Chapter 2 – Favors for Fools

"I have never trusted the Dark Elves fully, despite the good work they have done in my hold. Oh, the ones who were born here, who have lived here all their lives, born of good families and who worship the Nine, they are almost all fine. But then there are the others, the ones who come from the east. They worship Daedra and bring trouble, starting fights in the taverns and bothering the local girls. The guards tell me some even run off to consort with brigands and cultists in the hills! And then they have the nerve to act as though we are the ones who need to accommodate their heathen ways! If they come here, they need to learn how to behave like decent folk."

Hameth the Warden, Jarl of Riften 3E 145-188, Personal Journal

Velandryn had to give the Nords credit, they knew how to name a town based on its most obvious features. There was a river, and a great abundance of wood as well. Houses stretched along the water, and the major industry of the town seemed to be the lumber mill on a small island in the center of the river. As he entered the town, trailing Hadvar and letting Ralof bring up the rear, he noticed two things. The first was that the afternoon light made even the simple wooden structures beautiful, and its play on the water was something to behold. The second was that there were no guards. In fact, the town was completely defenseless. He wondered if this region were so safe that it was unnecessary, or if some other factor was at play.

There was little activity, with only a few people out on the streets. The smithy was on the river, across from what seemed to be a general store, with an inn or tavern not too far away. In between were squeezed various houses and walkways, lending the whole a disorganized but not unpleasant air. Although night was falling, Velandryn noted with pleasure that the valley offered far warmer evenings than their previous night's camp had. He felt the weight of the items he had gathered on his journey so far, and made a decision.

"I am going to unload some of this, maybe get gear better suited for this climate. Are the two of you going to find your kin?"

Ralof nodded, and stepped to one side. "Aye, Gerdur will be glad to see me, I'm sure, and I've missed her cooking." He stretched and inhaled deeply. "You know, I've been across Skyrim now, and seen a hundred places I could never have imagined." His arms swept outward, and his expansive gesture seemed to encompass not just the buildings and people but the light, the air and the faint smell of sawdust and fresh water. "With all that I have seen, this is the finest place I have known. Not Windhelm, in the shadow of the stone kings, or any grand temple or lost vale, but this little town in the shadow of Snow-Throat." He turned to regard Hadvar. "I don't regret any of the choices I've made, but when all of this is over, I'm going to come back here and never leave again." He clapped each of them on the shoulder, and started away, when he suddenly stopped and turned back. "And elf, if you decide that you'd like to spit in the Emperor's eye, come to Windhelm." A huge smile broke out over his face. "You might be a scrawny little bastard with no aim and too clever a tongue, but I'd be glad to stand at your side when we take back our home." He strode away, Stormcloak colors rippling merrily in the breeze.

Hadvar sighed. "For all that he's on the wrong side of this war, he's not wrong on this. You'll be hard pressed to find a better place than Riverwood to live quietly."

Something the Stormcloak had said struck Velandryn as odd. "That parting, and the two of you hailing from here. Did you know each other?"

"Aye, we did, though we did not part well, the last time. He grew up here, and I came to learn from my uncle. Never took to smithing, would rather swing swords than forge them, but Ralof and I got on well. There were few enough boys my own age here, and we were…close, once. I joined the Legion, and he planned on it, but then Jarl Ulfric raised his banners, and it all went right to Oblivion." He looked sad. "Maybe when this damned war is over, I'll come back here and make things right." He started walking again, and Velandryn followed. "I'm going to go check in with Alvor. Come find me if you finish up first, if not I'll come grab you." Velandryn moved to go, but Hadvar held out his hand. "You may not like the Empire, but there are those in Skyrim who hold true. My family is loyal to the Ruby Throne and Jarl Elisif, so maybe lay the hate on light when in his house?"

Velandryn's mentors had taught him that rash action was a spark in dry kindling. No matter how small, it could flare out of control, and consume far more than was ever intended. So it was with his rage. He had offended this Imperial, and were Hadvar less fair, it could well have poisoned the uncle against him as well. He frowned and folded his hands across his chest, left above right. He had no idea if humans used this gesture, but it was the only one he knew to indicate contrite sincerity. "I spoke harshly and without thought. I was raised to think of the Empire as an uncaring power that abandoned my people, and took that out on you, when you have done nothing but help me." He took a deep breath. This would not be easy. "I…believe I owe you my life for Helgen. You guided me through the fire and devastation, and cut my hands free. I am in your debt, and beg you forgive my ingratitude." He waited for the Nord's response.

