“My research suggests a much different cause, however. In the decades preceding their fall, the dwarven cities of Skyrim had been decimated by internal disputes and infighting over a most surprising cause: Aetherium.”
24th of Evening Star 4e, 202
Grulmar was quite surprised to see so many people in Windhelm. Yes, he was used to Nords and Dunmer here, but now, the streets were literally full of people, like fish in a barrel of stone, he thought, glancing up at Windhelm’s high stone walls. And crowds meant easy targets.
Before they even got to the Grey Quarter, his pockets were already full and nobody noticed a damn thing. Enjoy the festival, tuskers, he laughed inside. Festivals… Perfect time for “fishing.” He was like a fisherman over that tuskin’ stone barrel and the fish had nowhere to swim, nowhere to hide. People were merry and usually so drunk, they let their guard down and that was the perfect time for him to get rich.
They just passed Sadri's shop—Dunmer banners and flags now covering the Nord barrel, trying to pass off the place as some knock-off of Morrowind—and were slowly nearing New Gnisis Cornerclub, descending the stairs when Grulmar noticed a very drunk Imperial in fancy clothes. He was leaning against the wall of the Cornerclub, a big bruise on his face. Most likely thrown out by locals. They don't like strangers in there.
But still, opportunity is opportunity.
He “stumbled” and bumped into that drunk Imperial, nearly pushing him to the ground. He immediately regained his balance and raised both his hands in apology. “I'm sorry, friend. Damn stairs dodged.”
The Imperial frowned and Grulmar worried for a second that he might throw up, but that luckily didn't happen. “Just watch where you step, Orc.”
“Of course,” Grulmar bowed his head in apology and turned to continue on his way, only to bump into Shiny's chest. “What the—“
The big Altmer moved him aside, it was just short of a shove, and approached the drunk Imperial. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, extending his arm to produce a pouch. Pouch? Grulmar stared like an idiot for a split second before he checked his belt and the pouch he just stole from the man was gone. How? Tuskin' Elf! You stole from me?! “You seemed to have dropped your purse.”
The man looked surprised—hard to say whether it was because he lost his pouch or because someone returned it to him. More likely the latter. Grulmar sure was surprised—and pissed. Bastard stole from me.
“Thank you?” The man managed, still gawking at his pouch.
“Oh, think nothing on it, friend. You enjoy the holiday and... Be careful.” The Altmer then flashed one of his awkward, stupid, stupid smiles. Get ready for a dumbarse saying. Here it comes. “When the drinks flow, the pockets often empty.”
Grulmar cringed.
The man stumbled away and the Orc growled at Äelberon. “Why the fuck ya do that?”
Shiny put on his face, there were no words for it—that face he used when he was about to give a lesson, like how you talk to some kid who just got caught breaking another kid’s toys, the arms now crossing over his chest. “Grulmar, it is the Eve of Saturalia. Can you not keep your fingers to themselves for one bloody day? Scamp’s Blood! Makes me wonder how long you have been at it.” He gave Grulmar a once-over and frowned. “Hmph! probably since we arrived because that is certainly not your cock bulging in your pants. Is it really necessary? You are not starving and you have the means to give yourself a roof over your head. That man had probably saved the entire year to take this trip to Windhelm. If you stole all of his money, what would he bloody do? Go home? How? If he has no money for boat passage or carriage? Auri-El’s Bow!”
That lesson got the attention of others, mostly Erik, which was odd, because normally Fangs jumped right into the water with Shiny. She was waiting by the door, looking at the stone floor. The stupid dog was looking at his Master like an adoring fan, though, wagging his tail. What is daddy gonna do next? Daddy’s so big and brave! I love daddy! Stupid dog. Decimus didn't give a shit and that was the right course of action.
“Who gives a shit?” Grulmar replied, ignoring everyone in front of New Gnisis. His companions, bystanders. Just everyone. He didn't give a shit about them. “Is that man someone ya know? Or is it because I did something that's against the law? Shiny the Savior. I didn't hurt him or anything, so what's yer problem?”
“That is not the point—“started Shiny, but Grulmar didn't let him finish.
“No it isn't. The point is that ya should mind yer tuskin' business. Do I go and unsave people? Do I unheal them or somethin'?”
“Unsaving people?” The Altmer guffawed and the tuskin’ dog barked on cue, like he was laughing with daddy. He laughed. “That a thing these days? How does that even work? I pull them out of the fire and you put them back in? How preposterous! Unsaving people—“
“You tuski-”
“Hey!” shouted Decimus, getting their attention. “You can continue this later. Before we go in, there are a few rules you have to follow. Grulmar, you're listening?”
The Orc was still frowning at Shiny, but nodded. “I know the rules.”
“And you break them nevertheless,” snorted Erik, which made Grulmar snap his attention to him. He opened his mouth to say something back but...decided not to. Screw it. I just want to grab a drink.
“This is a Dunmer bar. Cursing, spitting, war dogs, and,” he gave the Altmer a funny look, “smoking.” An audible sigh of relief from the Elf. I’m not done with you yet, tuskin’ Shiny. You need to earn that pipe. “Smoking is allowed. But they don't like strangers. So first rule: Don't provoke them. They don't like Nords, so you two,” he looked at Serana and Erik, “in particular, have to behave yourselves.” He then glanced at Shiny. “Fuck, they don’t like Old Marys any better, but you usually behave.” The Altmer slowly grinned and Decimus had to bite his lip not to laugh. “Usually.” He cleared his throat and became serious again. “So… No smart remarks, no superior behavior. When you meet Galar...second rule: Don't ask him if he's a wizard. Third rule: Don't show off your magic.”
“Ah, old eccentric Telvanni Dunmer. Like Old Neloth, eh? I remember those. Completely normal person then,” chortled Äelberon.
Decimus grinned. “Aren't we all?”
Grulmar snorted and everyone turned their attention to him. “What? Uncle is not kidding. That Dunmer is weird. Don't piss him off unless ya want your loved ones to rub you off a wall.”
“Shall we then?” asked Decimus, pointing to the door. Grulmar headed to them and kicked them open. He entered with a cocky grin, only to be stopped by a tall Dunmer. He looked into a face with a nasty burn on the right cheek, a bald head, and frowning red eyes.
“Hey, Handsome,” he greeted Kilivil, New Gnisis' bouncer. “Long time no see.”
“Not that I regret it,” growled Kilivil. “Don't steal anything. I'm watching you.” Then his attention turned to Decimus. “Old Blade.” he said with a nod.
“Kilivil,” replied Decimus. Grulmar just now noticed how silent the Cornerclub was. There weren't many patrons there, just the whole Atheron family—all three members—sitting at one table, talking with Revyn Sadri who nodded towards Grulmar. Behind the bar was the barkeep, Ambarys Rendar. Malthyr Elenil and Belyn Hlaalu were sitting at a table to the left, on the other side of the room. And they all were watching the newcomers.
“Nords and Altmer aren't allowed here,” growled Kilivil, placing his big hand on the Altmer’s much bigger chest to prevent him from going any further. Shiny’s eyes slowly found the hand and Grulmar had to suppress a chuckle. Now that's goin' to be interestin'.
“Ohn harig ot balgan, Balhar tigi?” Challenged Kilivil with a smirk. A few blank stares from the patrons but then the Dunmer sniggered quietly in their seats. Grulmar snorted. He didn’t know much Dunmeris and most of the Dunmer there didn’t know much of it either, but he hung out at New Gnisis enough to know that Kilivil was taking pot shots at Shiny. Tigi meant ape. Bet you don’t know that, tuskin’ Shiny…
“Ot Tigi? Nchow daeljuhn!” He then laughed, placing a hand on a visibly shocked Kilivil’s shoulder. “Os Shogahe’ag os duhne’ath ot nibis khoslim er os bahr shogahe’ag os binthi’ag ist maeb!”
Tuskin’ Shiny speakes better Dunmeris than the tuskin’ Dunmer do.
“Kilivil, they're with me,” said Decimus, placing a hand on the Dunmer's shoulder. “They won't cause any problems, I promise.”
“You very well know we don't like their kind here.” He argued.
“Daeljuhn. Athis am velishif Urshilaku e yi daesohn kol Jorrvaskr.” He gestured to Erik, and Grulmar noticed the Nord swell with pride. “Erik e sha. Osuhn winag.” Tuskin’ Shiny then put his hand to his chest, like he was swearing an oath or somthin’. Kilivil, once he translated in his brain what the Altmer was saying, was eating it up too, damn Dunmer. Speak a bit of Dunmeris and everybody’s lovin’ ya now, eh Saint Shiny the Pure? All I need is some tuskin’ cliffracers to show up for him to kill and they’ll all bow to the s’wit. See, I know a word too. “Diru ean bahr rokashin.” Shiny finally finished.
