'Come on, Ria, stop fussing. I'll be fine. I swear, you worry too much.'

Athis let go of the neck of his mead bottle, and made a half-hearted attempt at swatting away his friend's fluttering hands. 'It's feeling better already. It's just a bruise.'

The Dunmer was laying on his bed in the whelps' room, his back propped up against several pillows. He was already into his third bottle of mead, and the effects of the drink had relaxed him considerably; he wasn't as sore as he'd been when his two closest friends had propped him there, and he no longer saw what the fuss was about.

The mead had been Torvar's idea, and he made a somewhat blurry mental note to thank him for it later.

But the Imperial at his side hadn't had any mead, and the look she was shooting him with dark brown eyes was just a hair short of mutinous.

'It's not just a bruise, you idiot.' She slapped his shooing hand away, ignoring his indignant 'hey!', and returned her attention to the mer's exposed torso. She was daubing salve onto an angry purple bloom that was swathing its way across his abdomen, looking swollen, livid even against his dark skin.

'And I worry about you because you don't! You don't take care of yourself. Who else is going to keep your dumb ass alive?'

The Dunmer laughed, and she rolled her eyes. Athis had gone to bed willingly enough—but as soon as their idiot friend had suggested that a bit of mead was all he needed, he'd been impossible ever since.

'If you won't do the smart thing and drink a potion, then you will at least sit here while I put this on.' The woman dabbled in the healing arts, and she kept a jar of the waxy yellow salve in her chest of drawers for situations just like this.

'Ria, you're a sweet one. But you go to too much trouble.' He let his head fall back against the closest pillow, and stared a little glassily at the ceiling. 'Everything will be fine, with or without your fancy goop.'

'No.' She replied crisply, swiping the bottle of mead while he wasn't looking and setting it on the ground. 'Everything will be fine when you get your head on straight, and stop inviting Njada to maul you like a cave bear.'

The Dunmer scoffed. 'Pfft! Njada? Please. Everyone knows she just got a lucky hit in.'

'Hmmm.' She sniffed. 'Guess she just got lucky the last...what, seven times in a row? I'm thinking you maybe overestimate your abilities, Athis. Just a tiny little bit.'

The two had been friends long enough that she had no qualms over speaking her mind, and she ignored the elf as he shot his head up to look at her again.

'Woman! You wound me!' His face took on a tragic expression that was only half jesting, and he groped around on his mattress for his bottle of mead. After a brief and fruitless search, he gave up, and threw the hand over his brow instead. 'I lay here with a beaten body, and what does she do? She beats my pride.'

The Imperial shook out her long hair and snorted again. 'More like your ego!' She had another retort on the tip of her tongue, but her train of thought was interrupted by the door to the living quarters blasting open outside, and the sound of heavy footfalls racing towards the whelps' room.

Before either of them could so much as furrow a brow, the door to their quarters went flying open too, hitting the wall with a bang.

It was Torvar standing in the threshold, looking absolutely giddy with excitement.

'Torvar—what—?'

'You are not gonna believe what you sorry sops just missed! I can hardly believe it!' The scruffy blonde was shouting to the room at large, despite it being just the three of them there.

She crinkled her nose as she looked at him. 'Huh? What are you talking about?'

Torvar's eyes gleamed as he cracked a grin. 'Honestly, Athis, you're gonna wanna kick yourself. You've gotta stop asking Njada to hand you your ass. It makes you miss out!'

The Dunmer's red eyes lit up with indignation. 'For the love of—you too?' He made a rude hand gesture at the man in the doorway before dropping his head back against the pillow. 'Snakes, the both of you.'

'Torvar.' Ria's dark brows were arched, her tone impatient. 'What are we not going to believe? Spit it out!'

Everyone knew Torvar was a gossiping hen—as bad as the old women in the city. It was plain from the look on his face that he was enjoying being the bearer of big news. After another second's pause, he finally opened his mouth.

'You saw the gal who came walking in while dumb and dumber were whaling on each other? Tall, dark, foxy? Ended up talkin' to Aela?'

'Yeah...' Ria rolled her eyes, ignoring Athis spluttering beside them (who are you calling dumb, Nord?!) and shrugged her shoulders. 'What about her?'

It was as if he were timing himself to a silent drumroll. 'She came 'cause she wants to be one of us! You just missed her bein' tested.'

