The door to Farengar's study creaks open, and I step into the familiar chaos of his world. Books and scrolls are stacked on every available surface, potions bubble softly in the corner, and the smell of burnt herbs clings to the air. He's hunched over his desk, as usual, quill scratching furiously across some parchment.
Without looking up, he says, "Ah, the mighty Thane finally deigns to grace me with his presence." His tone is dry, but there's a flicker of amusement in his voice. "Don't think this means I'll go easy on you, Melkorn. Dragonborn or no."
I grin, letting the weight of my sword and dagger hit his desk with a solid clink. "I wouldn't expect you to."
That gets his attention. He glances at the weapons, then at me, arching a brow. "Hmm. And what exactly do you want done with these?"
"The sword gets the frost enchantment from the greatsword I gave you after Bleak Falls. The dagger needs lightning—the best you can manage."
He picks up the sword first, running a finger along the edge. "The frost enchantment will be simple enough, it was a fascinating thing to study an older method." He sets it down and grabs the dagger, holding it up to the light. "Lightning, you say? This will take time."
"That's fine. I won't be leaving till weeks end," I say, crossing my arms.
His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. "You're not staying? What, no lessons? No further attempts to take my time up?"
"Not this time," I reply. "I've got things to do."
Farengar sets the dagger down and sighs, rubbing his temple like I've personally offended him. "You are impossible, Melkorn. Fine. I'll prepare something for you—a guide to help you not get yourself killed. Think of it as a compromise."
"A guide?" I raise a brow.
"Homework," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Don't worry, it'll be simple enough even for you to follow. Just don't mistake it for a substitute for real training."
"Farengar," I say, pushing off the wall, "I appreciate that but you don't need to. Just make sure the enchantments are ready."
"You'll get them," he says with a dismissive wave. "And if you're lucky, the guide might actually keep you alive long enough to reconsider that stubborn refusal to visit the College."
I turn to leave, smirking over my shoulder. "We'll see."
I step out of Farengar's study, the heavy door groaning shut behind me, and find Inigo lounging at the nearest table. He's seated upright, one boot resting on the bench, sharpening the edge of a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Inigo," I call as I approach, jerking my chin toward the exit. "Let's go."
He looks up, sliding the dagger back into its sheath with practiced ease. As he stands, his ears flick forward, and his grin spreads wide. "At least Inigo is no longer naked when we come here."
"Lucky for you, things have changed," I say, walking toward the hall's main doors. "Thane privileges and all that."
"Indeed, my friend. Inigo is grateful. Now, this one can keep his sharp claws where they belong—in his hands." He flexes his fingers, claws catching the firelight, before falling into step beside me.
As we reach the exit, he glances at me. "So, where to next? Will we chase trouble, or will trouble chase us?"
I grin, pushing open the door. "The market, supplies to deal with the trouble we chase."
The Whiterun market hums with life as Inigo and I step into the bustling square. Merchants shout over one another, peddling everything from fresh produce to finely crafted armor. The smell of grilled meat and baked bread drifts through the air, mixing with the occasional unpleasant waft from the tannery stalls. It's a place alive with energy—and noise.
"Ah, Thane, what brings you to the market today?" The voice cuts through the din like a rusty dagger, setting my teeth on edge before I even turn. Nazeem. Of course.
I glance his way, his finely embroidered robes practically glowing in the midday sun. He's standing just a little too close, his smug expression already grating on my patience.
"I'm stocking up on supplies," I say, my tone flat. "Not that it's any of your business."
Nazeem's smile widens, his teeth gleaming in a way that only adds to my irritation. "Do you want my opinion? My input is invaluable, you know."
Gods, why did I stop walking? My hand drifts toward where my sword normally sits almost unconsciously. Gods, Nazeem is even more annoying in person.
Before I can decide whether driving my fist into his mouth would be worth the trouble, Inigo's hand lands lightly on Nazeem's shoulder. The Khajiit's grin is sharp, his tail flicking sharply behind him as he leans in just enough to be menacing.
Nazeem turns, his expression morphing from smug to offended in an instant. "What? Something you need, you miserable wretch?"
Inigo's eyes narrow, and his grin widens. "Every time this one sees your head, Inigo wants to twist it off."
Nazeem blinks, his mouth opening and closing as though he's searching for words. "I see. That won't be necessary… gold solves most problems, doesn't it?"
Inigo tilts his head, his voice low and steady. "No, not this time. Inigo is starting to lose his temper. Run away."
"Look, I assure you, this is all just a huge misunderstanding," Nazeem stammers, taking a half-step back.
Inigo's growl rumbles deep in his throat. "Run. Away."
Nazeem blanches, and without another word, he bolts through the crowded market, screaming as he goes. "Help! Someone help me!"
I cross my arms, watching him disappear into the throng with a shake of my head. Inigo glances down at my sword, then up at me, his grin returning. "Inigo thinks he wet himself. Now, let us get you that bow you came here for, my friend."
I snort, the irritation fading as I nod toward the nearest merchant stall. "Let's get it over with."
The stall is manned by a wiry Nord with a sun-weathered face, his arms crossed as he surveys his wares. Bows of various sizes and quality hang from the display, their polished wood gleaming in the light. I pick up a crossbow, testing its weight in my hands.
"Good choice," the merchant says, his tone gruff but approving. "That one'll serve you well."
I grunt in acknowledgment, tossing a few dozen septims onto the counter and taking a quiver of bolts to go with it. Practical or not, I hate the thing already. Fuck you Zero, this is not a new world to conquer.
As I sling the bow over my shoulder, I catch Inigo watching me with a tilt to his head. "Inigo is still surprised, my friend. You do not strike this one as the bow-wielding type."
"I'm not," I reply, my voice low. "But I need more range. My spells and sword don't quite reach far enough."
Inigo's tail flicks again as he chuckles. "A wise choice. Though Inigo suspects you will find a way to make it dramatic."
I shake my head and start walking, the weight of the bow settling awkwardly across my back. Practicality over pride, I remind myself. Lydia should be waiting like I told her.
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The courtyard behind Jorrvaskr is alive with the sounds of warriors training. Steel clashes against steel, punctuated by the occasional barked instruction or a grunt of exertion. The space is enormous, far larger than in the game, with separate areas for archery, hand-to-hand combat, and sparring.