“Oh, yeah.” Kilivil nodded, dropping his hand from the Altmer’s chest. “I've heard about you when Athis last showed up with some of your pack. Brought a big old box with them, and the dog.” Kilivil continued, leaning a bit to find Koor.
“Ah, yes,” The Altmer chortled, remembering while he released his hold on Kilivil’s shoulder with a final hearty pat. “They were being sneaky and stealing an old Mer’s armor.” He leaned slightly to get a better view of Ambarys. “And you are Ambarys, yes?”
“Aye, what’s it to ya?” The barkeep shrugged, his eyes still on the counter.
“Juohn.”
“Fer what?” Ambarys looked confused.
“For the lute.”
“Oh yeah, Athis got one way back. That for you?” The Dunmer remembered.
“Aye.” Shiny flashed another smile. Grulmar rolled his eyes. So that’s where that stupid music in Jorrvaskr came from with its strange quavers and melodies that sounded like chickens bein’ slowly turned inside out.
Kilivil scratched his beard and then turned around to Ambarys. “You good with that, Ambarys?”
“As long as they don't make trouble,” shrugged the barkeep.
“How many fucking times do we have to say won't cause any trouble?” rumbled Decimus. “You're sitting on your ears, Ambarys?”
“And what about her?” pointed Kilivil at Serana, who was just standing there, looking through the walls, to distances no one could follow her to. Grulmar needed just one look to know that the woman was dealing with some serious shit. I wouldn't be surprised if she was considerin' leavin' Saint Shiny. I certainly would.
“She is with me,” said Äelberon, his brow lowering slightly with concern. “She is not a Companion, but she is my…” There was a hesitation, as if he wasn't entirely sure what exactly she was. Ya gonna admit y'are bangin' a vampire, Sir Shiny the Savior of Skyrim? Huh? Grulmar sneered. I dare ya. Go on tarnish that pretty shine. Ya don’t got the balls—“My partner,” he said softly, tenderly, the look on his face leaving no guesswork as to who Fangs was to him.
I give ya credit, Shiny, ya got a pair. Grulmar snorted and turned around, but before he did that, he saw how her eyes traced Shiny’s, flickering with life briefly before she turned away and headed to a lone table in the corner.
“Yeah, she certainly looks like there won't be trouble with her,” Grulmar heard Kilivil rumble. “They do something, it's on your head, Decimus.”
“I know,” moaned Decimus while he shrugged off his armor, rubbing his sore shoulders. Armor weighs a tuskin’ ton. Shiny was beginning to unbuckle his too. “Galar in the basement?” Decimus continued. “Blah, of course he is. I'll go talk to him, so please, be good kids and don't kill each other while I'm gone.”
“You sound just like my Lenya, Old Blade,” laughed Shiny and Grulmar snorted again while he sat down on a stool at the bar.
“Bet she had her hands full.” Grumbled Decimus before he descended the stairs.
Erik joined him a few seconds later while Shiny headed towards Fangs. Grulmar ordered himself a bottle of Shein and watched the Altmer out of the corner of his eye. He slowly sat down upon a chair near Fangs. She didn’t move when he sat, just kept looking straight ahead. Undaunted, Sir Shiny the White Knight of Tamriel, removed his gauntlets like a proper gentlemer, setting them on their table, leaned closer to her, and rested his hand upon hers. To Grulmar, it looked as if he was whispering something to her and he gave her hand a squeeze. Ya trying to fix her, White Knight? Trying to make her smile? Grulmar watched her shrug off his hand and look away, blank, leaving the Mer to continue removing his armor in silence. Damn hood, I can only see yer tuskin’ big nose. If Grulmar could see his face, he would most likely see how hurt he was. This way I can only imagine it. Not as good as seein' it, but I’ll take it.
He beamed, turning to Erik to offer him the bottle. “Want to taste? It tastes like horse's piss, but it gets the job done.”
“No,” was Erik's blunt response. No emotion, he didn't even look at him.
“Come on, Ginger. Ya can't avoid talking to me forever,” Grulmar leaned towards him and shoved the bottle under his nose.
Erik glared at him, disgust all over his face. “Watch me.” He rose from his stool and stormed out.
He slammed the door behind him, stepping out into the cold evening and drew a deep breath. The cold, the freezing taste of winter, was pleasant. It crawled over his skin, it went down his throat into his lungs and it felt good.
The door opened and Grulmar came out. But he really didn't want to speak with him. He did his best to avoid him during their travel to Windhelm—even as impossible as it was. Just because he needed some time for himself, but it was so difficult when that stupid Orc didn't shut up or stop complaining. Normally, he would be worried about him. But not now.
“What's the matter? Ya pissed at me?” blurted out Grulmar.
Erik looked at him, at his green skin, the black tattoos on his face, those broken tusks and bone protrusions on his eyebrows. Sometimes, the Orc seemed so...alien to him. Different.
“I don't want to talk about it,” he replied.
“Ya don't want to talk about it,” Grulmar tried to imitate his accent. “Ya talk like some sissy elven maiden.”
The Nord angrily frowned, feeling the heat rise to his face after those words. “You know what? You want to hear what's the matter? Alright, I'll tell you. You, Grulmar. You're the problem. You've been acting like a dick over the few past months. You've repeatedly insulted my Harbinger. Me. Practically everyone. You got us into this mess with some stupid shards and Taron Dre-”
“So everything's my fault?” growled Grulmar, throwing his hands up in the air. “Ya will just throw all your shit on me. Sure, why not. Let's piss and shit on that ugly green pig—“
“Don't you dare play this hurt role on me. I'm so full of your shit. You think you're the only one who ever had a rough childhood? You think you're the only one who's been oppressed or spit upon in this land? Grow up, Grulmar gro-Largash.”
Grulmar's red eyes narrowed. “Wow. That's a new low. I got ya out of that shit hole ya called home, made one hell of a merc out of ya. Made you my partner. We were a team and now y'are ditchin' me?”
Erik snorted. “This is a new low? So the problem is that I became a Companion, am I right?”
“Isn't it? Since ya throwed yerself with those meatheads, everythin' went downhill. I had to take jobs without ya. I tuskin' need ya.”
And you couldn't say that sooner, Gru? It was deep, it was so out of place with that Orc, Erik knew. It hurt.
“Yet... I'm not sure if I need you.” He wasn’t sure. The Companions opened new doors. They were tough on him, aye, brutal even with their lessons. But when they all settled around that hearth, they gave him the time of day. Vilkas was going to take him on a job when he got back. Vilkas of the Circle. The Companions passed by Rorikstead so many times when he was a boy at the fields. And now, he was one of them. It still felt odd sometimes. The Harbinger clasped his hand like he knew him for a lifetime. Shield-Brother. Friend.
The Nord saw Grulmar's lower lip tremble for a second. “So y'are ditchin' me then?”
Erik took another deep breath. “I need time to think, Grulmar. I'll be in Candlehearth Inn. I'll show up here tomorrow. So please, just give me some space. I need some time for myself.” He paused for a second and then continued, as softly as he could: “I need some time without you.” It hurt him, Erik saw that, but he had to say it.
“I'll see you later,” mumbled Erik the Slayer and walked away.
Grulmar entered the Cornerclub again, closed the door behind him and scanned the room. Everyone was looking at him, wondering who entered again. Well, not everyone. Fangs was completely lost in her own thoughts, staring at her hands, while Shiny—sitting on a stool at the bar—was most likely sipping his tea or smoking.
Everything seemed so normal, yet there was tension in the air. Or maybe Grulmar was just imagining it. He wouldn't be surprised after hearing what Erik had to say. He felt like he got hit by an orichalcum warhammer. He was trying not to think about all those words that had been said, but no matter how hard he was trying, he couldn't push them out of his mind.
He sighed and headed towards the bar and his waiting bottle of Shein. I need a distraction. He sat down right next to the big Altmer, now only in a dark brown woolen shirt and trousers of the same shade, the hood removed to reveal all that tuskin’ hair braided up like those crazy Ayleids he had seen in books, already puffing his pipe. Gonna get blazed, eh Shiny? Grulmar poured that disgusting liquid down his throat and looked at the wall opposite the bar, at a tattered Dunmer tapestry of yellow, red and green colours.
“Have ya ever wondered why a Cornerclub is using the colours of Redoran, Hlaalu and Telvanni?” he murmured, staring at those colours. He was glad Ambarys was just talking with Belyn Hlaalu on the other side of the room.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed how Shiny looked at that tapestry, studying it. “Not many people know that much about the Great Houses.”
Grulmar shrugged. “I'm not as others. So why is there the colour of a House that’s no longer Great?”
“Things of old maybe?” Replied the Altmer thoughtfully. “People often like to remember their people’s past through a veil of nostalgia. Thinking that the earlier time was the better one, with less strife. Usually, that is not the case. But perhaps the colours being displayed here give the people here some semblance of hope. Or maybe it calls out for neutrality…” He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand and took another puff of his pipe. “Nah, the Great Houses still want to kill each other.” He chortled quietly.
