I was here, and now I'm gone. I've cleared the way, so carry on. Those who knew me, knew me well. Those who didn't, will never tell. ― child's verse of HoonDing

…

Chapter 11

Cairo tossed his head, snorting in a way that tells Tariq there's blood in the air. He can feel battle nerves tensing the warhorse's muscles.

"Help! I need some help here!"

They had been exploring the area north of the hunting cabin, looking for Ari and Niels. According to the hunters at the cabin, the two and Ari's apprentice were somewhere north hunting bears.

They found the distressed caller, a boy, sturdy build, looked to be 14 to 16. Blood seeped from long gashes. He was sitting on the ground against a fallen tree. There was a cave entrance to his left.

"Please! I could use some help!"

Tariq dismounted. "Who are you? And what are you doing out here?" he asked while he took out his medical kit.

He looked at the cave entrance, to Argis, and back to the cave. Argis dismounted, drew his sword and positioned himself between them and the cave.

Tariq eyed the rate of the seeping blood, then popped open a healing potion and measured out a minimal dosage―just enough to stop the blood loss. The gashes needed a good cleaning and some stitches.

The boy talked, distracting himself from pain as Tariq worked. "I'm Valdr. We were tracking bears. Good money for their pelts and claws and meat. We'd tracked them to this cave, then they came out. Spriggans. Three of them. Niels went down before we realized they were there. The bear we'd tracked swiped me. Ari… Ari told me to run. She didn't… I didn't think… I didn't think they were real!" the boy wailed.

"This Niels and Ari, they your kin?" asked Tariq.

"Ari's my second cousin. I was apprenticed to Ari. Sort of. Nothing formal. She was teaching me how to track and properly butcher bigger game like deer, how to properly hunt other predators. Niels was teaching me how to be a better shot with a bow…" the boy continued to babble while Tariq cleaned out the gashes, applied healing salve, and sewed up the worst ones before applying more salve and then wraps. The boy was lucky to escape only with gashes. No bites, no broken bones, no shredding, mauling trauma.

"I see. They sound like good people. I was, in fact, looking for them. New friends in Granite Hills who knew I was coming this way had recommended them to me as trustworthy people to look up."

The boy sobbed harder. He struggled for control, even putting a hand over his newly bandaged arm and twisting the bandage, using pain to leverage himself. Tariq frowned, but understood the boy's need to not totally break down in front of strangers. "They're the best. Were the best. But what now? I can't just leave them in there to be eaten."

"Don't reopen your wounds, boy." Tariq told him. He went over to Argis. "What are spriggans again?" he asked. "Woodland spirits of which of your gods?"

"Aye. Kyne's guardians of the wilderness. Harvest no plants. We can't. Only animals are free to be what they are."

"Kyne? Isn't that your goddess of the winds? Is she also your goddess of the forests? Of the animals? The wilderness?"

Argis shrugged. "Well, there was an owl god, a patron of wisdom, of hermits in the forest. But he's not very popular. Not a patron of warriors, more a patron of the clever crafters. And most of the time he gets confused with the Woodland Man."

Tariq suppressed a scowl of puzzlement. Tariq was more minded of the elven god Jauffre, which the Nords seemed to have no equivalent of. "Clever crafters?" he asked.

"Mages, witches, anyone who cowardly fights with other than their fists or solid weapons."

"But not a god of the forests."

"No."

"Can these spriggans be reasoned with?"

"Not that I've ever heard, my thane. But I've heard tales where adventurers found wondrous caves, a garden paradise guarded by spriggans. When they killed the creatures and looted the treasure, and then came back days or weeks later, to plunder the woods and hunt the animals they found withered and dead trees, stale, brackish water, and all life fled."

"If they are the creatures of your Nord goddess, are there prayers or ceremonies to placate them?"

"None I've ever heard of. But then again, there are no spriggans in the Reach."

Tariq glanced back at the boy. "So Ari and Niels followed bears into a spriggan sanctuary and died for it. If we only go to retrieve the bodies, these earth spirits might permit it if they've calmed down. But it could be weeks or months waiting for that. If we leave, the boy is likely to come back on his own or with others and try and get killed."

"I shall take a quick look to decide."

"Before you go, sir, give me a moment to get the horses and the boy out of this area. I know you've got Cairo charmed against influence, but not Nimat."