Hadvar laughed, and Velandryn was shocked. He had expected triumph, or scorn, but not humor. "You nearly burned alive after we tried to cut your head off! I can forgive some harsh words, and I promise you this." He grew serious, and Velandryn was struck again by how badly he had misjudged this man. "I will not forget that the Empire has wronged both you and your people. I don't claim to know all of the facts, but you stopped me and Ralof from gutting each other in Helgen Keep, and I remember an arrow that let me land the killing blow on a bandit who was after my life. We are even, and the only thing I plan to tell Alvor is that you are a good man – ah, I mean elf, and he should give you anything you need." He clapped Velandryn on the shoulder as Ralof had. "I will speak with you soon. Finish your business quickly, and we will feast at the Sleeping Giant. Delphine keeps a fine table, and I am starved for warm bread and stew!" With that he was gone, and Velandryn turned to the general store, also ready to sit down with a meal that he had neither hunted himself nor taken from a bandit's stash.

As he approached the door, a voice sounded, "Ah, friend, a moment?" Velandryn idly wondered if he would ever reach the shop, but he still turned to greet whoever this might be. After all, he knew exactly two people in Skyrim. He could hardly afford to be rude.

It was a Nord that had hailed him, now standing awkwardly clearly wanting to ask something. "Ah, you're new in town, aren't you? I'm Sven, it's a pleasure. Are you just passing through?"

"I might stay a day or so, rest and buy supplies, but I will be on my way soon enough. Why?"

"If you could give this letter to the woman inside the shop, I would appreciate it."

"Let me guess. A letter of love, wooing the fair shop maid?"

The Nord laughed, an easy, pleasant sound. "Oh no, Camilla likes me well, and I've no need to win her love." He lowered his voice, and leaned in with the conspiratorial smirk of one who thinks themselves exceptionally clever. "However, there's a miserable little Wood Elf named Faendal who's nosing around her as well. This letter is 'from him' if you take my meaning, and should put an end to any notion of the two of them having a future together!"

Velandryn was mildly amused by this plan. In terms of lies told to get someone into bed, this stank of amateur foolishness. He personally disapproved of deception as a tool of seduction, feeling that it did a disservice to everyone involved. However, two decades of study at the Temple meant that he had seen his fellow acolytes engage in furious sexual subterfuge of every type, and this letter was a ploy so clumsy it begged for his involvement.

"Done. It will be in her hand by nightfall." He took the letter from Sven, and turned back to the shop.

"Hold on. Why nightfall? Just give it to her now." Sven was out of his element, clearly, and Velandryn could see that even a little confidence would allow him to dictate the terms of this con.

"Do you want this done right? A complete stranger walks into her shop and hands her a letter; that is no way to go about this. I meet her first, then I bring the news later, as a concerned acquaintance." If he was going to participate in this silly game, it would be on his terms.

"Well, you seem to know what you're doing at least, so I suppose I can leave this to you…" The Nord smiled again, though Velandryn fancied that this time he appeared the tiniest bit nervous. Has he realized how foolhardy this is? "Best of luck, friend!" No, clearly not.

The Riverwood Trader was rather small, as befit the town, but clean and clearly well cared for. As Velandryn entered, two humans were arguing with each other from either side of the store counter. Both Imperial by look and accent; the one behind the counter was likely the proprietor, while the other was clearly some sort of kin. She was young-looking, though Velandryn had always had trouble determining the age of humans, and attractive enough, he supposed. More than likely this was the Camilla who Sven had spoken of. Velandryn managed to overhear something about a theft. It seemed the woman was in favor of retrieving the goods, and the man was not. They stopped their talking as the door swung shut behind him.

"Welcome to the Riverwood Trader, my friend! Sorry you had to hear that, but what can I do for you today?" The man, at least, was more interested in bartering than continuing the argument. Velandryn was happy to oblige him. He divested himself of his pack and began to rifle through it, deciding what to sell. He settled on everything he had gathered save a couple of potions, various plants whose alchemical properties he wanted to investigate, the book he had not yet had a chance to read and a few tools, such as lockpicks and some strips of leather, that he felt were worth holding on to. As he was doing this, his curiosity got the better of him, and he asked about what he had overheard.

It turned out that the man's name was Lucan Valerius, and an artifact in the shape of a golden claw had been stolen from his shop early this morning. The thieves had taken nothing else. Here Camilla cut in.

"What my brother is not telling you is that I know where they are. I heard one of them mention Bleak Falls, an old ruin to the west of town. I know where it is, and can go –"

"No! Out of the question! I will not have you gallivanting off –"

"Lucan, it's only a few hours away—"

"I will not have my sister—"

Velandryn had an odd feeling, as he knew what he was about to say, even if the why escaped him. "I could go get that claw for you. I leave tomorrow morning, and am back as soon as I am done. The claw is in your hand before dusk."

Both of the Valerius siblings seemed taken aback. Camilla was the first to recover, turning on her brother with a triumphant look. "You see brother? He will do it, even if you will not let me go." She turned to Velandryn. "Come back here tomorrow, and I will take you there."

"No, no! You are not going, and that is final!"

