, Daemon glanced around. It was not possible to progress beyond the room through any other means besides entering through the door which was blocked off by the bars, and it was obviously connected to the lever. So he could not get one without the other.
Glancing upward he saw two symbols. A snake and a dolphin. A third symbol was on the ground as a piece of the upper part of the room which had collapsed to the ground. Then he saw three triangular dials which were movable. With that Daemon ascertained what he would be required to do with relative ease—with the mechanics being primitively straightforward—a child (much like Frodnar) could have done the same if provided enough time.
The renegade turned the dials to match the symbols, in the sequence he assumed was appropriate, then grabbed the lever and prayed for the best.
The bars ceased to obstruct his progress, revealing some circular stairway to the left which descended (after plundering a chest and nearby stone table of anything valuable worth) into the ground.
As he stepped downward on the wooden planks, there was a disturbance. The sound of rapid scuttling steps traversing upward toward him before out from the shadows a repulsive skeever lunged at him. Daemon raised his free arm to protect himself, allowing it to dig its jagged teeth into his forearm. Thankfully the iron gauntlets Gerdur acquired for him absorbed the bulk of the damage.
A second skeever was following close behind.
Kicking the second one back down the stairs, Daemon bashed the one biting into his arm against the wall rendering its head crushed and dropping it down the stairs. As the second skeever lunged at him again, the iron sword was thrust forward; impaling it through the gut. Blood trickled out from the wound and down Daemon's arm, leaving much for him to clean when this was over. Pulling the dead rodent of his blade, he progressed further down to step into a cobwebbed passageway at the bottom before the cobwebs became so thick that it prevented him from treading further, so he cut through them with his sword. To find a wider room which reminded him of a room within the caverns beneath the Helgen.
Finding webbing everywhere, with large shaped eggs. Only they were not the solid sort akin to one a chicken would lay. They were more sticky looking. Then, oh for the love of the divines, he saw the Dunmer stuck to a wall in a coating of white screaming for help and realized what he was in: the nest of a large frostbite spider, which dropped from the ceiling as he approached the Dunmer, revealed to be one more sizeable than the ones he had seen before.
"Son of a whore." Daemon muttered to himself.
The frostbite spider launched a spit of venom at him. Like with the skeever, Daemon raised his freehand to protect himself. Only to feel a stinging sensation as the venom's acid was tearing through the iron gauntlet.
Daemon hastily dropped his weapon and grabbed the gauntlet to pry it off before the acid could do damage to his flesh and nerves beneath in the meaty parts which he could not recover from and dropped it to his side, and just as quickly grabbed his iron blade.
The frostbite spider spat more venom out at him, this time Daemon dodged and dashed to evade the acidic attack, closing the distance between himself and it. Then the giant spider raised one of its front legs to swat at him. Ducking to his side to avoid the leg and then slashed through the arpentage, then plunging the blade into the side of the body. Dragging the edge across the sideway, causing its insides to ooze outward to outside.
With its slaying, Daemon collected some of the venom fluid seeping from the cephalothorax.
"Would you quit your lollygagging and cut me down!" the Dunmer yelled.
"Keep your trousers on." Daemon told him, plugging the vial up with a cork. 'There's no need to be hasty. It's dead, and you're not in danger…any more."
When he did get to the Dunmer, he was certain this was Arvel. There was no other Dunmer in sight when he was on his way inside, with the other bandits being of various humans descended from Nedeics and other ancient men (Bretons, Imperials, Nords, and Redguard). The Dunmer being less calm about the situation, telling him insistently "Good. You killed it. Now cut me down."
"First hand over the Golden Claw, Arvel." was Daemon's response. "Then I'll consider it."
"Wha…?"
"Spare me the coy act." Daemon said, hoping to speed things up. "There was a theft in the nearby village and the only thing absconded with was an heirloom which I heard your friends mention you taking it with you in here."
"Does it look like I'm in a position to move?" Arvel said derisively. "And besides that, there's an ancient power the nords have hidden deep within here. Would that interest you?"
