A.N: I would like to thank all who have read, reviewed, or both on the previous chapter! Here is chapter 2 I do hope you enjoy it. The beginning will be a bit slow as to introduce and give a bit of background but we shall soon be getting to the main meat of the story. Please let me know if there are any issues.
P.S: I do not own Dragon Age, Skyrim or any of the characters.
Chapter 2
She blinked groggily, her senses slowly awakening to the warm, earthy scent of meat roasting over an open flame. The room around her was small but cozy, the wooden walls and modest furnishings giving it the feel of a typical inn—nothing remarkable at first glance. A simple bed, a desk, a shelf lined with books, and a single wooden chair occupied the space. She shifted beneath a blanket of heavy furs, the warmth enveloping her like a soft cocoon. It was the most comfortable she'd felt in months.
Her fingers curled into the fur, the sensation both foreign and soothing. She wasn't sure how she had ended up here, but the faint throbbing in her muscles hinted at recent hardship. Just as her mind began to race with questions, the door creaked open, and a man stepped inside.
He had mousy brown hair that fell just to the middle of his ears, with a slight curl that softened his otherwise rugged appearance. There was something familiar about him, though she couldn't quite place it—his face stirred a distant memory, blurred by the fog clouding her mind. Kindness lingered in his eyes, yet his expression was hardened, the subtle lines around his brow hinting at a life that had seen its share of challenges.
The beginnings of a mustache rested just under his nose, neat and well-trimmed, as if he took care to present himself despite his rough edges. His frame was balanced, the kind that came from regular physical work—strong but not overly muscled, fit but not overly lean. He looked like someone who could handle himself, both in a fight and in the everyday struggles life might throw his way.
He wore a full-sleeved tan shirt that clung to his arms, highlighting the subtle bulge of his muscles with each movement. It wasn't overly tight but just enough to show he had strength beneath the surface. Over the shirt, he had a well-worn black leather vest, the edges fraying slightly from years of use, the leather scuffed and faded in places. It looked as though it had seen better days and could likely use replacing, but it still held together, perhaps out of sentiment or practicality.
His lower half was clad in simple black breeches, durable but unremarkable, clearly chosen more for function than fashion. Around his waist was a sturdy belt, adorned with several small pouches—each one designed to carry small, useful items. The pouches were discreet yet numerous, suggesting he was someone who preferred to keep things close at hand, always prepared for whatever might come his way. The overall look was rugged but practical, the attire of someone who knew how to handle themselves in various situations, both peaceful and otherwise.
He froze the moment he saw her awake, his expression shifting from disbelief to astonishment. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, with a rugged look about him—unshaven, hair tousled, as though he had barely rested in days. His earthy brown eyes locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
"You're awake," he finally breathed, as if the words themselves were a relief.
She stared back at him, her silver eyes narrowing slightly. "Where am I?" Her voice was raspy, a mixture of exhaustion and confusion.
The man moved closer, hesitant but compelled by concern. "A small inn at the town of Dawnstar. I found you along the rocky beach, barely alive." His gaze flickered with something she couldn't quite place—concern, perhaps? Or maybe guilt.
I don't remember…" she began, but her voice trailed off as she tried to piece together her fractured memories. Her head ached as fleeting images of dark trees and shadows swirled in her mind. There had been something… someone chasing her. But beyond that, everything was a blur.
"You were hurt pretty badly," he continued, pulling the chair closer and sitting down. "Feverish, too. I wasn't sure you'd make it through the night." His voice was low, steady, but his eyes held the weight of what had happened. He wasn't telling her everything—there was more he was holding back.
She struggled to sit up, but pain shot through her limbs, forcing her back down into the bed. She winced, frustrated by her own weakness. "How long have I been here?"
"Two days," he replied, his tone softening. "You needed the rest."
Silence hung between them for a moment before she finally asked, "Who are you?"
"Brynjolf," he said, leaning back slightly. There was a calm confidence about him, though it was clear he had been worried. "And you? Do you remember your name?"
She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came. Her mind was blank—her own identity lost in the haze. "I… don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The realization hit her harder than she expected, sending a ripple of panic through her.
Brynjolf's expression softened, understanding flashing in his eyes. "That's alright. You've been through a lot. We'll figure it out."