Once Argis took the horses and boy a good distance away, Tariq again trusted his magic boots to hide his presence as he entered the cave. The entrance tunnel was large enough for a bear to get through, tall enough for a human to walk. Then he got into the cavern and knew there was magic here. The cavern was lit by ambient sunlight. The air was fresh and carried the rich scent of trees, mosses, flowers, and fresh water. He looked up. The ceiling was solid rock. Magic indeed.

Not too far from the entrance, he saw the body of the woman, Ari. A dead bear lay near. She had wounds from bear claws, but none of these should have been fatal. Her sword in the bear showed that the bear had died before her. Something else had killed her.

A swarm of wasps? Strange. Sting wounds but no stingers, no swatted, crushed insect bodies on the palms of her hands.

Instincts told him he was being watched. He went to a crouch and carefully studied the surroundings. Since he had been examining the bodies, it seemed these unseen spriggans so far hadn't been awakened by his intrusion into their territory. He decided to risk picking up Ari's body and carrying it out of the cave.

He took his time in his second venture. There had been others in here before the spriggans. He spotted a chest on an above-line-of-sight ledge. A hollowed-out stump had a wine bottle, a weapon, and a coin purse. He carefully pushed aside rusted jaw traps partially hidden in moss and grass. Eventually, he could see ahead a pool of water. Ahead was a sleeping bear. And there, to the left, the body of Niels. Again, no marks on the body indicate any serious bear attack. Instead, insect stings. That was strange. He couldn't hear any bees or hornets. He didn't immediately see any nests. A little more exploration: finding another chest, a cache of weapons, and a gold vein.

Movement. He froze behind some bushes. The bark of the largest tree seemed to be writhing, then a leg separated out, followed by an arm, a shoulder. He watched as a female form, fleshed in wood bark, leisurely writhed apart from the tree. It was quite a pretty alien thing, much like a fire atronach. It was as tall as him, excluding the crown of branches rising from its head, and he sensed the size of the spirit also indicated its age. This wasn't a young green sapling.

He refused to panic. Instead, he merely meditated on the serenity of the little forest of this cave. It was much like the mental and spiritual exercises an Ash'abah teacher lead him through. They'd sat on a tall rock and watched dancing dust devils swirling on a flat plain of sand. "Watch," his teacher had told him. "The faster spin is, the tighter the form. Observe." It was a game of identifying those devils that danced the longest. A study of conservation and gathering of energy―the power when it was finally released.

But most of all, the lesson was in focus, anticipating the path from the movements of air against his skin. He watched the spriggan, his mind and heart calm, not plotting an attack nor contemplating destruction. Eventually, the woodland dremora seemed satisfied that nothing was intruding upon its peace and it went back to sleep in its tree.

He fetched Niel's body and carried it out. He didn't see the other two of the three spriggans the boy had said were there.

The boy cried over the bodies and tried to reward him with a small knife. Tariq examined the simple steel blade, sensing a charm on it. "You should keep it," he told the boy. "There's magic in this. Old, old magic. I would have to take this to an enchanter's table to better examine it, but I would say this is First or Second Era."

"Ari said it would be me luck in hunting. But it didn't do me much good today. Please take it, please. I don't think I'll be hunting any big game for a while. And you could have died just to bring the bodies out. Please take it."

Tariq sighed and tucked the knife into his belt.

X―X―X―X―X―X―X

They helped the boy deliver the bodies to their families. Tariq was surprised that their local Priest of Arkay was an old Altmer. After the Great War, and this is who they chose to bury them? Not a local like the Hold Steward Anuriel, not with that Summerset accent and certain, unconscious cultural gestures. Tariq watched him closely as he conducted the funeral rites. He didn't move like a soldier. A mage then. Not a healer. There was a feeling of sadness, of regret about the Altmer. An emptiness of a tired and bitter killer.

Was a Dominion butcher hoping that by serving this particular god of Death that he would find peace in the grave when he finally passed? End-of-life repentance and reprieve?

Yet he appeared to be well accepted by the Nords of Falkreath. Perhaps he was mistaken and this Altmer battlemage served in the Legion and was weary of killing elves of his homeland in the name of an Emperor of Man. As Tariq recalled the tales, there had been plenty of Altmer Blades of Summerset whose heads the Dominion emissaries dumped at the feet of the Emperor.