"Not my concern." Daemon said, feigning apathy. Before stepping close to press his blade into the cobweb. "Once you're free, hand over the claw and we'll part ways. No need for more bother."
Arvel sighed in resignation. He did not attempt to argue further, and merely waited until he was back on the ground. Once he was liberated from the webbing finally, Arvel did not hesitate to strike Daemon to the ground with his clenched fist and then he made a run for it through the new opening.
"Ass." Daemon muttered, grabbing his still sword in his rising-to-his-feet stage, then chased after the Dunmer thief after regaining his footing.
Scampering through the ruins, the interior changed. Coming upon a room which had gray skinned, gaunt and emaciated corpses resting in shelf beds on the wall as he suddenly heard the creaking of a mechanism and the abrupt cry of pain from Arvel, and then as he turned around the pillar he saw the thief hanging from the spikes of a trap door that had sprung forward.
Camilla and the Riverwooders had told him of traps being in the tomb, but beholding one with his own eyes was still a disturbing sight.
Creeping toward the remains, he suddenly heard the footfalls of something heavy behind him and he glanced over his shoulder to see one of those aforementioned, gray-skinned carcasses standing on its feet with the eyes glowing blue and bearing an old, black blade in its grip.
Soon it was joined by more, who were holding black great swords and battleaxes.
He knew immediately what these were. There had been a number of texts back in Anvil which referenced their kind, as had Ralof when he first told him about Bleak Falls Barrow on the road to Riverwood. They were Draugrs. Corpses of the Atmoran and Nordic people whose souls have never abandoned their bodies.
They spoke, but their words were not one he could comprehend, as they spoke in a heathen tongue.
Sighing, Daemon muttered "Of course." and then rushed to the cadre of draugrs. Grinding his sword with the first one, one to his left charged at him with its battleax. Daemon stepped backward, engulfing both of them in flames from his free hand. When this failed to put them down, he drove his blade through both of the deadites in one thrust.
The Draugr were quite sturdy; being so tough Daemon imagined they could withstand a mare's kick as if it was mere child's play. Nothing like those feeble animated to life skeletons one would find dwelling in ruins of most nations (even in Nord lands).
The one with the ancient ebony colored greatsword came next for Daemon to cut it down in ten slashes.
With the draugr of no further concern, Daemon pulled Arvel's carcass off the spikes of the trap and eased it to hard floor and began checking him. First his pockets, then the medium pouch on his side. Unearth Lucan's prized heirloom as well as a tattered journal.
The Golden Claw certainly was as much of an apt name as it was a description of the artifact. It looked as one would expect a baby dragon's appendage to look like, albeit in a crudely fashioned design. With three symbols in the palm of it: a bear, butterfly, and owl. Each at the center of respective circles. Putting it away in his own pack, Daemon opened the journal to see what he could ascertain.
For the most part the pages were the rambling of a conceited and self-entitled man. He seemed to have been planning the theft for some time, when he wasn't thinking of what he'd love to do with Camilla (using her as a plaything)—pleasing Daemon to know that he was now off to the Void (or some realm of extreme unpleasantness beyond the physical plain of Nirn) and beyond doing so (merely regretting it had not been slower).
The latest entry was of the only true importance.
"My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerian that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow." The words dripped with as much of dead Dunmer's avarice as it did Arvel's hubris. "Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test the Nords put in place to keep the unworth away, but that "when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm in your hand."
When his reading was concluded, the disowned son of House Actorius dropped the journal beside what was left of its owner. Still not assured if he understood completely what the grand scheme here was.
From there a choice presented itself within Daemon's mind. He had retrieved what he ventured into the ruins for, thus he could have merely backtracked for the entrance and returned to Riverwood, and more importantly the prize to Lucan and Camilla and the whole ordeal would be concluded; then he could at last make his way to Whiterun. However, Arvel's mention of power deeper within had his interest peaked.
