"Damn that Skaldi! Damn him! That thieving, double-crossing, back-stabbing, greedy piece of mammoth shit! May the Daedra take him and tear him a new one!" Those were the words that Halfdan muttered to himself as he passed through the Pale Pass on his way to Skyrim. Having to pay a toll to the Imperial border guards for them to let him pass through, Halfdan was now practically penniless, without a single rusty Septim to his name, except the ones he saved for supplies for his travels. And ale and mead, of course. And with the civil war raging in his homeland there was bound to be work cut out for this sellsword. With most of the fighting men committed to the war effort, the roads have been left unguarded. Brigands plundering whatever they come across, warlocks and necromancers doing questionable stuff to whatever rotting carcass they encounter, giants shitting on the roads, everything. If they're willing to pay some sellsword to take care of whatever troubles the Jarl or the Thane, jobless mercenaries and adventurers looking for fame and fortune are bound to be attracted like flies to honey. Maybe, just maybe, Halfdan might consider plying his trade to the one province on Tamriel, he hasn't stepped in years. Even though, initially the reason for his arrival in Skyrim was because he was contacted by an Imp Stool of a Breton by the name of Louis Letrush for a job down in Riften.
He didn't bother stopping for rest at Helgen. Instead, he took the road down to Falkreath. Even though there was an inn at Helgen, the sight of the Imperial Legionnaires garrisoned there nauseated him for some reason. Probably because of the toll he had to pay at the Pale Pass border crossing. Besides, looking and smelling like ogre's puke after that botched job he did for that milk drinker of a Redguard down in Cheydinhal with Skaldi the Nettle, would give the impression to some delusional adventurer passing back and forth through the border that he's some sort of a bandit with a hefty bounty on his head. Not that the common folk wouldn't gander at him with suspicion, but at least the Holds of Skyrim knew to track their crimes separately. Sure, Halfdan had some troubles with the law once or twice. But he did manage to pay off his bounties one way or another. Besides, he has a clean slate in every Hold in Skyrim.
The road to Falkreath was longer than he anticipated. He arrived at almost the late hours of the evening. Apart from the occasional wolf pack, he entered the city without the slightest problem. He finally found the inn to rest in for the night. "Dead Man's Drink" was its name. Halfdan found the name oddly appropriate, since Falkreath is the home of the largest cemetery in Skyrim, where all renowned warriors are buried. But Halfdan finds that the townsfolk are really going over the top with the theme of death and gloom in this Hold. "Corpselight Farm", "Grave Concoctions", it was all too much for him. At least the general goods store stands out from the running joke. Halfdan walked inside the inn to find the place oddly cheerful, as opposed to the loom and gloom of the pine forests held within the Hold. He walked over to the innkeeper behind the counter.
"A room for the night and a mug of ale." Halfdan tiredly said.
"Sure thing. It's the one on your left." The innkeeper pointed out. "Fifteen Septims." She said as she poured some ale inside a wooden mug.
Halfdan lazily pulled out his coin purse and began counting the Septims. He put down fifteen Septims on the counter and took his mug. He looked for a table amidst the inn, full of patrons. After finding a quiet spot, he sat down and took a sip from his mug. As he was quietly drinking his ale, the tavern wench appeared next to him with a cooking pot. She was a Nord and had short red hair with a braid on each side of her face and icy blue eyes.
"A new face down in Falkreath. And Shor's bones, a rightfully handsome one." The wench complimented.
Halfdan took a quick glance at her and said. "Darling, you ought to get your eyes checked at a healer." He couldn't be bothered to return any of the sweet talk of a typical tavern wench.
The wench scoffed and changed her flirty tone to a more neutral one. "Do you want some stew? The venison is freshly cut. Thanks to Valdr and his hunting party." She pointed at the group, who seemed to be having a rather good time. One of the men, a Nord with a rather dark skin tone, but shoulder length blond hair with a braid on the left side of his face, stood up from his table and went to declare something.
"Everyone, listen!" The chatter amongst the patrons subsided, even the bard stopped playing his lute, as the Nord addressed the patrons. "I would like to raise a toast to my faithful companions here, Niels and Ari, for this successful hunt!" Soon the whole inn erupted in cheers.
"Oh, come on, Valdr." A Nord woman with a blonde mohawk and a brown streak of paint over her eyes opened up. "You took down that stag with a single shot. You didn't even need our help."
