Bretagne spent the rest of the afternoon getting to know her "Shield-Siblings," as they called themselves. Athis, the Dunmer, and Njada Stonearm, the Imperial, had been the ones fighting earlier. "Just working out some issues, in the old way," Skjor had explained when Bretagne asked. But there was clearly something going on between those two, and it wasn't merely friendly rivalry. Bretagne also met Torvar, the blonde man she had first encountered, who she learned was the resident drunkard. Bretagne took an immediate liking to Ria, who was similar to her in temperament–kind, but a bit quiet, unless you asked her about something that excited her, like why she joined the Companions. Then, she could be a veritable blabbermouth.

It was after sunset that a feast was announced as a sort of welcome party for Bretagne. Not one for large social gatherings, especially not those in her honor, Bretagne sat quietly by herself out on the porch, watching and listening to the others parade about in drunken revelry.

"Mind if I join ya?" A voice startled her out of her thoughts and she looked up to see Farkas, the nice one, with a plate heaped full of food.

"No, no, go right ahead," she said, scooting over to make room for his large frame.

"Not hungry?" he asked, pointing to the empty plate in front of her.

She clutched her mug of ale closer, as if to shield herself. "Not really. Events like this make me nervous."

Farkas waved off her concern. "This? Nah. This's just our way of sayin' hello. We don't bite." He grinned. "Well, most of us don't."

Bretagne didn't find it all that funny. "Anyone in particular of whom I should steer clear?"

In between bites of food, Farkas pointed out members of the Companions. "Let's see… well, Njada doesn't like anybody, so you're good there. Aela can be stern. You met Vil, so you already know. Oh, if I were you, I'd stay on Skjor's good side. I don't like making him angry."

Bretagne nodded nervously. "Good to know."

Just then, Vilkas, the rude one, approached their table and took a seat across from them, not bothering to ask permission. "My ears are burning."

"Nice to see you again, uh, sir," Bretagne greeted unsurely. She hoped her fake smile wasn't too forced, but it was hard to be sincere to the man who had blatantly insulted her earlier.

Beside her, Farkas snorted. "Oh gods, don't call him that. He'll get a big head."

"All the better to house my superior intellect," he said haughtily, tapping his temple. Then turned his attention to Bretagne. "How are you liking it here so far?"

"It's nice," she said. "The Companions seem like good people, for the most part."

"'For the most part'?" Vilkas repeated indignantly.

"Uh oh. Here we go," Farkas muttered.

"There's been a group called the Companions for over four thousand years," Vilkas began. "It's been many different things in that time. A conquering army. Ruthless mercenaries. A band of drunken louts. And the esteemed company you see before you." He waved his hand in a sweeping motion, and for a moment Bretagne thought he was going to get up on the table. "But there's always been a kind of honor to it. We don't deal in politics or underhanded sneaking. We try to uphold the legacy of Ysgramor. To bear his good name such that it never be forgotten, and always be spoken with reverence."

Bretagne flushed in embarrassment–clearly she had touched a nerve. "I see. You must be very proud of your heritage and culture."

"You'll hear some of the brighter faces around here talk about honor and glory. I've got nothing against it, but for me, the promise of coin is what feeds my blade. Wherever someone in Skyrim doesn't feel up to defending their own honor, we'll take up their burden." He motioned to Farkas. "That said, we've been here as long as either of us can remember, though. So try to show some respect."

"I understand," Bretagne said sincerely, nodding. "I'll be sure to take extra care when dealing with your finances, since it's clearly very important to you."

Vilkas gave a slightly impressed "hmph," as if to say, "Maybe she isn't as dumb as I thought."

Farkas, slightly drunk and wanting to break the tension, slung an arm around Bretagne's tiny shoulders. "See? That's the spirit, er–" He broke off.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Shit. I just realized I don't know what to call you."

She chuckled. "My full name is Bretagne Regina Marie Claire Le Roi," she rattled off effortlessly, "but you can just call me Bret."

"Brit– Bret–" Farkas stuttered, trying to sound out the unfamiliar name.

"Repeat after me. Breh," she offered and motioned to him.

"Brey."

"Tah."

"Tawn."

"Nyuh."

"Yuh."

"Good," she said, and Farkas beamed at her, pleased with his foray into foreign language. "It's difficult to learn. On the last part, pretend you forgot what you were going to say and sort of...trail off."

"Brrrey-tahn-yeh," he tried again. His accent came through in a rolled R, and the look of fierce concentration on his face was rather endearing.

"Now you're getting it! It just takes practice. Try to say your R's at the back of your throat, or maybe tone down the trrrrrill," she demonstrated, earning a laugh from Farkas.

"I think my brother would have a much easier time with this," he said, gesturing to Vilkas.

Vilkas just shook his head. "Like I said, his brains are not his strong suit. I still can't believe your parents named you that. It's got to be a joke."

"Why, what's funny about her name?" Farkas asked.

Bret sighed. "He means my first name." She clasped her hands together. "I'm a Breton."

"Yeah, and?"

