Chasing Aetherius: Chapter 4 - Fireworks

  •  

    “Modern scholars know Aetherium as a rare, luminescent blue crystal found in some Dwemer ruins. Most consider it little more than a curiosity, as it has proven all but impossible to work with: while it has a strong magical aura, it is alchemically inert, and no known process can enchant, smelt, mold, bind, or break it.”

     

    31st of Evening Star 4E, 202

     

    “Feet! Move your feet, lad!”  Shouted Decimus, performing one of his fake attacks, swinging his sword and then rapidly changing the direction of the swing. Erik´s heavier sword wasn´t fast enough to block the attack, so he had to quickly retreat from his opponent´s strike. But Decimus was an unforgiving teacher and he relentlessly pursued him. “Why are you on your heels, you fucker?!” Old Blade kept yelling. “Step aside and counter attack!”

     

    Erik growled and spun on his left heel, his right leg tracing a semi-circle, giving him enough momentum to swing his sword from above his shoulder. Decimus mimicked his movement, stepping to the side and then his feet brought him close enough to Erik so that his shoulder slammed into the Nord’s chest, sending him to the ground.

     

    Fuck! cursed Erik in his mind, still reeling from the blow. He´s really fast. Most Nords would have been angry at this humiliation, but Erik knew very well that by making mistakes, he would also learn from them. If you survive those mistakes, that is. The Imperial stopped his assault and offered his hand. With a gust of air escaping his lips, Erik accepted.

     

    “I hope you won´t shout at me like that during a real fight,” murmured Erik. “It´s distracting.”

     

     The Imperial grinned in return and then spat on the ground. “I bet it is. But you have to focus. And work more with your feet. That´s what I´m telling you all the time. You have the skill, you have the strength and a longer blade, but your legs are too slow. Your legs always have to stand firmly before you strike, your legs have to be faster than your blade.”

     

     “I know, I know,” sighed Erik. “It´s quite difficult when the Companions teach you something else.”

     

     Decimus waved his hand in dismissal. “They´re all about strong attacks and trading blows. The guy who is stronger usually wins. I´m trying to show you how speed can save you energy.”

     

     “Not everyone,” Erik argued back in defense of his Shield-Siblings. “Not everyone fights that way.”

     

     “Aright, alright, not everyone,” snorted Decimus. “But, lad, you´re using a greatsword, it doesn´t take a genius to figure out you´re training with either Vilkas or Farkas. And those two meatheads are as slow as sloads.” Decimus furrowed his brow and then nodded to himself.  You know, you should train with Ronnie.”

     

     “The Harbinger? But he works mostly with bastards?”

     

     “Aye, so he works with bastards? He’s also been working with Vilkas since he joined up with your merry group.”

     

     “But didn’t you just tell me not to train with Vilkas?” Erik emphasized, raising his eyebrows. “What’s the difference if he’s trained with Vilkas too?”

     

     Decimus wiped the sweat from his brow and laughed, “Just because that old fart trains with Vilkas, doesn’t mean he fights like Vilkas. Takes what he needs, processes it, and then makes it his. Besides, Vilkas and Farkas will hardly unlearn what they already know. Now, Ronnie, he’s different. He taught himself to throw his Torvalian daggers, been throwing them that way longer than both of us have been alive, and threw them damn well too, but when he saw Grulmar throw, he threw that technique out and took Gru’s. That’s what you need, lad. The ability to unlearn and adapt. Want to use that Skyforged sword of yours more effectively?  You need fast feet.” Decimus leaned in closer to the young Nord, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And don’t let those 244 years and fat arse fool you, bastard’s got fast feet.”

     

     Erik´s eyes studied the place around them, the grey stone walls formed to create a small arena. It was an old Windhelm arena that was abandoned some time ago, making it the perfect place for warriors to train without being disturbed by anyone. The young Nord looked at Decimus and nodded. “Quick feet, I get it. Shall we try again?”

     

     Decimus smiled and patted him on his back. “You´re a lot like that old fart, you know that? He doesn´t stop until he learns it. Already throws almost as well as Gru does. That’s what’s kept him alive, and that’ll be what keeps you alive, lad. Alright, let´s try it again. Remember, faster feet and move those hips like you move ‘em when you’re with a woman!” The Imperial laughed.

     

     Erik released a chuckle, nodded, and prepared himself again...

     

     They spent nearly a week in Windhelm and for Erik, it was a relatively peaceful week. The first night he spent in Candlehearth Inn, to clear his head—to get away from Gru—helped him more than he expected. He spent a night drinking with his kinsmen, waking up the next morning with a headache, but still, he felt better than he did the night before.

     

     He ate breakfast—bread with cheese and ham—and then headed to the Cornerclub, where he found out that Grulmar was nowhere to be found, Serana was badly hungover and Äelberon was taking care of her. Decimus was sitting at a table in the corner, eating his own breakfast. From him, Erik learned that Grulmar and Serana got wasted, stole several chickens, turned them into vampires, and that Äelberon spent the entire night and well into the morning fixing their mess; whatever that meant. Well, it probably meant that the Harbinger was pissed off.

     

     When Serana finally showed up at the Cornerclub, paler than usual, it was already past noon. She sat down, cradling her head with her hands and declared. “I fucking hate that Orc...”  

     

     Erik stepped aside, blocking Decimus´ sword with his, the blade aiming down, the pommel above his head, and he used that movement to swing above his shoulder. Decimus anticipated his movement, covering with his blade pointing down and stepping aside, swinging over his shoulder. Erik repeated it, then Decimus repeated it, and again and again, both dancing in a small circle and Erik felt his muscles tensing. But it felt so good and he smiled. Decimus then stepped aside, which threw the Nord out of the rhythm, his balance wavering for a second and the Imperial almost lazily laid his sword on Erik´s neck.

     

     “You should have moved aside and counter-attacked,” he said.

     

     “I know,” Erik frowned. “I got lulled by the rhythm. Lost my focus.”

     

     “Ha! So you know your mistakes then? You´re a rare student, lad. Again?”

     

    “Again,” confirmed Erik the Slayer, raising his sword above his head, preparing himself…

     

     After that first day, the rest of the week was actually far quieter. He was trying to avoid Grulmar, but it didn´t take much effort because the Orc was always somewhere in the city, doing Talos knows what.

     

    Serana seemed to struggle with what happened the first day, being tense around the Harbinger while he mostly ignored her, telling her something that sounded like he had already said what he had wanted to say and that it was up to her now to understand why it had to be done that way. Then he resumed his work with Galar—his version of pissed off, Erik guessed. Whatever had to be done must’ve been something big and something she didn’t like doing because she got real angry at him and stomped off, cursing his name under her breath. Not even a day passed, however, before Erik noticed her approach the Altmer again, wanting to talk, and they went off together. When they returned, their storm had passed and they both seemed better for it. He understood why his Shield-Siblings were so...reserved—well, distrustful is the precise word—when it came to Serana. They believed that she was using their Harbinger for her own needs, seducing him with her Illusion, some even believing that she was slowly making him her thrall. But if this...journey showed him anything, it was that his Harbinger wasn´t being used at all. His judgement wasn´t clouded, his head was as clear as ever. In a strange way, it was actually clearer.

     

    She then joined Äelberon and together they spent most of their time in Galar´s basement, trying to figure out the precise locations of the Shards and the Aetherium Forge. The tables downstairs were covered with books and maps, barely any wood visible. Those three were always bent over some book, their tired eyes scanning every word. The Harbinger seemed really close too, kept mumbling “I have seen this place” to himself over and over.   

     

    Even Katria showed up one time, appearing out of nowhere, telling them that Dreth has acquired two of the Shards and was now looking for their group, with a band of hired mercenaries in tow. Erik was wondering where she was, but he certainly wasn´t expecting she would be at the other side of Skyrim. Grulmar´s idea, that´s what she said. He shouldn´t be surprised, Grulmar was always a sly one, taking any advantage he could.

     

    And Erik couldn´t shake the feeling that for Grulmar, he was nothing but an advantage. Yes, the Orc took him out of Rorikstead, taught him what he could about fighting, taught him how terrible the world was and that he should forget about honor and similar bullshit. He taught him that gold is much better… Erik listened to Gru most of the time, but he was thinking something different. But never said it out loud. Because there was someone who actually cared, who needed him. Grulmar got his back and Erik had his.