There was another funeral held that day. A young girl torn apart by a werewolf. Fortunately, that obscenity had been captured and secured in Falkreath's prison, awaiting execution. Tariq wondered what the delay was. Hircine's dog should have been immediately put down, not caged. But from what he'd heard so far of the Jarl of Falkreath, a spectacle of a werewolf's trial and execution would be to the lordling's taste and self-glorification.

He decided to visit the town's alchemy shop, a little place called Grave Concoctions, another name example of Falkreath's grim humor. The proprietor was Zaria, a Redguard woman with an interest in poisons. That suited him well. His supply of scorpion poisons from Stros M'kai was gone. She didn't have any, but was willing to let him buy recipes for poisons he could make sourcing indigenous materials, and she sold him the plants, so he also now knew what they looked like. According to her, there were no enchanter's stations in town. How inconvenient. He had to agree with her that any number of necromancer's dens he had passed by probably had such tables. Falkreath had no court mage; the jarl didn't see the need for such an expense.

Besides, most court mages in Skyrim were graduates from Winterhold, Zaria explained. And most Winterhold mages had this inconvenient idea called ethics. If the Jarl needed magic, any number of necromancers about would be willing to provide for access to dead bodies. So many dead bodies―unnamed, unclaimed, unmourned―that Falkreath guards found in the aftermath of bandit activity. If some went missing, well, it saved Falkreath a few coins and the bother of having to re-open another grave to add another body in their overused graveyard.

Also, Falkreath citizens had an unsurprising resentment of magic. An overabundance of black magic users out in the forests, you understand, so they didn't need any in town. Tariq could see that. It was still inconvenient.

Zaria proved pleasant and interesting company. They were having dinner together at the town's large inn and bar, the Dead Man's Drink. Dinner was acceptable, if bland, and the beer wasn't as good as he'd had in Granite Hills. The evening was made tolerable by Zaria sitting close beside him and going through a picture book she had of various alchemy plants to be found in Skyrim.

Poisonous stuff, but the book was a good one, with expertly drawn and colored illustrations that showed various living plants before they became withered lumps and ground powders. If he fancied a copy of his own, he may be able to find the author, a Dunmer alchemist, wandering about at the eastern edge of Falkreath, somewhere near Ivarstead. These were his drawings and research notes. She believed he had printers in Riften making limited editions. She kept telling him he should have the work done in Whiterun, but the printers there were too expensive for his purse and he had no rich patron willing to foot the bill. Besides, he was still working on the book and making additions.

She was attractive enough, and she'd indicated she found him equally so. However, she was at an inconvenient point in her fertility cycle, and because she hadn't been expecting any romantic affairs, she hadn't any baby-prevention potions on hand. Even if she brewed one tonight, it would still need at minimum three days to be fully effective. Still, an evening of heavy petting wasn't out of the question.

Except that a couple of guards came in looking for him. Argis had been arrested, accused of releasing the werewolf.

"I got curious, sir. I'm sorry," said Argis. "But I swear I didn't help his escape! He clawed his way up the stone wall and tore out the wooden ceiling! Really! They can't blame a shoddy jail construction on me! Who tops a jail with wood and thatch! It's like they want their prisoners to escape!"

While Argis ranted, Tariq turned to face the jailers, who only looked amused. "You want him, the fine's 10 gold for disturbing the Jarl's peace." Tariq paid, then grabbed Argis and shoved him towards the door.

"I have to find a white stag, sir," Argis announced abruptly once they were outside.

Tariq glared at him in disbelief. "Hunting is hardly something you should be concerned with now!"

Argis held up his left hand and Tariq saw a silver wolf's head ring. He hadn't seen it before and it gave him a bad feeling.

"I got it from the werewolf. He told me he'd stolen it from Hircine because he hoped it would help him control his transformations―allow him to prevent the turning. But instead, it made the turns more frequent. Instead of being just once a month on a full moon, it would be any day or night. He swore he hadn't meant to kill the little girl. He was working in the field and she just ran past him, chasing her cat. The urge to hunt suddenly came on him and... Yeah, it happened."

"So, how do you come to be wearing that accursed thing?" asked Tariq coldly.

"He said he couldn't die with the ring. It would likely be taken from his body once he was dead. He'd swallow it to prevent that, but the ring won't come off his finger. He has to give it to someone―that's the only way the ring will leave his hand. He told me the only way to be rid of it was to return it to Hircine, who wanders around Falkreath in the form of a great white stag. One has to kill the stag to summon the Prince."