"Nonsense, Ari." Valdr answered back. "I couldn't have tracked it without yours and Niels's help. Everyone! You all get a round from me!" The hunter declared and soon the patrons cheered once more, but louder. "Narri!" He called out to the wench. "A mug of ale for each one here. Put it on my tab."
"Right away, Valdr." Narri answered.
"Huzzah..." Halfdan raised his mug lazily and cheered with the other patrons as the wench poured the venison stew into the wooden bowl in front of Halfdan. More ale was always welcomed.
As the wench left to serve other patrons, Halfdan then glanced at the wench's bottom as she walked away. If he wasn't in a sour mood, he would've bedded her in a heartbeat. But right now, he needs some food and a drink. Or two. As he broke off a piece of bread from the loaf and began soaking it in the stew, he recounted the course of events that occurred before he arrived in Skyrim. He and Skaldi the Nettle did a job for a Redguard merchant by the name of Amun. It involved pillaging the shipment of another rival merchant. They destroyed the carriage and made off with sizeable loot, until something pierced him in the chest. A single Ebony arrow struck him down. Skaldi took the opportunity to steal Halfdan's share of the loot and left him for dead in the middle of the road. He swore he would find Skaldi one day and kill him in the slowest way possible. And as for the archer that fell him, he promised if by chance he found him, he would shove that Ebony arrow up his arse. Halfdan was done eating his stew and was taking one final gulp as he looked at the arrow that almost killed him. His stream of thought was interrupted as the wench came back once more with another mug of ale.
"You look beaten. No wonder you're so prickly." Narri, commented.
"No kidding..." Halfdan once again answered bluntly.
"You know what you need right now?" Narri leaned in closer to Halfdan. "A nice good bath." She spoke with a sultry tone. "Meet me outside soon. I'll have the bath ready all warm for you. Let me give you the magic touch of Narri."
"Darling, you're now speaking my language." Halfdan turned to face the wench and smiled.
"Enjoy your ale for now." She stroked Halfdan's forearm softly. "But don't keep me waiting for long." She teased.
As Halfdan woke up to the sound of the rooster from the nearby Corpselight Farm, he picked up his waterskin from his brown bear fur backpack and took a gulp. He then reached for his coin purse and counted his Septims. There was barely enough gold for supplies for his trek to Riften, let alone for renting a room for the next few days, until a carriage heading there arrived. Halfdan started to regret accepting Narri's bath, as he gave her a good tip. He wouldn't have been mad, if he bedded her in the end. That would've made the coins spent worth it. But at least she did bother to wash his tunic and trousers as well. He knew he shouldn't stay without coin for long, so he decided to try his luck at doing odd jobs around town. After putting on his trousers and tunic, he picked up his war axe and dagger and put them on his belt as well as his waterskin and coin purse. He didn't want to leave his armour unattended in the inn, but then again, it would be a hindrance to the manual work he was about to do.
The town looked busy in the early hours of the morning. Halfdan covered his tired eyes as he was greeted by the sunshine the moment he stepped outside of the inn. He walked towards the eastern gate, where he noticed the lumber mill. Maybe the mill owner needed another sawyer or a lumberjack. The perfect job for Halfdan. Of course, there was the farm, but what did he knew about farming? He was certain the farmer would find another helper by the end of Harvest's End. He reached the lumber mill and was greeted by a blond Nord with long slicked back hair and a long soul patch on his chin working the saw. The mill worker then noticed Halfdan approaching him and greeted cheerfully.
"Aha, another true son of Skyrim! How can I help you, kinsman?"
"I'm looking for work. Figured you might need help around the mill."
"Well... I'm sorry, kinsman..." He sighed. " I already have another hand, working the mill." He pointed to a thin-looking Nord lad with blond hair. "Sinding, how's the firewood coming along for Jarl Dengeir?" He called over him from the roped fence."
"I almost have the next batch ready, sir." The lumberjack answered.
"Good. Prepare another batch for my brother's shop as well."