I step into the chaos, the brisk morning air carrying the scent of sweat and oiled steel. A few of the warriors pause to acknowledge me as I pass. A raised hand here, a nod there, I return the gestures with curt nods, my focus already ahead.
Near the edge of the courtyard, Lydia waits. She stands tall and stiff backed, her polished plate armor catching the sunlight. Her spear rests against her shoulder, and her eyes are sharp and focused. She's eager to prove herself.
As I approach, she dips her head slightly. "My Thane. As you requested."
I nod, glancing toward the weapon rack nearby. "Give me a moment."
The rack is well-stocked with steel training weapons. I select an arming sword with a decently long blade first, testing its weight with a few quick swings, then a dagger to complement it.
Lydia watches me silently as I turn back to her. Her expression stays steady, but there's a faint glimmer in her eyes—a spark of anticipation, she knows this is me testing her not just a spar. She lifts her practice spear as I step into position across from her, the noise of the courtyard fading slightly as my focus sharpens. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword, and for a moment, we just stand there, sizing each other up.
She moves first. Her spear arcs high, aimed directly for my head. I raise my sword to block, but it's a feint. The instant I commit, she twists her wrist, dropping the spear low with a smooth, quick motion. The tip flashes toward my feet, forcing me to pivot and step back, barely evading the strike.
She's relentless, pressing the attack before I can fully recover. The spear jabs forward, quick and precise, aiming for my midsection. I sidestep, deflecting the strike with my dagger, the impact jolting up my arm. Her shield shifts, poised to counter any opening I might create. Each movement is calculated, flowing seamlessly into the next.
I feint a step back, baiting her lunge. The instant the spear flashes forward, I twist sharply, slamming my dagger against the haft and surging in before she can reset. My sword arcs upward, forcing her shield high as I close the gap. The spear becomes a liability, and she knows it. She retracts quickly, choking her grip up on the haft.
Our weapons clash, the sharp song of steel filling the air as I test her defenses. She parries my strikes, her shield absorbing each blow with practiced precision. I pivot, slashing low, and her spear swings in a tight arc to intercept. The momentum of her counter forces me to disengage briefly, and we circle again..
Her next thrust comes fast, aimed for my shoulder. I twist, catching the shaft with my dagger and pushing it downward, stepping in closer once more. My sword sweeps toward her side, but her shield snaps into place just in time, the clang of steel against steel reverberating in the courtyard.
We break apart, breathing harder now. Her eyes narrow, her stance shifting slightly, prepared for the next exchange. My grip tightens on my weapons as I nod to her, a faint grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
She's good. She might have matched me before the dragon soul enhanced me. Now? Let's see if she can keep up.
I close the distance again, faster this time. My strikes come in quick succession, forcing her to shift rapidly to keep up. The clang of steel fills the air as she absorbs the impacts, her shield moving swiftly to block each attack. My speed keeps her on the defensive, her footing faltering slightly as she struggles to match the pace.
She fights back fiercely, her spear flashing out in a desperate thrust, but I sidestep, angling my dagger to deflect it downward. The spear point veers off course, leaving her momentarily exposed. I pivot and swing my sword in a tight arc toward her shield arm, forcing her to angle it sharply to block.
The impact jars her stance, and I press harder, cutting low toward her legs. She retreats, but I advance, keeping her close, shield pressed in tight to keep her from swinging it. My blade sweeps high. Her shield rises, leaving her spear vulnerable. I seize the moment, hooking my dagger around the shaft and wrenching it sharply down.
The spear twists in her grip, and I step forward, shoving hard with my shoulder against her shield. The force drives her back a step, and as she adjusts, I slam my sword downward, jarring her already weak grip.
Lydia doesn't hesitate. She releases the spear and draws her short sword in a single smooth motion, her shield snapping back into position as my sword swings up towards her neck, with the spear gone, the fight tightens. Her short sword snaps forward in sharp, controlled arcs, her shield angling to deflect my strikes. But I can feel the shift—her longer reach is gone, and the strain of keeping pace starts to show. I twist and sidestep, my dagger sweeping down to knock her blade aside as my sword swings around toward her exposed shoulder. She pulls back just in time, her shield snapping into place to intercept the blow.
I feint low, and as her shield dips, I shift my attack, darting to her side and bringing my sword up in a controlled strike. She twists her shield arm, catching the blow at an awkward angle but managing to hold. I pivot again, my dagger locking her blade down for an instant as my sword slashes across her defense, I press forward, leaving her no choice but to fall back, her stance faltering..
The song of steel is relentless and beautiful. Each move flows into the next, the rhythm of combat driving her back. Her shield is a wall of deflection, her blade a constant threat. My strikes are faster now though as I put more effort into the fight, and I can see the strain in her movements. Her counters slow slightly, her steps less sure.
She's on the defensive, her shield absorbing blow after blow as I press forward. I swing low, aiming for her leg, but her shield drops just in time, catching the blow with a dull clang. She lunges, her short sword flashing toward my side. I twist sharply, letting the blade skim past, my dagger catching it and forcing her strike wide.
We break apart again, breathing hard. Sweat glistens on her brow, her chest rising and falling heavily. Her grip on her weapons tightens as she adjusts her stance, but the cracks are showing. Her shield arm trembles slightly, her movements losing the fluidity they had at the start.
I drive my sword low again, aiming for her leg. She shifts, blocking with her shield while her short sword slashes downward. I catch the blade with my dagger, locking it in place as I twist my body, slamming my shoulder into her shield. The impact drives her back, her boots skidding across the dirt.
Before she can recover, I hook my foot around her ankle and shove hard with my free hand. The combined force sends her tumbling backward, her shield clattering to the ground as she lands hard. She scrambles to rise, but I'm already there, my sword pointed at her throat.
For a moment, the world seems to pause. Lydia freezes, her eyes locking onto mine as her chest rises and falls with steady breaths. I lower the blade and extend a hand to her, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "You'll do."
Her expression softens slightly, and she takes my hand, letting me pull her to her feet. As she brushes the dirt from her armor, she glances at me and nods. "Thank you, my Thane."
I step back, sliding the practice weapons into my belt as I take a long breath. "You're better than I expected," I say, smiling faintly. "Keep that up, and we won't have a problem."