Thinking about things practically. He was in a land far from home, any allies he may have previously had to call upon were now may as well have been his enemies, and most importantly was short on septims. He would need as much resources to aid him moving forward as possible. This power hidden within the tomb could be valuable enough monetarily speaking to make an extended exportation worth it, if not that then it could be an ability which could prove a boon in fighting his enemies.
It was plausible that Dunmer was giving him unreliable information that could lead to nothing substantial or it was a fool's errand which Arvel genuinely believed was worth the risk, but it could lead to something. Even if the "power" part was not realistically viable he had the chance to find himself some valuables to attain more funds in addition to whatever Lucan was promising him.
To the void with it, Daemon decided—taking on the pragmatic approach—before stepping forward. The risk was worth the reward. So he set off to find this "Hall of Stories" the journal mentioned.
Coming across more draugrs in the adjoining halls to join their friends he ran into earlier in being rendered properly dead. Then risking a possible mamming as he came across a small passage with three axes which swung back and forth. With his robes taking some cuts.
The deeper he traversed into the barrow the more unsettling it felt, the deeper he traversed the more decrepit it became in its presented appearance. Whiffing oders which were even more offensive to the senses than those he encountered before. Turning corners to be greeted by more draugers and another drauger after another And one skeleton before a waterfall in a cavernous section of the barrow.
His clothes took damage as he ambled through.
Until he at last crossed a bridge of creaking wood which seemed to be barely holding itself together and uncovered a hall with walls which were etched with the depictions of ancient battle spane and events—a chronicle of history which had been of great significance at the time—that ended with a old door bearing three symbols resembling those on Lucan's prized claw and three slot holes. Seeing the similarity Daemon unearthed the Golden Claw to hold the points of the talon against slots but taking care to not press them fully inward—for fear it would trigger another of the traps (remembering how that one bandit and Arvel met their respective ends)—before checking the claw's symbols and began tinkering with those on the door so that they would match and then inserted the claw's points into the slots and again hoping for the best.
Once the claw was inserted, the three circles bearing the symbols in the circles began to spin and Daemon became alarmed, causing him to step backward a step with the claw as it did so. Watching as they halted with each circle containing an owl symbol to align into a column of these three aforementioned circles.
Watching as the door which had been barricading him from reaching this "power" Arvel spoke of descended into the ground.
He entered.
What awaited him within was a terrain similar to the cavernous part of the Barrow, only a tad more desolate looking. His encroachment causes bats to scatter about as he stepped inward passing by one sarcophagus to the right, and some stalagmites, before he crossed a bridge which led to the steps of a pedestal of sorts. Find a sarcophagus and wall bearing the letters of a language Daemon would not even pretend to comprehend.
Upon the shelving structure beside the sarcophagus, Daemon's eyes uncovered a uniquely formed sword. It was as black as ebony he had ever seen with crimson runes carved into the blade; of a form which was also unique among the varieties of that breed of weapon. It was not the length of your average one-handed sword but not big and long enough to be considered a greatsword.
Alongside the rune-bespeckled blade was a small, tattered journal. He opened it to read the passages; the pages were final words of an Eternal Champion named Elric who hailed from a distant land of Melnibone—a realm beyond those of Nirn and Mundus—and to know little more than woe. His great loves, Cymoril and Zarozinia, who brought him happiness were both stolen by this blade before Daemon. This sword, this evil sword, bearing the name Stormbringer. Delivered to this region of the Starry Heart, alongside the bearer of the black blade's twin, Mournblade, after blowing Olifant the Horn of Fate, as one last game on the behalf of one Chaos Lord named Arioch who made even the Mad Daedra Shegorath seem pleasant and mildly reasonable by comparison. There were also lamentations of those who he would never see again, such as Moonglum, Dyvim Slorm, Shaarilla, and Myshella. Even confessing to being nostalgic for his resentful rival and cousin Yrkoon.