Ria looked at him, confused, and then tsked with annoyance. 'Really? That's all? Why'd you come slamming the door open like a maniac, then? I've been trying to clean up this mess you encouraged.'

She jabbed a hand in the direction of Athis' stomach—or maybe just Athis as a whole. People came asking to join the Companions on a regular basis, seeking glory. Few were actually accepted. In her opinion, the news was hardly worth the fanfare.

Her reaction clearly wasn't what Torvar had been looking for; he visibly deflated some at her lack of excitement, and threw his hands up in the air, looking harried.

'No, come on, you don't get it! A few of us went out to watch the match, like always, y'know? And I came to tell you you missed out, 'cause she was actually good.' His eyes were already gleaming again.

'Like, real good. I think she's gonna make it in.'

He'd said the magic words, now; her interest was piqued. She put a hand on her hip and stared at him.

'For real?'

She was the newest recruit they had, and had been for five months. She'd quickly befriended the two men beside her, and they'd been happy to show her the ropes. They'd also included her in one of their favorite past-times—watching and laughing at the various people that came looking to make their names and fortunes, when they got soundly beaten in their testing.

In all the time she'd called Jorrvaskr her home, they'd only had one other promising recruit—and he'd ended up changing his mind.

This reaction was more like it—Torvar grinned at her again as he crossed his arms over his chest.

'For real. But you haven't even heard the best part.' With his audience now properly engaged, he paused one more time for effect.

'Vilkas was the one who tested her.'

She took a second to absorb this news, and then she was the one breaking into a grin. 'Wait...are you serious? Vilkas tested her...and she was really good?'

Vilkas was an established member of the Circle; he was far above any of them, in rank. But he was also infamously known as the most stubborn, prideful, arrogant person in all of Jorrvaskr. Not that his skill didn't warrant it, but...making fun of him was another favorite past-time. Probably for more Companions than would admit it.

She snorted a laugh. 'I bet his ego can hardly bear it.'

'Oh, definitely not.' Athis had re-joined the conversation, a sly smile spreading across his pointed face. 'We all know he revels in handing out humility.'

'No, it's even better that that.' Torvar was so excited, his voice had risen back up to a gleeful shout.

'You guys, she kicked his ass!'

One of the men behind her let out a long, impressed whistle. Somebody else laughed and clapped their hands together, once, twice. A chair went scraping against the cobblestones, and then the wooden door opened and slammed shut as somebody hurried through.

She didn't turn around to look at her audience—she didn't turn away from Vilkas.

He was looking like he was having difficulty controlling himself.

His chest and shoulders heaved as he breathed deeply through his nose, in and out, nostrils flaring like a stallion's. His mouth was clamped tightly shut, like he was holding in a string of curses, and his eyes were wider than they'd been during the fight—despite his deeply furrowed brows—and more than a touch wild as he stared at her. His stance was rigid, and he was clutching his injured wrist in a way that looked like it would hurt more than help.

She had no idea what to expect from him next—clearly, he'd taken the loss just as personally as she'd taken the win. She stood still where she was, out of easy reach, eyeing him warily.

They stayed that way for what seemed like an endless moment, sweating under the hot sun, neither of them saying anything.

And then he surprised her by visibly gathering himself.

The bulk of the tension eased from his body; the wolf on his breastplate stopped bobbing around as his breath settled, and his brow smoothed over as the wild look seeped out of his piercing eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was clipped and stilted, his mouth still held in a stiff sort of way, and his eyes were still hard, like he was trying to cow her.

'Very well. That's enough. You've performed adequately. I'll report to Kodlak shortly as to how you did.'

Merrin nodded once, curtly, and then looked down again to the wrist he still continued to clutch; his eyes followed her gaze, and when he saw where it landed, he abruptly pulled his hand away. The skin of his wrist was already swelling up and reddening. When she looked back up, two matching red patches on his cheeks had returned.

'So what happens now?' She kept her voice as reserved as his; her gut was stirring with fresh curiosity and excitement, but she had no plans to let him detect either.

As she spoke, the remaining people murmured among themselves behind them, before collectively pushing away from their tables and filing back inside, leaving the two of them alone in the yard. She turned her head to watch them go; Aela was the last to leave, and she shot Merrin an approving smile before she glided through the door.