The Orc chuckled and turned to Shiny. “Or maybe it's stealing.”
The big Altmer sighed and looked at him. “A convoluted stretch, youngling, but I was anticipating a return to that subject.” The corners of his lips turned down slightly, as if he were bracing himself. “I am in no mood to argue, so here's recompense for that gold,” he rumbled, throwing a pouch full of gold on the bar. “I apologize for stealing an opportunity from you.”
Grulmar looked at him, then the pouch and he couldn't help but laugh out loud. “Y'are tuskin' unbelievable, Shiny,” he chuckled again. “I didn't want yer apology, especially not gold.”
“What is so bloody funny then?” But the eyes were asking something else entirely. What do you want? They also said “Leave me alone”, but Grulmar wasn’t listening.
Grulmar rose to his feet and patted Shiny on his shoulder. “Have ya ever played darts?”
“What?” asked a perplexed Shiny.
“Daaaaarts,” said Grulmar painfully slow and rolled over the bar. He crouched, looking through the shelves and then he found it. A wooden box. “Ha!” he proclaimed and put it on the bar in front of Shiny, opening it. There was a set of darts, twice the length of a finger, with needle-like steel points and feathery wings. “Darts.”
Shiny released a dramatic moan and slammed the bar emphatically with this forehead after each word. “I. Just. Want. To. Smoke. My. Pipe, Grulmar.” He groaned into the counter.
“Hey, what are you doing back there, Orc?” shouted Ambarys from the other side of room. “Harassing customers? Stealing again?”
Grulmar made a hurt face. “Again? Hey, I never stole anythin'. If y'are talking about that tankard, then I told ya many times I just forgot I still had it in my hand. I was drunk. I'm just borrowing the darts, Ambarys.”
“Just ask next time,” rumbled the barkeep.
“They look like small arrows. Is there perchance a wee bow in there too?” remarked Shiny with a crooked smile, but with interest flickering in his eyes. Now y'are smiling, eh?
“Haha, funny,” grimaced the Orc. “Ya know y'are much more likeable when y'are playing dumb?”
“You are not the first to have told me thus.”
“‘Thus’, tuskin’ ‘thus’. What kinda word is that?”
“Daaarrrrrts,” The Altmer reminded the Orc. The ‘r’s rollin’ like a tuskin’ wheel. “Grulmar. Let us stick to the subject. Stealing, darts, whatnot.”
“Ya throw them. Here, I’ll show ya.” He jumped over the bar with a dart in his hand, standing right in the middle of the Cornerclub, looking at the target on the wall. “Just put it between yer thumb and forefinger like this and…” he said, putting all his weight on his right leg, leaning forward, bending his elbow forward and backward. “Throw.” The dart hit the target close to middle.
“Is that all? I should aim for the bulls-eye then, Aye?” asked Shiny between puffs of smoke, the pipe still sticking from his mouth. He rose slowly from his stool to lean against the counter casually, like a boy who didn’t particularly want to go to school but had to, reaching to pull a dart from the box. He studied it and seemed to be testing its weight, those eyes of his darting back and forth between the dart and the target.
“For starters, just aim for the target. It's not really that easy—“ Grulmar tried to explain, but Shiny just threw the dart from where he was. Hitting the bulls-eye. The Orc snorted. “Show-off.”
“It is not that difficult,” grinned Shiny, taking the rest of darts like a kid taking a bunch of taffy treats and walking towards Grulmar. “Are there any rules?” He asked, his eyes on the target.
“Yeah, whoever hits the bulls-eye more times wins.”
“Then I am currently winning,” winked Shiny, taking a puff of his pipe. Ya gonna try this with the tuskin’ pipe in yer mouth, eh? Easy peasy.
“Not for long,” snorted Grulmar, taking a dart from the Altmer's hand, almost coughing when a powerful gust of smoke blew towards him, bringing with it the scent of burning moon sugar. Some serious shit yer smokin’, Saint Shiny. Stone’s throw from Skooma. See how long ya can throw straight smokin’ that shit. Grulmar rolled the dart a few times between his finger forward and back. “So tell me. Why is stealing from the rich acceptable?” When he finished the sentence, he threw the dart, hitting the bulls-eye.
“This how you hit on girls?” smirked the Altmer, the voice a bit muffled from clenching the bit of his pipe between his teeth. He took aim with another dart. “Even I have better lines than that.”
Grulmar shrugged. “I guess so, but I doubt that's the reason why they don't like me. So?”
Sir Shiny’s eyes were focused on the target, but Grulmar noticed he was focusing way too much. He was thinking about an answer. The dart left his hand, missing the bulls-eye just by a little. Shiny frowned and looked at Grulmar. “Where are you heading with all of this?”
The Orc headed nonchalantly towards the target, pulling out all the darts. “Just wondering, ya know,” he shrugged again, as he walked back to the Altmer. “Because ya clearly mind people being robbed. That makes me wonder why do ya...tolerate Nerussa and the Guild? So why ya stopped me but not them? Is that because they steal only from the rich and the rich have plenty?”
The Greenskin didn't see the Altmer’s face, because he was focusing on the target. He threw the dart, hitting the second biggest circle. Y'are not focusing, Orc.
Another gust of smoke. “I’ve already told you my stance. That man earned that money. Perhaps he had saved the entire year to come to Windhelm—“
“How do ya know that? Ya got the Sight or somethin’? Mebbe he stole it, same as me.” Challenged Grulmar.
Shiny was chewing the inside of his lip while Grulmar watched him, taking another gulp of shein. The eyes were hooded under his brows. Like a hawk. “I intervened because I was there, but I cannot be everywhere at once.” The next throw had a lot more strength in it than was necessary, striking the bullseye with a heavy thwack that made Dunmer heads go up. “Leave the Guild out of this.”
You threatening me? Am I getting under yer skin, Shiny?
“So if ya would see a thief breakin' into some noble's house, you would stop him? Because I don't know about ya, but I can't distinguish regular thief from Guild. And stealin' is against the law, am I right?”
Äelberon’s eyes locked with Grulmar's, those two hot coals beginning to blaze through the haze of the smoke, while he yanked the dart out of the target with one strong pull, but he needed to brace the target against its support with his other hand to do it or he would’ve yanked the whole bloody target out. “The Guild under Nerussa's guidance is at least doing it for some measure of good. More than those in power there ever have. They steal from the rich and give it to the poor—“He stopped himself, his features looking suddenly very worn. “But I never said that I approved. There is more to it than… it is complicated. You do not understand, youngling.”
“Sure. Doing it for good,” snorted Grulmar, before turning to the bar. “Hey, Ambarys! Buy everyone a round of your best,” he shouted, throwing a pouch full of gold on the counter. He chuckled and then faced Sir Shiny again. “See? I just did some good. Money from xenophobic Nords just paid a few rounds for some oppressed Dunmer. How ‘bout that? Maybe if you didn't take away that money from me, perhaps I could have done more good with it.”
“Verily, you have made me see the error of my ways.” Shiny chuckled sarcastically, fingering his dart. “How escape is the solution to all ills... Do more good, eh?” He questioned, raising his eyebrows, the mood now different. “Hmph. You have given them a bandage, Grulmar. Nothing more.” He glanced briefly at the patrons of the club, chewing the inside of his lip again. “Their wounds still bleed.” His eyes traveled back to Grulmar. “A bandage does nothing but hide the blood if you don’t treat the wound underneath.” The Altmer’s jaw clenched a bit, and for a second he looked like he was going to shove the next dart up Grulmar’s arse, but then the features softened somewhat, the eyes probing him deeply, challenging.
“How tastes the horse piss?” The Altmer asked, the eyes lowering to his tankard. Grulmar blinked, caught off-guard.
What, Sir Shiny—I like that, gonna keep it—wanna try it?
“Why? Wanna try it?” Grulmar smirked.
There was a loud thud when a knife, shaped like a smaller Nordic dagger, buried into the target, making most of the people in the club either flinch or at least look up. Grulmar didn’t, he knew what it was and neither did Old Sir Shiny. So you know that sound, eh Sir Shiny? “Darts?” shouted Decimus, who just arrived from the back. “Darts are for pussy Dunmer. Let's throw knives, that's a game for farts like us. Grulmar. Do your thing.”
Arguing like fucking girls about new shoes, thought Decimus when he saw them from around the corner. He saw Ronnie clenching his jaw and he knew it was getting far too heated. Old Mer was gonna shove that dart up Grulmar’s arse. Hmph, mebbe the little piece of shit needs it.
Aye, a little piece of shit, that's what you are sometimes, Grulmar. But I like the Old Mary and don’t want him to spend a night in jail because you’re a prick, so time to stop it. He pulled out a knife from his bandolier and threw it, hitting the bulls-eye of the target. “Darts?” he shouted and everyone turned their attention to him. “Darts are for pussy Dunmer. Let's throw knives, that's a game for farts like us. Grulmar, do your thing.”