"And what if you don't return it?"

"Um... I don't know, sir."

"Why did you offer to return it? Did it not occur to you that anyone who took the ring would then suffer from this Daedra's curse?"

"Yes. He told the guards, but they just laughed at him. Maybe some believed him, but when they couldn't pull the ring off him and it wouldn't come off, he knew they didn't intend to return the ring. Maybe some believed him and would bury it with him, but more like they believed the ring would only come off him when he died and someone would get greedy despite it being cursed, and then another werewolf would be wandering free in Falkreath."

"What guarantee that if we find this stag and kill it, that this Daedra will come? And if it comes, how can we be sure he'll take the ring back? He might be perfectly happy to have you turn into his dog."

"Yes, my thane. But I'm hoping you and your silver sword will quickly solve that problem for me then," stated Argis, unflinchingly.

"HoonDing guide me," muttered Tariq.

X―X―X―X―X―X―X

"That way!"

The stag bugled a laugh and leaped upwards 15 feet to a narrow ledge, then jumped to another. It was stag-shaped, cliff-dancing mountain goat.

They finally caught up to and killed Hircine's stag near a cave entrance. The Daedric Prince appeared in ghost-stag form and ordered them to hunt down Sinding, the werewolf, and bring him the fool's pelt as proof. But they'd better not delay. A Bloodmoon Hunt had been called and already his worshipers were closing in on Sinding. If they got to him first, Argis would maybe have a year to learn the pleasure of the hunt before another Bloodmoon and Hircine's worshipers gathered again.

Where was the hunt taking place, if the Prince would be so kind to tell them?

There was a cavern at the northern end of Lake Inalta. Another little spriggan sanctuary. Sinding had already killed the spriggans, but the magic remained because it was tied to an ancient shrine within. They'd best hurry or they wouldn't make it in time. The hunt starts tomorrow at sundown. The other hunters would have a day's head start on them.

Before they left, Tariq ventured into the cave out of curiosity. He didn't get far before he heard the hornet buzzing of spriggans, though he didn't see any. The sound was enough. He exited.

Tariq chose to head back to Falkreath first. Someone in town might have an exact location.

"I need to find a cave at the north end of Lake Ilinalta? Does anyone know of any?" he announced loudly to at the early evening crowd in Dead Man's drink.

"I know of two on the northeast shores." It was the old Altmer priest.

Tariq slapped a map in front of him. "I need the one with spriggans and a shrine." Argis took a charred piece of wood from the firepit and gave it to the elf when it was cooled enough to hold.

"There was no spriggans when I explored there, oh, ten years ago. It's a beautiful place. But there was a spirit guarding the shrine. It chased me out. A Talos shrine. It got violent when I was near." He carefully made some marks on the map. "I lost my journal in that shrine when I fled. If you see it, would you please pick it up for me? It has many memories that I don't want to forget," he added softly.

"There is no path along the northeastern shore. If you are trusting the speed of your horses, the southwestern road," he traced the road Tariq and Argis had taken into town after rescuing Valdr and retrieving the bodies of his cousin and friend, "will take you the road that goes into Whiterun Hold. You will find a cave entrance there." He marked a spot a distance from the Whiterun road and into the foothills.

"If you want the shorter, more dangerous one, you will need to follow the shoreline road east towards Riverwood. Here are the three Guardian stones. You can swim across to the other side. Go along here. The shoreline's rough and there are lots of large, dangerous creatures. Look upward the slope and you'll see the south entrance of Brittleshin Pass here. It goes through the mountain, comes here, and then down west here is the cave. Brittleshin pass hasn't been used for trade in decades and is very popular for bandits or necromancers. I recall seeing graves in there. Expect a fight if you choose that shortcut. It's not meant for horses to pass through, which is probably why it was never popular as a trade route. Narrow passages, steep stairways, and then halfway through, wooden spiral ramps of uncertain condition to a chamber floor at least two dozen feet below.

"Or you could choose to continue along the shore, passing the ruins of Fort Ilinalta. But that area is rumored to be haunted and the fisherfolk won't go near it. Too many who dare fish in that part of the lake don't come back. There is a feeling of dark magic, too. That side of the lake is not good for horses. Pushing them would only get them broken legs."

"Long way around. At least on the road, we can push for speed," said Tariq.