'You've passed your first test.' He took another slow breath, eyes boring into hers when she turned back to face him. 'Which makes you a whelp. And that means you have work to do.' With his left hand, he reached around himself, and started to unbuckle his sword-belt from where it hung at his hip. When he slid the belt off and thrust his sword at her, scabbard and all, a ghost of his former cockiness had rekindled in his face.

She ignored the sword-belt and narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. 'What did you just call me?'

'A whelp.' He shot her an antagonistic smirk. 'It's what all the new blood around here gets called. Best get used to it.'

Furious words came leaping up her throat. But she bit her tongue to smother them, and only hit him with a glare.

'Now,' he continued, ignoring her mutinous expression. 'My real sword needs sharpening. Take it up to Eorlund Gray-Mane, at the Skyforge. He'll know what to do with it. And don't drop it—this blade is probably worth more than your hide, several times over.'

He shoved the sword-belt into her good arm, and spun around on his heel, taking off towards the mead hall without another word. When he made it through the wooden door, he slammed it shut behind him.

It was her turn to stand there steaming, at a loss for words. Who did this asshole think he was?!

She glared venomously down at the sword in her hand, as if it had personally done her wrong, and then out at the mountain vista beyond the city wall. She was now all alone in the training yard; for ten whole seconds, she contemplated just marching over to the look-out post, and pitching his sword over the wall and down into the valley below.

Then she mentally shook herself. This Vilkas may have been a pompous creep...but she still wanted to be here. And it seemed like he was calling at least some of the shots.

Breathing through her nose to try and calm herself, she started across the training yard. Around the far side of the mead hall was a curving stone staircase carved from naturally jutting rock, and as she started climbing the worn stone steps, she tried to push Vilkas' stupid face from her mind.

She wasn't having much success. But when she reached the top of the steps and looked out ahead of her, a chunk of her anger evaporated all on its own.

She was staring at a legend.

Across a well-kept stone pavilion, the Skyforge spread out in front of her. Spearing up from the forge itself was a resplendent phoenix carved out of stone, standing at least fifty feet tall; mighty wings spread as if about to take flight, its face both regal and impassive as it stared out into the cloudless blue sky. She couldn't figure how, but the eyes of the magnificent bird themselves were two balls of burning flame.

Below, through the holes connecting its massive wings to the mountain they'd been carved from, large spaces gave a breath-taking view of the valleys below them, and the mountains beyond, lush with summertime. The forge itself lay at the mighty bird's feet; the far rim was clutched in long, brutal talons, giving way to a circle of stone raised from the rest of the pavilion. Bigger than any forge she'd ever seen, let alone used, it glowed red and white-hot, like the maw of a dragon, and fiery sparks went leaping into the air in cascade, chasing spirals of greyish smoke.

Merrin clutched the sword, her shoulder forgotten; her father had been a fanciful story-teller, and yet the forge in front of her lived up to his description of it—surpassed it. Her stomach lurched as she drank it all in, breathless, and the smith in her's fingers itched with the urge to pick up a hammer and tongs. She'd dreamed for years of using a forge this fine.

It took several long moments for her to come out of her reverie, and remember she wasn't alone there. Beyond the forge sat a more modern work-space, and another legend was currently sitting with his back to her, working at a grindstone.

The massive Nord sat hunched over his work in nothing but breeches and leather boots; he was bare from the waist up, and despite the famous smith's considerable age, his back was still broad, his arms still formidable, and work-hardened muscles rippled with exertion as he tended to his work. Even from a distance, she could see that a sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his long grey hair hung down around his face and shoulders in ropy strings, soaked from the summer sun and the heat of the forge.

As she stood staring at him, he straightened up suddenly in the worn wooden seat, swiping at his brow with a sooty forearm, and turned his face to catch some breeze. In doing so, he saw her in the corner of his vision; right away, he got to his feet, and turned to get a proper look at this stranger on his steps. He used one enormous hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and called out to her.

'Hail, girl. What brings you here?'

Merrin took a sharp breath in. The voice that called out to her was rich, and booming, and heavily accented. The famous Eorlund Gray-Mane was talking to her.

You can't just stand here gawping, idiot.

Swallowing hard on a fresh flutter of nerves, she started walking quickly towards him.

'H-Hail.' Her voice came out high and a bit timid, and she repressed the urge to smack her own forehead.