     

    But was it really like that? It was Grulmar who always got them into some mess and Erik had to get them out. The Orc made him an accomplice in stealing, extortion, and a few times they even earned some money by becoming highwaymen. Grulmar was the brain and he was the muscle. Or not? Did Gru really care for him? Most of the time they seemed like brothers, but since Erik joined the Companions...the Greenskin lost his advantage. Erik was shown a different way. Fighting for your Shield-Brothers, helping families who lost their homes to the Civil War or to dragons. He was shown that honor was good, that you could be happy and be noble. So Grulmar became a pain in the arse.

     

    He got angry just thinking about it, putting more strength into his swings, and suddenly it was Decimus retreating. They were practicing with sharp weapons, so when someone gets angry during this kind of sparring fight, someone might get hurt. Erik stopped mid-swing, breathing heavily, feeling how his face burned with the boiling blood surging into his head. He sighed and looked at Decimus. “I´m sorry. I just got...distracted.”

     

    The Imperial wiped his forehead and spit before letting out a whistle. “Well, I think that distraction was quite focused. I piss you off?”

     

    Erik shook his head and raised his eyes to the sky. “No, not you.” He avoided Decimus’ eyes and said: “Grulmar. Can´t get him out of my head.”

     

    Decimus laid hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Yeah, that fucker has ways of getting inside people´s heads. Look, you two clearly have some problem and it´s not really my business, but I think you should know that while Grulmar might not say it or even show it, he considers you his friend. He would never betray his friends.”

     

    Erik felt a sad smile clawing its way to the surface, and he couldn´t really stop it. “Sometimes...I really doubt that.”

     

     

    With a soft growl, Serana crumpled up the paper and tossed it to the floor of the Telvanni’s basement, eyeing the silver head bent over his own paper suspiciously. Nearly a page of notes, destroyed. He was evil with that hand, deliberately bumping her arm while she worked. She growled, but couldn’t stay mad at the pale hand that now snaked back to his side of the cramped desk where they spent the past five days as little more than slaves. If you think chickens were oppressed. Beron chuckled as quietly as he dared, his red-orange eyes twinkling in defiance when he looked up from his work, locking them with hers.  He was bored.

     

    “Would you two please keep your voices down? I require… silence, these are delicate calculations I am performing.” Galar grumbled snidely, as if he were addressing two errant school children, his head still bent over his workstation. Not even looking at them. “And, vampire, do pick up the paper. I do not tolerate messes.”

     

    Pick your battles, those twinkling eyes teased before Beron resumed his work. What was he working on? He seemed to be working with a renewed focus for the past hour. Sketching something, it seemed to Serana.  It’s not that they didn’t enjoy the work. They did, they were both scholars at heart, but Galar was impossible. His demands for controlled silence, his lack of understanding regarding the need to rest the mind, not allowing food, drink, or—Bal forbid—Beron’s smokes in the basement. Beron could pour over books for hours—over a day even—if he was engaged, and so could she, but Galar only allowed them to break when he decided that a break would benefit him, complaining that their leaving his basement disrupted his “focus”.

     

    Both of them wanted to shove Galar’s “focus” up his old, wrinkled Telvanni arse.

     

    Five days under the Tyrant of House Telvanni as Beron put it whenever they had a brief moment alone. Only moments, for when Galar finally released them, usually either Grulmar, Decimus, or Erik took his place—play darts, help me with this, need you to check this weapon, throw some knives with me, let’s argue—and on top of that, Beron’s own detailed preparations, his wariness around strangers apparent by keeping those preparations from Galar. As a result, they were never really alone and it bothered both of them.

     

    She was lucky, Beron suffered under Galar for another two days on his own and her features darkened slightly, remembering their first two days at Windhelm. Chil’a had been difficult for her, her first since she awoke in Dimhollow, but she didn’t expect the explosion of emotion that happened that night. When all was said and done, she had done some serious damage, releasing a great deal of pent-up pain and hurting him in the process. It wasn’t Grulmar’s fault, it was hers. “You are responsible for your own actions. Grulmar did not force you to do anything, Ana.”  Beron’s words. He had taken care of her so tenderly that night and into the morning; comforting her, healing her, and she thought…he loved her.

     

    He does love you, a great deal, but Beron is not a doormat for you to walk over.  Serana learned that lesson for the umpteenth time when the Altmer dragged her still-hungover form to see Ulundil himself, demanding that she apologize to the stable hand and his wife and give them the coin to replace their chickens. The coin for his Saturalia present, she had protested. “I do not give a damn about my present.” He stated flatly, clenching his jaw while he stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest and she handed her coinpurse to the stable hand, who accepted her apology with far more elegance than she delivered it. She got angry, of course, but rather than get angry back, Beron chose instead to ignore her, accepting his fate as Galar’s slave.

     

    She didn’t even last a day before she joined him in servitude. Her eyes found the Mer working opposite her and she smiled at his ink-stained fingers and nose. The tip of his nose had ink. The rickety chairs that Galar begrudgingly provided barely held his bulk and he was practically squashed, a knee brought up in an attempt to be more comfortable. He scratched his chin and Serana shook her head, smirking. Another ink stain. She wasn’t even counting the ink stains on his clothes. Dove grey, he wore his dove grey shirt today with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows.  It was the thicker woolen one, so he only had to wear his bearskin cloak to go outside, finding the weather “rrather agrreeable for this time of yeahr”. Well, now it was dove grey splattered with black fingerprints and smudges. At least the trousers were dark. Didn’t particularly match his armored boots, but he didn’t care. He only wore the amulet Kyne gave him, the twined leather barely peeking from the neckline of his shirt. His other amulets were tucked away in his knapsack with a “‘Twil not be needing those.”  He stored them, somewhere, in the deep recesses of Oblivion that was that pack.

     

    You know you love him when you dare search through that chaotic mess.

     

    She found them. And then… she stole them. All of them. Right from under that handsome nose of his when he finally fell asleep during their third night in Windhelm, huddled up in that tiny room above the library, him taking the floor while she took the cot. Always the gentlemer and she wasn’t going to let a lack of money stop her. You could give gifts during Old Life too, she thought with a smug smile. Bartering away one of her mother’s rings to the local smith got Beron’s four amulets reduced to one. The enchanted pieces now set upon a single, heavier chain; fire, frost, shock, and she smirked, disease resistance, needed, especially with what they now enjoyed. What do you get a Dragonborn? Get him something that can save his life. Now, he only needed to put on one amulet, instead of four. It saved him time. Perhaps only seconds, but seconds for a warrior often meant life or death and you lov—

     

    “Am I addressing the living? Oh of course not. Vampire? The paper? It has not yet been picked up. The longer it is on the floor, the more it... disturbs.”

     

    Serana saw Beron roll his eyes and bite his lip to suppress laughter while he worked. With a sigh, Serana leaned over her chair and picked up the offending crumpled paper, hearing something slide on top of the wooden desk, close to her side. Paper? When she was again upright, she nearly jumped in her seat and covered her mouth with both hands to stifle the guffaw that threatened to escape.

     

    “By the Reclamations, like children.” The Dunmer grumbled. “I can still hear you…”

     

    So this is what Beron considered time well spent?

     

    It was a drawing of Galar with a head much, much, much larger than his body, a giant exaggeration. Swollen as if his head was the balloon holding up a Dwemer airship.  The shoulders—blown up to five times the width of his hips—were also exaggerated, as were Galar’s bulging biceps, leaving the Dunmer with only tiny legs and feet peeking under his Telvanni robes. The facial features were distorted, but it was the head that was the focus of Beron’s “art”. Around his head were all sorts of Dwemer equations, only with little running legs, and they looked like they were trying to run inside the Dunmer’s head. Written under the drawing was a small caption in Beron’s hand.

     

    “Perhaps if Galar let all the hot air out of his head, his delicate calculations would come to him much easier.”

     

    In retrospect, the joke was awkward, as was typical of Beron’s attempts at humor. He was an Altmer, after all, but it didn’t matter. That Beron would openly insult a member of the House Telvanni. If Galar ever got hold of that image. Serana’s shoulders shook.

     

    “Good, about time the paper was picked up. Now I can concentrate.” The Dunmer spoke, taking a deep breath.

     

    She looked up and faced the Altmer. His shoulders were trembling too and he looked like he was about to burst, the scampish grin, the merry twinkle of those eyes. They were that way for what seemed like an eternity, it becoming their private game. Their game while the Dunmer worked—no, slaved over his calculations. They were two naughty school children and she loved every moment of their defiance. Who would laugh first? Who would make Galar jump? They dared each other, goaded each other; she keeping her face stone cold, he staring at her cross-eyed.

     

    I can’t fight it anymore.