Halfdan sighed disappointed as he returned back to the inn. He sat on one of the tables with a piece of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth, he picked up from his pack. He begrudgingly ate his meal as he wondered how he'll make his way to Riften. No trading caravans on their way to the Rift, looking for guards, no carriages arriving to Falkreath any time soon. And with the roads left unguarded, because most of the men were committed to the civil war, the option of travelling the roads on his own, was out of the question, unless he was willing to trip on not only the vicious wildlife of Skyrim, but on a brigand as the province has become a wild country for banditry these days. At least that was how the innkeeper, the Imperial, named Valga put it. Halfdan felt somewhat sorry for her. She moved away from Cyrodiil thirty years ago to escape the Great War, only to find herself in a civil war in Skyrim.
As he begrudgingly ate his piece of goat cheese and almost stale bread, the front door of the inn opened. Through it came a blond Imperial lad, no older than thirty years, with shoulder length hair and a moustache with some chin hairs, with not much to show for. He was dressed in fine green Cyrodiilic garments, indicating the whelp must've been quite wealthy. There was a fur cloak over his shoulder to keep him warm in Skyrim's cold. He wasn't definitely from Bruma, where the cold of the Jerall mountains was all year round. Halfdan must've deduced he came from further south. There was also a finely made steel sword on his hilt. While the making of it was true to its Cyrodiilic culture, the hilt was nothing special, the pommel was simple, and the scabbard wasn't decorated with engravings, or any gilded parts. The sword wasn't certainly for show. Thus the boy didn't look like a nobleman's spoiled brat on an adventure and probably knew his way around with the blade. But Halfdan didn't care much for who the boy might've been as he returned to finishing off his meal. After he was done, he reached for his waterskin and removed the cap. As he took three large gulps from it, he saw from the corner of his eye the Imperial lad standing beside him to his left, with his hands behind his back.
"E-excuse me, sir." He spoke softly, albeit nervously stuttering. "I don't normally do this, but do you... erm... have a moment to talk?"
"What in Oblivion do you want, milk drinker?" Halfdan snarled with discontent. He wasn't in the mood to entertain some rich Imperial halfwit.
The lad slightly recoiled back from Halfdan's gravelled Nordic voice. "N- no need to be rude, sir. I- I'd just like to discuss business. In fact I have a proposition for you."
The moment Halfdan heard the word 'business' he turned to face the young lad. "Go on. I'm listening."
"Oh, thank the Divines..." He sighed in relief as he wiped his eyebrow, before he cleared his throat. "Okay... My name is Lucien Flavius." He introduced himself, as if he either rehearsed it. "I'm a scientist, philosopher, an amateur wizard and something of a musician. Although, that's something more of a hobby, I suppose. I couldn't help but notice you're... well.. well acquainted with the less savoury parts of Skyrim."
"Lad, I've just about travelled everywhere. High Rock, Elsweyr, Valenwood, Hammerfell… you name it. Wherever it is, I've most likely been there… So I've just about seen more than a thing or two…"
"Marvellous. Because I might just require your assistance." Lucien then went on. "See, I'm here on Skyrim on an expedition- academic, mainly." He then walked off, pacing back and forth, as his speech drifted into listing the things he praises about the province. "I find Skyrim simply fascinating! The flora, the fauna, the ruins- both Nordic and Dwemer- the architecture, the politics…"
'By Kyne, here we go…' was what Halfdan thought to himself as he received an earful of Lucien's adorations.
"Trouble is, I'm not much of a fighter." The Imperial boy then started to list his shortcomings. "I know a few spells, and just about can swing a sword, but beyond that, I'm pretty much useless in combat. Skyrim is no place for a… "milk drinker" like me-"
"That's right." Halfdan interjected nonchalantly in the middle as he took a sip from his waterskin.
"... so I'm looking for someone to travel with." Lucien concluded.
Halfdan knew fully well that bodyguard work was not exactly a milk run. Especially when you have to deal with hapless halfwits, who can't fend for themselves. And sure as well the scrawny Imperial looked like one. Halfdan prayed that the Imperial had a deep enough coin purse to compensate him for all the potential trouble he's going to face.
"Okay, lad. How much are we talking about?"
"Oh, shall we say… three hundred Septims up front?" Lucien offered. "After that, I'll top you up every time I come across something useful to my research. At your discretion, of course. No obligations, say that you take me with you, and assist in keeping me alive whenever possible."