The smith was even more commanding up close. The famous gray mane framed either side of a chiseled face, with a hard, square jaw only emphasized by a beard of the same steely color. He had rawboned cheeks made dark by the sun, and the deep-set eyes that regarded her were a dark and serious blue.

Overall he looked stern, but not unkind, and as he stared at her expectantly, she pushed herself to speak.

'You're...you're Eorlund Gray-Mane, right?' Her voice was only somewhat less shaky.

'That I am.' He either didn't notice her visible nerves, or was too polite to comment on them. 'And you are...?'

'Oh.' She took another breath, bit the inside of her cheek. 'Ah...my name is Merrin. Hakonsdotter.'

He lifted a wild, bushy gray brow. 'And what can I do for you today?'

His question pulled her back into herself, and she felt the weight of the sword in her hand once more. Remembering the sword made her remember its owner, and the breath she'd taken went wooshing out of her in fresh irritation. She straightened up, and looked at him without the nerves.

'Vilkas sent me here with his sword. He says he needs you to sharpen it.'

'That a fact?' Something in the blacksmith's expression lightened, and he looked at her now with some interest. 'So, I take it that you're a newcomer, then?'

'You'd be correct. I just passed my testing now.' She handed over the sword-belt when he reached for it, and then bit her lip. She had a question that she was nervous to ask—after a second of indecision, she asked it.

'Does Vilkas always make the newcomers run his errands for him?' Her voice betrayed some of her animosity, and she winced. Who knew how the man in front of her felt about the jerk?

But Eorlund surprised her by cracking a smile.

'Oh, he tries.' With practised ease, he unsheathed the sword from the scabbard, laying the leather aside, and started running his fingers along the blade's edge.

'Some of the more experienced ones like to try and throw their weight around. That boy fancies himself an authority figure. Always has.' He looked back up to meet her eye, and his expression was warm and reassuring. 'But they were all whelps once. Whether they like to admit it or not.'

His smile tugged out a smile of her own, and she uncrossed the arms she hadn't noticed she'd crossed, letting them fall to her sides. 'Is that right?'

'That's right.' He held the blade up to the light and brought it close to his face, giving the edge a critical eye. 'I've been 'round long enough to see all of them newcomers. Fresh-faced, barely tested.'

'Well, he's already started exerting his 'authority' over me.' The sarcasm in her voice was thick, and she was surprised again when he let out a deep chuckle.

'Let me tell you somethin', girl. Doing favors for folks here can be helpful—get you favors in return, or even forge friendships.' He put the sword down on a stone work table, and turned to face her again.

'But nobody runs anybody, 'round here. Every man—and woman...' He eyed her pointedly. 'Is in charge of themselves. You don't owe anyone anything. Including Vilkas. Next time he asks you to do somethin' for him, if you don't feel like doing it, you remind him the gods gave him two legs that work.' He smiled at her again, and his blue eyes twinkled.

She smiled back, much more easily this time. 'Really? Thank you then, for the advice. I'll...keep it in mind.'

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the vindictive part of her was already imagining the look on Vilkas' face, and it made her smile widen.

Eorlund waved a hand at her. 'Ah, don't mention it. It's nothing. You just looked nervous when I first saw you there. Figured I might help a bit.'

A rare blush crept over Merrin's face, and she ducked her head. 'Was I really that obvious?'

He only shrugged, saying nothing, and she could feel herself already taking a liking to the burly old smith. It was one thing to be skilled; it was another to be kind. She struggled again with some indecision, and decided again to be honest.

'I wasn't nervous about being a...newcomer.' She flat-out refused to use the word whelp. 'I was actually nervous about meeting you. I, ah..I was raised on stories of the legendary Skyforge and Eorlund Gray-Mane—the greatest smith in all of Tamriel.' She looked up at him, and gave a tentative smile. 'Meeting you is a child's dream come true.'

Now it was the older man's turn to blush; ruddy color stained his cheeks, and his eyes were twinkling more than ever when he ducked his head to stare at the ground, waving his hands as if to shoo away her words.

'Ah, nonsense. I hardly do a thing.' His voice was gruff now where it hadn't been, and he jerked a thumb at the Skyforge as he turned his back to her, suddenly busying himself with his tools. 'It's the forge that does all the work.'

She shook her head, still smiling. 'No, really. You're too modest. Your fame is wide-spread, and well-deserved. My own da was a fine admirer of your work.'