“Who's a pussy here, Imperial?” shouted Kilivil back.
Decimus grinned. “Huh? So you want a rematch then? As far as I remember you owe me quite a lot of money.”
Patrons laughed and Kilivil frowned. “You're an old fart, you don't remember shit.”
Old Blade chuckled at that. “True that. Grulmar! Why are you just standing there? Carve the mamma!”
Grulmar snorted and pulled out his orichalcum dagger while he walked towards the target. He turned the target around and started carving into it. Decimus noticed Ambarys frowning, but once he saw what Grulmar was carving, he grinned. Aye, time for some betting, you grey bastards, haha. Nothing like good gambling, huh?
“Where is Galar?” asked the Altmer when Decimus grabbed Grulmar's bottle of Shein and sipped. He grimaced after that and had to fight against himself not to spit it out. I would give anything for a bottle of good wine now. Or ale.
“Busy. We'll talk with him tomorrow. That means we have some time for fun,” shrugged the Imperial and then wrapped his arm around Ronnie’s neck, pulling him closer, so he could whisper to the Mer. “Don't mind that green fucker. He just likes to piss people off. He's arguing just for the sake of arguing.”
He unexpectedly saw Ronnie smile and nod. “I know. Though it's troubling that he has absolutely no code, no beliefs. Seems like nothing is sacred to him.”
“He's a hypocrite. He believes that the whole world is against him, so he spits around himself for no reason sometimes. So you're good? Saw you blaze for a second there.”
Ronnie glanced briefly at Serana in the corner table, noticing her still distant expression, but shrugged it off with a sigh and faced Decimus, letting go of more smoke. “All things considering...aye. And I’m already beginning to get blazed.”
Decimus let him go with a rough push and smirked. “Yeah, you stink like a fat Khajiit! Fucked how you can smoke all that shit and not die. But if you’re good.”
“I’m good.” The Elf answered, the eyes narrowing to slits. Blazed bastard. That sugar’s kicking in already, eh?
“Let's see if you’re worth something with knives.”
Ronnie cast his eyes to the ceiling demurely, but the smirk in the corner of his mouth gave him away. “Don’ know, me poor old eyes’re not what they used ta be. But they’re still better than yours, old fahrrt.”
“You're so full of shit,” laughed Decimus out loud, his laughter thundering in the room. “What's taking you so long, Grulmar?”
“Not gettin’ any younger, ya know.” Chimed in the Altmer, leaning back casually against the bar counter, rubbing his husky’s ears. Now the old shit was imitating Grulmar.
“Nearly done,” murmured the Orc and then stepped away. “Yup, done. Fine piece of work, huh?”
“Xarxes’ Arse!” gasped Ronnie. “What is that…thing? Ha! Grulmar, you’ve been lurking in my house when I wake up in the morning, eh? Studyin’ my pretty face.”
Grulmar chuckled and pointed at their new target, not bigger than two hands. “I call it 'Decimus' mother.'”
Old Blade laughed when Ronnie looked at him with mock-horror in his face, only for it to morph into a devilish grin. “Scamp’s Blood, Old Blade. My condolences. Now I understand why you’re so ugly.” Decimus laughed even harder, wiping the tears from his eyes. That face! Priceless! His belly was starting to hurt from all that laughter so he had to force himself to stop.
“Alright, enough chit-chat. Rules are simple and don't ask me why they are like that. Grulmar came up with them.”
“Auri-El save my soul,” murmured Ronnie, taking another puff of his pipe.
“And don’t tell me you’re gonna do this with the fucking pipe in your mouth, Ro—Old Mary.” barked Decimus. Fuck, I have to remember not to call him Ronnie in public. He certainly hasn’t let Grulmar in, Erik yes, Grulmar no.
“Watch me.” The Mer puffed. “This sugar wasn’t cheap. Though, blast, it’s not the good stuff from Corinthe.” He sulked.
“Fine, just don’t bitch when you swallow it. Aye. Alright, so each part has a different price. Face-skin is for one point, the fur around the head is for two, and mouth is for five. You keep up? Good. Neck is for six, ears for seven, eyes for eight and the nose for ten.”
“Why is the nose worth ten?” wondered Ronnie. “I mean, it's the—“
Decimus patted him and chuckled when the Mer almost lost his grip on the pipe. Almost, bastard had strong teeth. “I said no questions! Rules are made by Grulmar, so of course they will be stupid.”
“Makes perfect sense then.” retorted the Altmer with a snort.
“Hey! I was quite drunk back then,” explained the Orc and then shrugged. “Whatever. Just hit Decimus' mother, Sir Shiny.”
“I promise I'll be gentle,” smirked Ronnie and thundering laughter escaped Decimus' lips again. He then looked at Grulmar. “Your knives?”
“Light or heavy?” The Orc asked in return.
“I think the lighter ones. Big Altmer over here would probably bury it through with the heavier ones. He’s used to playing with bastards. Probably think these are teeny arrows. You still training with Vilkas? Can bloody picture you with a claymore. Got the strength for it and the fast feet.”
“Aye, when I have the time.” The Altmer’s distant tone suddenly threatened to kill the mood. Shit, you still having trouble with Vilkas?
Grulmar unbuckled his bandolier and laid it down on the counter. He pulled out six knives from the inner sheathes—six? How many has he got for fuck's sake? I already saw four heavy ones in his outer sheathes—and handed two over to Decimus and two to Ronnie.
The Altmer scanned them with interest. The blade wasn't any longer than his hand, but with no grip, only rings. The blades were more similar to arrow heads with their diamond shape. “Interesting design,” he remarked.
“I know,” smirked Grulmar. “It's my design. I make them myself.”
“I am impressed. I didn't know you smithed.”
“I don't, but I'm an Orc. I know some stuff.”
“Pure orichalcum, eh? They're a little bit heavier, which they wouldn't be if there was iron in the mix, I like that,” commented Ronnie, trying the weight of the knife, moving it rapidly with his hand.
Grulmar snorted. “Iron in orichalcum...only smith wannabes do that. This is proper orichalcum work, just as every Orc infant learns to do.”
“Wannabes?” Ronnie chuckled. “That is a new word for me. But, aye, those that do not know better, mix. Cheapens the metal, weakens it and that is not the Orc method. A crime when I feel it in a weapon...”
“Yeah, cheapens it.” Grulmar agreed.
Decimus and Ronnie exchanged looks, because both of them had noticed how Grulmar said it with pride “but I’m an Orc”. And suddenly you're a proper Orc, aren't you, Grulmar? Well, how about that…
“So are we throwing or what?” grumbled Grulmar, snapping out of his pride. “Lower arc, Uncle?”
“Normal one, for starters.”
Grulmar nodded, putting a finger into the ring of the knife and spinning it on his forefinger, slowly raising the hand to same level as his head. Then he moved with his hand and the knife struck the nose with a heavy thud.
“Show off,” snorted Decimus. “Your turn, Äelberon.”
Äelberon looked at the knife for second, testing the grip on the ring, his brow furrowing, but then switched to holding it by the blade, moving his hand and hitting the nose too, right next to Grulmar's knife with another heavy thwack. “Hm, they are certainly much lighter than what I'm used to,” commented the Altmer. “But something is off. Not the weapon, it’s me.”
“That's because they're not meant for throwing like that,” explained Grulmar and Decimus rolled his eyes, letting out a whimpering groan. And here comes the lengthy lesson about knives. He took a seat on a stool and leaned his back against the counter. If there was an option to marry a knife, Grulmar would certainly take it. He heard a soft whine and looked down on Koor, whose blue eyes were looking into his. He rubbed the dog’s ears and Koor made his famous smile. Having fun, boy? Another whine and the muzzle rested on his knee. No? Bet daddy does that too, eh?
“That's the reason there is no handle, ya know,” continued the Orc. “They are not meant for long distances, but for fast throwin'. I need to pull them out fast enough and throw them.” He laid his hand on his belly with a knife between his fingers, standing sideways to the target and then he moved his hand up, hitting the nose again. “Lower arc throw. Not strong, but fast and effective. Ya don't throw these knives holdin' the blade, especially with higher arc throw. It slows the rotation, and rotation is very important. But if ya ever have to throw it like ya just did, ya have to reinforce yer wrist, ya know. Elbow has to do all the work—“
Decimus rolled his eyes again and carelessly threw a knife from where he was sitting, hitting the ear. That's what you get for showing off, Dec. Well, at least you made that Orc shut up. “You finished?”
Grulmar chuckled. “When y'are talkin', everyone has to listen. When others are talkin', y'are bored. Figures. Yeah, I'm finished.”
The still-smoking pipe was set down on the bar counter resolutely, making Decimus look up while he continued to rub Koor’s ears. Ah fuck, Ronnie’s done smoking.