Her grin returns, faint but unmistakable. "I'll do my best."
As she retrieves her shield and spear, I watch her for a moment longer, the courtyard's noise returning to my awareness. She's proven herself, and then some. Despite my reservations, I know she'll hold her own in battle.
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The firelight casts flickering shadows across the stone walls, the only source of warmth in the cool, dim room. Aela stirs beside me, the steady rise and fall of her breathing something comforting to focus on. The silence here is absolute, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint hum of life within Jorrvaskr above.
Her voice breaks the quiet. "So, you're leaving today."
I shift slightly, turning my head to meet her gaze.
"You're more than welcome to come with, we haven't had the chance to hunt together since the dragon" I say, my hand trailing down her back, tracing the curve of her spine. Her lips curl into a faint smile, a soft exhale escaping her.
"Kodlak has a mission for me," she replies, her tone laced with quiet regret. "Besides, someone has to keep the others in line."
I huff a quiet laugh, pulling her against me roughly. Her skin is warm against mine, and the faint scent of leather and steel lingers on her. "Just don't replace me while I'm gone."
She raises an eyebrow, her grin growing. "I couldn't." Her nails dig sharply into my chest as she leans up to kiss me. My hands slide down to pull her up against me further as I flip us over leaving me leaning over her.
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As I strap on my gear and adjust my cloak, I glance back at her. She watches me quietly, more introspective than usual.
The fire crackles softly, filling the silence between us as I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on my boots. The furs shift behind me, and Aela rises, the barest whisper of movement. I glance over my shoulder to see her stretching, the firelight tracing the contours of her form. Letting my eyes trace over her form I feel the pull to drag her back to bed again but shake my head mournfully.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, sitting beside me. Her smirk returns, faint but familiar. "Don't tell me you're going to miss me."
I snort, shaking my head as I tighten the straps on my gauntlets. "Would it inflate your ego if I said yes?"
Her laugh is low and brief, her hand coming to rest lightly on my forearm. "Maybe a little."
She paused, eyes trailing my movements.
"Be safe, Melkorn," she says finally, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I lean down, pressing my lips to hers in a deep kiss. When we part, her hand lingers on my cheek for a brief moment before falling away. I rise, the cool air a stark reminder of the warmth I'm leaving behind.
"Cronvangr Cave," she says suddenly, her tone shifting to something more practical. "Spiders. There's a bounty out for clearing them. Might be worth taking your group there for a small hunt to get used to the new one."
I nod slowly, filing the information away. "Sounds like just the kind of warm-up to get used to having a new member."
I turn toward the door, glancing back one last time. "Take care of yourself."
"You too," she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper.
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The air inside Farengar's study is thick with the familiar smells of alchemy: burnt herbs, faintly acrid potions, and the underlying metallic tang of magic. I step through the doorway, my boots echoing lightly on the stone floor. Farengar doesn't look up immediately, engrossed in a scroll sprawled across his desk, his quill moving in rapid strokes.
"Ah, the Dragonborn graces me with his presence," he says dryly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. He finally lifts his gaze, his expression half-amused, half-irritated. "I trust you haven't come to disturb my research without purpose?"
I cross my arms, unfazed by his tone. "My sword and dagger. Are they ready?"
He exhales sharply, waving toward a nearby table. "There. I've outdone myself as usual, not that you'd bother to appreciate a subtle art like enchanting."
I step forward, reaching for my sword, its hilt cool beneath my grip. Unsheathing it, a faint mist rises from the blade, curling like smoke. The chill is stark, and for a moment, my mind flashes to the fight in Bleak Falls Barrow—to the weight of the draugr's eyes, the frost biting at my limbs. My grip tightens on the hilt.
Satisfied, I slide the blade back into its scabbard and reach for the dagger. As I draw it, a faint crackle fills the air, arcs of lightning dancing along the steel. The enchantment feels just as strong as the frost enchantment. I nod, pleased, and resheathe the dagger.
Farengar leans back in his chair, watching me with a faint smile. "I assume that means you're satisfied? Good. Perhaps now you'll leave me alone to research in peace instead of tracking dirt and blood into my office."
Farengar doesn't let me leave without another wave of his hand, beckoning toward a smaller table cluttered with artifacts and trinkets. His tone carries its usual mix of condescension and dry humor. "Hold a moment, boy. There's more. The enchanted items you brought back from Bleak Falls Barrow? I've finally identified them."
I stop, raising an eyebrow as he picks through the mess. He holds up the first item, a gold ring etched with faint runes and inset with a ruby. "A Ring of Vital Binding," he explains. "Its enchantment slows the effects of bleeding or injury, granting you precious moments to survive what would otherwise be fatal wounds. Quite practical, given your proclivity for danger."
He places it on the table before selecting the next piece, a simple silver necklace with a faint green glow. "A Necklace of Disease Immunity," he continues. "It protects against common diseases. Useful, though more so if you plan to travel places that will g- oh what am i saying you're likely to get all kinds of diseases with what you do."
Finally, he lifts another ring, this one bearing faintly shimmering blue waves. "And this," he says, his voice tinged with a hint of admiration, "is a Ring of Waterwalking. It allows you to tread on water for about thirty minutes before requiring you to let it rest. Perfect for… well, I'll leave it to you to imagine the possibilities."
I pick up the items one by one, examining them briefly before slipping them into my pouch. "Not bad," I admit.
Farengar huffs. "Not bad, he says, that Ring of Waterwalking is worth your weight in gold." He reaches for a leather-bound book resting beside a stack of scrolls, offering it to me with a mix of reluctance and pride. "The guide I promised. It's not a replacement for real training, mind you, but it might keep you alive long enough to stop being so stubborn about the College of Winterhold."
I take the book, flipping through a few pages. The text is dense, filled with notes and diagrams clearly drawn by Farengar's own hand. It's practical, focused on applications of magic I would need as an adventurer—I see a page for Oakflesh and Alarm among them.
"You're relentless," I say, shaking my head but tucking the book away.
"And you're infuriating," he counters. "But I suppose that makes us even. Now, off with you. I've work to do, and you've already taken up more of my time than I intended."