'Oh, yeah?' He hadn't turned around to face her. 'Bought my Skyforge steel, did he?'

'No, no. He admired your skill. Your craft. My da was a smith himself, right up until he died. And I ran the smithy with him for years.' That was two people she'd told, in nearly as many days.

Eorlund went still, putting down whatever he'd been holding, and slowly turned around to look at her again.

'That a fact? You're a smith?' He'd been staring at her with some interest before, but now he stood there assessing her.

'I used to be a smith,' she corrected. 'After da passed, I went and did other things.'

He let out a sort of rumble that sounded like approval, and shook his head as he continued to look her over. 'Once a smith, always a smith, girl. Don't forget it.' He nodded to himself, and after another second, turned back around. She noticed that he'd continued working on the blade he'd been holding when she first got there, and left Vilkas' sword to sit on the worktable. For whatever reason, this made her like him even more.

'Oh, yeah? And what about you? How long have you been working the Skyforge? Longer than I've been around, for sure.'

He laughed again. 'I've been tendin' the forge more years than I care to count, by now. Long enough that I've seen several Harbingers come and go.'

Merrin's curiosity was piqued. 'And you're not a Companion yourself?'

The smith snorted in response. 'Me? Gods, no. This forge is a full-time job. I've got no time to be runnin' 'round the province.'

She could see that it was time to put the blade back to the grindstone, and as if he'd read her mind, he walked over in an absent-minded sort of way to ladle more water onto the rock. Then he sat back down on the little wooden seat, and shook his head.

'No, I'm just a smith. None of them knows how to work a forge properly, and it's my great honor to serve them.'

'I see.' She felt a sudden pang of self-consciousness—she'd been there far longer than she'd thought she'd be. She'd figured it would just be her handing over the sword and getting out of his way, and already she'd been up here a while. She didn't want to wear out her welcome.

'Ah...it was wonderful to actually meet you, Sir Gray-Mane. But I've taken up enough of your time. I'd better be heading back to the hall.'

He turned around to stare at her, nose crinkled, brow furrowed. 'Sir? Ain't nobody who calls me 'sir', girl. Just call me Eorlund.'

'Oh. Er...alright then...Eorlund.' To think, the world's best smith would have her call him by name!

'And before you go, I actually have a favour to ask.'

She tilted her head at him, eyes questioning.

'I've been working on a shield for Aela. I'm not sure if you've met her yet? She's one of the Companions. Tall, red hair, war paint?' He slashed a hand in front of his face, fingers bent like claws.

'I've met her.'

'Yeah? Good. I finished the shield today, but I don't have time to bring it to her.' He dropped her gaze, looking down at the ground instead. 'My wife and I are in mourning, and I need to get back home to her soon. I'd be much obliged if you could take the shield to Aela for me.'

'Of course. I'd be happy to.' The words were out of her instantly, completely genuine. She wondered who the smith was in mourning for, but didn't dare ask.

He nodded. 'Very good.' He got back up to grab the shield—a sturdy looking piece made of hard wood and trimmed in steel—and when he looked at her again, he was smiling.

'I thank you.' He handed her the shield, and she shook her head as she took it with her good arm.

'It's nothing. I'm glad to help.'

She turned away from the smith then, and started back the way she'd come. She was a few steps away when he called out to her.

'Hey. You said your name was Merrin, girl?'

She stopped, turned around, pleased that he'd remembered. 'That's right.'

'Were you any good, with your father's forge?'

Her heart gave a funny, fluttering thump, and the smile she threw him was bitter-sweet. 'Well...by the time I lost him, he was calling it my forge.' How it hurt to remember.

He nodded, seeming pleased. 'That's good to hear. I don't mean to be insultin', but if you're gonna be runnin' with the Companions, you're gonna be needin' some better gear. Why don't you come up in a day or so's time, and show me what you're made of? We can work something out together.'

Merrin's mouth fell open. Work in the Skyforge? Touch the Skyforge? If only her father were still here.

'That...' she said faintly. 'That would be great.'

His smile broke into a grin. 'Thought so. Alright then, I'll see you on the morrow. Go on.'

And he turned back to his work and started grinding.

She came down the stairs in a completely different mood then when she'd climbed them; there was a spring in her step despite her many aches and pains, and she was actually hugging the shield to her chest. A part of her felt like a little girl again—and all things considered, she didn't mind. It made an appropriate sort of sense.