     

    Serana took her quill and dipped it into the inkwell, wiping the excess ink carefully before she wrote on the picture. Beron peered over from his side, shifting, straining to see, one of his braids comically smudging with spots from straying too close to his inkwell. She covered up what she was writing and grinned when he sank back to his chair in a disappointed huff and resumed his work, opening a book on Dwemer schematics to write down measurements. She watched him work for a few moments, studied his scarred features—the ruggedness—before she slid the paper back towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, an eyebrow now cocked comically, he watched the paper traverse the desk, his curiosity building. When the paper reached him, he set down his book and picked it up to read what she wrote, his lips twisting into in a smirk, prepared for something naughty.

     

    I love you, Beron mouthed, his brow furrowing lightly while he read what she wrote. In the silence of Galar’s basement, she finally told him she loved him. He had never questioned why she never told him, never made demands, never discussed it. It was always enough for him that he loved her and that she chose to be with him. She told him without saying a word, both of them exhausted from days of research and sporting ink stains. It wasn’t the way she had expected to tell him at all. She had originally imagined telling him after he accomplished some grand and noble task. The kiss at the end of a grand Romance, the brave Knight finally winning his fair lady. It almost happened after he vanquished Durnehviir, the learned meaning of his song still fresh in her mind, what he had gone through for her in the Soul Cairn, but it turned into a kiss instead and that had been more than enough for him. Aye, she had wanted to tell him after he had done something grand like that, but he had already done grand things so many times over. She didn’t love him for being Dragonborn or a Knight-Paladin. He just felt right.  Beron met her gaze, his eyes softening into two smouldering embers, the naughty smirk morphing into a sincere smile and he mouthed but two words in response. 

     

    I know.

     

    Is that why he never said anything? Because he already knew? Serana returned his smile and for another moment their eyes locked, promising more later. They then bent their heads and resumed their servitude to the eccentric Dunmer, though before her eyes found her blank paper, she saw Beron take the sketch of Galar, fold it gently, and tuck it under his belt. Bloody Oblivion, if any of the other bastards find that paper, they’re going to think Beron loves Galar. 

     

     

    Erik and Decimus were heading back to the Cornerclub, both sweaty from their training, so they had to cover themselves with as many furs as possible. Sweat could kill a man in low temperatures. Nevertheless, Erik felt as if his skin couldn´t take a breath, his cheeks were burning with so much heat, as well as his arms and neck.

     

    They were strolling down the narrow avenues of the Grey Quarter and Erik found himself looking at the tired and not very friendly faces of the local Dunmer. He understood them, to some extent. Living was hard here, with most Nords being so...aggressive towards Dark Elves. But he also understood that there were plenty of mixed feelings.

     

    It was Ulfric´s ancestors who let them into the city, providing them with a roof over their heads, a refuge after the Red Mountain blew. Nearly two centuries had passed since the Dark Elves became residents of Windhelm, and they still didn´t understood Nords.

     

    It was hard for most Nords to share a house—or in this case a city—with Elves and it didn´t matter which elves. But the Dunmer...Nords had been warring with Dark Elves as long as Erik could remember—well, not exactly war, but the hostility was there for quite a long time. Maybe the Dunmer were able to put it behind them, but Nords were not.

     

    And with the Great War and the Thalmor...everything only got worse. The Dunmer were complaining that Jarl Ulfric wasn´t doing enough for them, but as Erik saw it, Ulfric Stormcloak was doing far more than most other Nords would. He was letting them stay. And maybe it was just his presence that was preventing the Dunmer from raising arms against them, or Nords purging the Grey Quarter and renaming it the Snow Quarter, as in old days.

     

    As they neared New Gnisis, Erik noticed Grulmar leaning against the column in front of the Cornerclub, talking with some Nord. A Nord with a grey beard and short hair, wearing steel armor and a long hilt sticking out over his shoulder. If Erik wasn´t walking next to Decimus, he would have thought that it was Decimus talking with Grulmar.

     

    Only one other man looks similar to Decimus, Erik thought with a grin. Stenvar, Nord mercenary. He remembered how Grulmar was always joking on about how both of these old mercenaries looked similar to each other. If Erik remembered it right, Grulmar´s nickname for Stenvar was Doppleganger. He wasn´t able to understand how Grulmar could give someone such a complicated nickname. Erik tried to say it out loud once and his tongue twisted like a hangman´s rope. The only other person who ever used words like Gru was the Harbinger. Bet he could say “Doppleganger”.

     

    Grulmar and Stenvar were leaning close to each other, their heads nearly touching. Grulmar was saying something that Erik couldn’t make out and Stenvar was listening carefully, a serious expression on his face. The Orc then handed him something, some kind of parchment, small, and Stenvar hid it in his pocket. Another shady dealing of yours, Grulmar? Erik frowned.

     

    “Well, ain’t it my least favourite brother of mine?” Bellowed Decimus and Erik jumped in fright. He still had trouble getting used to how loud that Old Blade was sometimes.

     

    Stenvar frowned. “Knowing how ugly your mother is, I doubt my father would bang her.” He then grinned and winked. “Well, if he was really wasted then he might and sire something even uglier. You.”

     

    Erik was looking at Stenvar the entire time, avoiding eye contact with Grulmar and he saw out of the corner of his eye that the Orc was staring right at him. It was really difficult to not look at him, but after a while Grulmar gave up and with a snort disappeared inside the Cornerclub.  Somehow, that made Erik sad. And angry. I guess it´s better to be called ‘beast’ by the Magister than trying to get my attention.

     

    Decimus laughed at Stenvar´s response and patted the Nord. “Good to see you, old fart. Work´s keeping you busy?”

     

    Stenvar shrugged and looked at Erik while he answered Decimus. “Can´t complain. I’m staying a few days at Windhelm, getting some mead into my stomach for the Holiday and then head out again. Plenty of things to kill. By the way, you haven´t accepted that job for that Frost Troll near Nightgate Inn, I hope?”

     

    “No,” Erik shook his head. “We´re on something bigger—“

     

    “Bigger my arse! Don’t make me laugh, lad. Hunting some Dwemer shit in Winterhold for that crazy freak in Markarth, Cal, Calmeco, Calcoco, whatever the fuck his name is, fucking Old Mary.” Decimus shook his head, giving up and Erik furrowed his brow. But? That’s not… “Wants a gyro, round golden thingy for one of his experiments. Hope he don’t want the glowy red ones cause those fuckers are hard as shit to get.” finished Decimus with a spit, scowling at Erik. He then grinned broadly, too broadly for Erik’s taste, leaving the young Nord even more confused.  “Just absorbing some of the warmth of the Holidays into our bodies before heading out to that frozen shithole. Don’t want my arse frozen off.”

     

    Stenvar chuckled. “Milkdrinkers. Anyway, see you around. Drop by Candlehearth later, we´ll grab a drink and exchange some stories.” With that he departed.

     

    “Sure thing,” murmured Decimus, nodding at the Nord as he walked away. When Stenvar turned the corner, he looked quickly at Erik and growled. “You don´t ever tell other mercs about your job if that job isn´t finished yet. Shit, lad, even Ronnie knows that and he’s a fucking Paladin.”

     

    “I thought Stenvar was your friend—“

     

    Decimus chuckled, but it was more of a disbelieving chuckle. A “how can someone be so stupid” chuckle. “He´s a merc, just like me. Yes, we are friends, but I don´t trust him. If he got scent of what we´re up to, we might have competition very soon.”

     

    Erik blushed for being so stupid. It was sometimes easy to forget that the world was a very complicated place full of people following their own desires and creeds. Grulmar was saying that he should trust no one. No bragging, no sharing. Their job was theirs, the treasure theirs, and if someone knew, they would want to take it. “You think Grulmar was telling him what we´re up to?”

     

    Decimus resolutely shook his head. “That Orc doesn´t know when to shut up, that´s true, but he´s smart enough to not speak with someone about our shit.” He then waved his hand and moved towards the door. “Stop worrying about it. Let´s grab a drink. Who knows? Maybe those three fiddlers finally figured out the location of our next stop.”

     

    Erik hoped so. He was getting restless sitting on his arse and doing nothing, besides avoiding Grulmar.

     

     

    She never expected Windhelm could hold so many people within its walls! Where did they all sleep? Is there enough food for everyone? But then again, she shouldn´t have been that surprised, it was Old Life Festival after all. The current year was about to end, and a new one about to begin. And everyone was in the streets, celebrating, their noise almost overwhelming.

     

    For days now, I imagine. She had lived among Nords for some time now, she understood the race quite well. At least she believed she did.