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The gates of Whiterun loom ahead, framed by the morning's golden light. The city is already coming alive—merchants shout their wares in the market square, and guards patrol the walls with the steady rhythm of duty. The crisp air carries the faint scent of baked goods from the marketplace, mixed with the earthy undertone of the city's well-trodden paths.
At the gate, Lydia waits, her spear resting upright beside her and her shield strapped securely to her back. She nods as I approach. "Everything's in order, my Thane."
"Good," I say, glancing over the gear she carries. From a quick look, it seems she has everything she needs.
Nearby, Inigo leans casually against the wall, his bow slung across his back and his tail flicking idly. He straightens as I near, his ears perking up. "Inigo is ready, my friend," he says, his tone light. "Though this one hopes we find excitement quickly. Sitting around grows tiresome."
I smirk faintly. "Trust me, you'll get your share soon enough."
Inigo's grin widens. "That is what I like to hear."
I adjust my cloak, checking the straps on my gear one last time. The sword and dagger at my side are reassuring, their enchantments a quiet hum against my awareness. The items from Farengar are secured in my pouch; everything else should be ready on Morrigan.
Satisfied, I turn toward the gate, gesturing for them to follow. The guards push the heavy wooden doors open with a groan, revealing the open road beyond. Morning light stretches across the path, beckoning us forward.
The path leading away from Whiterun winds through the golden grasses of the tundra and disappears into the treeline beyond. The crisp morning air carries the songs of distant birds and the occasional rustle of wind through the sparse trees. It's a world alive, yet quiet enough to let my thoughts wander.
We stop at the stables first. The horses are already saddled and ready. Lydia adjusts the straps on her saddle with practiced efficiency, securing her shield and spear to the side of her mount. She stays quiet, ever watchful, her posture rigid. Inigo stands nearby, his horse snorting impatiently as he rubs its nose with a calming hand.
As I secure my own gear, my thoughts drift, unbidden. If Lucien's there, I'll find him at the inn. The question isn't where—it's whether I actually want to take him on. The thought lingers, heavy and unresolved, as I mount my horse and turn to the others.
Inigo breaks the silence first, his voice as light as ever. "Where are we headed, my friend?"
Lydia looks up as well, her question clear in her steady gaze.
"Falkreath," I say simply, offering no further explanation.
Inigo's grin widens slightly as he adjusts his seat. "Falkreath. It has been some time since this one traveled that way. Perhaps the road will be kind to us."
Lydia frowns faintly but says nothing, her focus already shifting to the path ahead.
We urge the horses forward, their hooves striking a steady rhythm against the packed dirt road. The plain stretches out around us, bathed in golden light from the sun.
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The sun dips lower as we press on, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The dense canopy overhead filters the light into soft, golden patches, but the air grows cooler with each passing hour. I keep a steady pace, the rhythm of the horses' hooves echoing through the trees, until the road finally opens to a small clearing by a quiet stream.
"This will do," I say, pulling on the reins to bring my horse to a stop. The others follow suit, Lydia dismounting with practiced efficiency while Inigo takes a moment to pat his horse's neck and murmur something in Ta'agra.
Lydia begins unpacking supplies without a word, her movements brisk and precise. The clinking of pots and the rustling of bedrolls fill the clearing as she prepares the site. "We'll need more firewood," she says, glancing toward the edge of the clearing.
"I'll get it," I reply, sliding off my horse.
"And Inigo will ensure this spot remains... undisturbed," he says, his tone light but his gaze scanning the trees for any signs of trouble.
I walk a short distance into the woods, the sound of the stream fading as I go. The earthy scent of moss and pine surrounds me, and the crunch of twigs underfoot is the only noise accompanying me. I gather a handful of dry branches and return to find Lydia crouched by the firepit she's constructed, already striking flint and steel to bring the campfire to life.
The flames catch quickly, the warmth spreading as the fire crackles and spits. Lydia sits back, satisfied, while Inigo sets up a small perimeter, placing bells on tripwires he strings between the trees. His claws make quick work of the knots, his tail flicking lazily as he works.
"There. Now, if anyone tries to sneak up on us, Inigo will know," he declares, dusting his hands. "Or, they will trip and make fools of themselves. Either outcome is acceptable."
Lydia chuckles softly, shaking her head as she sets out a pot over the fire. "Your methods are... not something I would have considered."
"Most people don't," Inigo replies, flashing her a grin.
I settle down on a nearby log, stretching out my legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into my skin. The faint sound of the stream, combined with the crackling fire and soft hum of the forest, makes the clearing feel almost peaceful.
For a moment, I let my guard lower, just slightly. The road is long, and the journey far from over, but tonight, the camp feels safe enough.
As the fire crackles steadily, I reach into my pouch and pull out the enchanted items from Bleak Falls Barrow. The glow of runes etched into each piece catches the flickering light, drawing the attention of my companions.
"Catch," I say, holding up the first item—the Ring of Waterwalking. I glance at Inigo, whose ears twitch slightly, his head tilting in curiosity.
"This one lets you walk on water for a time," I explain, tossing it to him with a small smirk. He catches it effortlessly, his claws flashing briefly in the firelight.
Inigo studies the ring for a moment, then slips it onto his finger with an approving nod. "A fascinating gift, my friend. Inigo thanks you," he says, his tone sincere as he dips his head slightly.
I nod in acknowledgment before holding up the next item—a simple but elegant necklace with faintly glowing green runes etched into the chain.
"This is a Necklace of Disease Immunity," I say, turning to Lydia. "It'll protect you from the usual afflictions that might slow us down on the road."
She shakes her head almost immediately, her expression firm. "I cannot accept this, my Thane. You should wear it instead."
I grin, twisting the golden ring with the ruby on my finger—the Ring of Vital Binding. Its cool metal feels reassuring.
"I'll make you a deal," I reply. "When you can defeat me, you can refuse equipment. Until then, take the necklace."
Her lips press together, her protest clear, but after a moment, she exhales sharply and accepts it. "Thank you, my Thane," she says, her voice tinged with respect and a trace of reluctant humor as she slips the necklace over her head.
She doesn't sit back down. Instead, she steps toward the open space of the clearing, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
"If that's the standard, then I challenge you," Lydia says, her voice steady and resolute. Her gaze meets mine, full of purpose. "Right now."