Three hundred Septims in advance sounded like a deal to Halfdan. There was more than enough coin to cover for food and supplies for the long road to Riften, and maybe the rent at the Dead Man's drink as he probably waited for a carriage. In the end, Halfdan accepted the offer.
"Sounds like a deal, lad."
"Oh, splendid." Lucien was gleeful, as he passed a coin purse to Halfdan. And sure enough, it was heavy with Septims. "This is going to be quite the adventure."
"Under one condition." Halfdan then stood up and towered over the Imperial. "If we get into trouble, do as I say, and try not to get in my way." He raised his finger and spoke bluntly.
"Sir, yes, sir." Lucien's smile made him seem like a nitwit to Halfdan.
"Good." Halfdan then made his way back to his room with his waterskin and coin purse in hand. "Oh, and the name's Halfdan, by the way." He stopped as he remembered he forgot to introduce himself.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Halfdan."
The Nord in response simply grunted. He wasn't particularly looking forward to dealing with a pea-brained Imperial. But as long as he paid handsomely, and stayed out of the way, he could bear him for as long as he needed to.
The view of the Great Arch of Solitude was awe inspiring. The domes of the Blue Palace on the other end of the arch stood out like flawless sapphires in the sky. Oldarion couldn't help but marvel at the sight as the ship was on a final approach for Solitude's docks. The sailors moved around the deck, like a colony of ants, as they prepared to moor the ship. It was then the Altmer began making his way back to his cabin at the lower level of the ship. Travelling with a merchant vessel wasn't ideal for him, but the Imperial Legion demanded him to embark to his new station of duty. Just near the end of his service in High Rock, the Legion immediately sent him to Skyrim. It seemed to Oldarion that they needed every hand they could get to quench the Stormcloak insurrection. With the Empire's resources close to depleted in the Great War, Ulfric Stormcloak's uprising created another obstacle in its stability. Resources that could well have been used to reinforce their borders with the Aldmeri Dominion. Oldarion knew all too well that the White Gold Concordat was merely a simple armistice. There would be a day, where the two bitter enemies would clash their blades once more.
As he made his way to his cabin, he reached another one on its way and knocked on the door, only to hear moans and grunts coming from the other side. 'There she goes whoring once again…' he thought to himself as he sighed and made his way back to his cabin. But as he turned his back on, he could hear the door opening. He turned to see a blue eyed, raven haired Breton lass peaking through the door, by her exposed pale shoulder, Oldarion deduced she was probably naked.
"What is it this time?" She rolled her eyes.
"We're about to dock. So I suggest you gather your belongings." Oldarion explained to her.
"Really? Just for that?" She groaned in frustration. "Can't I have any fun around here, without you interrupting me?"
"Bedding other men is considered a good time for you, Rosaline?" He remarked as he noticed a tall Redguard sailor coming out of her cabin, fixing the belt on his tunic as he made his way to the deck.
"It's considered fun to me." Rosaline smugly proclaimed. "Oh, and it's not just men as well…" She also added in.
Oldarion just rolled his eyes in response, as he could've just been spared the details of his travelling companion's sexual encounters. He swore she was more promiscuous than a Dibellan acolyte.
"I don't know if you High Elves are always this stuck up, or the higher you go in the Legion's ranks, the more chaste you become." Rosaline continued to sneer.
"Whatever." Oldarion brushed her off. "Just get your stuff ready, before we disembark."
He went back into his cabin to don his piece of Legion issue laminar armour enchanted with magical resistance and a crimson cape with the dragon aspect of Akatosh, the symbol of the Third Empire, embroidered on it. The cape was a symbol of the rank he held in the Legion. After putting his Imperial issue spatha and dagger as well, he picked up his satchel and made his way to the deck as the boat was tugged to the port. As he watched the dock workers and the sailors mooring the ship to the pier, the events of how he met his travelling companion came back playing in his mind. Oldarion caught Rosaline breaking into his private quarters as he was stationed in Calmorn. Seeing as how she was able to not only sneak past the guards, but break into his safe with ease, instead of turning the thief to the guards, he saw use for her talents. Oldarion guaranteed her freedom if she worked for him. And with the civil war in Skyrim, he may be able to put her to good use in off the book stuff that would benefit the Legion. If only he could hold a tight grip on her roguish nature… Of course, there was more than meets the eye with the Breton rogue. But his stream of thoughts has been interrupted as she finally made her way up the deck, yawning and stretching before shivering as she got a morsel of the cold Skyrim weather, despite them being in the rather pleasant part of the province.