     

    As Calcelmo´s assistant, she had never been to Windhelm and she was quite looking forward to finally seeing this old and glorious city. She had heard that Dunmer were living here among Nords, since the Red Year, with a whole quarter becoming their home. Of course she heard it was a slum, but she knew Ulfric Stormcloak was doing his best to keep everyone happy.

     

    She read plenty of books about the Dunmer, but she hadn’t yet met one in Skyrim, so she was certainly curious about them. It was interesting that the Dunmer were shorter than her people—and their grey skin and red eyes, of course. But for some reason, she was interested in that height. If Dunmer came from Chimer who were first Aldmer, what made them suddenly shorter?

     

    She shook her head in confusion and her red mane followed the movement and she felt silly for a moment. A conspicuously tall Altmer shaking her head just like that. People must have thought her crazy. She was attracting quite a lot of attention even without that and she could feel their stares as she walked. Her yellow-tan scholarly robes and red hair clashed with each other.  She really couldn´t bring herself to put on the hood. She wanted to feel the air in her hair, she wanted to feel the cold on her ears and how it stung their pointed tips. The Reach was different than Eastmarch—or more precisely northern Eastmarch. The rain in the Reach was certainly chilling, more so if someone was stupid enough to stand in it for some time, but snow was different...she liked snow.

     

    She accidentally bumped into someone, a Nord by his height and pale skin. “I´m sorry,” she excused, blushing for a second. She was so clumsy sometimes. “I´m looking for New Gnisis Cornerclub. Would you please point me in the right direction? I´m new here and—“

     

    “Sod off, you Old Mary cunt,” growled the Nord, pushing her aside to continue about his business.

     

    She sighed. It was hard to live in this land, being an Altmer. She understood Nords very well, outlawing Talos worship hit them very hard and left them very aggressive towards any Mer. The Nords who knew her didn’t seem to dislike her, but those who didn´t… It was difficult to convince someone who didn´t want to even care.

     

    There was a map of Windhelm etched into her mind, but it was an old one, from the Second Era. Why don´t you memorize a more recent map, Lareyne? Silly girl. But it would perhaps suffice. She remembered Calcelmo saying that the old Snow Quarter was renamed Grey Quarter because of the influx of Dunmeri residents. And she had a basic picture of the Snow Quarter and how to get there. Hopefully the city didn’t change all that much, I hope.

     

    It wasn´t easy, but after some time swimming through the dense crowds, she finally found the Grey Quarter. A series of narrow avenues, situated at a lower elevation than the rest of the city, decorated with red, yellow, green and brown banners hanging from various windows and archways. Calcelmo said that if she wanted to find his friend, she should start in the Cornerclub, a building at the heart of the Grey Quarter. “The Dunmer there will be more inclined to help than those stubborn Nords in Candlehearth Inn.” he said. Well, hopefully the Dunmer will be happier to see you than the Nords were, Lareyne.

     

    As much as she thought it would be easy to find New Gnisis, she was roaming the Grey Quarter for nearly for an hour searching. She was afraid to ask someone again, not really comfortable with the prospect of someone else calling her a cunt. What an awful word! She passed a general store in the Grey Quarter, but she took a few steps back and looked at the door before eyeing the waning glow of sunset that colored the grey stone walls of the city an odd shade of orange-pink. Perhaps it was still open? Maybe the shopkeeper would be more inclined to help me?

     

    He was. He told her with a smirk that the Cornerclub was the establishment right next to his. Auri-El’s Bow! She felt so dumb! For his assistance she decided to buy something, because he didn’t seem to have many customers stopping by there. She purchased an enchanted necklace, supposedly one that increased magical resistance. Her quick scrying spell confirmed it, though it was a rather weak enchantment, not really worth the money. But she had to repay his kindness somehow.

     

    Lareyne arrived at her destination and took a heavy breath, preparing to enter. She was about to finally meet… him. She heard so much about him, it almost felt like people made him up. But he was real, very real. And she didn´t want to look like silly youngling in front of him. She was about to open the door, when they opened themselves and a Nord flew out of them head first into the urine-stained snow bank behind her, on the opposite end of the avenue. She dodged at the last second, saving herself from being in that very same snow bank with a Nord on top of her. She shuddered, only to jump.  

     

    “Patrons only!” screamed a Dunmer almost as tall as her, which was very surprising. Granted, she was not among the tallest of her race, but she had no idea Dunmer could be that tall. It was his face, however, that shocked her. One side was heavily scarred, burned most likely. Burned? She thought Dunmer were almost fire-proof. Morrowind was a predominantly volcanic land with lava and ash everywhere and the Dunmer had to adapt to that climate. Their skin reflected the heat and ash… maybe even their lungs adapted, because breathing with ash falling everywhere must be very difficult.

     

    He noticed her and for moment his eyes went wide and then he flashed a smile with a few missing teeth at her. “Looking for something, love?” he purred, though that sound coming from a Dunmeri throat used to inhale ash sounded more like a dull saw on rusty iron.

     

    “Someone,” she replied and before she could continue, he interrupted her.

     

    “Then you certainly met your someone just now. My name is—“

     

    “Kilivil! Shut the door for tusk´s sake!” shouted someone from inside with a very heavy guttural accent. Orcish?

     

    “I have to meet someone here. An Altmer, oh Gods…” The Dunmer was about to shut the door. Think, silly. “Wait! A priest. Long silver hair—“

     

    Kilivil snorted. “Malacath take him. Why does that damn Altmer always have to get the pretty ones?” He waved at her to follow him inside. “Come on, then.” He held the door for her and during that he was murmuring to himself. “It was nice and quiet here until that Altmer and his merry band of fuckers showed up.”

     

    She walked past him and entered the New Gnisis Cornerclub, her heart at her throat in anticipation.

     

     

    He knew from the moment she walked in that Uncle and Ginger were gonna step all over themselves like a bunch of horkers in mating season. It’s what happens when a nice pair of tits and ass walk in on legs longer than a yearling filly. Didn’t help her either that she had smooth, golden skin, flaming red hair and green eyes. Not human green eyes either, but Elven green eyes and everybody knows what’s said about a pretty pair of Elven eyes. It’s their slant, like a cat, making them mysterious with the promise of something naughty if you’re patient enough to unlock their secrets.

     

    And he was right. The moment that She-Elf came in, both Erik and Decimus couldn´t get their eyes off her. Grulmar couldn´t even focus on throwing knives because they were slobbering next to him. Could mop the floor with their spit, they were drooling so much, making the floor all slippery. He snorted. Tuskers.

     

    She was looking around the Cornerclub like an idiot, probably looking for someone, but too dumb to ask. Don’t worry, Big tits—nah, too obvious, think of something better, Gru—one of these horny horkers is gonna help ya out in five, four, three—  

     

    “May I help you, my lady? You seem lost.” Decimus asked, putting on his best “nice” face, making sure to turn his head to hide the bad ear. Priceless. Grulmar grinned, hitting mamma’s nose with his knife. Decimus was always the hornier horker. Let the tuskin’ games begin.  

     

    She blushed and averted her eyes, which made Grulmar snort again. Tuskin´ damsel in distress. Yer turn, Erik.

     

    “I´m looking for Knight-Paladin Äelberon of Dusk,” she replied with a voice so sweet that it actually hurt Grulmar´s ears. But to everyone else it was beautiful music apparently. “Master Calcelmo sent me after receiving the Knight-Paladin’s letter.”

     

    Erik stepped forward and pushed Decimus aside. “He´s downstairs. Here, I´ll show you the way.”

     

    “You´re very kind, sir,” she said with reddening cheeks, looking at her feet. Sir? Hahaha.  She looked at Erik for only a second but Grulmar saw how that very short second made the young Nord freeze and fall in love with her. Idiot. A dozen strong Nord women are chasin´ him in Whiterun and he refuses them all. And now he can´t resist a pair of Altmeri tits. Moron.

     

    Grulmar threw another knife, again hitting mamma’s nose. He heard how the knife vibrated in the wood, and it felt very satisfying. Erik returned after a short while, without Leggy—nah, no good either—and he seemed as if he was lost in his own head. Lost in his own head. Fittin´.

     

    “Her name is Lareyne. She´s Calcelmo´s assistant,” Erik sighed breathlessly while he sank into a stool at the bar. Lareyne? Malacath’s armpit, that didn’t fit her at all!