Daemon certainly felt pity for the writer of this journal as much as he did fascination. There were mentions of the Melnibonian's own world. Of the capital of his fatherland was Imrryr and it held a Ruby Throne similar to the Dragon Throne in the Imperial City and how his homeland possessed dragons much like those Nirn was rediscovering the beasts. He wanted to read more but chose to do so once he could glimpse the sky once more.
Putting away the journal of Elric, he returned to the ebony blade. Gazing at it—in spite of what the journal revealed—the Renegade of Cyrodiil felt a temptation to reach for the sword. Sure it was a nightmare of a weapon in description, reminding Daemon of a certain Daedric artifact, but it also sounded to be a powerful weapon and he was going to need as much power as he could obtain. Only, as he did so he suddenly heard a ethereal whisper to disturb the silence of the inner sanctum. Motioning himself around toward the wall with the cuneiform calligraphy; and as he did the whispers grew louder, and louder with every step he made closer to the etchings. Growing from a whisper to a chant.
Soon he felt a force of power emit from the writings like a powerful gust of wind, channeling into him. Then, as swiftly as the process began it ceased, and the voices at last fell silent and the inner sanctum was once again quiet.
A crashing sound soon erupted behind him—of a heavy boulder hitting a floor of stone—and he looked to see the sarcophagus' lid being slid off and a clawed hand seized the side of the container as what was within pulled itself up and out for the glowing cold blue gaze of a draugr meet his gray eyes.
It was unique in its appearance. The skin was gray much like the others whom Daemon had encountered, only this one was adorned with pieces of armor which set it apart as well as a horned helmet. A Drauger Overlord, or so Daemon assumed.
Stepping toward him with its black two-handed battle ax in hand.
Daemon brought up his blade to fight, attempting to block the blow from the ax and heard a metallic cracking. His sword, which he had been carrying since Helgen which also faired well against the scores of draugr before this, was breaking. The follow up blow broke the blade in the middle.
When a third strike was coming down, the imperial dashed backward a couple of steps, narrowly avoiding being sliced into. Glaning to the walking gray corpse, formulating what he should do next, his gaze maneuvered around his enemy to see the ebony blade he came across earlier.
That'll do.
He plunged the broken blade into the Overlord's chest—thankfully it was still sharp enough at the edge to inflict some damage—and stepped around to take hold of the runesword for himself while the draugr was preoccupied with pulling out the nuisance in its breast whilst speaking in its ancient tongue.
He didn't expect that to kill the monster, as even the weakest of the draugr breed require a number of strikes to do them in, but to buy himself a few seconds.
Seizing the black blade in necessity, a spur of the moment, with his hand and spinning around to see the Draugr Overlord charging toward him. He held his new sword up for another blocking stance, this time the weapon held firm.
Hearing the blade scream at him wordlessly. 'End him!'
Planting one foot against the Overlord as the black blades clashed, Daemon kickedit back a step and hastily followed up with a step forward to slash the black runesword downward into the drauger's chest.
The wound seemed to genuinely sting the physical senses of the fiend, causing the creature to feel what was perhaps the first pain it had experienced for some time.. It staggered back a step, pressing on the wound.
'Spectacular!'
Daemon slashed at it again, knocking the battle ax from its grasp, and then slashed again with a clean left to right slice through the Drauger Overlord's throat. Liberating its head from its miserable shoulders and sending it flying to its side; and with its decapitation the grotesque body fumbled backward. Convulsing on the hard ground once it hit.
'Yes!'
Looking from the carcass to his new blade, Daemon could only marvel at the weapon. He was impressed beyond any words ability to properly convey. And, much like the iron sword before its breaking, it possessed an appearance which was nowhere near as provincial or gilded in appearance as the blade the Imperial had been using in his days as a member of the City Watch.
This'll do, for sure.
Despite the talking, it was ideal.
He looked throughout the sanctum, checking a chest by the sarcophagus to find a few gems and septims within as well as a small tablet at the bottom of the sarcophagus the Drauger Overlord was slumbering within.
He decided to keep that with him as well, storing it in his pack. For the moment, at least. There was a chance it could be useful at some later date. Once he did so another set of stoned steps caught his notice and elected to see where they led.