He looked as though he was about to speak again when, suddenly, a large black blur shot out from behind him. In an instant, his booted feet were swept out from beneath him, and he crashed to the floor with a resounding thud. The scene unfolded so quickly it was almost surreal—one moment he was standing, the next he was sprawled on the ground in a heap, his expression frozen in startled confusion.
It would have been comical if it weren't for the hard slam of his body hitting the unforgiving floor, and despite the absurdity of it all, she had to fight back the laughter that rose in her throat. Her dry, cracked lips twitched as she clenched them shut, the laugh threatening to break free. It had been so long since anything had struck her as funny, but this—his helpless tumble—was almost too much to bear.
The next thing she knew, a large hound had settled beside her bedside, his massive front paws resting gently on the luxurious fur blankets that enveloped her. He was an imposing creature, with a broad chest and powerful limbs, but it was his intelligent golden eyes that truly captivated her. Those eyes shone with a warmth and curiosity that seemed to analyze her every detail, as if ensuring she was truly alright.
Once satisfied that she was unharmed, the hound suddenly lunged forward, his large pink tongue extending like a friendly banner. It left a warm, wet trail of slobber as it glided across the length of her cheek, the sensation startling yet oddly comforting. She let out a surprised laugh, a sound that felt foreign after so long, her worries momentarily swept away by the sheer joy of the moment. His stubby tail wagged vigorously behind him, thumping against the floor in a rhythmic beat that echoed the rapid thud of her heart. She half-expected him to sweep the entire room clean with it.
Though she should have felt apprehensive about this massive beast invading her personal space, there was an undeniable aura of affection that radiated from him. It was as if he were an old friend, an unwavering companion who had been waiting for her to wake up. The bond between them felt instinctual, almost magical, and she sensed that he was hers—somehow tied to her past and her identity.
As she gazed into his golden eyes, she felt a wave of warmth wash over her, chasing away the lingering shadows of her confusion and fear. The hound's coat was thick and soft, a deep black with hints of chocolate brown glinting in the light, and she felt an irresistible urge to reach out. Tentatively, she raised a hand, fingers brushing against the fur on his head.
His fur was surprisingly warm and comforting, like the weight of the blankets that enveloped her. The hound leaned into her touch, his body vibrating with delight, and she couldn't help but smile. She could feel a connection sparking between them, a sense of loyalty and companionship that told her she was no longer alone. This hound, with his joyful spirit and loving gaze, was a promise of better days ahead.
"Damned bear dog of yours has been bugging me nonstop all morning," Brynjolf grumbled, finally pushing himself back up to his feet with a dramatic flair, as if the ground had conspired against him. He made a big show of dusting himself off, brushing at his clothes as if the mere act of falling might somehow tarnish his reputation.
The hound, oblivious to Brynjolf's annoyance, wagged his tail even harder, his excitement radiating like a beacon. He seemed to thrive on the attention, his tongue lolling out in a goofy, happy grin as he turned his golden gaze toward Brynjolf, completely unfazed by the man's irritation.
"Could you be any louder?" Brynjolf added with a mock glare, shooting a pointed look at the hound, who merely tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I swear, he's got it in for me. You'd think he was trying to eat me instead of just trying to get some affection."
With a sigh, Brynjolf crossed his arms over his chest, a grin creeping onto his face despite his protest. "But I suppose he's got good taste," he added, his eyes softening as he glanced back at her. "He has been waiting for you to wake up this whole time. I believe he belongs to you by the way he has been acting."
The playful banter broke the tension in the room, and she couldn't help but chuckle at Brynjolf's antics. The sight of the rugged man trying to regain his composure while contending with the hound's relentless enthusiasm was almost too much to bear.
She could certainly understand how Brynjolf had come to the impression of "bear dog." The hound was massive, towering over her bedside in a way that would make most people think twice about approaching him. She had seen many dogs in her life, but none quite like this one. Though she didn't recall the details just yet of what he was. (Though he was a Mabari warhound, a specific breed native to her homeland and bred for war—strong, loyal, and fiercely protective.)
The hound looked to weigh around ninety to a hundred pounds, with a solid build that spoke of both power and agility. He stood about four feet tall on all fours, his broad chest and muscular limbs giving him an imposing presence. His coat was thick and well-groomed, a deep black with hints of warm brown, the kind of fur that could withstand the harshest of conditions.