"Well then, brother," and here her voice took on an air of deceptive sweetness, "I can at least show our brave adventurer to the edge of town? Or are you afraid I will run off with him rather than stay here with you?"

"Fine, fine." He sighed, and turned back to Velandryn. "Come by tomorrow, and she'll get you on your way. We open before dawn, so don't worry about the hour. I have some gold left over from my last shipment, once the claw is back it is yours."

Velandryn was still processing the fact that he had agreed to go to some place with the name of Bleak Falls and deal with a pack of thieves. He had acted rashly again, caught up in the human's frantic pace. This was rash action, but it was also correct and righteous action, and so he would uphold his duty. Besides, the goodwill of the town merchant would go a long way towards making his transactions more profitable. On that note, he realized that it was probably a good idea to press his advantage here.

"Exactly how much gold are you offering? I am curious how much you think me risking my life is worth." Velandryn had spent time with acolytes who hailed from the old House Hlaalu families, as well as several merchants from the Cauldron Hold. He knew how to press for a bargain, and wondered how much coin he could get for this insane errand.

Lucan seemed to be doing a similar calculation. "I can offer you three hundred septims when you return. That's more than fair for a day's work."

"Most day's work do not involve tracking down bandits. I offer a counter. I will take the three hundred upon my return, and you purchase these," his wave indicated the goods he had stacked on the table, possibly worth one hundred drakes if one was being generous, "for one hundred and fifty drakes now. In addition, I want a warm cloak, for which I will trade this," he shuffled off the Imperial cape he still wore, despite its threadbare and battleworn condition. Another thought struck him "Also, I want a small handful of red clay and a bowl of shalk resin."

Lucan looked thoughtful. "Done. Camilla, go grab the brown linen cloak that's behind the stairs. You can make do with that one. Not fancy, but warm, and up on the peak you might be grateful for that." He began moving the loot off of the table, and slid a purse towards Velandryn. "Word of advice. Call them septims, not drakes. We love Tiber Septim here, and using his name might make some people look on you a bit more favorably." He paused, and Velandryn narrowed his eyes, thinking. Honestly, it was something that had never occurred to him. In Morrowind, a single coin might be a septim if it bore an Emperor's profile, but any sum was always in drakes. Lucan continued, "The clay I can get from my stores, but I'm not sure about the resin. I might be able to scrounge some up by closing time. Strange items for a traveler though; why do you want them?"

"You might see tomorrow. I will be back for them around nightfall." He accepted the cloak from Camilla. "My thanks. I will speak with you soon." He was anxious to speak with the smith and Hadvar. If he was going off to do this madness he had agreed to, he would need to drag the Imperial along.

Upon leaving the trader, Velandryn saw Hadvar walking down the street with a heavyset bearded man who could only be the smith. "Ah, Velandryn, this is my uncle Alvor, the town smith. I have explained what happened, and he's agreed to help as he can."

"I am overjoyed to hear it." This could well be the most useful person he had met thus far. He approached the smith and held out his hand in the human style. "I am Velandryn Savani. May the Three—may the Eight bless you."

The big smith clasped his forearm and grinned. "Not too bad a grip for such a small elf. I am Alvor." He lowered his voice. "We should talk at my forge. This news is," he seemed to be searching for terms to describe it and failing "something else, and I don't want to go causing a panic."

As they returned to the smithy, Velandryn explained the situation he had found at the trader's to Hadvar. To his surprise, Hadvar shook his head, looking apologetic. "I must be on my way, friend. My road takes me to Falkreath, to report to the Legate commanding the garrison there. I must bring what word I can to Imperial forces, and seek new orders, now that the Helgen garrison has been demolished."

Velandryn was taken aback. He had honestly expected the soldier's help, but more than that he was not pleased by the news that they would be parting ways. It was a troubling realization that he would miss the big, reliable Nord. "When are you off? Surely you do not plan to travel by night?"

"No, I will overnight at the inn, and leave at first light. By the sound of it, you will be doing the same."

Alvor grunted apologetically. "I will tell you the same as I told Hadvar. I have no room in my home for travelers, but Delphine is a good woman, and will give you good rates I am sure. She's fair besides, and won't charge you more than she would a Nord."

Velandryn was mildly amused. "They do that here? In Morrowind, if they do not like your look, they simply kick you out." Sometimes with a few extra knives in them, if the unwelcome guest had the misfortune to be particularly obnoxious or excessively Argonian, but there was no need to tell them that. "At the cheaper places, that is."

They had arrived at the smithy, and as they huddled around the forge, they were able to talk unobserved. He heard Velandryn's account, though it likely did not differ much from Hadvar's, and offered him his choice of the weapons and armor the smith had available. Velandryn gratefully accepted a set of hide and fur cuirass, greaves, gloves and boots, while Alvor apologized for having no refined leather ready to work.