"My ancestors were native to High Rock, and they came from an ancient region called Bretony, which means 'land of the Bretons.' In their original language, Bretony would be pronounced..." She waved to Vilkas.

"Bretagne," he finished.

"So yes, I am Bretagne, the Breton from Bretony. My parents had a strange sense of humor."

"Unbelievable." Vilkas shook his head in disbelief.

"Hey, don't judge me too harshly," Bret said. "It's better than my sister's name."

"What's that?" Farkas asked.

"Brandywine."

Vilkas snickered. "You can't be serious."

"It gets better."

The twins waited eagerly for her next words.

"Her middle name's Sherry."

Vilkas actually barked out a laugh. "That's ridiculous!"

Bret nodded, sighing resignedly. "Yes, it is. I'm a region, and she's the two alcohols the region is known for. Earned us a lot of teasing when we were children." She snapped out of her momentary dejection and sat up straight. "But, we're both adults now, and I can handle myself. My sister on the other hand..."

Her gaze dropped again, and it was clear to the brothers that she wouldn't be answering any questions. "Ah, nevermind. Not important." Bret shook it off. "So, what's next?"

"What do you mean, 'what's next'?" Vilkas asked. "It's your party. Do whatever you want."

"Says the man who compared my worth to a broken sword," Bretagne muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Uh huh."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must talk with Brill about something." She stood up and the twins followed suit out of respect. It was then she realized just how massive those two actually were. They appeared to be the same height, though Vilkas stood with his head held high at all times, and Farkas tended to slouch slightly. Any taller or shoulders any broader, and they might both need to duck and turn sideways to get through the doors of Jorrvaskr.

Along the rock wall, Brill, Vignar, Skjor, and Kodlak stood away from the party, chatting amongst themselves. Vignar was smoking tobacco, and Bretagne fought the urge to cough as she approached.

"There's our new apprentice," Brill announced. "What brings you by?"

Bretagne looked sheepish. "To be honest? I just wanted some quiet, away from everyone."

"Can't says I blame ya," Vignar croaked, mid-cough from his pipe. "Them youngins don't know when to shut up."

"Vignar, please." Brill smiled apologetically and motioned for Bretagne to sit down. "Have a seat, if you don't mind the company of a bunch of old men."

"I don't mind. My pa is probably older than all of you." She sat, listening to the din of the other Companions. Although she didn't mean to eavesdrop, she couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Kodlak and Skjor.

"Tradition is very important to me, son," the old man said.

"To me as well. I think we don't see the same tradition at play here," Skjor said. Bretagne wondered what kind of tradition they might be talking about.

"If you want to lead this pack when I'm gone, you have to see farther. Look closer."

Skjor huffed. "Well which is it? Look farther or closer?"

"Come on now, boy, you know what I meant..."

Skjor seemed frustrated. "You speak in riddles sometimes."

"Um, pardon me," Bretagne said after a break in their discussion. "I don't mean to be rude, but I heard you say something about 'looking closer or farther'?"

Kodlak encouraged the young woman to stand and approach. "Speak, child, if you have something to say."

"Oh, it's just…" She turned to Skjor but didn't look him in the eye. "I think, what he means by that, is that to be a good leader, you have to see the big picture, but also pay attention to the little things. But to not get so lost in the details that you lose sight of the overall goal. You have to see the forest and the trees… so to speak." She ducked her head bashfully.

Kodlak was visibly impressed. "That's exactly what I mean, child. Somebody get this girl a drink!"

Skjor, on the other hand, was a little perturbed that he was getting sage advice from a tiny Breton woman. "I see," was all he said as someone brought by a tray of drinks.

"Ah, thank you, Tilma," Kodlak said as she passed out mugs. Bretagne realized it was the elderly lady who had helped her find Kodlak in the first place, so she took the tray from her. "Here, let me do that."

Bretagne passed out the last remaining mugs, which she assumed were all the same, aside from one of the cups not having a matching handle–it was much fancier than the rest. In the commotion of lively conversation, no one seemed to care. But as soon as Brill brought a plain-handled mug to his lips, Tilma's hand shot out with lightning fast speed, belying her old age, and smacked it out of his hand, ale splashing all over the table. "No!"

"Tilma, what in the hells–"

"Brill, I got yours," Vignar said, handing him the fancy cup.

"I'll go get you another, Vignar, don't you worry," Tilma reassured, taking the now-empty mug off the table.

Kodlak gently approached Bretagne. "He can't drink. He's sober."

Bretagne's eyes widened and her cheeks flamed in surprise and shame. "Oh, gods, I'm so sorry, I didn't know!"

"You couldn't have known," Brill said, dabbing his shirt. "Yep, been on the wagon for, going on six years now, I think."

"Congratulations," Bretagne choked out. "If you'll excuse me." She didn't wait to be excused before rushing back inside, gaining looks from some of the other Companions. She didn't stop running until she made it downstairs and into the whelps' quarters, where she hid under the covers. Not even my first day, and already I made a fool of myself, she thought. Serving ale to an addict… how could I be so stupid? Bretagne sighed. Perhaps by the morning, everyone will simply forget what happened and I can start my new job and have a peaceful day.

Hopefully.