Watching him now, she couldn't help but admire the way he carried himself with an air of confidence, as if he knew he was both feared and beloved. There was something noble about him, a certain majesty that spoke of his breeding and training. She imagined him charging into battle, a fierce protector by her side, striking fear into the hearts of their enemies.
In that moment, a wave of nostalgia washed over her as fleeting memories of her homeland flickered in her mind—echoes of laughter, the sound of war horns, and the camaraderie shared among warriors and their dogs. Despite the haze clouding her memory, the bond she felt with this hound was undeniable, and she instinctively knew he would be her steadfast companion.
Brynjolf leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his demeanor softening as he began to recount the events that had led her here. "I found you on the rocky beach near the small town of Dawnstar," he said, his voice steady. "You were barely conscious, and the tide was coming in fast. If I hadn't stumbled across you when I did…" His words trailed off, leaving the unspoken weight of what could have happened hanging in the air.
With a sigh, he continued, "The innkeeper's wife, Brita, helped me get you inside. Though, truth be told, she did most of the work. She's got a knack for healing." A hint of admiration crept into his tone as he spoke about her. "They changed you out of those wet clothes and got you under the blankets to warm you up. You must've been freezing."
His expression turned serious as he looked her in the eyes. "No one, not even you, seems to know how you got hurt. You spent the entire two days unconscious and burning with fever. It was touch and go for a while." He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. "But you pulled through."
As Brynjolf spoke, she could feel a knot tightening in her stomach. The mystery of her injury weighed heavily on her mind. Yet, amid the worry, her gaze drifted to the hound, who had settled back down beside her, watching her intently with those soulful golden eyes. She smiled softly at him, recalling the moment she had named him Shade. The name fit perfectly, a reflection of his sleek, dark fur, and it seemed to encapsulate his mysterious yet protective nature.
What she hadn't realized was that Shade had already carried that name, a fact Brynjolf revealed casually. "You see, this hound of yours, Shade—he's been quite the loyal companion. He paced in and out of this room the entire time you were out, waiting for you to wake up."
A warmth spread through her chest at the thought of Shade's unwavering vigilance. She reached out a hand, feeling the soft fur beneath her fingers, and he leaned into her touch, as if to reassure her. In that moment, she understood the bond that had formed between them; he had been her guardian even in her unconsciousness.
"Seems like he knew you needed him," Brynjolf added with a small grin. "Just like we all did."
As she listened to his story, the pieces of her fragmented memories began to align, and the warmth of hope flickered in her heart. With Shade by her side and the kindness of Brynjolf and Brita, perhaps she could reclaim her past and forge a new path forward.
While she lay bedridden, recuperating and gaining strength, Brynjolf took it upon himself to fill her in on the world beyond her small room. He settled into the chair next to her bed, pulling out a well-worn map of Skyrim, its edges frayed and creased from years of use. The parchment was marked with various notations, places, and routes, giving it the appearance of a well-traveled guide.
"Since you seem to know nothing of this land, let me give you the lay of the land," Brynjolf began, spreading the map out on the desk beside him, his fingers tracing the outlines of the different regions. "This is Skyrim, a land of stark contrasts and rich history, divided into nine holds, each ruled by a Jarl—like a lord or governor—who oversees their territory."
He pointed to the map, highlighting each hold as he spoke. "Here's Whiterun, the central hold and a major trade hub. Its Jarl is known for being fair but firm. Then there's Falkreath, lush and wooded, with a Jarl who's more concerned about the politics of the southern border." He continued to outline the different holds, each with its unique characteristics and political dynamics.
"Each Jarl is attended by a Housecarl, a personal guard sworn to protect them," he explained, his tone growing more animated. "They're fierce warriors and loyal to a fault. And beneath them are the various Thanes—nobles who have earned their favor through service or valor."
He glanced at her, gauging her understanding. "It's a hierarchical system, but one that's been around for centuries. Power struggles are common, and alliances can shift like the wind. So, it's good to know who's who if you find yourself navigating these lands."
As he spoke, she found herself drawn into the world he described, images of towering stone fortresses, sprawling forests, and bustling towns filling her mind. Each hold seemed to have its own stories and characters, from the proud warriors of Solitude to the stoic folk of Windhelm. Brynjolf's enthusiasm was infectious, and for the first time since waking up, she felt a spark of excitement mixed with the daunting uncertainty of her situation.