They made their way through the Storm Gate and down the Avenue District, navigating past the swarms of citizens filling the streets of Solitude, doing their day-to-day business and the squads of guards making their afternoon rotations. Some of the common folk appear to prepare the streets for the Harvest's End festival that is to come in less than a fortnight. Before Oldarion made his way down to the Well District and towards Castle Dour, reporting to the military governor General Tulius, the two stopped by an inn. The Winking Skeever was its name. Oldarion reached for his satchel and pulled out his coin purse. After counting some Septims, he passed them to his Breton companion.
"Here." He put away his coin purse back in his satchel. "Get yourself a room and a meal. And for the Gods' sake, stay out of trouble." He warned her as he turned to make his way to Castle Dour.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" Rosaline simply rolled her eyes as she walked through the door of the inn.
Oldarion kept making his way towards Castle Dour. He climbed up a stone ramp above a fountain where the Well District was. After passing the local blacksmith and fletcher, he walked through an arch and inside the courtyard of Castle Dour, where he saw the Haafingar Hold guards training rigorously with both their blade and their bow. He noticed two legionnaires in standard chain mail with wool and hide clothing underneath to keep them warm in the harsh Skyrim weather standing guard by a door that had the Imperial standard gently waving over them. Oldarion approached the door and the guards immediately saluted him upon noticing his rank.
"Legate!" They said in unison as they went into a parade rest.
"At ease." Oldarion said in an almost stern tone as he finally walked through the door.
Oldarion walked through the stone corridors of the castle. The walls were decorated with the banners of the Empire. Making his way towards the war room he was greeted by a tall Nord woman with short auburn hair. She looked no older than fifty, but her large frame and the strong look emanating from her amber eyes showed she was battle hardened. There was no mistake in Oldarion's mind. That was Rikke Agnarsdottir. And by the gold embroidered crimson cape she was wearing over her segmented armour, she seems to have been promoted to the rank of Legate. The Nord woman noticed the Altmer arriving and immediately recognised him by his short blond slicked back hair, green elven eyes and goatee.
"When the general said you'd be arriving in Skyrim, I just couldn't believe my ears…" She smiled warmly.
"Long time no see, Rikke…" Oldarion also returned a smile of his own.
The two then exchanged a handshake. Rikke went for the typical Nord one by grabbing him by the forearm.
"Look at you. Since when did you get promoted to Legate?" Oldarion wondered.
"Got my promotion about ten years ago. Finally…" Rikke muttered. "By Ysmir, you haven't aged a bit…" She then remarked.
He chuckled at her remark. "You know that we Elves have pretty long lifespans. I'm only a hundred and thirty six years old. By Elven standards, I'm just entering my prime."
Rikke chuckled as well. "Oh by Ysmir… It's been so many years… We rarely got to see each other after the Great War…"
"Yeah…" Oldarion looked away as he thought for a moment. The memories of the war came back flooding in his mind. "It's been thirty years since that dreadful war… And we've been only Тribunes back then…"
"Aye…" The Nord sighed as she also recounted her own painful memories.
"I remember when we fought at the Red Ring…" Oldarion began recounting. "... when that Aldmeri battlemage pinned me to the ground, casting his lightning bolts at me, tearing my flesh away with raw arcane power… you were there to slay him just when I thought I was about to meet my end..." He then brushed his right forearm, which bore the scars from the battle.
"Aye… I almost took you for dead back there…" Rikke opened up again. "Honestly, you looked like hammered shit on an anvil…"
Oldarion couldn't help but chuckle at his comrade's crude remark. "Thank you… I owe you so much for that…"
"Ysmir's beard, don't go soft on me now!" Rikke rolled her eyes as she gently slapped his shoulder. "You can repay me by buying me a round or two at the Skeever."
Oldarion then chuckled at the gesture. "You Nords truly are rather simple. Being content with the smallest of things."
"That we are." Rikke lordly returned. "A good battle and a full mug are what keep us content."
"I don't think I'll ever get used to your brethren."
"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to get accustomed to them."
"I suppose you're right…" The Altmer shrugged. He couldn't help, but admire the Nords' notion of honour in battle.