"During our hunt today, we came across some people that may need your services, priest," said Tariq, pointing to a recent marking on the map. The priest looked and flinched ever-so-slightly. He knew the hidden Talos shrine in that spot. "I'd say more than three days ago, less than a week. They took their murderers with them. We couldn't spare the time to do anything for them." He put the bloodstained orders he'd recovered from the deal Justicier's body next to the priest's hand.

"Thank you, my son. I'll see to it. Arkay guide you."

X―X―X―X―X―X―X

"The prey is strong. Stronger than the hunters," the dying Khajiit gasped, shuddered, and died. This group had deservedly died thinking they could just set up camp and sleep in the hunting grounds of a werewolf. Overconfident in their numbers while underestimating the desperation of the cornered prey.

"You! I didn't think to see you here." They hadn't gotten very far from the camp when a deep, snarling voice howled out from above them. They looked up to see a werewolf crouched on a ledge above them. It was looking at Argis, speaking to him.

"Hircine didn't give us a choice, Sinding," replied Argis. "He refused to take back the ring and told me I'd be the next prey for next year's hunt unless I brought him your hide before his other worshipers did. I'm sorry. I don't want to be a werewolf. I have to kill you."

"And I would deserve it, wouldn't I? I was a fool to think I could avoid this," growled Sinding. "I understand, but that doesn't mean I'll make it easy for you. The beast's instinct to survive is greater than my wish to submit to justice. Hunt well." He howled, a lonely, despairing sound, and spun about to disappear into the darkness.

This cavern was another magical other space. Above them, there was no ceiling. It was an open sky and this whole place felt like a densely wooded ravine. They could see the moons. No snow glittered on the tall ravine walls. There should have been. The cave had been at the snowline of the mountain range. Higher up, the peaks were white with snow.

They went back to the camp and scavenged a pair of lanterns and some torches from the dead worshipers. It was foolhardy to try to hunt a werewolf at night, but sleeping was out of the question unless they retreated all the way out. Even then, they couldn't sleep. If Sinding needed to escape, he would have to use that egress. The ravine may be enchanted and open up to a clear sky, but Tariq was sure one could not climb out through the top. He'd noted that the highest trees did not grow past the topmost ridge of the ravine. Only the hawks seemed to be granted that way in and out. The hawks, he'd learned, were Atmoran Goddess Kyne's sigil beast.

They could try waiting at the entrance of the grotto in hopes of killing Sinding as he tried to escape. But they were taking the risk on Argis's future that the other Hircine worshipers didn't kill Sinding first. That was what those fools camped just inside were supposed to do―guard the egress, but they fell asleep.

Such a pain. They did come across Hircine's worshipers, and since they didn't even pretend to be worshipers, they were attacked and forced to kill this motley collection of Man, Mer, and Besmer.

The apex of the path through the ravine was the ruins of a Talos shrine. Among the rubble at the feet of a tilting idol, Tariq found an Akaviri sword that glowed faintly with power. "Bolar" was the name engraved on the blade near the hilt. If there had been a ghost here, it was likely this Bolar. Making a last stand, perhaps?

There was a half-buried chest. "Why not?" Tariq replied to Argis's tentative question if they had time to open it. He kept watch while Argis worked to shift cement blocks out of the way and then break open the old chest. Inside were old pieces of armor, gold, gems, nondescript daggers in cracking leather sheaths, and old books. He also found a leather-wrapped book wedged between the chest and the wall. That one Tariq looked at after he unwrapped the protective outer suede layer. It was a journal written in Altmeris. He wasn't fluent in the written language, but he could decipher enough to know it was the Altmer priest's journal.

Ah, he had been a Conjurations battlemage for the Dominion. But holy fervor had crumbled to the soul weariness of death. So many deaths. And he grew disillusioned at the greed and fanaticism dominating the Thalmor leadership. He'd fled to Skyrim. The extra thong length on the book wrap allowed it to be tied to one's belt, so Tariq tied it to his belt at the rear, letting the book protect his backside.

They caught up to Sinding already engaged in battle against six heavily-armored hunters. Four engaged the werewolf with axes and swords. Two archers sank arrow after arrow into the werebeast. He wasn't going to win this battle. He was losing too much blood, collecting too many injuries for his beastblood to heal. Tariq and Argis were forced to attack and kill the hunters before Sinding died.