     

    Grulmar snorted and looked at Erik, Decimus and Kilivil. “Idiots, all of ya.” He took two empty tankards, slapped them on his chest and stood on the tips of his toes. He walked around, wiggling his bottom and stroking those tankards, raising his voice in as good of an imitation of a woman as he could muster. Ended up sounding like old Atub stubbed her toe. “Ass and tits, ass and tits. Look at me, I´m a she-elf with big tits and a firm ass. Slobber, ya barbarians. Look at my long legs and… have I mentioned I have big tits too?”

     

    Decimus smacked him and Grulmar nearly fell on the floor as he wasn´t expecting that. “Stop it, you idiot.”

     

    “Oh, so I´m the idiot here? Funny,” he snorted.

     

     

    The young Nord was very kind to her, which caught her by surprise. Most Nords weren´t like that, and he certainly didn´t seem like he would behave that way. And he was quite...handsome, too.

     

    What would her family think if they knew she had these kinds of thoughts? The Nord certainly wasn´t handsomer than any Altmer male she knew but still, there was this feeling of...exotic, sexual barbarism about him. He led her down to the basement and she couldn´t take her eyes of his…his…arse, just say it, Lareyne. You´re looking at his arse. And those big hands too. You know what they say about big hands, right?

     

    Erik the Slayer, that was his name, pointed at the door and suddenly, there was this awkward silence. The two of them were standing near each other, looking into each other´s eyes, both blushing…

     

    She cleared her throat. “Well...thank you for showing me the way.”

     

    He took a step back and scratched the back of his head. “Sure, sure. We´ll see each other later. Right?”

     

    There was hope in his eyes, and something else too. And she was quite looking forward to finding out what that was. She nodded and smiled. “Of course. Later.” He smiled back, with a kind of shy smile and she couldn´t wait for him to turn around and walk up the stairs. Because she wanted to see that arse again. And she did, and she did.

     

    She shook her head once Erik disappeared from her line of sight and let out a gust of air to control her arousal. He’d smell it on her. The Elders often could. Come on, Lareyne. Focus now. You´re about to meet him finally and he can’t see you as a common harlot. Lareyne knocked on the door and adjusted her robe. She had to look perfect. She waited but no answer came, so she knocked again.

     

    After a whole minute staring at the door, she dared to open it, holding her breath. She knew it was impolite to enter without permission, but she couldn´t just stand in front of that door and wait for all eternity.

     

    Taking a tentative peak inside revealed a room that looked as if it had been rocked by an explosion. An explosion of academics.  The table directly in front of her was almost gone, buried under dozens of books, maps, parchments and scrolls. To her right was an enchanting table with an old Dunmer lying on it, snoring. Sleeping on an enchanting table? Was that not dangerous? It seemed risky to her.  

     

    To her left was another table with two figures bent over it, one with raven black hair and the other with silver hair; much larger than the first. Could it be?

     

    “Excuse me—“she started, feeling her heart pound.

     

    “Focus!” The sleeping Dunmer suddenly shouted, making Lareyne jump. “I need to focus.”

     

    The two figures turned from their work, noticing her. And her eyes popped out when she finally saw him, her breath stopped.

     

    The Eagle of Auri-El.

     

    Everybody grew up reading the children’s stories. The Mer who by the swing of his blade brought down an unspeakable evil. The Slayer of Bet. Lived. Gods, he lived. Of course she knew from before—from Calcelmo—that he was still alive, but a tiny part of her almost didn’t want to believe it. He was tall, bigger than anyone she had ever met and she knew quite a few large Nords and Orcs. His arms were possibly as wide as her waist—don’t exaggerate, Lareyne—but the lines of his body were long. He was clad in a shirt of dove-grey wool and dark trousers, armored boots of a strange darkened metal covered his feet, but he still looked like the figure from Altmeri legends. His face, cut of hard lines, was scarred and not very pretty, not by Altmer standards, but there was so much strength in it, so much confidence and wisdom.

     

    And the hair!  Auri-El’s grace, it was… just so beautiful. The stories told of his hair, like the snows of Eton Nir, a final Vestige of a now dissolved Order. It was styled in a way typically favored by the males of the old Southern clans, braided in a way that reflected their ancestral ties to the fleeing Ayleids, though his overall coloring strongly suggested Snow Elf. A fascinating culture, that of Alinor’s Deep South. She caught herself gawking at his hair and then shifted attention to those burning red-orange eyes…

     

    Which were the same as his companion´s and she let out a tiny squeal. Those were not the eyes of a Nord, unless they were… vampiric eyes. The woman standing next to Äelberon of Dusk was vampire, but unlike any vampire she had ever seen before, no bat-like features, no wrinkled skin. Like a marble statue; tall and beautiful. Vampire, he was standing next to a vampire? And not killing it? Lareyne remembered what had happened at the last Symposium very well. When he returned.

     

    The big Altmer frowned and his stance changed, his legs bending slightly at the knee, prepared to move if needed. Like a coiled spring, the muscles bulging through his trousers and his eyes bore into hers, the nostrils of that aquiline nose flaring just the tiniest bit. Who are you? Those eyes demanded silently and Lareyne swallowed hard.

     

    “E-excuse me,” she faltered. “I—“

     

    “What are you doing here?” shouted the Dunmer at her, taking those few steps to her faster than she expected he was capable of. “Who are you to barge in into any basement you want? Is this that famous Altmeri politeness I’ve been hearing about?”

     

    She reached for the holster at her side and saw everyone tense, the Eagle moving a little, quick as a cat, until he was just in front of the vampire. She raised her hand and lowered her head out of respect for an Elder and one of far higher station, a priest. “A letter. For you, your Holy Eminence. From Master Calcelmo.” Why they are so paranoid? Do I look like a Thalmor Justiciar or something? Lareyne took the letter out and handed it over to the Pale Elf. You are handing a letter to the Pale Elf. The Eagle. The hero of her People.  

     

    “And?” growled the Dunmer, who was actually nearly as big as the Eagle, just much shorter. She looked at him for few seconds, studying him. He was wearing robes, but in the Morrowind fashion. He was most likely one of the House Telvanni, Telvanni of old because that House was nearly obliterated when the mountain blew. “I am speaking to you, girl. I do not like to be disturbed.”

     

    “Scamp´s shit, Galar,” groaned the vampire. “Just let him read the letter before you turn her into a guar, or whatever it is you Telvanni do with intruders.”

     

    The Dunmer only snorted, his eyes still on her, tapping his foot impatiently. His rudeness was slowly irritating her, especially considering it was coming from a common Daedra worshipper. But she couldn´t release her growing anger, not in front of Auri-El’s Priest. She would look like a judgmental fool, and she didn´t want that. “I´m sorry,” she said instead; though her mind was screaming go fuck yourself, you withered s´wit.

     

    “So? Is she speaking the truth?” asked the vampire, attempting to look over the Eagle’s shoulder at the letter. He has a name, gods why can’t you call him by name?

     

    He finished reading, then carefully checked the seal and looked at the handwriting again, his lips moving as he reread the letter. He then rumbled, his eyes locking again with Lareyne’s, and she felt herself shrink. It wasn’t a mean-spirited stare, not like the Dunmer’s, but it was direct, like the eyes of the great birds that perched high upon Alinor’s Temple. “I was expecting that Calcelmo would be excited to join us on this expedition,” Auri-El’s bow! His voice was so deep, especially for an Altmer, “but it seems he is rather busy. So you are his assistant then? I do not remember you when last I saw Markarth.”

     

    “I arrived afterwards to help him process and catalogue the findings from Alftand.” She nodded. Even his speech was more archaic. When last I saw Markarth… I bet he says ‘verily’ and ‘thus’ too.

     

    “Yes, he made mention of this.” The eyes narrowed and she could feel his probe. “I think I caught your accent. Western. From Lillandril, no? The Golden Coast.”

     

    She nodded, trying to stay calm. “Yes. Lareyne of Lillandril. That´s my name. And you’re your Holy Eminence, Äelberon of Dusk. Slayer of Bet. A Knight of the Crystal Tower…” And now… Dragonborn, the Old Mage at Markarth mentioning it in their many discussions preparing her to represent him well. “My mother told me stories about you. When I was little. I thought they were just fairy tales. But here you stand. And, Scamp’s blood, I´m babbling.” Guess that´s where that calm went…

     

    He smiled, the lips more sensual than she would have thought, a charming smile that was matched by the twinkle in his eyes. “Eminence? Knight?” He shook his head and looked almost, sheepish? “No, youngling, not here and I do not make such presumptions. Here I stand, a simple creature of flesh and bone. No more, no less. Just like you. If you must call me something, call me by my given name or Brother Äelberon if it is your wish.”