Rikke thought for a moment, before she continued. "I suppose you'll be stationed in Skyrim for the duration of the Stormcloak rebellion…"
"Yeah…" Oldarion slowly nodded. "I presume this whole state of affair must be hard for you…"
"More than you know…" Rikke looked up at her comrade with a mix of sadness and anger. She knew the leaders of the Stormcloaks all too well, grieving that circumstances made them enemies. "No matter... It's our duty as legionnaires to maintain the peace in the Empire, and I intend to carry it out."
"I understand, Rikke…" Oldarion simply nodded.
"Now… I suppose you want to report to the general as soon as possible. He's in the war room, just right through this door." The Nord legate pointed out.
"Thank you, Rikke… Perhaps we'll see each other another time."
"Perhaps. I'm sure we can catch up plenty over a mug of ale at the Skeever." Rikke smiled before making her way down the stony corridor.
"That we will… It's nice to see you Rikke…" The High Elf smiled back.
"Likewise, Oldarion. And good luck out there…" Rikke turned for a moment to part with her comrade.
Rosaline made her way inside the Winking Skeever. The place wasn't as full of patrons in the afternoon. Apart from a handful of adventurers enjoying their respite, the innkeepers preparing the meals for the evening and the bard, who was tuning the strings on her lute, there was little in terms of company. The Breton made her way to the bar and took a seat on the stool. She called out to the middle aged redhead Imperial innkeeper.
"I'd like to rent a room for the night. Oh, and a meal." She pulled out the coin purse Oldarion gave her and put down some Septims.
"I can only serve you some steamed mudcrab and some vegetables for now. Nothing too fancy. But tonight," The Imperial proudly proclaimed. "I'll serve the Winking Skeever's famous salmon, potatoes and leek soup."
Rosaline chuckled at the innkeeper's enthusiasm. "That's okay. I'll settle with the mudcrab, I suppose. But I'll come back tonight for that soup." She guaranteed.
"Right away, ma'am. Minette, my dear!" He called out to a blonde girl no older than twelve. "Could you prepare one of the rooms upstairs for our guest?"
"Yes, papa." The girl nodded and ran down the inn and up a set of stairs.
As the innkeeper put some steamed mudcrab legs on a plate and served it to Rosaline, she quietly observed the bar. Like the city itself, the inside of the inn was just as pleasing. She was surprised the rooms were this cheap, despite how fancy the establishment seemed. As she took a bite from one of the legs, she noticed one of the innkeepers talking to a pale-scaled Argonian with brown feathers on his head and spiked horns under his cheeks.
"Look, Jaree, I'm not interested." The black haired bearded Imperial protested. "I don't care how much you insist or how much you say you'll pay me." The man then moved away from the Argonian's table and continued his business.
"Suit yourself." He shrugged. "But you're missing out a lot working in that bar." He tried to persuade him one last time. But the young innkeeper just went to tend his business.
Rosaline then called out silently to the redhead Imperial. "What's the deal with the Argonian over there?"
"Oh, him?" He briefly looked at him, before leaning in closer to Rosaline. "That's Jaree-Ra. He's looking for new blood for hire, it seems." He muttered. "I'd advise you to be careful around him."
Rosaline thought for a moment. By the way the lizard carried himself, he was up to no good. This seemed like a good business opportunity. Of course, she'd be testing Oldarion's patience if she was to be caught. If… But it wasn't just the coin for Rosaline. The excitement also played a factor. The rush of excitement she gets from breaking the law is greater than any man or woman she could bed. Rosaline quietly finished her meal, before she stood up and walked up to the Argonian.
"So…" She took the seat on the other side of his table. "I heard you might be looking for a helping hand."
The Argonian looked at the Breton with interest. "Hmm… yes… I might need an extra hand for a job." He then began explaining the details. "See, my sister and I are treasure hunters. We like to collect things. Things that could be easily missed."
Rosaline wasn't buying the lizard's story as she leaned forward and looked him in the eyes, speaking in a much serious tone. "Don't try to sell me that, boot. I can smell a fraud from a mile away. And, boy, do you reek." She smugly smirked, showing she was fully aware the Argonian was up to no good. And so was she.