Her problems hadn't gone away—not by a long shot. But out of a long week of things going wrong, she was starting to feel like she'd caught some sort of break.

She hurried across the training yard and slipped through one of the double doors, focused on her quarry; for the moment, she'd forgotten Vilkas, and was only preoccupied with finding Aela.

The mead hall was much cooler than the city outside, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she was enveloped by the wood and stone. She scanned the hall from end to end, but didn't see Aela there—didn't see anyone. So she took a right in front of the crackling fire, and headed for the staircase to the living quarters.

It was even cooler here, in the underground tunnel made mainly of stone, and the sweat on the back of Merrin's neck chilled as she closed the door behind her.

It was then that she realized with a sudden pang of irritated nerves that she didn't know where Aela's quarters were; why was she always forgetting to ask after the important details? She sighed.

There was a door almost directly in front of her, its frame surrounded in shields, but she had no idea what room it guarded—further down the hallway, she remembered there'd been two branching hallways, going in opposite directions.

She hovered there, doubtful. Should she just start knocking on doors? It hardly seemed appropriate.

But it never came to that. As she stood there holding the shield and pursing her lips, a gentle voice came to her from down the hall.

'Is there something I can help you with, dear?'

Merrin was startled, and turned immediately to see who'd spoken: a petite, somewhat frail-looking woman stood several paces down the hall, holding a broom in one withered hand.

She was obviously advanced in years; her small, pale face was deeply lined, and her wide mouth was shrivelled past its prime. High cheekbones led to sallow hollows beneath them, slightly sagging, and the short, straight hair that was tucked behind her ears was a blended mix of white and silver.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting when she turned towards the voice, but it definitely wasn't what she'd found. What was a tiny old lady doing in a mead hall full of warriors?

Several seconds had passed since she'd spoken, and the woman was looking at her expectantly. Merrin shook herself.

'Um, perhaps. I'm looking for Aela's room.' She lifted the shield with the arm that wasn't aching. 'I'm supposed to bring her this, but I don't know where I'm going.'

The old woman had covered the distance between them as she'd spoken, so that now she was standing within arm's reach. This close, Merrin was struck by two things.

The first was the old woman's size—or lack thereof. Everything about this woman was thin, from her arms, to her neck, to the bony fingers gripping the broom shaft, and the simple yellow dress she wore hung off her slender frame with room to spare. She was so short, that Merrin could easily tuck her chin over the top of her head.

The second was her eyes. Without a doubt, they were her dominant feature—where the woman was old, the eyes were still young. They were a brilliant sapphire blue, sparkling with warmth and vivacity, and they were full of intelligence as they held her gaze.

'Ah.' The woman's lips stretched into a kind, knowing smile. 'So you must be the newcomer, then.'

How did she already know there was a newcomer? Merrin felt like she'd only been there ten minutes.

'Yes...that's me.'

The older woman reached out a hand; not wanting to seem rude, Merrin returned the gesture, doing her best to ignore the shriek of her shoulder. The woman's bony hand was surprisingly firm, cool and dry to the touch as they shook in greeting.

'Welcome to Jorrvaskr, then, dear. My name is Tilma. I work for the Companions.' Her smile broke into a grin, and she chuckled. 'Both cookin' their meals, and cleanin' up their messes.'

Ah. That made sense. She nodded down at the slender old woman. 'My name is Merrin. Well met.'

The woman stopped shaking her hand, but still held it, and craned her head back to look her over, seeming pleased. 'My, such lovely manners! I have a feelin' the two of us will get along just fine.'

Cheerful friendliness rolled off of this woman in waves, and Merrin found herself smiling easily back at her. 'I'm happy to hear it.'

'Now.' Tilma dropped her hand and grabbed the broom, leaning on it easily. 'You said you were looking for Aela?'

'That's right.'

'That girl makes her bed in a room down the hall.' She twisted around to the hallway yawning behind them, and pointed one crooked finger to the opening branching left. 'Take a left at the fork, and then another. That'll bring you to Aela's door.'

Merrin let out a grateful sigh. 'Thank you. I really appreciate it.'

'Happy to help, dear.' Her eyes twinkled merrily. 'I hope you end up liking it here!'

She chuckled as she turned to go. 'So do I. It was a pleasure to meet you.'