     

    Lareyne bowed her head and smiled. So humble. I never expected him to be humble. I actually never expected he was real, but here we are.  Äelberon of Dusk was certainly different than I expected. Only a Mer of flesh and bone, just like you. “Of course. I´m sorry. It´s just all so overwhelming. Right now I´m not even sure if I can be of any help to you. Master Calcelmo said that you are trying to find the Aetherium Forge and I certainly was looking into that subject, finding at least a dozen possible locations here in Skyrim—“

     

    “We have a map,” interrupted the vampire and for a moment Lareyne saw the Eagle’s eyes travel to the vampire quickly before they returned to her. “We just need to pinpoint the precise locations and learn more about them.”

     

    “Locations?” Lareyne frowned, puzzled. “As far as I know, there is only one Forge, no? Which means you must know where the Forge is. You´re looking for...what? Keys?”

     

    Äelberon exchanged looks with his companions before his eyes found hers again. “You are correct. Keys, but—“

     

    “We don´t have much time left.” Interrupted the Dunmer tersely. “So no more chit chat. We would like to set off in two days. That means we will have to collect as much information about Raldbthar and Mzulft as possible. And for that we need focus, so either make yourself useful or let us work.”

     

    “I know a little something about those ruins,” she said as humbly as she could. She didn´t want to brag about knowing pretty much everything there was to know about those ruins. “Shall we get to it then?”

     

    “Actually, we´re just wrapping it up here,” smiled the vampire, baring her fangs at Lareyne before she slapped the Eagle’s shoulder with a sound pat. “It´s Old Life Festival, after all. Time for a drink.” His eyes found the vampire’s at the blow, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile, and Lareyne thought she saw the tips of his elegantly pointed ears go pink.

     

     

    It was later, Erik smiled.

     

    She was so close and… she smelled good. What was it with Altmer and soap? They all smelled good. Granted, the Harbinger smelled very different, not like her, not like a girl, but he was a man—no Mer—whatever, Erik grinned lazily into his drink, the wine making his head swim in a way mead never did. She flashed another smile and he felt his stomach turn, but not the bad way it turns when something is wrong. The kind of stomach turning that you feel a bit lower than the gut and he liked it when his stomach turned that way.

     

    She was drinking too. Lavender. She smelled like lavender. In her hair. She sighed and took another sip of Alto wine. He tried it for the first time today. It wasn’t bad. It’s what she wanted to drink and he bought her a drink. A drink turning into a bottle, turning into—he forgot how many. He didn’t even remember what they had talked about for hours. Nothing, everything, but his eyes devoured her.

     

    They were all drinking, well except the Harbinger. He was smoking though, but not as much as he did on Saturalia. He was alone with Koor, content to observe everybody else in the room while he gave the begging dog bits of sweet roll. Ha! Old Mer would probably be the only one who would remember anything tonight! Erik was glad he was distracting Koor too, dog was an antsy ass lately, nearly pissing on Lareyne and him, being almost as annoying as Grulmar. Serana was with Decimus and Grulmar, drinking and laughing loudly, another carving of “mamma” was riddled with knives.  Poor woman—well, not really a woman, more like a thing—was being abused tonight. They were attempting to teach Serana how to throw, but she kept playing with the knives and deliberately missing, nodding at the Harbinger for his approval. He gave it with a quiet chortle and an unexpected tenderness to his gaze that made the vampire’s eyes smoulder, her brow furrowing before Dec brought her out it with another knife. Erik was glad their storm had passed.

     

    He locked eyes with Grulmar briefly, but the Orc only sneered and looked away. See, Gru, you made new friends. I’m making new friends too. The wizard—not supposed to call him that—but Erik didn’t care—you can call people whatever you want in your mind—was in his basement. Doing Ysmir knows what.

     

    “Erik?” she asked, leaning closer. He could feel her heat. Her skin was flushed deep gold from drink. They were on their second bottle now? He could get used to Alto wine. He could get used to Alto a lot of things.

     

    “What?”

     

    “Hmm…” She sighed, leaning closer still, her lips so close, so pretty, moist, stained with snowberry. “I may be a bit drunk.”

     

    “Me too.” he replied, his eyes traveling briefly to her full cleavage. She had changed before the festivities started, saying she wanted to “freshen up and get out of her traveling clothes.” A brown-laced bodice over a crisp white undershirt, cut low. Fitted trousers rounded out her look and his eyes traveled lower, to the shapely legs that were crossed as she sat on the stool next to him. He felt it twinge between his legs and he bit his lip. Decimus had eyed her too, but she wasn’t talking to Decimus, she was talking to him.

     

    “Do you think me bad for this?” She asked. “I usually have far better control.” She glanced briefly at the Harbinger and turned away in shame. “I am drinking in front of a Holy Mer. He probably disapproves… It is said he does not drink, but I lack his fortitude.”

     

    “No, no, no.” Erik interrupted. “It’s a holiday. And he’s not like that at all.” Erik put a hand on that beautiful shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She responded to his touch, pressing against his hand and he lingered for a bit, feeling the softness of her skin. Another twinge. She let you touch her. Ysmir’s Beard! “He’s really nice. Everybody else is drinking here, aren’t they? No, he’s not like that. Just ‘cause he don’t drink, doesn’t mean he disapproves when others do. You’re enjoying yourself, right?” She twirled her red hair between her fingers before propping her head with her hand, her beautiful green eyes on him, roaming over his body. Down there and he felt another twinge.

     

    “I think I could be enjoying myself even more…” she replied, licking her lips. “But…”

     

    “But what?” Erik whispered. She looked demurely away.

     

    “Oh, I don’t want you to think poorly of me. I only just met you…”

     

    Erik shook his head, “Lareyne, why would I think poorly of you?”

     

    “Nords think Elven women are wanton. I’m not wanton, I swear, but I…” she leaned closer to him and his nostrils flared when he caught the lavender again. Lavender and wine. “I am attracted to you. I feel connected…”

     

    “I feel connected too. Felt it the moment you walked in, but I wouldn’t take advantage—“

     

    It happened so fast, she kissed him, her lips like silk against his. He kissed her back, tasting the snowberry gloss and the wine. He vaguely heard the Harbinger rumble quietly; something about leaving—something about needing fresh air outside and the snowberry—and Decimus calling him an Old Woman while Serana and Grulmar echoed Decimus’ jabs. The Harbinger then laughed loudly and for a second, Lareyne’s beautiful green eyes followed the sound, but Erik deepened his kiss and she responded. He broke the kiss. Remember yourself!

     

    “I’m sorry.” He managed. “I shouldn’t have...”

     

    “I kissed you, not the other way around.” She whispered. “I wanted to.” She bit her lip nervously. “I want to do more.”

     

    More protests from Decimus and the others, but the Harbinger only laughed them off, rubbing Koor’s ears. “No, no, no, this old snowberry’s been cooped up far too long already. Bet he needs a piss, eh boy?” Koor barked, but the animal’s eyes were on him and Lareyne.

     

    “I want to do more too.” Erik managed, having a hard time focusing while the others spoke. “Ysmir’s beard, sorry, shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

     

    “Where can we go?” Lareyne asked, finishing off her wine far faster than he anticipated she would. Damn! That was a full goblet!

     

    “Uh…” Erik scanned the room, feeling the heat build in his face. Gods, not here. That would be… odd. Basement? No, not with the Wizard watching. Erik shuddered at the thought.

     

    “You are shuddering? You don’t want to?” She asked, her lips turning down in a sulk.

     

    “Ysmir’s beard no! I mean yes, yes, I want to. Just not here.” Erik reassured her, his hand squeezing her shoulder again. That’s not the part he wanted to squeeze, but he’d settle for now. Candlehearth! He could take her to Candlehearth! He was good with them there. They could be alone.

     

    “Really, Äelberon? Night’s barely begun?” Decimus complained, disrupting Erik’s thoughts. “And you’re thinking about your dog taking a piss?”

     

    “Well? I need to be a good father to my boy here. Can’t exactly leave him to take a piss alone in the city, can I?”  Retorted the Harbinger. “Besides, my last Old Life was…” He sighed, the good humor leaving his face. “Well, Tyranus, you know. It’s a year today, Decimus...”

     

    Erik looked at the door and nodded at Lareyne. “I know where we can go. To be alone.”

     

    “Yes.” She nodded and he took her hand, but she stopped, her eyes on the Harbinger. “Is he alright? His face? He looks sad and who’s Tyranus?"