Jaree-Ra then gazed at the small Breton girl. He was certain she would make things infinitely more interesting. She was ambitious and greedy. The perfect person for the job. He looked around the inn for a moment, making sure they weren't drawing any attention. But the patrons seemed mostly keeping to themselves. He then leaned in and faced Rosaline with his grey reptile eyes. "Okay, I'll be honest with you. I represent a crew called the Blackblood Marauders. We have an interest in plundering a ship that is bound to dock Solitude soon. It's called the Icerunner, and it's expected to arrive later in the evening. However, a thick fog is expected to descend over the fjord."
"And I suppose the only thing keeping it on course is the lighthouse?" Rosaline presumed.
"Yes." Jaree-Ra nodded, acknowledging how quick-witted the small Breton woman was. "It would be most unfortunate if that flame was to go out, no?" The Argonian smiled slyly.
"Very unfortunate if it runs aground…" Rosaline cast a smile off her own in response.
"Good. After you're done putting out that flame, meet me at the docks. I'll be there to make sure the Icerunner doesn't make it to port."
Rosaline nodded. "And what about the crew? I don't want unnecessary bloodshed."
"Don't worry about the crew." Jaree-Ra reassured her. "We'll make sure they land safely ashore. And hopefully they cooperate with us in our relief effort." He once again made a sardonic smile.
The rain was pouring down over the Fall Forest as the trading caravan made its way to Riften. But it would be another three days before they arrive. The caravan would also make a stop at the village of Ivarstead for food and rest for the evening in a couple of hours. The fog that descended from the Jerall mountains engulfed the white birch trees, whose orange leaves slowly carpeted the ground in a sea of amber. Hence giving the name for the forests in the Rift as it seemed half of the year that autumn dominated.
Halfdan stared at Lucien from under his hood. The Imperial boy seemed to be busy reading a book, casting a shade with his own cloak to protect the parchment from getting wet. Ever since he took the journey to Riften with the whelp, his nose seemed to be shoved in books and notes. It wasn't as if it was his first time he ever worked with a scholar. But if Halfdan's experience told him anything, it was those types of people paid too much attention to their books and scrolls, rather than whatever danger was on the road. And the scrawny Imperial was no exception. But as far as the Nord was concerned, seeing as he was gonna be stuck with Lucien for as much as he could keep him alive, or he gets bored of his presence and hires another mercenary, this contract could as well be profitable.
For now, Halfdan was keen on learning more about the Imperial. He believed that getting better acquainted with his contractor made the job all worthwhile. "What are you reading there, whelp?" He asked, desiring to break the silence on the long trip as they soaked out the cold rain.
"Oh, just some research on the Dwemer people, their culture, and, of course, their crafts and technology." Lucien cheerfully explained.
The Dwemer. They were more commonly known as the Dwarves. An ancient long gone race of artisans, stonecutters, metalworkers and engineers, who created mechanical wonders that almost rivalled the Gods themselves. Halfdan supposed their hubris to become equal as the Gods, was what brought their sudden disappearance from the face of Nirn. The fact that the young naive Imperial lad was showing keen interest in them was what worried him. From his experience with the ruins the Dwemer left behind, aside from the intricate layouts of their cities, where even the most experienced of adventurers would find difficult to navigate, they left behind not only their cunning deadly traps, but their metal automatons as well, who not only acted as the workforce of their society, but also as the lawbringers and guardians.
Halfdan was reluctant to ask, but he knew where the conversation was heading. "So, I suppose you came here to study the Dwemer and their ruins?" He asked apprehensively.
"Just this one ruin." Lucien closed his book after placing the ribbon between the pages to mark his progress. "Dumzbthar." He slowly spelled it out. "Translated, the name means "Bound Ghosts". Which is weird, because, while the Dwemer weren't particularly religious, they did know how to utilise souls trapped in Soul Gems to power their machines. But Bound Ghosts… Something about the name makes me want to investigate further. In what sense do they mean "ghosts"? What sort of "ghostly" power did the Dwemer harness to create their automatons?"
Halfdan's worries were confirmed. The boy was intent on dragging him into one of those ruins. "Kyne give me strength…" He muttered to himself in despair.
"Trouble is, I don't know where in Skyrim this ruin is located. That's why I have my father working on discovering its location, scouring through the archives in the Imperial City."
"Exploring Dwarven ruins is not so simple, boy." A Nord mercenary from the Reach shared his worries, before Halfdan did.