Tariq ended it with a beheading strike, then went around to the bodies of the hunters and collected purses and other valuables while Argis saw to the grim task of skinning the werebeast.

The ghost white stag of Hircine greeted them as they exited the cave. It laughed with delight as Argis presented the bloody hide. In the next instant, the ring was gone and a furry hide armor replaced the werewolf hide. "The armor of the Savior, the armor of my Champion. Wear it in good health." Argis reflexively dropped the armor in revulsion.

"A Daedric object is not something to be left lying around," said Tariq.

"Could we maybe hide it in the grotto? Hide it behind Talos and under a pile of rubble?" suggested Argis.

"I don't know. How vicious a Prince is Hircine?"

"Dunno, Thane. But… Maybe not too angry since we killed his worshipers. Guess hunters who let their prey get the better of them aren't worth his anger?" he said hopefully.

"Well, we can try your suggestion. If he wants to elect a new champion and send his dog here to dig it back up, that's his choice. And maybe your Kyne will send more spriggans to watch over this place and keep the casual adventurers out."

"Let's do that, if you don't mind, thane."

"I'm going to tend to the horses first," said Tariq. "We rode them hard and didn't see to them properly. I'll see to them first while you start digging at the shrine. As soon as I'm done, I'll come help you."

They returned to Falkreath by evening of the next day. When Tariq asked where Arkay's priest was, since his house was locked up when Tariq had stopped by there, and the priest wasn't at the inn. He was told the priest, Kust, and some others had taken a trip out of town since yesterday. More bodies found in the woods, the priest had said. No one found that unusual or worth giving a second thought to. At least no one here present was currently missing any relatives or close friends. The priest would probably be back tomorrow.

Valdr's mother, Anna, stopped by their table. "I'd like to thank you again, sir, for the consideration you've shown this town," she said, smiling Tariq. She opened the large basket she carried to show them a number of pies. "I supply the inn. Take your pick. It's on me. I have apple, snowberry, black huckleberry, mince, and sweet potato."

"You're too kind," said Tariq.

"Not at all," she said in a low voice. "My husband was among those who went with Father Runil to bury the bodies and tend to the shrine. Thank you for telling us."

"Not townsfolk, I hope."

"Not sure yet until they get back. That shrine is used mostly by locals here and from Helgen. Since the old hermit who used to tend it died over a decade ago, there's three other local families that see to keeping it relatively tended to. Dangerous work, what with Thalmor roaming about."

"About Runil," said Tariq, making sure to keep his tone light and friendly.

"Why do we have an Altmer priest in a Hold that's buried a lot of dead from the Great War?" she asked for him, her smile twisting up on one side. "Our previous Priest of Arkay, Father Kerry, was old and overworked. He'd asked for an assistant who would then replace him in time, but all of Arkay's temples were overburdened. Jarl Dengeir used to make regular patrols with his men to route out bandits and necromancers. He came across Runil at that very shrine to Talos. What kept him from killing the elf was that Runil had clearly been tending the shrine. The old Hermit Trygve was dying and Runil had also been tending him. Trygve vouched for the elf's care and respect. Runil was honest that he wasn't a Talos worshiper, that he worshiped Arkay and some other elven god―I don't remember the name―but he said that god once made alliance with Man to wipe out a plague.

"Hearing that the elf revered Arkay, the Jarl asked if Runil was a priest, because we had need of a priest. Runil wasn't then, but he was willing to go to Whiterun for training under the priests there. And so he's been with us ever since.

"We've never had cause to doubt his calling. He's put up with a lot of prejudice and outright hatred, but he's never hesitated in his duties nor shown anything other than compassion for our grief. Even Jarl Dengier, who sees Thalmor and conspirators behind every bush, will say nothing against him." Her wry smiled dared him to ask more.

"Just curious," Tariq assured her.

"Well, it's no more curious that Falkreath has had an Altmer as Hold steward for the past two decades. It was incredibly broad-minded of Jarl Dengier to appoint her so soon after the Great War. When he came back from battle, one would think a High Elf would be the last thing he'd want to work so closely with to help him govern Falkreath."

She stood up. "Ah, better get these pies to Valga. Thanks again."

It was strange. He had a feeling that even if the townsfolk ever found out Runil had been a Thalmor battlemage, it wouldn't make a difference to them. He couldn't understand these Nords.