For Velandryn, who was simply eager to get out of his dead man's garb, it was little problem. He did keep the burned and blackened bracers the archer had worn, as a keepsake of his victory. The rest went onto Alvor's table, where the smith assured them it would be turned to leather scrap, and be put to use to make good honest tools for Riverwood.

As Velandryn pulled off his cuirass, he had a thought. I should have gotten new clothes from the trader as well. I am a fool. He was still wearing his prisoner's rags, which hardly inspired confidence in those he spoke to. Frankly, given how he had looked when he entered town dressed in rags with bandit armor, armed with two blades and a bow, it was extraordinary that Sven had chosen to talk to him at all. I certainly wouldn't have trusted me with anything. Although, that could explain why Lucan had been so ready to let him go march off and die. Send a bandit to deal with thieves? Smart.

His new armor, while not of glamorous make, at least made him appear more a legitimate hunter than a bandit. Hadvar had left to find the inn and a tankard of some drink, so Velandryn was left with the smith. As Velandryn turned to leave as well, the smith called out. "Hold friend, a request."

"Yes? You've helped me more than I can repay, so I will gladly returned the favor as best I can."

"Oh, it's nothing as dire as all of that. I want you to bring word of Helgen to Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf hasn't taken a side in the war, so neither Empire not Stormcloaks patrol here. We have to look out for ourselves, and he needs to know that there could be a dragon in his hold." He looked down for a moment. "It sounds so mad when I say it. A dragon! Here, in this age! They're supposed to be something out of the stories, for the great Tongues and heroes to slay." He made as if to wave Velandryn off, and then thought better of it. Waving him over, the smith pulled out a set of matched shortsword and dagger, of good steel rather than the old iron Velandryn was currently carrying. "Here. If you're going to be doing this for me, the least I can do is give you these. They're damn good blades, and they'll serve you well."

Velandryn swapped them out for his own gratefully. Buckling them on, he handed over the iron sword, but kept the dagger, as he had grown fond of the flame-scorched grip. "My thanks, truly." He bid the blacksmith farewell and was gone. One final task and then I can get off of my feet.

Velandryn found the 'wretched little Wood Elf named Faendal' easily enough, once he started looking. There were few enough mer in Skyrim to start with, and the Bosmer was the first of his race that Velandryn had seen since arriving in Riverwood. When he responded with a smile at hearing his name rather than annoyance or confusion at being mistaken for someone else, Velandryn knew he had his man.

"Faendal? I have something you might be interested in." He handed over Sven's letter. "I have agreed to give this to Camilla Valerius, but if you would like me to tell her who truly penned it…"

Faendal understood immediately. "Sven put you up to this, didn't he? That lout thinks that just because I'm an elf, he's better suited for her. Ha! Well, brother, we showed him! But I have a better idea…" the Bosmer's face contorted into the same satisfied smirk that Sven's had worn. Dagon's burning breath, he's going to suggest the same thing! "Or, with a single sentence I can convince Camilla not to ever look at Sven again!" He thrust Sven's letter back into Velandryn's hand, and vanished into what he assumed was the Bosmer's home. By the Triune and the Corners, this is madness!

Less than a minute had elapsed when Faendal emerged again, clasping a folded piece of parchment. "Here. Give this to Camilla, let her know Sven wrote it. My thanks again, brother. We elves stand together, eh?" He waved jauntily and departed, leaving Velandryn feeling more than a little bemused. I bring you this letter to let you make this deception right, and you expect me to carry more lies to Camilla? He slipped both letters into a pouch on his belt, and made his way back towards the main street and the inn. He needed a drink.

"Sorry, we don't have sujamma or greef. I have mead from Honningbrew and some from Falkreath, six types of wine in the cellar, and more ale than you could drink in a year. Also some brandy, should you care for something more akin to those Dunmer drinks." Delphine was exactly as the blacksmith had described her, a no-nonsense woman who nonetheless greeted him politely and offered him food, drink and a room for the night for thirty drakes. It was more than a Temple wayhouse would have charged, but less than a cornerclub in Mournhold or Blacklight, and Velandryn called it fair. The inn itself was clean and spacious, and when Velandryn asked to use the alchemical apparatuses against the wall, she agreed on the condition that he clean up after himself. However, her lack of any decent alcohol was disappointing. He finally settled on a brandy that could possibly be mistaken for a Morrowind comberry vintage by someone who had lost their sense of smell and taste, and never set foot within a thousand miles of the Dunmer homeland. He planned to pass an hour or two playing around with the various plants he had found on the road to Riverwood. His unfortunate experience the night before had rekindled an old interest in alchemy, and he wanted to try to actually apply his theoretical knowledge; a proper potion that dulled the cold could come in very handy here.