"Of course," he added with a smirk, "the Thieves Guild operates in the shadows of all these places, a necessary evil in a world full of greed and politics." He leaned in closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "And that's where I come in. I know all the ins and outs of this land, and if you ever find yourself in a bind, you'll have friends in the right places."
With a smile, he rolled the map back up, tucking it away as if sealing in the knowledge he had just imparted. "You may not remember where you came from, but you're in good hands here. The world outside may be harsh, but with a bit of cunning and a loyal hound by your side, you'll be just fine."
Brynjolf continued, his enthusiasm for the subject undeterred as he shifted his focus to the other races that populated Skyrim. "In addition to the four human races, there are six non-human races that add even more diversity to this land. Each brings its own unique culture and abilities."
He pointed to the lower portion of the map, where the borders of Hammerfell and Elsweyr lay. "First, we have the Orcs, or Orsimer, who predominantly reside in the mountains of Orsinium. They're known for their exceptional craftsmanship, particularly in forging weapons and armor. Orcs are often seen as fierce warriors, and while some may have a reputation for being brutish, they're incredibly proud of their heritage and value honor above all else."
Brynjolf's finger then traced to Elsweyr. "Next are the Khajiit, the feline folk from the deserts of Elsweyr. They're agile and nimble, known for their stealth and acrobatics. Depending on the phases of Nirn's moons at their birth, Khajiit can take on various forms, from the small and nimble to the large and powerful. You'll find that they often serve as merchants or skilled thieves, thanks to their natural talents."
His gaze shifted to the marshes of Black Marsh as he continued. "Then there are the Argonians, the reptilian inhabitants of Black Marsh. They're known for their resilience and adaptability, thriving in the swamps. Argonians are excellent swimmers and have a natural resistance to diseases, making them formidable in the harsh environment of their homeland. You'll find them to be resourceful and clever, often working as scouts or spies."
Brynjolf pointed to the northwestern part of the map. "Now, onto the elves. The High Elves, or Altmer, come from Summerset Isle. They're known for their intelligence and magical prowess, often regarded as the most sophisticated of the races. High Elves tend to be somewhat aloof and prideful, believing their heritage gives them superiority over others."
"Then we have the Dark Elves, or Dunmer, who hail from Morrowind. They're a stoic and resilient people, skilled in both magic and combat. The Dunmer are known for their unique culture and complex history, often marked by their struggles against outsiders. They have a natural affinity for destruction magic and are known to be fierce in battle."
Finally, Brynjolf gestured to the lush forests of Valenwood. "And last but not least are the Wood Elves, or Bosmer. They're agile and attuned to nature, often living in harmony with the wilderness. Wood Elves are exceptional archers and hunters, skilled at stealth and survival in the forests. They have a deep connection to the Green Pact, which governs their relationship with the natural world."
As he explained each race, her mind raced with images of the rich cultures and diverse characters she might encounter. The variety of beings, with their unique traits and histories, painted a vivid picture of a land brimming with opportunities for adventure.
Brynjolf leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin. "Each race brings something different to the table, and understanding their cultures will serve you well. Just remember, not everyone plays nice, and prejudices can run deep. But with your wits and a good ally—like Shade here—you'll find your way."
Brynjolf shifted gears, his excitement bubbling over as he began to cover the multitude of other essential topics she would need to navigate the complexities of Skyrim. "Alright, let's put aside the races for now," he said, leaning forward with an eager gleam in his eye. "There's a whole lot more you need to know if you're going to survive—and thrive—in this land."
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued. "First up, let's talk about the holds. Each one has its own unique culture, economy, and political landscape. For example, Whiterun is known for its trade, while Solitude is the capital and a center of politics. Riften, where I'm from, has a… less than stellar reputation, but it's a hub for those who walk in the shadows."
He paused, watching her absorb the information. "You'll want to know the ins and outs of each hold—where to find the best shops, the most reliable innkeepers, and, of course, where to avoid trouble. And believe me, trouble has a way of finding you in Skyrim."
He then moved on to the economy. "Gold is important, but so is bartering. Many of the folk here value trade over coin, especially in smaller towns. You'll want to hone your skills in haggling. A good deal can mean the difference between a warm meal and a cold bedroll. If you ever need assistance, I can teach you a few tricks of the trade."