“Show me,” stated Äelberon, and Grulmar chuckled again, shrugging. Careful there, boy. That Old Mer isn’t playing now. Those eyes are watchin’ your every move. “I want to learn. I taught myself how to throw my daggers, but with the Thalmor—“
Dunmer looked up at that word. Everybody looks up at the word “Thalmor”. Decimus spit and cursed under his breath. Even the fucking dog bristled and he gave the snowberry a pat on the head. Good boy.
“—Pursuing me, I could not go to the cities to train properly, and as a result, my technique is poor. Show me.” The Altmer insisted.
“Oh, it ain’t that bad, Äelberon. Plenty of times you throwing those Torvalian daggers of yours saved my ass.” Change the subject, Old blade, and he briefly glanced at Serana. Damn, woman, help me out. Crap, nothing. He continued, clearing his throat. “Now those were a right pretty set. Deadly as fuck, but pretty. Was nice of Bumph to bring ‘em back to you—“
Ah shit, Ronnie’s got that look on his face. That serious, desperate “learn or die” look. What are you afraid of now, Ronnie? Thalmor can’t touch you anymore. And after what you did to that Shadowscale from the Dark Brotherhood, anybody would be stupid to come for you.
“Nevertheless, my technique is poor. Grulmar, show me what you know, please.” The Altmer interrupted Decimus.
“Why not? It's not every day I can teach Sir Shiny somethin',” shrugged Grulmar and brought the knives from the target. “Ya watchin'? Alright. Throw by blade then. Ya raise yer hand, reinforcing the wrist. Then ya swing down, yer wrist not movin' save a little bit. It's almost like swingin' a sword, the elbow and shoulder doin' the work.” He moved his arm really fast, hitting the nose again. Decimus wondered if Ronnie was even able to trace the movements. You’re a shitty teacher, Grulmar.
“See? Ya don't want the blade to slip in yer fingers, that's why ya have to reinforce the wrist. Now the lower arc throw. That one is all about rotation. Ya won't be able to hit somethin' on long distances, but it's fast and surprisin' to most opponents.” His left hand with the knife touched his thigh. “Here ya have to use yer wrist, because yer arm won't give the blade enough momentum. But remember the rotation. Ya want the knife to turn two-three times tops. If it rotates more, then ya risk just pissin' someone off by hittin' them with the hilt. Also, this way the blade has a tendency to fly higher then ya want, so always aim lower.” Grulmar's hand then whipped out like a striking snake, and the second knife ended up right next to the first one. The Orc then handed the rest of the knives to Äelberon and headed towards the bar. “And now I'm thirsty. Enough throwin' for me today. Hey, Ambarys. Give me a bottle of your best Sujamma! I'm goin' to take a piss, so have it ready 'fore I return.”
Grulmar headed towards the door outside and Decimus got up from his stool. “Let me guess,” he said to Ronnie. “You remember every word.”
“I do, though his movements were quite fast, or I am slow, blah.” admitted the Altmer, his eyes still on the target. Like he was still trying to process the movements. Ha, if you didn’t smoke all that shit, bet you would’ve gotten it.
“Don’t blame yourself, he's a dick,” chuckled Decimus, moving towards the Mer. “Though, weren't we too when we were young? I bet you remember me back then in that tavern.”
Äelberon's eyes seemed to look into great distances and then he smiled, facing Decimus “Aye. I think your precise words to me were: I'll mop the floor with you, Old Mary.”
Decimus laughed. Oh yeah, that sounds a lot like me. How stupid I was back then, eh? It was right after the Great War and no one liked Altmer, especially Decimus. Well, everyone learns. “Young and stupid, that was me. Though I can't imagine you ever being like that.”
“Trust me, my friend. Everyone is like that. I doubt there was a more stupid Altmer in all of Dusk. Xarxes’ arse, probably the entire Isles. Stupid and foolhardy. Still am sometimes. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, we’re both stupid, but thanks for being stupid with me.” replied Decimus, turning to the door. “If only our kids knew the crap we go through for them…” Decimus gave the Altmer’s shoulder a rough pat.
Äelberon nodded in response. “But tell me: Where did Grulmar learn to throw knives like that?”
Decimus rolled Grulmar's knife between his fingers and frowned as he was thinking. “I taught him the basics. I learned it from some troubadours in Cyrodiil. Trick here and there, you know how it is. So I taught him the basics but I think he...I don't know, figured out the rest? Just look at those knives. You know he was the worst smith in his tribe? Well, he was the worst at everything else mostly, but with knives, he's a natural.”
Äelberon was processing that, his fingers toying with the knife in his hand. He moved his arm up and down few times, testing the movement and direction.
“Relax your wrist a little bit, tight ass,” pointed out Decimus. “Here, I'll show you.” He moved next to him and put his hand on his thigh, just like Grulmar. “It's best to start from the thigh, that way your wrist will get used to doing all the hard work. You move your hand up, your wrist yanking it up.” He showed him the move, slowly and then a little bit quicker without throwing the knife. “Got it?”
“Aye. Show me what you got,” smirked Ronnie, reaching for his pipe again, smiling when he saw that it still smoked. He took a few deep puffs to get it going again and then shifted the pipe slightly to the side opposite his throwing arm, clenching the bit tight again with his teeth and Decimus grinned at the rising swirls of smoke around Ronnie’s face. You look like a dragon like that.
“Fine.” Decimus swung his hand, releasing the knife and hitting the ear. “Fuck.”
“You did hit the target. That counts, no?”
“Your turn, Old Mary.” He sneered.
Äelberon snorted at that, but Decimus knew where they stood. No offence was really intended, it was just fun. And it was great to talk like that with someone of his age. With someone who saw the same shit. Well, he's five times older, but hey. You still look younger than him, so that certainly counts.
The Altmer tested the move a few more times and after what seemed like an eternity, he finally threw the knife. Decimus saw that Ronnie let it go a little bit too late, the blade burying right between the eyebrows. “Oghma’s tits!”
“Well, you killed my mother with your lower arc throw,” he chuckled. “You were aiming for the nose right?”
“I let it go too late. I was aiming slightly under the nose. I guess I should aim at the neck if I want to hit the nose.”
“The lower you aim…” laughed Decimus.
“I’ll be banging your mother before the night’s over, if I aim too low!”
Grulmar entered the Cornerclub again and dusted off snow from his shoulders. It was snowing outside, but the people there seemed to not give a crap. It was growing late and people were also getting quite drunk. Grulmar wouldn't be surprised if the guards found frozen bodies lying in the snow tomorrow morning. They get drunk on their mead, they feel warm and so they lay on the ground to take a nap. And freeze to death. Tuskers.
Decimus and Äelberon were still throwing knives; the Altmer seemed to grab the hold of it quickly, his lower arc throws were improving with each throw. Koor was lying near the counter, his head looking back and forth at knives flying, a stupid grin on his face. Serana was still sitting at her table and to Grulmar it seemed as if she didn't move an inch since they came here. Like a corpse. Only not stinkin' like one.
His thoughts whirled back to Erik and he shook his head to force them out, but that really didn't work. He needed another proper distraction. He came to the counter and reached for the bottle of Sujamma waiting for him, but Ambarys hit his hand with a rag. “Money first.”
“That really hurts my feelings, Ambarys. Still no trust?” Grulmar raised his hands as if surrendering. “Fine, fine.” He threw a pouch towards the barkeep and took his bottle. He was just raising it to his lips when something wet landed on his thigh and he looked down only to see the slobbering mouth of Koor. “What in the Oblivion ya want? I just want to drink.”
The dog just looked at him with his blue eyes, staring at him as if he knew everything, his every secret.
“Come on, don't tell me y'are going to preach like your owner. Why don't ya go bother him?”
Koor's eyes were still staring at him, but for a second they turned their attention towards Serana at the other side of the room, then back at him. And then he repeated it several times.
“What? She's fine.”
The dog whined and repeated his magic trick with his eyes.
“Oh, for tusk's sake. Alright, alright,” moaned Grulmar and got up from his stool, heading towards Serana's table. He dropped into a chair opposite her and sighed. “Have ya ever drunk Sujamma? Tastes like fire and kicks like a guar—very strong, and just as stupid.”
He expected she wouldn’t even bother talking with him, so he was quite surprised when she looked directly at him and coldly stated: “You're a prick, you know.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Because I asked if ya ever had Sujamma? Well, they’ve called me ‘prick’ for less, so why not.”
“That's not why you are a prick.”
Grulmar shrugged. “I don't care what's eating ya, Fangs, but if ya want to take it out on someone, be my guest. But while y'are at it, please, just taste this. I'm interested to see if ya can drink fire. I heard it's quite the bane for ya.”
She looked at him with her cold stare and for a moment he thought she was going to leap at him and tear his throat out. She certainly looked like she's dealing with some serious shit and he wasn't helping her with that, but… But what of it? We all have some shit to deal with. And we all need some distraction.