Tilma waved her off gaily, and then returned her attention to sweeping.

Without further ado, she straightened up and hurried away, taking the directions she'd been given; in no time at all, she was passing through the opening in the wall full of shields, and headed for a room with the door left open.

The warm glow of torchlight spilled over the floor, and she could hear voices, one female, one male. They were speaking low and she couldn't make the words out, but the tone was quick and urgent.

She stepped into the threshold, rapping her knuckles against the frame at the same moment, to make her presence known.

'Aela?'

Now she could see the other person in the room; it was the older man who'd watched her during her match against Vilkas, the fierce-looking warrior with the pony-tail and one good eye.

The two of them were standing mere inches apart—they'd been staring intently at one another, and the man had one hand curled around Aela's bicep.

Their reaction to her entrance was strange; he abruptly cut off whatever he'd been saying, and they both turned to look at her, seeming startled. In the same motion, they simultaneously leapt apart, so that several feet of empty air stood between them, and a stiff, awkward silence enveloped the room.

Merrin may have had no-one to call her own, but she was still a woman. She eyed them steadily for a second, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she spoke again. 'I can come back, if I'm interrupting.'

In a split second, the red-head schooled her features; she waved a hand casually and shook her head, looking business-like. 'Nonsense. You're not interrupting anything. What brings you to my quarters?'

Merrin's gaze slid over momentarily, to look at the man in the room. He too had adopted a composed expression, and his arms were crossed in front of his chest. It was then that she noticed his armor; it was a match to Vilkas and Kodlak's. Another important man?

Hmmm. Suspicious. Quickly, she looked back at Aela.

'Eorlund Gray-Mane sent me. He finished the shield you asked him for, and I'm to give it to you.' She lifted the shield up to show her, and the steel caught the flickering light of the torches.

Aela's face brightened as she reached for the shield, and she eyed it expertly as she held it aloft, running one hand over the smooth wooden ridges. 'Excellent! I've been dying to give this a try. I'll have to go and thank Eorlund later.' She turned to walk across the room, and hung the shield on her far wall, on a peg already waiting. As she did, Merrin had a chance to look around.

The room seemed more trophy room than bedroom; everywhere she looked, there were prizes from the hunt. Several sets of twelve-point antlers adorned the walls on red velvet mounts, and instead of the red rugs she'd been seeing, the floor had two separate pelts spread over it—both of them were bear. Several low tables were scattered along the walls, and a desk sat solidly in the far corner. The tables were topped with open display cases—some held weapons, but others held tools for processing both meat and hides. The desk was well-lit by several stout candles, puddling pale wax, and the work-surface was dominated by what looked like a headdress of feathers, partially constructed.

A single bed was shoved up against the wall by the door, like an after-thought. Instead of a quilt, it was covered in a luxurious snow-sabre pelt.

She was impressed, and her wandering eyes were only called back when Aela spoke to her again.

'I wanted to congratulate you on your testing.' She hit Merrin with a smile that was a hint feral, and her green eyes flickered in the candlelight. 'We were both impressed. You gave Vilkas quite the thrashing.'

The man beside them laughed then, a hacking sort of chuckle that sounded like a bark—the first noise he'd made since she'd entered the room. 'Don't let Vilkas hear you saying that.'

He had a commanding voice, rich, a bit rough around the edges. But when he turned to face Merrin, he looked amused.

'But she's right. You did good.'

He leaned toward her then, one calloused hand extended for a shake. When she took the hand with her good one, his grip was so tight it was almost painful. 'It's good to meet you, newblood. The name's Skjor.'

'Well met. My name is Merrin.' She felt like she was being measured; in a very real way, she probably was. The old warrior was staring at her hard with his good eye, which was a steely grey very similar to Kodlak's. All the amusement was gone from his face, and a tense moment passed as he analyzed her.

But he must have been satisfied with whatever he saw, because he nodded once and let her hand go, and a wry smile softened his serious features.

'Well met. How are you settling in so far?'

'Haven't actually had much time to settle,' she replied honestly. 'It's a lot to take in. And not everyone has been so welcoming as you two.' Her thoughts flashed back to Vilkas, and her brown eyes flickered with irritation.

'You mean Vilkas.' It wasn't a question, and when she nodded stiffly, he barked out another laugh.