Drink in hand, Velandryn made his way over to the alchemy bench, and unloaded the ingredients he had gathered. First up was some sort of mountain flower, purple in color, which should, when submerged in boiling water and sustained by a flow of magicka, impart its most basic alchemical qualities into the magically infused water. In theory, at least, this would allow him to learn what properties the plant contained. Conversely, there was a chance that the ingredient would react violently and consume itself in a burst of chaotic magical overload. A few months of lectures fifteen years ago was far from the most comprehensive knowledge base, and he hoped dearly that his memory was accurate on this point. In fact, the flower had been chosen as the first test because he was fairly certain that it would not do anything too drastic if misapplied. Probably.

As the flower failed to react in any way, Velandryn briefly considered just eating it and seeing what would happen. While his earlier experiment had not gone too well, it was unlikely that any quality possessed by such common plants could harm him significantly. Given that he was in a well-heated inn, he was likely safe. As he was debating, the flower emitted a magical signature that felt vaguely like rest, perhaps relating to physical rejuvenation, and he decided that should he be unable to ascertain any qualities through this method, he would try giving it a nibble when he was safely in his room tonight. It would not do to look a fool in front of a room full of Nords. Likewise, he could not ask for help, as the thought of exposing his ignorance of this craft was intolerable.

"Well now, working hard already!" Hadvar had likely not been quiet in his approach, but this extraction took no small concentration, and so Velandryn had not heard him approach. He tried to conceal his surprise, and turned to regard the Imperial. He had a full mug of some foaming nut-brown liquid, and looked very pleased with himself, as well as more than a little drunk. "V'lendryn my friend, we must share a story! We slew bandits and escaped a dragon, and we deserve a damn drink for that!" He grabbed the Dunmer and steered him to the table.

Velandryn, to his own surprise, was not opposed to this idea, though the timing was less than ideal. "I will be back here at dusk, Hadvar. There are still things I need to do before sunset." There was no chance he would have time to properly analyze all of these reagents before returning to the traders, and after that he would be engaged in drinking with a Nord, which could only end badly. It seemed that he would either need to go the tried-and-true method of consuming these ingredients while wholly ignorant of their effect, or else ask one of the locals for their insight. He honestly could not decide which one was more unpalatable. He deposited his pack in his room, and pushed the door open, thankful for his heavier cloak against the chill in the air as the sun went down. I must find a potion that works tonight. This chill could become dangerous if I do not.

The Riverwood Trader was quiet, a single Nord leaving with a pack under her arm as Velandryn returned. Lucan greeted him instantly upon his arrival, beaming with joy. "I found it! Shalk resin from Morrowind!" He held out a wooden box, which Velandryn opened to find a small clump of tan material. He prodded it experimentally. It was as hard as a rock.

"Out of curiosity, how long have you had this?" He would need to treat it all night for it to be usable.

"I have no idea. I remember seeing it two years ago, right after we arrived. It's possible I brought it with me from Cyrodiil, or in one of my initial shipments. Really, you should thank Camilla for finding it. She was the one who went through the boxes."

Velandryn glanced at her, and she bowed her head. "It was nothing, since it will help you tomorrow, I trust."

"It will, though perhaps not as directly as you might have hoped. I am glad you found this, though. And the clay?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Here you are." The lump of clay was fresh and soft, perfect for use. Velandryn put it in the box alongside the resin.

"Well, I will see you tomorrow. Do try and keep the claw unharmed. It has great value to me. Purely for sentimental reasons, of course. Worthless to anyone else." Velandryn indicated assent, and was turning to go, when he suddenly remembered.

"Camilla, could I speak with you for a moment? Someplace…." He glanced at Lucan "private?"

"Of course." She led him upstairs, stopping at the top of the stairs and turning to face him, one step below her. Clever. Gives her the advantage psychologically as well as physically. "Well? What is it you want?"

"I have two letters for you, from Faendal and Sven." Deception is the cruelest form of warfare, to be used against the foes' hearth and never your own, so teaches Mephala. "Each was insistent that you read his, and each was certain he would win your heart." Through Revelation may we undo Wrong-Action and turn it right, so teaches Boethiah. "I agreed to give them to you, and I have done so." The light of Truth dispels the comforts of our minds, and may be unwelcome, so teaches Azura. "Read them, and decide how you wish to proceed."

She was reading both letters, and looked as though she did not relish what she had read. Velandryn had glanced over them both, and knew that either would have easily turned her against the purported sender. Both at once? He would be interested to see her reaction.

She looked down at him. Her eyes glistened, and when she spoke her voice was uneven. "Can you go? I need to…I will see you tomorrow, give you directions…"

As he descended the stairs, Velandryn heard a faint "Thank you" from behind him. He exited to the street, and returned to the Sleeping Giant Inn, walking slowly and taking in the sunset while thinking about what it meant to lie, and to be in love. Lies he knew well, but he did not think he had ever been in love. From all that they say of it, if I was, shouldn't I know?