"Yes, yes. I know." Lucien dismissively retorted back at the sellsword. "I know about their different kinds of traps, their Spider Workers, their Spheres and all other things that spell certain death. That's why I won't intend on entering one alone! And that's why I have my mercenary friend here." He pointed at Halfdan, whom the latter responded with a scowl.
"Just to be clear, boy. You drag me to a Dwarven ruin, you pay me double, alright?" He made his demands.
"Of course, of course!" He confirmed confidently. "I'll compensate you most handsomely, friend."
Halfdan didn't say anything as he turned his gaze towards the side.
As Lucien was about to open his book once more, to continue where he left off, a brown furred cat with darker stripes walked on the cart's floor. Its feline green eyes looked directly up at the Imperial, which made him gasp affectionately.
"My, my! Aren't you a cute little creature." He began petting the cat.
As he stroked the cat from its head down its back, one of the Khajiit mercenaries called out to Lucien.
"What are you doing with Dar'hannar's cousin?" He called out with his raspy feline voice.
Lucien then realised that it wasn't a common house cat, but an Alfiq- one of the twenty furstocks of Khajiit, each distinct from the other, depending on the phases of Masser and Secunda they were born under. "Whoops! Sorry!" Lucien immediately backed away his hand quickly, realising he violated the personal space of a person, even if they looked like the common house cat. The Alfiq then went back to his cousin, but not before giving a miffed frown at Lucien. "My, you never know with these Khajiit and their breed, right?" Lucien chuckled, trying to make a joke.
But to his surprise, none of the mercenaries on the carriage seemed to be bemused by his joke. Lucien felt himself embarrassed as he leaned his head downwards to hide his shame under the soaked black linen cloak.
As the carriage rattled down the cobblestone road the driver suddenly pulled the reins of the horse, making it stop. Not soon after, the whole caravan stopped. The horses let out a whine as they stopped before a cloaked figure, blocking the road.
"What in Oblivion are you doing in the middle of the road!?" The Nord carriage driver demanded from the cloaked person. "Can't you hear the caravan approaching? Move to the side, you fool!"
The figure didn't respond as he slowly turned to face the driver. The driver could see a dark grey face smiling malevolently. From underneath the brown burlap cloak two feminine hands revealed themselves, cloaked in fire. As the burning red eyes of the cloaked woman narrowed. She then violently reached out her hands towards the carriage, letting out huge balls of fire.
"Shit!" Was all the driver could let out, as the fireballs exploded, tearing off the horses apart and launching the heavy cart upwards. Lucien, who sat on the back right corner, was immediately dropped on the cobblestone road, falling to the side and hitting his head.
Lucien's ears started ringing as a pounding headache emerged inside his head. Slightly dizzy, he looked to the right of the road, as armed men, wearing furs and leather descended from the small hill in a furious war cry.
"Brigands!" Shouted one of the mercenaries.
Lucien did the most logical thing he could, and that was to hide under the broken cart. The smell of blood immediately hit his nostrils as the clashing and slashing of iron and steel surrounded him.
"Divines, help me! I didn't go to Skyrim for this! All I wanted was to study and research magic and history and Dwemer technology!" He began praying with a whimper as boots threaded on the road around the carts. Screams of death and the whining of horses filled the air.
He hoped that Halfdan wasn't killed, when he was startled by a severed head falling in front of him, rolling underneath the cart. He let out a scream of terror when he realised it was the head of the Khajiit man. The one who confused his Alfiq cousin for a house cat. In his fright Lucien began crawling back from the cart, until his boots pushed against something. The Imperial turned around to see a raven-haired Nord woman, donning iron armour. Her lips twisted into an evil smile as the giant battle axe she was carrying on her shoulder was then slowly brought down to her torso, being menacingly held by her two hands.
"Oh! G-g-g-good day, miss!" Lucien let out a nervous smile as he stuttered, trying to crawl back to the cart. "Perhaps we-we-we-we sh-should be able to come to s-s-some agreement, right? No need for bloodshed." He couldn't crawl back any further as his back pushed against the cartwheel.
But the bandit wasn't in the mood for bargaining as she slowly raised her axe over her head. One good swing was enough to gut the Imperial milkdrinker clean. Lucien screamed as he covered his face with his hands so as to not witness his demise approaching him.