     

    “He’ll be fine.” Erik squeezed her hand. He liked that she seemed to respect the Harbinger, to be concerned about his feelings. Calling him ‘Brother Äelberon” mostly.  Grulmar didn’t respect him at all. “Lost a friend on Old Life last year. Tyranus. A witchblade at Markarth, Vigilant of Stendarr. Still wears his armor on occasion. That’s why Gru calls him ‘Shiny’. Silver armor. A really beautiful set. Looks like a Knight of the Nine when he wears it.” She seemed to tighten at the mention of Knights of the Nine. Shit! Can’t mention Knights of the Nine to Elves, you dummy!  “But you don’t want to hear all that nonsense.” Erik quickly added, smiling. 

     

    “Oh, is it just that then? A fallen comrade?”

     

    “Yeah. But don’t let it affect us.”

     

    “Oh no, I just wanted to make sure he was alright.”

     

    “He’s fine.” Erik smiled. “Really, he is, I’ll tell him how worried you were though. It’s really sweet of you, Lareyne.”

     

    “Fuck, forgot about that. Shit, that’s right.” Decimus conceded, patting the Harbinger on the shoulder. “Alight we’ll take care of Serana then. She’s in good hands.” He grinned. “Gru! Bring the sujamma!” Grulmar erupted into a peal of laughter and shook a bottle under Serana’s nose.

     

    “No!” The vampire yelped, waving her hands in a very dramatic refusal. “I have learned my lesson. I think us Old Farts will go walk the snowberry.” She faced the Harbinger, waiting for him to speak.

     

    “We will take our leave then. I will return around midday tomorow. Auri-El’s Blessings and a merry passing of Old to New for all.” He nodded and then nodded towards Lareyne, making Erik smile. He acknowledged her. “Lareyne of Lillandril.” Erik could feel her tense slightly under the Harbinger’s intense gaze—he was certainly very intimidating—but she relaxed and nodded back, smiling a lovely smile and he felt his crotch twitch again.

     

    “Äelberon of Dusk.”

     

    “Come, Koor.” The Harbinger encouraged, beckoning the dog to him.

     

    The animal bristled slightly and bared his teeth towards Lareyne. The She-Elf gulped and leaned forward, whispering in Erik’s ear. “He doesn’t like me.”

     

    “Nah,” Erik grinned, “he just needs to relieve himself and he’s being antsy about it.”

     

    “Koor…” The Altmer rumbled. Another low growl and then a snap of his sharp teeth. “Now.” The Harbinger ordered, giving the dog a stern flick to the nose. “Enough of this foolishness. My apologies.” He addressed the apology to Lareyne, but the hand that had flicked was now rubbing the dog’s ears, bringing the dog’s head against his powerful thigh.  Now why did you go and give the dog a good nose flick only to rub his ears. Mixed signals. No wonder he’s a snowberry sometimes.  “Let’s find you a good place to piss, eh little one?” The dog eased up with a grumpy snort but obediently followed his master and mistress out the door of the Cornerclub.

     

    “I know where we can go.” Erik smiled. “It isn’t far. Might be a bit crowded, but I’m good with the owners and can get us…” he leaned closer, “a room to be alone in.”

     

    “I’d like that very much, Erik.” She smiled, her eyes locking with his when she placed a hand on his thigh, moving it upwards. It twitched again. Fuck fireworks!

     

     

    “Are you ever going to tell me why we’re in such a hurry?” Serana asked while she and Beron navigated through the rivers of people like salmon swimming upstream. Beron only wrapped his cloak tighter about his body and let his shoulders stoop a little. She recognized the posture by now, his footfalls nearly silent upon the stone-tiled streets.

     

    Why are you trying to look smaller, Beron?

     

    “Beron?” Nobody was paying attention anyway. The revelers on the streets were either drunk or unconscious. Serana wagered that Beron was probably the only sober person in Windhelm tonight. Even she was a bit unsteady on her feet. He only puffed one pipe today. Only one. Their noises; dancing, singing, yelling filled the streets, loud and unmusical. The clang of tankards, the breaking of bottles. Minor scuffles resolved with boisterous laughter. Smells of mead, smoke, sex, and the sweat of many bodies filled the air. Some blood tickled her nose, the temptation of many bodies, but she ignored it. Now was not the time. She would hunt game later, away from the city. The fireworks were not to start for hours yet, but they were already gathering at the streets, and initially that’s what she thought he was aiming to do when they left New Gnisis early.

     

    He responded with a soft grunt and urged her forward with his hand on the back of her neck, steering her along, side by side. Then he squeezed her neck and moved his hand again, pulling  her closer to him, his strong arm now around her shoulder, absorbing her into that beast of a bearskin cloak. Possessive and protective, while a drunk Nord tossed a bucket of rubbish in their direction. His cloak took the impact of the debris. She glanced at his profile while they walked towards the front of the city, the brazier lights defining his features. He gave nothing away, except for chewing the inside of his lip. The eyes were focused on the sea of people, finding the gaps where they could slip through.  Koor shadowed his Master’s every move. The snowberry was quiet, and that bothered her too.

     

    From New Gnisis, they made straight for the library, where he quietly donned his armor, sheathed his weapons, and gathered their gear. Several times she asked why and each time was she met with either a grunt or silence as he handed her her armor to put on. While she dressed, his eyes would frequently dart to the door, as if he anticipated something barging in at any moment.

     

    “Fireworks are not for hours. Hey, we’re passing Candlehearth!” Serana stopped walking, refusing to go further. “Where are we going?”

     

    “Ana, please. We must keep moving.” He insisted, pulling away to move forward.

     

    “Not until you tell me where we’re going.” She replied, crossing her arms over her chest and furrowing her brow, kicking at some snow with her foot. Beron turned when he realized that she was not following and faced her. He seemed to relax for a second when he came to her, raising his hand towards her face. His armored fingers lightly traced the line of her jaw, his eyes flickering in the city lights.

     

    “So stubborn.” he murmured, managing a tiny smile while the steam came from his lips. “I love you, Ana.”

     

    “I love you too, but I don’t under—“

     

    The doors to Candlehearth opened, making Beron start and turn quickly to face them, his eyes moving in the direction of the sound. Why was he nervous?

     

    “We need to hurry.” He pressed, breaking the moment, pulling her to him again. “We cannot linger.”

     

    “Why?” she resisted his pull and she felt his grip on her forearm tighten.

     

    “I promise, one day, I will tell you everything.” he whispered. The features softened when she frowned. “Knight’s Honor, Love, but not now. Not now.  We must be safe first. They must be safe first.”

     

    They?”

     

    A woman’s flirty giggle and footsteps that were heavy with drink. Nord’s steps and the gait of someone taller and Beron suddenly pulled her towards a stone wall to the left of the Inn, his hand covering her mouth before she could protest. Koor immediately skulked close to the wall, his eyes also on the doors to Candlehearth. Quiet, his ears flat against his head.

     

    “Shh, Ana.” He warned. She squirmed against him, not understanding, wanting answers now, but his other arm closed around her waist and he brought her closer to him, holding her fast. “I will never let anything happen to you, ever.”

     

    She froze, her eyes widening, remembering him storming into the ‘stead one terrible sunny day while she slept in, the door breaking upon impact, crashing to the floor. He had gone fishing early in the morning. Not far, to a favorite bend in the White River, a fishing pole in his hand and a smile on his face as he kissed her goodbye, still getting used to her in his bed. Only for his frantic cries to wake her up, the crash of the door. She remembered sitting up groggily on the bed, still weak from sleep and the bright sunlight, to be greeting by a bloody Beron, his shirt torn, his skin riddled with scratch marks, knife slashes, and bruises, soaked to the bone, breathing like he had run at top speed to reach her. And he said those very words to her then.

     

    “I will never let anything happen to you, ever…”

     

    He killed that Shadowscale with his bare hands. A member of the Dark Brotherhood. And he thought they had come for you too.

     

    But it was no Shadowscale and Serana relaxed when she saw Erik and Lareyne, moving her arm to wave them over, only for Beron to bring it down and tighten his hold on her.  They both watched in the darkness that shaded them while Lareyne and Erik stumbled into the Inn, Erik’s arm around the She-Elf’s waist, just skimming lower to touch her backside, before he entered first. She giggled before going inside, turning to face the gates, her green eyes narrowing slightly while they scanned the area. She felt Beron tense against her when the She-Elf’s eyes passed over where they were standing against the wall, letting out what sounded to Serana like a frustrated sigh, before she turned around and followed Erik inside, teetering and giggling loudly, squealing when a playful slap was heard. Like a slap on a backside. It took only seconds, but it felt like forever.  She suddenly felt a gust of Beron’s breath on the back of her neck. Had he not been breathing?