When he pushed open the door to the inn, it was to find the common hall a warm and glowing room full of townsfolk laughing and drinking. Sven was playing some tune on a lute, and Faendal was talking in low tones with a pair of Redguard hunters in patched leathers. Sven gave him a conspiratorial smile, and Faendal a subtle nod as he walked by. He found Hadvar entertaining a group of men and women with a fanciful recreation of their journey from Helgen to Riverwood. Velandryn was amused to hear Ralof's role in the bandit fight excised completely, and apparently Velandryn had actually been a Dunmer spellsword who struck down a bandit with a single bowshot and then turned an archer to ash with a wave of his hand. Perhaps outrageous lies while drunk are a cherished Skyrim tradition. He sat down, and let the warmth and camaraderie envelop him.

Some hours later, a rather drunker Velandryn Savani staggered into his room and collapse onto the bed. Oh, gods, Nords can drink. The other non-Nords had either paced themselves or grown accustomed to the ludicrous amounts of alcohol imbibed, as most of them were able to leave upright when they chose to do so. Hadvar himself had still been out there when Velandryn left, entertaining the remaining patrons while Delphine kept their drinks filled and purses light. Ralof had been right, he noticed. While someone was boasting of your heroic deeds, you didn't pay for anything. Hadvar as the boisterous Nord and Velandryn as the stoic and mysterious Dunmer seemed to work well enough for those buying. At first his silence had been because he didn't feel comfortable talking to the Nords. Several drinks in, it had been to hide his drunkenness. Either way, he hoped he had not embarrassed himself. I overcame my dislike of speaking to crowds long ago, but it seems that an audience of my fellow acolytes does not impact me as deeply as does one of drunken Nords. As he was pulling off his boots, he remembered that he still had to work on a potion, as well as treat the resin for the morrow. The potions can get blighted, I need to sleep. The resin though, I can set that to soak.

Delphine gave him the empty porcelain bowl that he asked for, but she wanted to know why. He showed her the chunk of shalk resin, and explained that it was completely unworkable in its current state. Her lips pursed. "Half an answer might be better than none, but if you are sleeping in my inn, I want the whole of it. What are you making beneath my roof?" When he told her, she replied that she would happily give him whatever he needed, provided he show her when it was complete. This he promised gladly, and returned to his room, bringing a wedge of hard cheese and a bottle of near-boiling water with him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put the bowl on the bedside table, poured some of the water into it, and submerged the shalk resin. Holding his hand over it, he took the steel dagger from its sheath, and passed his hand across it, letting flame purify the blade. Flame from below, flame from within. The blade bit deep into the skin of his palm, and the blood flowed forth, splashing onto the resin, which drank it in greedily. Blood of the Chimer, spilled on Resdayn, become the Dunmer, chosen of the gods. When enough of his blood had spilled that the water had turned a swirling red, he let his healing magic flow forth, closing the wound. Fatigue hit him from his use of magicka, and he tucked into the cheese, occasionally taking a swig of the water as well. What kind of inn doesn't even have guar milk? Savages. By the time he was done eating, the resin had absorbed all of the blood, and taken on a bloated, reddish look. He upended the rest of his water into the bowl, and tossed the clay in as well. Finally, he cupped the bowl in his hands and let his magicka flow into it. The concoction bubbled and roiled, before calming. It would have to do for now. On the morrow, he could see what he had wrought.

Velandryn Savani slept better his second night in Skyrim than his first. He was warm with a full belly and the buzz of alcohol in his brain. When he woke, he felt good, better than he had since Helgen. A look out his window told him that the sun was not quite risen, and as he dressed, he checked his handwork from the night before. The resin and clay had molded into a thick paste that stuck to his fingers as he checked it. Perfect. He took the bowl with him when he left, heading out to the river with his armor under his arm. Still in prisoner's rags. Perhaps I buy a tunic and some pants, if Camilla will speak to me after yesterday. He had not seen her last night, though her brother had stopped by and mentioned that she was closed up in her room, feeling unwell. Velandryn wished it had been different. She suffered a wrong, and I am the bearer of it, if not the cause.

Leaving the inn, he found Hadvar geared up and ready to depart. The Legionary was deep in negotiation with one of the carriage drivers who plied the roads between cities, but drew up and saluted, clenched fist over heart, when he saw Velandryn. The Dunmer looked for some trace of mockery in the crisp gesture, but saw none. He returned the salute, and turned towards the general store. A good man, and one I am glad to have met. May his cause be true and his victories many.

The bitter cold of the air was unpleasant, and reminded Velandryn that he had not solved the issue of a potion to combat the cold. Cursing his drunken weakness the night before, he resolved to ask Lucan or Camilla, assuming he could not simply buy some potion or amulet to ward off the chill. An amulet might be wise, though no doubt pricey. I should have made that part of my deal.