'Don't pay that boy any mind—he got what was comin' to him.' He looked past her then, looking instead to Aela. 'Never did learn how to lose with grace, did he?'

'That's a fact.' Aela pursed her lips, but there was amusement in her eyes. 'No matter. A broken wrist will curb that damned pride of his—for a day or so, anyway.'

Broken? She wasn't a sadistic person, but the ass had done nothing but piss her off since she'd walked into Jorrvaskr, and hearing that she'd done some real damage had her mouth tugging up at the corners, as the man beside her laughed some more.

Raw, with no seasoning.

'But tell me.' Aela's green eyes were fixed on her, assessing her again. 'Do you think you could best Vilkas in a real fight?'

Hell, yes. At Aela's words, images of pummeling the ignorant Nord into the ground had Merrin's hands clenching; she had no doubt that if it came to that, she would come out on top. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so—but after a moment, she reeled herself in. Two sets of eyes were watching her expectantly, and she didn't want to come off as a braggart.

'I'm not one for boasting,' she finally said evenly.

Aela nodded neatly, as if her suspicions had been confirmed.

'Finally—a woman who lets her actions speak for her.' Suddenly, she gave a sly smile. 'I knew there was something I liked about you.'

She wasn't sure how to reply to that, so she just kept quiet and nodded.

Aela must've taken her silence for weariness, because she suddenly shook her head, and came up looking business-like again. 'Oh, but what am I thinking? You must be tired.' She gestured out the door, back the way Merrin had come.

'Come with me, and I'll show you where all the newbloods sleep. It's still pretty early in the day, but it'll give you a chance to put away your things.'

Aela moved in a way that was brisk and efficient; after a nodded farewell from Skjor, Merrin found herself being walked back down the hallway.

At first they were both silent, but then Aela spoke, the words coming out slow and thoughtful.

'I have to say...I'm a bit surprised that you're really here.'

The words caught Merrin off-guard, and before she could stop herself, she snorted. 'So am I.'

'It's just...' Aela paused, started up again. 'When I first saw you outside the city, you looked so purposeful. Like you already had a reason for coming, and I know it wasn't us—you said as much yourself. We don't usually get people that already have established lives of their own. We get drifters, dreamers...' Another pause. 'People who's old lives have fallen apart.'

She didn't like the turn the conversation had taken, and she stared warily at Aela from the corner of her eye.

'Is it safe to say that you fall into one of those categories?' She'd clearly arrived at the point she was making, and turned her head to fix Merrin with bright green eyes as she waited for an answer.

Merrin's voice came out tight and guarded. 'I guess you could say it was something like that.'

She was thinking of the circumstances that had led her here, and they weren't things she was comfortable discussing; Dalan Dufont, the Imperial ambush...nearly being executed...the ruin of Helgen. Not knowing if everything she'd worked for for the last four years had gone up in smoke shortly after that village.

Aela seemed to be much more forward than the average woman; Merrin could tell that she saw her discomfort, and yet she didn't bluster or rush to apologize. She only gave her a measured look, calm, before she shook her head, red tresses swaying.

'It is not my place to ask you such things. We need not discuss it, if that is your wish.'

In a strange way, her attitude garnered Merrin's respect; maybe because she operated much the same way. Taking a breath, she forced herself to relax.

'You did nothing wrong,' she told her. 'In time, I might tell you the story.'

Aela's response was to stop where she stood, nodding her head to Merrin's right. 'Here we are. This is your stop.'

They were standing in front of the first door by the stairs—where she'd stood with the shield not too long ago. The door was carved to depict elegant spring flowers and winding cords of knotted rope, and the border was tinted the same pale blue that seemed to carry throughout the city. She could hear several loud voices from inside the room—a couple of which she recognized—shouting back and forth.

She stood there just staring at the door, as if it might be hostile, and after a moment Aela noticed.

'Nervous, are we?' She arched one tapered brow.

Merrin grimaced. 'Not nervous. It's just...I can't remember the last time I've had to introduce myself so many times in one day.'

Aela laughed. 'Don't worry, newblood. I'll come with you, and tell you who's who. No point in just throwing you to the wolves. But first.' She turned to face her, and raised one pale and elegant hand to grip Merrin's shoulder—thankfully, the uninjured one. Her fey eyes were warm as she tilted her chin.

'I want to be the first to say it formally. Welcome to the Companions...Shield-Sister.'