Serana took the bottle and poured the liquor down her throat, gulping it, and returned it to him, with the same stone face. He nodded in appreciation. “I like women who can handle their drink.” He was about to drink too, but then he stopped, looking at her again with interest. “Makes me wonder. Can ya even get drunk?”
“Yes, I can. But this is not the typical way I get drunk,” she replied and her eyes locked with his.
“Hm?”
“At Castle Volkihar, we usually got our victims drunk, and then we drank...them.”
Grulmar's eyes popped out, but then he noticed the slight smirk. Malacath's armpit, ya nearly got me, Fangs. Believed ya for a second. “Trust me, ya don't want to drain me. I'm too sour. I bet all my money that even a dragon would be spit me out.”
“That's a bet I'm willing to take,” she chuckled, but then her face became serious again. “Wait, no. That's something I wouldn't wish even on a dragon.”
Grulmar grinned, drank from the bottle and handed it back to Serana, who took another large gulp, groaning at its burn. “Y'are not that bad, Fangs. Ya just have to drink more often.”
The streets were mostly empty that late, with only a few...resilient individuals still roaming the pavements, kicking the snow in front of their feet. There was no storm, just never ending snow falling down from black skies, obscuring everyone's vision.
Grulmar and his compatriot in crime were waddling down the street from the market square, heading towards Candlehearth Inn. Compatriot in crime? I like that. Wait, what crime was it? He wasn't sure if his vision was obscured by snow or the Sujamma, but either way, he had some problems going straight. And when he looked at Fangs, he saw she struggled too—not so much, but a little. And that has to count, right? I’m keeping pace with a vamp in a drinkin' game. Now if I only could remember what was that crime?
The cold was slowly getting to him and he pulled his fur cloak closer to his body. “Ha!” he shouted. “The cloak! That's the crime!”
“Crime?” she snorted, looking at him with her… Green eyes? Orange eyes? What in the Oblivion? “You took that from some drunk who passed out. That's not a crime.”
“Eh...Fangs?” Grulmar scratched his forehead. “I'm either really wasted or ya have one green and one orange eye.”
“Shit,” she cursed and pulled her hood down. “I forgot to maintain the illusion.”
“Oh, yeah. I kinda feel sorry for Shiny, ya know. 'Cause he can see right through that. He's special, ain't he?” remarked Grulmar, taking a seat on the stairs in front of Candlehearth Inn.
She looked down at him and frowned. “You being an arse again?”
He laughed and took another sip from their second—no, maybe third—bottle of Sujamma. “Yeah. Only the special ones would bang a vampire. But why do ya bang him?”
Serana made an embarrassed snort and turned away, looking into the night, kicking some snow with her foot. She sighed and sat heavily next to him. “If you laugh, I promise I will drain you and then snap your neck only to bring you back. And then I would repeat the process with the addition of defi—“
Grulmar raised his hands in surrender and shouted: “Malacath's loincloth! Alright, alright, I get the message. I won't laugh.” Much.
The vampire looked at the brazier in front of Candlehearth Inn, the fire casting shadows over her face, her pale skin, a little darker than Shiny’s actually, but a different pale, a dead pale… She looks like a tuskin'corpse that way, a beautiful corpse, but a corpse. No blemish, though, no scars, nothing, like a marble statue.
“It just seems right, you know?” She explained. “I can't explain it, but with him...it seems right. And very familiar, as if we’ve been together for…Gods, an eternity.” He thought he saw something then, in the corner of her eye, a glistening wetness, but she stopped, blinked, and stared at him, a frown marring that pretty face. “You're about to laugh, you asshole!”
Grulmar shook his head, realizing he was grinning for absolutely no reason. Well, maybe there's a reason. It sounds so nice to have someone like that. “Nope, I'm not. Well, maybe a little.”
“You're an arse,” she snorted and looked at the door behind their backs. “Erik's inside, right?” she pointed at the door and them him. “Is it the same with you and Erik?”
His eyes popped out, studying her face. “Are ya…” no smirk, no smile, no devilish flames in those eyes… “Y'are tuskin' serious! Vivec's boner! Me and Erik are not a thing, you sick pervert! Don't swing that way!”
She laughed out loud, a robust, alcohol-laced laugh that he didn’t expect from someone who looked so damn refined. “I know, I'm just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”
Grulmar put his head between his knees and moaned. “Shit. Ya got me there, Fangs.”
“Fangs,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes. “What's with you and nicknames? I can't remember you calling anyone by their actual name, ever.”
Grulmar shrugged and stuck his tongue out to catch snowflakes on it. He was quite thirsty, but the snowflakes didn’t seem to be helping. “Ya still have the bottle?” She reached under her cloak and gave him their—second? third?—bottle of Sujamma. He sipped and shook his head, feeling the world spin around him for a second. Stay there! “Ya see, people usually don't match their names. So I give them new ones, more fittin'.”
He heard the door open and he turned around, hoping to see Erik, but instead, two Nords came out and Grulmar's face turned sour. “Speaking of the shit…”
Those two Nords were quite well known around Windhelm, mostly for making the Dunmers’ lives very unpleasant. Or the lives of any other race than Nords. Grulmar had to resist the urge to spit at their feet.
“Well, well, look at what we have here, Angrenor,” snorted Rolff Stone-Fist. “Our favourite little green piggy with a lover. And a Nord.”
“You make your ancestors ashamed, woman,” added Angrenor.
The Orc stood up and measured both of them. They were both hammered too, most likely at the same level as he and Fangs, which meant there would be trouble. But he was quite looking forward to trouble. He grinned at Fangs, laughing inside when she could barely suppress her actual fangs from showing. She can’t hold out much longer. Those eyes gonna pop total orange soon and those two would shit themselves. “Fangs, meet Junior-Fist and Whistle. Local morons.”
“You want another beating, pig?” growled Angrenor, air whistling from his mouth—because of that war wound, or so he says.
Grulmar took a step in front of the Nord and looked right into his eyes—which wasn't really easy, because the Nord stood a head taller than him, same as Rolff.
“You let these two bully you? Snowberry,” Fangs smirked and he looked at her, his face saying y'are not helpin'!
He looked at Angrenor again, who crossed his arms over his big chest. “No beatin' for me this time, asshole. I'll beat ya to a pulp. Ya know why? I trained with a Khajiit monk, a Master of Whisperin' Fang Technique. Ya scared now? Ya should be!” Both Nords looked at him and laughed. Grulmar puffed up to make himself appear larger. “I'm serious. I'll show ya the Whisperin' Fang! Watch my hands!” He raised them above his head and Angrenor un-crossed his arms. But both of them were watching his hands, and that was the perfect time for Grulmar to kick Angrenor right in his precious Nordic stones.
A whistle definitely came out of that Nord's mouth when he groaned in pain, grabbing his crotch and dropping to his knees. Grulmar grinned when he saw the Nord fall and was about to say something smart when Rolff's fist landed on his jaw. There was a bright flash of light in his head, then darkness and then with a blink he was able to see again, though everything was strangely...sideways.
He was lying on the stairs, his jaw sore and then someone got him back on his feet. He recognized Fangs and he looked around only to see the two Nords lying in front of the door, without movement, bruised. “Are they dead?”
She shook her head.
“Shame,” he spat blood out of his mouth, right on Rolff's face. “How did you like my Whisperin' Fang?”
Fangs guffawed and then pushed him forward, away from Candlehearth. Grulmar noticed one guard approaching and nodded. Yeah, time to take our leave.
“You mean how you let Junior-Fist hit you?” she chuckled. “Good distraction.”
“Y'are an asshole,” he murmured. She laughed that same big laugh again.
Time is irrelevant.
That thought completely took over his mind, as he was focusing on the magic runes on the piece of paper. Using soul gem dust as ink was never easy or cheap, and he had to focus on not wasting a single drop. And the time passed on. To write down one rune might have taken one hour, or a whole day, but to him, it didn't matter. Even if one rune took him the entire year so it would be perfect, he would not even notice the passing of time.
The new spell had to be perfect. Before he could store the spell in one of his amulets, he had to test it, and if it wasn't perfect, he would have to rework it from scratch. So every move of his hand holding the quill had to be perfect. When he finished the rune, it glowed with blue-white light for a second and he blew on it, so that the ink would dry faster.
Time is irrelevant. The rumblings of his stomach thought differently, however, and he blinked a few times to adjust his sight to the dim light of his room—no, basement. Basement. What a bitter reminder.
The room was quite large actually, probably bigger than the whole Cornerclub, but it was his accessories that made the room much smaller. Shelves with books, an alchemy station and an enchanting table, a bed and a pair of chairs, parts of Dwemer constructs laying everywhere, with an entire Sphere covered in blue runes standing in the corner. And that was just half of the basement, the other half served as the larder for the Cornerclub.