Despite Lucan's words, the general store was still closed when he passed it. He took the first path towards the river, and came upon it suddenly, the narrow walkway between houses taking a sharp turn and opening up, revealing a small embankment at the river's edge. Sitting on a tree stump was Camilla Valerius, looking over the river with a distracted expression. He turned to find another spot, not wishing to intrude, but she looked up and fixed him with red-rimmed, bagged eyes.

"Master Savani, isn't it? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm not ready to take you to Bleak Falls just yet." Her voice was half-broken, and her hands trembled on her skirts.

"It is fine, truly, and I should be the one apologizing." He had acted from a place of righteous indignation and considered his choices correct, but seeing her face lined with grief and lack of sleep, spurred him to defend his actions to himself as much as her. "I probably ruined your evening and these romances, and then I intrude on you here. I should— I'll go, and…I'm sorry." He was no longer certain, looking at her stricken face, that the sermons and parables of the Temple were as true a guide as he had thought.

She spoke over him as he was leaving, her words rooting him in place. "When we arrived in Riverwood, Sven was the first to greet us. He helped us unload the carriage, and told me that the town would be the better for my being here. Faendal brought me choice cuts of meat, and told me about the amazing things he would see while hunting. Sven sings songs of the great heroes of the past, and makes them come alive." She sighed. "I want more than to be a shopkeeper's sister all of my life. They were caring and kind and adventurous, and even if they fought with each other, it was nice to be desired. But this? They lied to me! Each tried to make me think the other was awful, and so cruelly! It was easy to see through when I read both letters, but I didn't want to believe." She looked back at him. "I blamed you at first. I thought it was some cruel Dark Elf jape you were inflicting on me. But how could you know my fears about each of them? It had to be them, much as I don't want it to be. Just tell me one thing. Why?"

"They love you, both of them, and tried to remove the other from your affections. However, lies are a tool of warfare, and while lies to destroy a rival in love I can understand, to make you the victim of these lies is cruel, and I could not let it happen. My people have a…long history with lies told from a place of love. And sometimes, to undo one liar, you must use deception yourself."

"That makes absolutely no sense, and what do you mean your people? Do you expect me to believe that Dark Elves have some special relationship with the truth –"

Velandryn cut her off. "My people have suffered more than you can imagine from the lies of those who claimed to love us. Thrice the Dunmer have been deceived, and three times were we saved by divine truth. Lies told for love are nothing more than chains to bind shut your eyes. Those who tell you falsehoods while claiming to love you wish you immobile and restrained, living in a cage that they may control you. It is vile, and I shall not stand for it."

She nodded. "Tell me this, then. How did it happen? Did you put them up to this, or was it some coincidence?"

"Sven approached me first, and I went to Faendal to let him set things right. I would not have intervened had he not attempted exactly the same ruse. They were both liars, and so I was the only one who could give you the truth."

Her response was not long in coming. "Thank you, I think." She was still clearly upset, but her abject distress had gone, leaving with it an air of resigned suffering. "They are both good men, for all of this."

"I do not doubt it. Let them prove themselves to you again, if you wish." He stooped down at the edge of the river, and brought forth the bowl of thick paste and his fur and hide chestpiece as Camilla looked on in interest.

"This is what you wanted the clay and resin for?"

"Aye." He put two fingers into the paste, and began to draw on the right side of his armor, which would sit over his heart. A stylized hand, four fingers outstretched upward together, thumb beside them. The paste was a rich dark red on the dull brown of the armor as Velandryn applied the first coat. It behaved much like paint, but as it dried it seemed to sink into the armor like a dye, with only the rougher texture and different color showing where it had been applied.

"Is it some sort of decoration?" Camilla was watching him work, eyes glued to his hand as it etched the painstaking lines. A mistake would be unfortunate, as a specialized reagent was required to remove the oath-dye, and he did not have the knowledge required to make it. In truth, he had made this batch hastily, while drunk no less, and was not certain how it would behave. Hopefully, it would mark him well enough until he had time to get better armor and prepare a proper batch. "Or is it war-paint?"

"In a way." He finished the first coat and sat back, observing his handiwork. It was clearly hand-drawn, but the lines were clear and the color strong. "It will serve."

"So what does it mean? Is it some symbol of your clan or family?"

"It is a symbol of my people, and my devotion. It is Ghartok, the Hand." He began to apply a second coat.

"Ghartok? Is that a Dark Elf word for hand?"

"It is Ehlnofex, the first language. And it does not just mean hand, it is Hand. Ghartok is the hand that is a weapon, the part of yourself that becomes your servant when you are ready to do violence. Nerevar the Godkiller used it as his standard, and the Tribunal after him, though it has since been worn by many who follow the Great Council." He looked at Camilla, who still appeared confused.