For a moment, there's silence except for the crackling fire. Inigo's ears perk up, and a faint grin spreads across his face as he leans back against his log. "Oh, this will be entertaining."
She steps forward, retrieving her shield and one of the dulled practice swords we packed for the journey.
"Whenever you're ready, my Thane," she says, her voice calm and steady.
I pick up a practice sword and dagger from the supplies, the familiar weight reassuring in my hands. I step into the clearing, the firelight casting long shadows as I face her.
She squares off against me, her shield raised, her practice sword angled just right. The firelight flickers across her, casting sharp shadows that shift with every subtle movement. She challenged me to this sparring match, her expression calm but determined. It's been a week since we met, and I already know her measure—disciplined, skilled, and capable. But that isn't enough to quiet the unease sitting heavy in my chest.
A woman in battle. It's wrong, and me being the one to bring her into it... But she's here, and if she's going to fight beside me, I'll make sure she's ready. It doesn't matter what I think—she's made her choice. My part is to push her and lead her.
We begin to circle, the clearing quiet except for the crackle of the fire. I move first, stepping in with a quick feint high toward her shield side. She reacts instantly, her shield rising to meet the imagined strike, just as I expect. I twist sharply, redirecting my blade low. She reads the motion, her shield tracking downward to intercept, and her sword darts out at the same time, aimed for my ribs.
I twist away, angling my dagger to deflect her strike, the steel sliding with a sharp hiss. She presses forward immediately, her shield held close, forcing the gap between us to shrink. Her sword flashes in a thrust toward my shoulder, and I sidestep, catching her blade with my dagger and knocking it wide. My feint low toward her legs follows seamlessly, baiting her shield to drop. She tracks it with practiced ease, her shield shifting downward just as her sword snaps upward in a counter.
I parry her blade with my dagger again, keeping it offline, and pivot sharply to her exposed side. My sword cuts in from the flank, but she recovers, twisting her shield at just the right angle to deflect the strike and shove me back a half-step. I disengage quickly, circling to reset as her shield returns to guard, her sword hovering ready at her side.
Her movements are sharp and methodical, every step matching mine. I feint high again, baiting her shield upward, and this time layer the feint with a secondary motion—a sudden pivot back to the opposite side. My dagger catches her sword mid-motion, locking it down for a brief instant, while I twist sharply to drive my sword toward her now-exposed side.
She shifts fast, her shield dropping in time to deflect the blow, but I press in, using my momentum to step closer. I don't try to overpower her shield—it's pointless—but instead drive my shoulder into it, forcing her to adjust her footing. The slight imbalance is enough. My sword sweeps toward her leg, forcing her to backstep, but as she does, I twist upward into her new guard, aiming a controlled strike toward her shoulder.
Her blade intercepts at the last moment, the clash of steel ringing out as we both reset. She recovers quickly, her stance steady, her shield snapping back into position. Her sword darts forward again, aiming for my midsection, but I deflect it, stepping back just far enough to bait her forward.
I counter immediately, my blade cutting in a sharp arc toward her flank. She raises her shield once more, catching my strike with a hard block, and uses the opening to push me back with a driving step of her own. I disengage again, breathing steady, as we begin circling once more.
The fight flows on, our movements sharp and relentless. Every strike I make tests her, forcing her to react, but I keep the pace just above her comfort. I need her pushed, not broken.
I feint again, her shield arm dips, but she recovers almost instantly, stepping back and resetting her stance, her sword already snapping into position to block my follow-up. Her reaction is fast—too fast to exploit cleanly—but I press again, my blade sweeping toward her flank. She twists, catching the strike with her shield, and counters hard, forcing me to deflect sharply with my dagger.
I close the gap again, faster this time, my strikes coming sharper, tighter. Her shield absorbs the blows, her sword darting out to counter each time I leave an opening. Her stance falters. My sword arcs upward, stopping just short of her neck.
I lower my blade and step back. She's already more prepared than most, but that doesn't quiet the unease twisting in my chest. If she's going to stand beside me in battle, this will be our routine. Every night, I'll push her like this. Not because she needs it, but because I do.
The fire crackles in the clearing as I shake off the last traces of the sparring match with Lydia. Inigo, seated by the fire with his legs crossed, watches me with his sharp, unblinking eyes. His ears twitch, and his ever-present grin widens.
"My friend," he says, standing with a grace that seems almost unnatural, "perhaps it is time you tested yourself against claws instead of steel. What do you say?"
I huff a breath, grinning. "Hand-to-hand? Fine. Let's see if those claws of yours can keep up."
Inigo's grin turns sharper, his tail flicking behind him as he steps into the open space. His stance is light, fluid, the kind of balance that makes him hard to pin down. I raise my hands, loose and ready, my feet shifting into position.
He moves first, a quick jab aimed high. I sway, stepping forward and driving a sharp elbow toward his ribs. He twists away, his movements smooth and deliberate, and counters with a low sweep of his leg.
We circle each other, and this time I close the distance with a sudden lunge, aiming a knee at his midsection. He blocks with his forearm, using the momentum to spin and swipe toward my side with his claws. I lean back, narrowly avoiding the strike, and snap a quick front kick toward his thigh. The blow lands, but he barely flinches, already moving again.
Inigo's strikes are faster now, a blur of swipes and kicks. I deflect one clawed hand with my wrist, stepping inside his reach to deliver a sharp uppercut. He sways back, slipping to my side and aiming a jab at my kidney. I twist, catching his arm and driving my knee up toward his ribs.
Before the strike lands, he moves with impossible speed, flipping up and over me. His momentum wrenches my arm painfully as I instinctively release my grip. He lands behind me, his feet silent on the ground, and before I can turn, his grip tightens on my wrist. In a fluid motion, he pulls my arm back and locks me in place, his claws lightly grazing the side of my neck.
I freeze, the heat of his breath on my neck as he leans in slightly. His grip is firm, just enough pressure to remind me how easily this could end.
"Yield," he says, his tone calm but tinged with satisfaction.
I groan, letting my head fall back against the dirt. "Fine. I yield. Damn cat."
Lydia chuckles softly from her spot by the fire, shaking her head.
"Seems like you've got some work to do, my Thane," she says.