Much to his relief it led to an exit.
Emerging from the rockside of the mountain, thinking to himself at least there were no trolls, as he found himself on the other side of the river across from the road leading to Riverwood. Traversing it to return to the village.
Thankfully not running into Gerdur or Sigrid as he made his way back to the Riverwood Trader. Entering to find a surprised Lucan, who was even more beside himself when Daemon held out the Golden Claw with a smirk and "I believe this is your's."
"How…thank you!" He was ecstatic to have the decoration back on his counter. Then in a scatterbrained moment "You reward, one moment." he was reaching beneath his counter surface to look for the coins. Then he saw the black blade in his hand and asked "What's that?"
"My new weapon." Daemon told him. "I found it exploring that damn Barrow." Then asked "Do you have a sheath that could fit it…and some new clothes?" as he explained, grabbing one of the cuts in his novice mage robes "I old ones were cut up while I was getting your claw back."
It would have probably been more sensible to go to the blacksmith about a scabbard, but that did not seem…ideal to Daemon for a variety of reasons. Chief among them he enjoyed a passionate exchange with the man's wife. Sigrid spent the majority of the daytime there and if she and the Imperial were in the same spot within Alvor's line of sight it was possible that Sigrid could give off some sign they were more than of a platonic relationship—even before they gave into their passion and made love, on occasion she would blush when near him in public (being more obvious about what was going on them than Sven and Faendal when they spoke to Camilla)—and he'd need to worry about the smith coming at him with his warhammer to remedy the slight. And that would be…a slight inconvenience.
Just thinking about it made Daemon's body sore—and he had never been struck to begin with, at least by Alvor.
"Of course." Lucan told him, not questioning why Daemon was asking him about the scabbard. then snapping his fingers he added "Actually I have a set of garments you'd like, based on your taste."
"Let's see it."
The set Lucan was referring to was a black studded jacket with chainmail integrated into it, black shirt, black trousers, black gloves, and black boots. All this black gave the overall aesthetic of a very specific brand of portrait. One of a nomadic, dark, morally questionable mercenary who one would not want to earn the ire of. And Daemon found this impression to his immense liking. This appearance of a spellsword mercenary.
Camilla looked at the clothes with some disappointment to see her brother once again trying to get rid of this garment. But Daemon smirked as he looked toward Lucan asking "How much?"
"I'll deduct a small amount from your reward. Think of it as a fee."
Daemon did not make the slightest of a fuss, perceiving it as acceptable. Even reasonable. Regardless of the circumstances Lucan was a merchant and merchants need to make money regardless. He simply rested Stormbringer beside the Golden Claw and seized hold of the black clothing. "Can I make use of your room upstairs to change?"
"Of course." Camilla answered a second ahead of Lucan with a smile. "Wouldn't want any customers to stumble on you exposed. It might give people the wrong impression."
"Right." Lucan agreed as he began measuring the black sword. "All yours. Just don't break anything."
Stormbringer protested, but to Daemon's surprise neither Lucan nor Camilla reacted to its voice. It was doubtful they were ignoring the sword's words. It seemed that only the renegade could comprehend its words.
Choosing to tolerate the face, Daemon went upstairs.
As Daemon was fitting on the new dour garbs, Lucan began sewing the new scabbard for Stormbringer using pieces of some spare sheaths he had yet to rid himself of. Camilla peeked occasionally to get a gander at the Imperial's body whilst he did so. At least until Lucan realized what she was up to and proceeded chastising her.
When Daemon stepped back down the stairs Lucan seemed to be nearing the conclusion of his sewing work whilst Camilla greeted him with an approving look on her countenance. Once his end was held up Lucan watched him strap on the back scabbard before he and Daemon bartered for one last time, for some essentials. And with that the Bearer of the Black Sword would say farewell to the two siblings before he finally departed and bound for the Whiterun hold's capital.
There was still bountiful daylight to burn.