"So, why are you putting it on your armor? Is this because you are going into battle? Are you some sort of religious warrior? Wait, I thought your Tribunal was those living gods who went and died hundreds of years ago."

"They are gone. Their names remain, and some choose to worship them. I do not, but I respect their legacy, and their work to defend the Dunmer."

"But why are you putting it on your armor?"

Velandryn had been hoping she wouldn't notice that he hadn't answered that part. It was a little embarrassing, after all. "Your people…don't like mine. Imperials are fine, for the most part, but by and large Nords have no use for me. I had the idea yesterday, when I entered Riverwood, and found myself surrounded by humans. I mark my armor like this, and I am adorned with a universal symbol of my people, of our devotion to law and the defense of our home. I am victorious, and the Dunmer have victory. I die, and I have died on the path of righteousness. It brings peace to me, I suppose."

She had a strange look in her eyes now, one he couldn't place. Humans could be difficult to read; their eyes gave away nothing and it was their faces that moved. He had finished the second coat, and cleaned his hands in the river before beginning the final layer. She was silent as he worked, and soon enough it was done.

He slid the armor over his head, and laced it up as Camilla watched. "Is it another symbol of the Dark—the Dunmer to wear those rags instead of clothing?"

"It is a symbol of the fact that I was wearing these rags, have yet to change out of them, and keep forgetting to buy new clothes." He should have been self-conscious, but he was past caring. "Now, show me where these bandits are, and I will go do something exceedingly unwise."

She led him up the road, pointing out buildings of interest, but stopped while looking at the mill. "Lucan said he heard a story last night at the inn that you and the Imperial soldier saw a dragon. Is that true?"

"Saw? If I saw everything like I saw that dragon, I would be dead three thousand times over. It burned Helgen to ash around us, scattered an Imperial garrison, sent a pack of Thalmor into full retreat, and likely sent rumor flying across Tamriel. I'm honestly shocked that nobody brought word to Riverwood before us."

"Oh, Sven's mother claimed she saw it, but it's not that surprising that nobody came through here. We're not the most direct route to anywhere. Helgen was a military town first, and the Imperial forces mostly stay out of Whiterun Hold. We're neutral, so they don't want to cause an incident. Stormcloaks for the same reason. Both sides are trying to convince us to join them, so they stay out. And Thalmor aren't welcome at all. We might not be in rebellion, but we know that those damned elves are to blame for it." She realized who she was talking to. "Oh, I mean, ah, sorry."

Velandryn waved her apology away. "The Thalmor hate my people even more than yours, I think. I ran into some of them down in Cyrodiil, and learned that while they may not care overmuch for men, they despise Dunmer. It makes sense though, as we killed one of their gods when we left, and they are nothing if not traditionalists. Also, they might be upset about the part where the Tribunal gave Tiber Septim a walking god to crush their nation." He shrugged. "You won't hear me complain about insulting them."

They walked on, and finally came to the covered bridge that crossed the White River. She led him across it, and began giving him directions to the barrow. He thought he had the path well enough, and, before going, decided that he could risk asking one last question. When he did, she smiled.

"To resist the cold? Try the purple mountain flowers, plus snowberries or thistle branch. They should serve you well. I know that if I ever go up into the mountains, I bring a few with me. Here, take these." She pressed a few homemade potions into his hands.

"Thank you again. Now, I should be going. The sun is rising, and I have a bandit clan to contend with." This is still a terrible idea, but I feel a little more prepared than I did last night. And with that, he was off, over the river and up the path, to fight or bargain with thieves or bandits and whatever other horrors dwelt in an old Nordic burial hall. How bad could it be? Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that the answer was very.

A/N: Not much to say here, but can answer a few questions.

JohnyS and Guest: With regards to character motivations and morality, Velandryn is young, by Dunmer standards, and a good person, also by Dunmer standards. However, his morality is neither our morality nor Nordic morality, and every action he takes will certainly not be classically heroic. As to why he came to Skyrim, it will be addressed in future chapters.

I do plan to include Dragonborn, though I've not decided where I should weave it in. probably later, given the nature of the story. By virtue of location, it will have to be largely self-contained, since Solstheim is harder to convincingly travel to and from on a whim. Miraak is a superb character, however, and my adoration of Hermaeus Mora and his Lovecraftian roots means there is no chance I will pass it up.

I hope to put out one chapter every week or two, and will try not to have them be less than 5000 words. If one goes much over ten thousand, I may break it into two.

Note on alchemy: I have made it decidedly trickier, inspired in part by Morrowind, where low skill could just lose a potion even if the correct ingredients were used. I like alchemy, alteration and illusion, and think they are powerful aspects that get short shrift, so I will try to give them all some time to shine.