What a disgrace. His whole life was a reminder that even the most powerful can fall very low, punished by the True Gods. The Triune was right to cast his people back down upon their knees, they deserved it for following false gods. He was alive and that was something most of House Telvanni could not claim; but still, the humiliation of living in a basement, in a slum, in a frozen land full of imbeciles who believed themselves to be superior to him and his people.
The Reclamations shall turn their sight to you one day, you foul-smelling barbarians. They will rain fire on this frozen dumphole, revealing its black and scorched bones soaked with the sickness of mankind that has to be rooted out. With fire.
Time is irrelevant.
He actually had no idea how late it was out there—or even what day it was. His work was very consuming and most of the time, there was nothing else in the whole world more important for him than that. Or precisely, he mostly didn't care for the outside world.
He decided it was time to take a break, however, and get some refreshments. Ah, the base needs, how cumbersome it is to require food! Feeding the weaknesses of his body meant venturing upstairs and seeing every imbecile bowing to him out of respect or fear. Commoners, all of them. He shrugged and rose from his chair, heading to the door leading to the hallway. Opposite him was another door, this one leading to the larder and to his right was a wooden staircase leading upwards. Well, sometimes it doesn't hurt them to bow their heads. I may be in the same situation as them, living in this Daedra forsaken shithole, but I'm not the same as them.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, just behind the wall of the bar, he heard the typical din of a crowded Cornerclub. They were laughing, murmuring and shouting, just like all commoners do when the night is late and they have drunk too much. So it's night.
As he rounded the corner, he spotted a familiar figure. A bald Imperial, dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, throwing knives with a Nord taller than him, with shoulders even broader than the Imperial’s, and long braided white hair. Nord? When the Tall One turned around, he realized his mistake. He was Altmer, but no larger Altmer had he ever seen. Well...not true. I saw one as large as this one once… The Altmer was clad in a deep brown woolen tunic and matching trousers, but for some reason, an image of heavy steel armor on those broad shoulders flashed before his eyes, and books, he saw that nose in a book.
“Magister,” blurted out Ambarys when he saw him. “What can I do for you?”
The whole Cornerclub went silent then, everyone looking at him. Looking at him as if he was their savior. Maybe they wanted him to save them. Or maybe he was just something that reminded them of different times. Most of the Dunmer here were younger than one hundred and fifty years, which made them little bit more than children in his eyes.
“Something to eat and drink, barkeep,” he replied coldly. “No alcohol, I need my mind sharp.”
“As you wish, Magister,” bowed Ambarys again, disappearing to prepare the food.
The Imperial and his Altmeri companion noticed him too and went to him. As he was looking at them, he vaguely remembered that Decimus went downstairs to see him, but he thought it was days ago. Or was it just an hour ago? Time surely is irrelevant.
They were looking at him and he knew what it was they saw. An old Dunmer in exquisite red and yellow robes, oiled grey hair and trimmed beard, one eye grey as his skin, and shoulders just as broad as the Altmer's, though he was shorter than the Imperial.
“Galar,” nodded Decimus, his grey eyes swimming from too much of whatever garbage he was drinking. “I thought you'd see us tomorrow,” The Imperial turned to his Altmeri friend. “My friend, this is—“
“Galar Rothan, Lawman of House Telvanni,” finished the Altmer with a curt nod. Ah, Altmers, at least he did not grovel like an imbecile. Hmm, Southeastern region, coastal, former military. Galar gazed at the powerful forearms and hands, archer, and then his eyes fell again upon the hair. A priest.
“It's actually Magister now,” corrected Decimus with a grin. “Magister of the Grey Quarter, because—“
“Ah yes, now I remember you. Books. Äelberon of Dusk, the Knight-Guard—well former Knight-Guard of Rynandor the Bold, the former Archmagister of the former Crystal Tower, I believe.” Galar interrupted him. “He and I met at Vvardenfell a long time ago. Books.” The Altmer was about to speak, but the Dunmer stopped him by speaking first. “So what do you want, Merotim? You said it was important.”
“We need your help,” the Imperial frowned.
“With what?”
“With locating the Aetherium Forge,” replied the Altmer, and Galar's eyes popped out his head.
The snow had stopped falling and the sky opened, revealing its stars like a mistress reveals her secrets. Grulmar and his drinking partner for the night were now sitting on the bridge leading to Windhelm, looking at the merging of the White and Yorgrim Rivers, and beyond towards the Sea of Ghosts. They were leaning against each other, trying to prevent each other from falling.
Grulmar was shivering slightly, hiding under his newly acquired fur cloak, while Fangs wasn't bothered by the cold at all. The night breeze moved through her disheveled braids and her eyes were distant again, her lids heavy over her orange eyes. She didn’t fucking care what color they were anymore.
“Sho tell me, Fangsh-”
“What?” snapped Serana when she heard his voice. “I can't understand a single word you’re saying. You're wasted.”
“I am,” he admitted and burped, wrinkling his nose when he tasted something nasty. “Sho are ya. Sho tell me, if ya'd fall into that river, would ya freeze? Or drown?”
“Neither,” she shook her head and then she suddenly grabbed his shoulder, as if her head was caught in a spin. Her hand was like a vice and he squealed in pain like a little baby piglet, nearly falling off the bridge. She had him though, that vice-like grip saving his wasted arse. Ya sho shtrong, Fangsh, bet Shiny likesh shtrong. He shuddered at the sudden image of Shiny banging Fangsh and then heard squawking and clucking in the distance. His squeal seemed to have woken up the chickens down in the stables and he looked that way, blinking to clear his vision. Sad little chickens, all cooped up.
“Hafe ya efer thought about chickensh?” he asked Fangsh, his eyes still looking toward the stables.
She didn't answer immediately and he turned to her, burping again. Her eyes were closed and her chin rested on her chest, which was something that resembled sleeping to him. He wasn't sure if vampires actually had to sleep or if they even could. He knew they ate. Saw her eat regular food on the road, though she hunted for real food at night. Blood. Another burp and she still wasn’t movin’.
“Hey!” he shook her.
Serana opened her eyes quickly, both now as orange as the sun during dusk, fangs protruding from her mouth and Grulmar giggled when he saw her like that. Washted fampire! “What? Chickens? Leave me be, dammit!”
“Ya nefer thought about chicken? How they are opresshed? I mean, they shpend their whole livesh in henhoushe, cooped upsh, laying eggsh, and if they can't they are bushered for meats. They are sho much alike ash Orcsh.”
She gave a hiccup, sounded like a squeak to him, and shook her head. “Orcs are laying eggs?”
“Noo!” he replied angrily, shaking his head emphatically only to realize what a bad idea that was. He swallowed the bile and opened his mouth to speak. “Silly washted fampire! They are opresshed too! Everyone deshervesh freedom, no? We should free thoshe chicken!”
“We…” Another hiccup. “Totally should!” Serana proclaimed solemnly. “Everyone has right to choose, right? Right? To choose?” She hiccup again. She kinda cute washted.
“Totally,” he agreed and then he leaned over the edge of the bridge and opened his mouth. He throwed up—more like down—everything he drank that night. It was just fighting to get out, to win its freedom from his oppressive stomach and run free with the waters of White and Yor-someone’s Rivers, escaping into the large Sea of Freedom. He wiped off his mouth and frowned. “Aren't thoshe chicken friendsh of your Sir Shiny though?”
“They are,” she admitted with a sigh—hiccup—but then she looked at him with determination. “But they are oppressing chickens. We can't allow that.”
“My sweet, my sweet Lucilla…”
Singing, soft singing, but not Beron’s. A lullaby of sorts.
“Lucilla, my sister dear…”
Every bone in her body ached as she sat, every muscle was stiff from not moving. She could smell her own vomit. The traces of Sujamma and…chicken. Her head felt like it was going to explode. She felt hard stone against her back, a wall. She could feel against her fingertips the bottle of sujamma. Where was Grulmar?
Oh yeah, he ran off. Why he do that?
“Soon, we’ll be reunited…”
More singing. An awful voice, old and wavering in pitch. Not like the sweet mellow baritone of her Beron. Bal’s Balls, that Elf could sing so beautifully. Reunited? She felt warm breath on her face, stinking of bad Nord mead and rotten teeth. His breath smelled like tea or honey. His teeth, straight and white. She wanted his smell all around her. The mix of canis root and frost mirriam, leather and metal. He looked so stunning in his new armor, the lattice-work of carved leather and darkened metal hugging his chest. Elegant and tall. Noble.
“I’ll hold you in my arms… and you’ll come back to life.” The voice above her continued singing.
When he held her in his arms, she came back to life… That’s what she really wanted to tell Grulmar. Back to life. An image flashed before her. The chicken moved. A little dazed at first and she was warm with its fresh blood. Warm for the first time the entire night. Except when he holds you. But he wasn’t there. You drove him away and sat in your corner, letting the darkness take you. The Orc’s face when the chicken moved. His face when it walked towards another chicken, needing to feed. A fledgling. Her fledgling. Those blood-shot, red eyes of his nearly popping out of their sockets. The chicken was truly free. “My gift to you, my Lord, on this Chil’a” she laughed proudly, the warm blood still oozing from her mouth.