I brush the dirt off my cloak, muttering under my breath. Despite the loss, a faint grin tugs at my lips. Inigo, smug bastard that he is, bows slightly before returning to his spot by the fire. He's earned it.
I sigh, brushing the dirt off my cloak as I drop onto the ground near my pack. With a slight smile, I reach into my bag and pull out the guide Farengar made for me, wonder what the cranky bastard put in it.
The leather binding feels smooth under my fingers as I flip it open, the first page catching my eye—a preface in Farengar's unmistaka0ble, messy scrawl.
Melkorn, it begins, his voice almost audible in the words. Let me be clear—I've never been much of a teacher. I'm barely adequate for a talented adventurer, let alone a dragonborn.
I snort at that, the corner of my mouth twitching. Farengar was a great teacher despite what he claimed.
Still, after months of observing your reckless stupidity and utter refusal to consider true formal study, I thought this guide might be the only way to keep you alive until you come to your senses and head to the College of Winterhold. Assuming you survive long enough.
My eyes narrow at the subtle jab. I planned to go to the college eventually, damn it.
In this, I've included the essentials—spells and techniques that will do more than just set something on fire. Oakskin, for example, no matter how much you may have neglected alteration to focus on flashy destruction is useful. Lockpicking is here too, though I'm sure you'll still prefer smashing locks with a dagger.
I can practically hear the exasperation in his tone, though it's hard to tell where that ends and concern begins.
You'll also find some more advanced techniques to condense your novice spells into more effective forms—Firebolt and Lightning Bolt, for example. These should be adequate for stronger foes, though I won't lie: they will likely do little against dragons. You'll need far more than these low level spells to kill them.
And stop ignoring Alteration.
The words are underlined, standing out from the rest of the text. You know its value—you've even admitted as much during our conversations—but you continue to treat it like an afterthought. Alteration may not be flashy, but you can't keep neglecting it because you want to focus on destruction.
My grip tightens on the edge of the page as the words sink in, the flush creeping up my neck unbidden. I hate that he's right. I've always been like this—drawn to attack, eager for the kill.
A memory surfaces unbidden: back on Earth, my teacher had said the same thing during a sparring session. "You rush in like a bull, eager for the kill. Sure, you might take down your opponent, but you leave yourself open. Against someone really good, you'll die."
My jaw tightens as I shove the thought aside. Farengar's words bring that same frustration bubbling to the surface, but I can't deny them. He's right. They both are.
I take a steady breath, turning the page.
Let us start with Oakflesh-
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The air grows heavy as we crest the hill overlooking Riverwood. What remains of the village sprawls out below us, a stark contrast to the idyllic image I remember. The once-charming wooden homes are now skeletal frames, charred and blackened against the ashen ground.
We guide the horses down the winding path toward the ruins, the silence oppressive. No birdsong, no distant chatter of villagers, only the crunch of our boots and hooves on scorched earth. The faint scent of pine is overwhelmed by the acrid stench of burned wood and death. Each step closer feels heavier, the weight of what happened pressing down on me.
The village is eerily still. A broken cart lies overturned near what used to be the blacksmith's forge, its wheels splintered and warped by the fire. Scattered belongings—a child's toy, a cracked pot, a singed cloak—litter the ground, silent reminders of the lives that were lived here.
Lydia dismounts first, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword as she surveys the devastation. "Gods," she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.
Inigo follows, his ears flattening slightly as he steps into the ruins. His usual lighthearted demeanor is replaced by something quieter, more somber. "This one has seen many villages like this," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the scorched remains of a home. "Each one feels heavier than the last."
I remain silent, my eyes scanning the destruction. The memory of Riverwood as it was—its bustling market, the warmth of its people—clashes with the reality before me. My grip tightens on the reins, the leather creaking under my fingers. The weight of this place settles deep in my chest, refusing to let go.
I dismount slowly, the weight of my boots pressing into the ash-covered ground as if the land itself resists my presence. The destruction sprawled before me demands my attention, each broken beam and blackened stone a stark reminder of what happened here. My eyes drift to the remnants of Gerdur's mill.
Images flash unbidden through my mind: Gerdur's welcoming smile, Alvor's forge, the Trader where I had gotten my cloak. Now they were likely gone, swallowed by the fire and fury of a dragon I failed to stop.
The guilt tightens in my chest like a vice. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I force the memories away. I should have done more. The thought circles like a vulture, picking at the edges of my resolve. My jaw sets, anger bubbling beneath the surface—anger at the dragon, at the gods, at myself.
I kneel by a scattered pile of belongings, my hand brushing over a child's charred wooden sword. The blackened wood crumbles slightly under my touch, its fragile form disintegrating into ash. The weight of it feels unbearable and the golden claw flashes through my mind where it is nestled in my pack. I could never return it, but I force myself to rise, letting the remains fall to the ground.
Lydia steps beside me, her presence grounding. "It's not your fault," she says quietly, her voice steady. "The dragon… it would have come, no matter what."
"Perhaps," I reply, my tone measured, the words tasting bitter. "But that doesn't make it easier to accept."
Her words settle somewhere deep, mingling with the storm of thoughts and emotions churning inside me. I nod slowly, my focus sharpening into a singular purpose. The dragon's fire may have taken this place, but it will not claim another. Skyrim is mine, not a playground for giant lizards.
The weight of silence hangs over the ruins, broken only by the crackling remnants of smoldering wood. Lydia moves through the wreckage with careful steps, her eyes scanning for anything salvageable. She pauses near what remains of the inn, her fingers brushing over a broken mug half-buried in the ash.
"It's hard to imagine," she says, her voice low and steady. "A place like this, gone in an instant. It's a reminder of what we're really up against."
I nod but say nothing, my gaze fixed on the ground as I sift through the remains near what was once the forge. The silence feels oppressive, the ruins pressing down with their stark finality. Lydia's words hang in the air, grounding but also heavy.
Inigo's footsteps are lighter, almost ghostlike as he pads over to us. He crouches beside a toppled crate, his tail curling around him as he picks up a singed scrap of cloth. His golden eyes are soft but somber, a far cry from his usual jovial demeanor.
"This one has seen places like this before," he murmurs, holding the scrap up briefly before letting it fall. "Villages burned, lives snuffed out. But still, the world moves on. And so must we, my friend."