"Next," he said, tapping a finger on the map, "are the guilds and factions. The Thieves Guild is just one of many. There's also the Companions, a group of mercenaries based in Whiterun, and the College of Winterhold for those with an affinity for magic. Then there are the Dark Brotherhood and the Silver-Blood family, each with their own agendas. Knowing who's who and how they interact can be vital."
Brynjolf leaned back, crossing his arms as he regarded her. "And let's not forget the Daedric Princes. They're powerful beings that often have their own agendas and can grant you unique powers—or curses. It's a double-edged sword. Some folks seek them out, while others avoid them at all costs. You'll need to decide where you stand."
He took a breath, as if gathering steam for another round of information. "The geography of Skyrim is just as important. From the snowy peaks of the Throat of the World to the swamps of Black Marsh, each region presents its own challenges. You'll face harsh weather, dangerous wildlife, and, of course, the occasional dragon." He smirked at her, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "I hear they're quite the sight to behold, but you'd rather not be on the receiving end of their fire."
"Lastly, and perhaps most importantly," he said, lowering his voice slightly, "you need to be aware of the politics at play. The Stormcloaks and the Imperials are locked in a fierce struggle, and the tension can spill over into everyday life. Choose your alliances wisely, or you might find yourself in the middle of a conflict that's been raging long before you arrived."
As he spoke, she felt her mind racing to keep up with the torrent of information. It was a lot to take in, especially in such a short time, but Brynjolf's passion was infectious, and the way he painted the world around her made her heart race with anticipation.
"Don't worry if it seems overwhelming," he said, noticing her thoughtful expression. "Take it one step at a time. You'll learn as you go. And remember, I'm here to help. After all, everyone could use a friend in a new place, especially one as intriguing as Skyrim."
Finally, after days of rest and recuperation, Elena felt strong enough to venture out of her room. Brynjolf had been a constant presence during her recovery, sharing tales of Skyrim's wonders and dangers, each story igniting a fire of curiosity within her. One afternoon, as the sunlight streamed through the inn's windows, casting a warm glow on the wooden walls, Brynjolf leaned in closer, his expression serious yet hopeful.
"Elena," he began, "now that you're feeling better, I have an offer for you." He paused, gauging her reaction before continuing. "I'd like you to join the Thieves Guild."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she was taken aback. It was an invitation she hadn't expected, yet the thrill of the proposal sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. The thought of stepping into a world filled with intrigue and adventure was almost intoxicating. Before she could think it through, her response burst forth with an enthusiasm that surprised even her.
"Yes! I would love to!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with excitement. The joy in her response was palpable, and Brynjolf's eyes widened in surprise, momentarily taken aback by her exuberance.
"Really? I thought you might need a moment to consider…" he trailed off, a grin breaking across his face as he realized how genuine her interest was. "Well then, welcome to the Guild!"
From that day forward, Elena stepped into a life she never knew she could have, a destiny she had never expected. Each day unfolded like a new chapter, filled with lessons in stealth, cunning, and the art of thievery. Brynjolf became her mentor, guiding her through the intricate web of the Guild's operations, sharing tips on lockpicking, and teaching her how to move silently through the shadows.
She learned the ins and outs of the city, discovering hidden alcoves and secret passages. The thrill of planning heists and executing them with precision became her new normal. Elena found a family among the other Guild members, each with their own stories, skills, and quirks. Laughter and camaraderie filled the halls of the Guild, creating bonds that transcended the challenges they faced.
As she honed her skills, Elena discovered a sense of freedom she had never known before. The weight of her past began to lift, replaced by the exhilaration of her new identity. The once-foreign land of Skyrim transformed into a canvas of possibilities, each heist a brushstroke on the masterpiece of her life.
With Shade at her side, ever watchful and loyal, Elena embraced her new reality. Every day was an adventure, filled with challenges that tested her resolve and courage. The future was unwritten, and she was eager to forge her path, no longer just a survivor but a thriving member of a vibrant, chaotic world.
As she navigated this new life, Elena felt the threads of her destiny weaving together, each experience pulling her deeper into the heart of Skyrim. She had found not just a home, but a purpose—one that would take her to places she had never imagined, where danger and excitement awaited at every turn. And with Brynjolf and the Guild by her side, she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
A.N: Thank you for reading!