Grulmar then ran away. He was chicken. Ha! Take that you prick! Bet you shitted yourself.
She heard the bottle of sujamma being picked up from the cemetery ground, the sound of the ceramic scraping against the stone like a thousand dragon claws scraping against an iron kettle. Everything so loud. The voices, the smells, the sights, everything too much. So she stopped. She stopped moving when she reached the cemetery. Fitting to sleep there. She couldn’t find the library. He knew where it was, but she forgot. Damn sujamma. Cemetery was fine. Nobody goes to a cemetery on Saturalia and she was so tired... and wasted.
Beron was going to kill her. She murdered his friend’s chickens. Friends who have done nothing to you. When the Orc ran away. She drained the chickens. All of them. Thirsty. Wasn’t gonna share blood with a vampire chicken, her creation. Sorry Old Bally, I killed my gift to you. But Sujamma is not blood and I needed blood tonight.
I, Serana of the Volkihar, am… a chicken slayer.
The singing then stopped and the voice above her took on a different tone. She heard the bottle of sujamma hit the stone again, like a hammer striking an anvil to her.
“Poor thing, poor, poor thing.” The voice tutted and she felt warm fingertips caress her cold, vomit-encrusted cheek. Bet you’d taste good too. Nah, too old. “Too much to drink and Windhelm is very cold, my little lamb. Cannot lay down when it’s cold even though you feel warm. Pretty lamb with fair skin and black hair, just like my Lucilla. She will be pleased to know I made her out parts from such a beautiful lamb.”
She heard the sound of metal being unsheathed from leather. A second later, she felt that same warm hand move the fabric of her shirt, exposing her shoulders and then lowering the fabric further, exposing her breasts. It didn’t feel like Beron’s touch. When he’d remove her clothes. The way he kissed her. The hand pressing against her collarbone lacked strength.
“You’ve been lying here a long while to be this cold, little lamb.” The voice cooed. “All the better for you when I do my work.”
The life-force above her was weak, old. The hands knobby. Not strong like her Beron’s. She felt a blade slowly—carefully—slice at the skin above her left breast and it hurt a bit. Not a bit, a lot. Fuck, what are you trying to do to me, you asshole? When he held her, it didn’t hurt. It felt right. Just like when she told Grulmar…
Then why can’t you tell Beron you love him?
Because you’re a chicken! That was funny. She suddenly erupted in a peal of high-pitched giggles and the blade froze, making her wince. Vampires feel pain, dumbarse. She groaned and the blade stopped cutting. Thank you, asshole.
“By the Eight!” the voice exclaimed, dropping the instrument; the metal striking the stone with such a heavy clang that it made her head throb like a warhammer was whacking at it repeatedly. Not a knife. Maybe something for embalming? She then heard him begging his dear Lucilla forgiveness for almost using such an abomination to bring her back. That’s right, asshole, I am an abomination.
And yet he still loves you.
She could feel the excess fluid escaping her body from her wound. Sujamma mixed with chicken blood, mixed with her old blood. Draining… It’s not like the chickens brought you any true warmth… You shrugged him off. Pushed him away. Didn’t have to be that way. He would’ve been making love to you by now in that little library. He would have made you forget Chil’a.
Bad decisions. She kept making bad decisions. And perhaps one day, he wouldn’t forgive her.
“Run away now and I won’t kill you.” She snarled softly to the shocked form above her, not even arsed to bloody open her eyes. Her head throbbed when the speeding footsteps thundered in her ears, but soon she was surrounded by the cold silence of the cemetery again. And she let her breath stop.
She loved dreams.
Sometimes the dreams were of the moons shining above a starlit sky, of gathering seashells along the beach, her fat, pink hands reaching in the dark grey sand to tug at clams, laughing a child’s laugh. Living hands then, pink and dimpled. The world so big, the sun so warm and bright. She especially loved it when she dreamt of his songs coming to life, showers of blossoms, snow-capped mountains, and his memories of a distant homeland, perpetual summer. Talwin, summer; a word of his language he taught her by the glow of the hearth. Talwin and Mafre. Summer and winter, together, one. His songs...
Sometimes they were strange dreams, where she could feel herself running on all fours along the tall, dense grasses, him, yet not him on her back. Cries of battle. Golden armor making a heartless diamond bleed. Her bellowing rage in the moonlight. Talking heads; him, yet not him. Those weren’t dreams, she chuckled. Don’t mix books with dreams, stupid.
Sometimes they were dark dreams; nightmares, a horned head above her, the stench of foul breath, bone-breaking movements that seemed to tear her body asunder. Roars of pleasure. Her cries, like the shrieking winds of the one taken first. Their faces too, watching. Until death. A drop of blood falling upon her brow. Then undeath. Dreams where she’d wake up screaming. But she didn’t care, she loved even those dreams.
Because they were dreams.
She didn’t dream in the tomb. Time and space were lost to her. Shrouded in suspension and darkness for an eternity, the impenetrable force of the music of the Elderscroll all around her. Then one day it stirred, the scroll, changing its tune, singing to something in the distance. And she tasted of his blood. Felt light upon her face—golden white, felt warmth, felt... life. He may have broken the seal to her tomb with his blood, but he broke the seal to her dead soul with his heart.
But you are still too afraid to tell him.
And now she was dreaming that she was floating limply above the ground, moving but not walking, feeling the wind above and below her. She was enveloped in a soothing warmth, feeling soft fur against her skin. Canis root and Frost mirriam, leather and metal. Strength keeping her afloat amid the dark tempests of her mind. She wanted this forever, but she felt herself begin to wake, begin to breathe. And she fought it with all her might. No, she wanted to dream still, she cried inside, feeling the tears sting.
“Wake up, Ana and let go. Just let go. I am here.” Low, his voice, and perhaps a little sad. Knowing… understanding… suffering. He knew, he knew… He knew because he dreamed too. And sometimes when he dreamed, he screamed, clutching painfully at his breast, reaching for her. Reaching for something cool in the night to quelch his frantic fire.
She then felt a tender kiss on the top of her head and with it, the stale air left her body with a gust, replaced by fresh, cold mountain air. Waking her up. And she cried like she was small, pink and fat again, new, bawling into the warmth of blanketing bearskin, black like the darkest of nights. She finally let go, leaping over the cliff of her subconscious into reality, now knowing who held her. Who carried her. Whose heart beat steadily against her ear like a drum. He had to have smelled the chicken on her skin, seen the blood-stained feathers that stuck to her clothes, the blood and vomit on her face. The bottle of Sujamma. Guilty. She moaned something about the stables, about oppression, her sorrys—incoherent babblings between heaving sobs. And he kissed her again, holding her tighter.
“I know.” He whispered and she felt his jaw tighten slightly, felt his teeth chew the inside of his lip. “I will see to you first, Ana, and then speak to Ulundil in the morning. I will…” He hesitated. “I will think of something.” He finished quickly, his voice sounding suddenly tired, worn. He knew, he knew… but another kiss fell upon her head as she heard the creek of an opening wooden door. He is probably going to lie for you now too, you stupid vampire bitch. The silver-white hair unbound for so long now. Tarnished.
And yet you still can’t tell him that you love him.
Author’s Notes – Dunmeris translations and holidays
Lissette here. For the Dunmeris, I used a website that is not exactly canon; however, I felt it added enough to the language that it was more functional.
“Ohn harig ot balgan, Balhar tigi?” (You have a problem, big ape?)
“Ot Tigi? Nchow daeljuhn!Os Shogahe’ag os duhne’ath ot nibis khoslim er os bahr shogahe’ag os binthi’ag ist maeb!” (An Ape? Damn, friend! I knew I had traveled a long distance, but I didn’t know I looked that bad!)
“Daeljuhn. Athis am velishif Urshilaku e yi daesohn kol Jorrvaskr. Diru ean bahr rokashin.” (Friend. Athis of the proud Urshilaku is my brother at Jorrvaskr. Erik is also. We promise there will be no trouble.)
“Juohn.” (thank you)
Also, There are differences as to when the Holiday Chil’a falls on the Calendar, either the 20th or 24th of Evening Star. Molag Bal’s summoning is on Chil’a. The actual day could shift and Serana’s traditions could reflect older practices or regional practices, so for the benefit of the narrative, we went with Chil’a being on the 24th.
Table of Contents
Chapter 2 --- Chapter 4
Comments
...not much else, though.
...not much else, though.
So much great stuff in this epic, but most importantly:
What's Decimus's mother's number? Â Â Â ;-P
Yes, there's always someone to make Aelberon's holidays suck, be it Molag Bal, some assholes or drun... more
Yeah, the Butcher scene was really weird-shit. Lissette's a genious.