I glance at him, his words cutting through the haze of guilt and anger that clings to me.
"They deserved better," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. The bitterness in my tone is hard to suppress.
"Perhaps," Inigo replies, rising to his feet with a fluid motion. "But what they truly deserve is for you to honor them by what you do next. What you choose to become."
Lydia straightens, brushing ash from her hands. "He's right, my Thane. We can mourn them, but we can't let their loss paralyze us. There will be more villages, more lives at stake. We have to keep moving."
Their words settle over me like a cooling balm, soothing the edges of the anger and guilt that still churn within. I draw a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and straighten my shoulders.
As we make our final sweep through the remnants of Riverwood, the weight of the place settles into a resolute silence among us. Lydia takes one last look around the charred ruins, her expression firm but tinged with sorrow.
Inigo adjusts the strap on his quiver, his golden eyes scanning the horizon. "This one thinks it's time we left," he says, his tone unusually subdued. "The dead have no use for company, and the living have much to do."
I nod, tightening the straps on my pack. My gaze sweeps over the village one last time, the charred skeletons of homes and the ash-strewn ground etching themselves into my memory.
"Let's move," I say quietly, my voice thick with emotion.
We mount our horses, the sound of hooves on ash the only noise as we head back to the main road. The ruins fade into the distance, but the image of Riverwood lingers in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. Every detail—the broken beams, the smell of smoke, the silence—burns itself into my resolve.
Never again. The words echo in my thoughts, as sure and final as a blade drawn for battle. I will not let this happen again, not while I have the power to stop it.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The wilderness stretches out around us as we leave the ruins of Riverwood behind. The road winds through dense forest, the tall pines casting long shadows across our path. The air is crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of moss and damp earth. Birds chirp intermittently, their songs a gentle counterpoint to the steady rhythm of our horses' hooves.
Days pass in a rhythm of travel. The mornings are cold, the frost clinging to the grass as we break camp and ready the horses. By midday, the sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled light onto the forest floor, and the evenings are spent in the warmth of campfires, the flames holding the encroaching chill of the night at bay. The monotony of the journey is broken only by the occasional sounds of wildlife or the distant murmur of a stream.
As we pass beneath a rocky outcrop one afternoon, I glance up toward the mountain. My gaze lingers on a distant ledge, where the Shrine of Talos should be. The thought stirs something in me—a faint flicker of anger mixed with reverence. The Empire's decree against Talos worship gnaws at the edge of my mind, but I push the thought aside, my jaw tightening.
Each day blurs into the next, the scenery changing only slightly. The forest grows denser as we travel further south, the trees towering over the road and creating a sense of isolation. The wildlife is sparse, but we occasionally spot a deer darting through the underbrush or hear the distant cry of a hawk.
One evening, as we set up camp near a clearing, the air grows heavier. The firelight flickers against the shadows of the trees, and I find myself glancing over my shoulder more than once. The unease is subtle, a nagging feeling I can't quite shake.
On the road the next day, the tension returns. My grip on the reins tightens as we close on Falkreath. The shadows here seem darker, the air heavier. My eyes scan the surrounding trees, the silence oppressive.
"Melkorn," Lydia says, her tone cautious, "something wrong?"
I shake my head, my eyes fixed ahead. "No," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "Nothing."
She doesn't press further, but I can feel her gaze linger for a moment longer before she turns her attention back to the road. Inigo, riding just ahead, hums softly to himself, seemingly unbothered by the tension.
The Dark Brotherhood is somewhere around here.
The thought lingers, unspoken but undeniable. I force myself to take a steady breath, keeping my posture relaxed despite the tension coiling in my gut. My companions don't need to share this burden—not yet, at least.
The road ahead curves sharply, the trees pressing closer as if the forest itself conspires to keep its secrets. I keep my focus sharp, every sense attuned to the world around me. The feeling doesn't fade, but we push forward, the shadows of the wilderness closing in as the days stretch into the unknown.
Then finally Falkreath
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The forest thickens as we approach Falkreath, the towering pines stretching skyward like silent sentinels. The road beneath our horses' hooves is well-trodden, bordered by moss-covered stones and faintly worn markers hinting at the hold's ancient history. The air grows cooler, carrying a dampness that seeps into the skin, and the scent of pine mingles with the faint tang of wood smoke.
As we crest a rise, the town comes into view. Falkreath sprawls out below, a city of timber and stone nestled within the valley. High wooden walls, reinforced with stone towers at the corners, enclose the settlement, their watchtowers manned by guards. The gates stand open, welcoming travelers and traders.
The bustling activity of the town is immediately apparent as we pass through the gates. Merchants shout their wares in the crowded market square, their stalls overflowing with fresh produce, furs, and crafted goods. Lumber carts creak as they roll toward the sawmills, the rhythmic thunk of axes echoing faintly in the distance. Despite the vibrant activity, there's a gravity to Falkreath that's impossible to ignore, a somber undertone that pervades the air.
We guide our horses through the main street, the cobblestones uneven but sturdy beneath their hooves. The city's structures are a blend of practicality and rugged charm, their timber frames weathered but well-maintained. To the left, the sprawling graveyard looms, its rows of stone markers and elaborate mausoleums stretching into the distance. A faint mist clings to the earth there, swirling around the boots of mourners who walk among the honored dead.
"A peaceful place," Lydia says from her mount, her gaze sweeping over the city. "But it carries a heaviness, like the past is never far from the surface."
Inigo's ears twitch, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "This one feels it too. The air here… it remembers."
I say nothing, my focus ahead as the road curves toward the center of town. My thoughts are already elsewhere, the name circling in my mind like a moth to a flame.
Lucien.
The Sleeping Giant Inn—a larger and grander structure than I expected—comes into view. Its stone foundation and towering wooden beams exude an air of permanence, the warm glow of lanterns visible through the broad windows. The chatter and laughter of its patrons spill out into the street, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread.
We dismount, handing the reins to a stablehand who approaches with a mixture of awe and nervousness. His wide eyes flick between us, lingering on our armor and Inigo's tail. I toss a silver to him, adjusting my cloak as I head for the inn's door. Lydia and Inigo follow close behind, their steps steady and unhurried.
The warmth of the inn greets us as we step inside, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind us. The crackle of the hearth and the low hum of voices fill the space, but my focus is already elsewhere. I glance back at Lydia and Inigo, gesturing toward an empty table near the center of the room.
"Find a table," I say simply. "I'll join you in a moment."
Lydia nods, her gaze lingering on me briefly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Inigo offers a faint shrug and follows her lead. Neither of them questions me, though I can feel their unspoken curiosity hanging in the air.
I weave through the crowded room, the familiar sounds and smells of an inn wrapping around me like an old cloak. My steps are measured, deliberate, as I approach a figure seated alone at a corner table. His clothes are finely made but rumpled, his posture slouched, and the weariness betrays a lingering frustration.
Lucien.
He glances up as my shadow falls over him, his brows furrowing slightly. "Can I help you?" he asks, his tone cautious but polite.
I pull out the chair across from him, sitting without invitation. "You look like you could use an ear," I say, leaning back slightly. "Rough day?"
Lucien's shoulders slump further, and he lets out a dry laugh. "Rough month, more like," he mutters, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "I've been trying to find someone—anyone—willing to take me on, and it's been rejection after rejection."
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. "Adventuring isn't exactly a kind profession. Most people prefer experience over enthusiasm."
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "And yet here I am, trying anyway. I'm not naive; I know I have a lot to learn. But how can I prove myself if no one gives me the chance?"
I let the silence linger for a moment before nodding. "Fair point." I straighten in my chair. "What would you do if someone gave you that chance?"
Lucien blinks, the question catching him off guard. "I… I'd work as hard as I could. I'd listen, learn, and do whatever it takes to prove I belong." His voice gains strength as he speaks, his frustration giving way to earnest determination.
I nod again, letting a faint smile tug at the corner of my lips as I make up my mind. "Good. Get your things."
His brow furrows in confusion. "What?"
"Get your things," I repeat, rising from the chair. "You're coming with us."
Lucien stares at me, his mouth opening and closing as he processes my words. "Wait… you're serious?"
"Serious as the dragons we'll be fighting," I say, smirking faintly. "Be ready soon. We don't wait long."
I turn and walk away, hearing him sputter behind me "wai- dragons!". Behind me, I hear the faint scrape of his chair as he stands, already moving to gather his things. A faint smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I rejoin Lydia and Inigo at the table.
This will be interesting.
The table is quiet as I take my seat, Lydia and Inigo watching me with curiosity. Inigo's tail flicks lazily, and Lydia leans back slightly, her armored hand resting on the edge of the table. Neither of them speaks, but I can feel the questions brimming beneath the surface.
The sound of hurried footsteps behind me draws their attention. Lucien skids to a stop beside the table, clutching a travel-worn pack in one hand and a look of nervous excitement plastered across his face.
"Ah, there you are," I say evenly, gesturing for him to take the empty seat beside me. "Lydia, Inigo, meet Lucien. He'll be joining us."
Lydia's brows lift slightly, her expression tightly controlled. She glances him over, her gaze lingering on his fine but rumpled clothes and the awkward way he grips his pack. "If my Thane believes he will be useful, I am sure he will be," she says, though her tone carries a note of skepticism.
Inigo leans forward, his golden eyes narrowing as he studies Lucien with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey. His whiskers twitching, but his voice, while light, carries a pointed undertone. "This one wonders what you bring to the table, Lucien," he says, drawing out the name with exaggerated precision. "Aside from nerves and fancy clothes, of course."
Lucien blinks, momentarily startled by the directness, before squaring his shoulders. He tries to compose himself, though his fidgeting hands betray his nerves. "I may not look like much," he begins, his voice trembling slightly before gaining a thread of confidence. "But I'm a quick learner. I've studied history, magic, and strategy. I—"
Inigo raises a hand, cutting him off with an easy grin. "Relax, Julian," he says, the name deliberately wrong and his tone playfully dismissive. "We shall see what you are made of soon enough."
"It's Lucien," the scholar mutters, his voice dropping as his gaze darts to me, as though searching for an ally.
"Lucien, yes! Er… what did this one say?" Inigo replies with mock seriousness, tilting his head in feigned confusion.
"Julian," Lucien says quietly, his lips pressing into a tight line.
"Ah, my apologies," Inigo says with a slight bow of his head, though the grin playing on his face suggests no real regret.
Lucien exhales sharply, forcing himself to straighten again. "Apology accepted. Right then, Indigo—"
"It's Inigo," the Khajiit corrects, his voice full of exaggerated patience.
"Exactly," Lucien mutters, his face flushing slightly as he glances away, clearly flustered.
Inigo chuckles softly, his grin widening. "Inigo does not know about your skill with a blade, but your intellect is clearly sharper than most. That is something, at least."
Lucien hesitates, fidgeting for a moment before managing a tentative smile. "Thank you. That's… kind of you to say."
Inigo leans back with a laugh, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. "Glad to have you with us, um… er…"
"Lucien!" the scholar blurts, his voice almost too loud, his hands twitching at his sides.
"Lucien, yes, Lucien!" Inigo repeats, clearly enjoying himself. "My apologies, my friend."
Lucien narrows his eyes ever so slightly, catching on. "You're doing it on purpose now."
"Hehehe," Inigo chuckles, his tail swishing in satisfaction. "Perhaps."
I smirk faintly but say nothing, letting Inigo's teasing settle. Lucien exhales sharply, clearly out of his depth, but he takes the seat, his pack settling awkwardly at his feet.
"We'll see how you do," I say, my tone neutral but firm. "For now, get comfortable. The road ahead won't be."
Lucien nods quickly, his hands fidgeting on the table. Lydia leans back, her expression neutral, though I catch her exchanging a brief glance with Inigo. Whatever unspoken judgment they've made, they keep it to themselves—for now.
Inigo's grin widens slightly as he leans back in his chair. "This one thinks you will provide entertainment, if nothing else."
Lucien groans softly but doesn't argue, and I allow myself a faint smile.
AN
This one is early because I have a tourney tomorrow, hope everyone has a great day, wonder how Lucien will deal with Melkorns disdain for the Empire :)
As always i Have a dirty P word under the name MandTeKad which is 3 chapters ahead, it also has the artwork for Melkorns weapons and soon artwork of Melkorn himself!