     

    “Beron.” She mumbled, smiling against his gauntleted hand. “It’s Erik and Lareyne. I think they’re going to go make some fireworks of their own. Good for Erik. Bet Decimus is sulking, he was making eyes at her too.”

     

    “I know.” He replied, only releasing his grip on her when he saw the doors to the Inn close with a heavy thud. “Come.” They left their position on the wall and walked briskly toward the city gates.

     

    They left the city, stepping into the cold night of Windhelm’s stone bridge and while she was tall, she struggled to keep pace with Beron’s stride. He was no longer stooping, no longer trying to make himself small. He seemed to grow actually, the black cloak casting a large shadow as it flowed behind him. He was walking with purpose.

     

    “Hurry.” He urged a few moments later as they approached the stables. “Sex will take about a quarter hour to an hour, depending on stamina and level of drunkenness. That does not give us much time, but it will give us some.”

     

    Sex?” She snorted. “Is that why you’re dragging me out of the city? For sex?”

     

    He almost laughed and there was a bit of desire behind his eyes, but then he shook his head, his seriousness returning with a vengeance. “Erik’s stamina. They need to be safe. They cannot know we have left.” He replied, turning towards the steps leading up to the stables. “And hopefully they are still here.”

     

    “I don’t understand.” Serana said. “Why are we at the stables, Beron?” She reached for his shoulder and turned him around before he could knock on the wooden doors. Behind him, she could make out a light beyond the heavy paning of the door’s windows and the hurried hustle of footsteps. Ulundil’s cheerful voice urging Arivanya to hurry and her robust laughter. And then she locked eyes with Beron. The expression on his face was of such weariness and he looked, in the glow of the moons and stars, suddenly much older to Serana.

     

    “It never ends.” He said, his voice a bitter whisper. “I thought that with Vingalmo dead, it would…” he hesitated, biting his lip, and she narrowed her eyes. “end.”

     

    “Beron, tell me what is going on. You’re scaring me.” He was.

     

    He turned to the door, raising his hand to knock. “They know me, Ana. They are not safe. I cannot be everywhere at once. I cannot.” Beron knocked and the laughter stopped.

     

    “Auri-El’s Bow! Who it could be at this hour?” Serana could hear the She-Elf, Arivanya, gripe through the door, “Don’t they know it’s Old Life?”

     

    “Ah, sweet.” Reassured her husband and Serana heard footsteps approaching the door. “I’m sure they’re just travelers with questions. Or just in need a last minute stabling. Won’t be long. Why don’t you pour me some mead?”

     

    “Sure, husband. That would be how many tankards already?”

     

    A merry chuckle. “Only number…” another chuckle. “Three.”

     

    Beron knocked again. “Ulundil, it is I, answer the door, please.”

     

    “Your Eminence!” The young Elf exclaimed.

     

    Beron released a ragged sigh and leaned his head on the door. Koor’s head nuzzled her thigh and Serana reached for the dog’s ears. “What’s wrong, Snowberry? You are as jumpy as he is. What is it?” The dog whined. Her hands felt the dog’s ears and then patted its head. Trembling, Koor was trembling. It wasn’t that cold, was it? No, this was… fear. Out of fear? The door opened and Ulundil stuck his head through into the night, grinning, his eyes brimming with mead, his cheeks already ruddying to a deep golden hue.

     

    “Oh, Brother Äelberon, it is you!” He leaned forward to greet Beron, catching Serana’s gaze and he gulped. “Did something happen... to my new chickens?”

     

    Beron let out an awful-sounding noise—a half chuckle, half moan—and pounded his head lightly against the door. “Oh Gods, I bloody wish it was chickens.”

     

    “Then what is it then? Coming with us to New Gnisis?” Ulundil asked. Beron lifted his head from the door and faced the youngling.

     

    “I never deserved your kindness, my son. All those days ago, when I first set foot in this ancient city. Never.”

     

    “Brother? Are you alright. You look…” the young Altmer’s amber eyes narrowed. “You look terrible.”

     

    “I was so lonely for my kind that I did not think. I… should have kept my distance.”

     

    “I don’t understand, you’re not coming with us to New Gnisis?” Ulundil pressed. Beron placed his hand on the youngling’s shoulder.

     

    “Here’s your mead, sweetheart.” Offered Arivanya, holding a tankard of mead to her husband, her features immediately lighting up when she saw Beron. “Oh, Brother Äelberon! I thought that was you.”

     

    “Ulundil, Arivanya.” Beron squeezed the Elf’s shoulder. “Listen to me very carefully. We do not have much time. Gather your things. What you can carry on your back. What you need to survive. We travel to Kynesgrove. And then you will travel to Riften, to the Ratway. Find Nerussa, the Guildmaster, you will be safe with her. And tell her...”

     

    Tell Nerussa what? What did Nerussa have to do with this?

     

    “Tell her to marry that Bladebinder of hers already!” The young elves burst out laughing. “This isn’t Jester’s Day!” Joked Ulundil, a tipsy twinkle in his eye. “I’m drunk, but not that drunk.” He grinned, taking the tankard from his wife. Ulundil took a long sip, not noticing the pained look on Beron’s face. “I’ll bite, though, Brother Äelberon. Kynesgrove? Why are we going to Kynesgrove? And then to Riften? They got better fireworks there, in the Ratway?” Ulundil snorted at his own joke, slapping Beron’s shoulder while he took another long sip of mead. “Ha! Maybe when Nerussa is angry!”

     

    “Fist.” Beron replied, his eyes meeting the youngling’s. “In the city. At least that is my suspicion. Nerussa may know more. I dare not take a chance—“ The tankard crashed to the ground, the frothing mead spilling onto the stone. The She-Elf brought her hand to her mouth and Serana could see her trembling, her eyes filling with tears as she shook her head.

     

    She was terrified.

     

    “No, not a Fist, Gods, no.” She cried. “They… they… can be anywhere. We don’t know. No!” Her last words were sobbed and her husband held her, attempting to console her. “Who?” She pleaded.

     

    “It is better that I do not say.” Äelberon replied, leaning against the door again. “For your safety. The less you know—“ They nodded, accepting, but Serana interrupted.

     

    “Bullshit!” She exploded, her anger building. Now, you’re afraid. “Who is it, Äelberon? Tell me. Now.”

     

    “I cannot.” He said softly. “Please, Serana, not now.”

     

    “That is unacceptable—“she growled, crossing her arms over her chest and jutting her jaw. He needed to explain, this was ridiculous—

     

    “Then it is unacceptable!” he suddenly thundered, his eyes blazing and she was taken aback. “Then go! Go back to Windhelm! Go! And leave me.” There was something in his eyes she didn’t like when he spoke, unspeakable sadness. “Leave me.” He moaned, the eyes becoming faraway. “It is better if I am alone.” You don’t mean this, leave you?

     

    “I’m not leaving you.” His expression grew tender when he heard her words and a hand reached for her cheek, tracing her jaw again.

     

    “So stubborn, like a bull. Then for your safety, accept my silence. It is all I can give you now.”

     

    Serana opened her mouth to speak, but the words fell flat. “I will never let anything happen to you, ever.” Trust him.

     

    “Alright.” She nodded.

     

    The young Elves were still seized by fear and in response, Beron seemed to straighten, growing larger again, the uncertainty in his face replaced by a grim determination.  He removed his hand from her jaw to clasp the hilt of his ebony sword firmly. “And I swear to you, by Auri-El’s grace as his Knight, that you and your wife will be safe, my son. But we must to Kynesgrove now.”

     

    Beron shepherded Serana and the couple into their home and began to grab items they would require for travel; knapsacks, blankets, camping gear. “Serana, help them. Ulundil, take your glass dagger and by Auri-El, I hope you know how to use it. I will leave you Koor. He will keep watch while you make the journey later from Kynesgrove to Riften.” He then paused, nodding, as if he was agreeing with himself on some matter. “And, aye, I will send someone to guide you on the rest of your journey. They were supposed to journey with us, Serana, meeting us at Anga’s Mill, but this takes precedence. We will have to change our plans, but that is to sort out later. Now, we have a quarter of an hour, maybe an hour to leave this city.”

     

     

    The fireworks exploded in a rainbow of colors, their light blazing paths into the velvet of the aurora-splashed sky, momentarily overpowering the stars before they receded, burning out, dying. Bursts of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and diamond. Beautiful. It had been ages since she had seen her last display. And it was beautiful. Just like the new ring on her hand and she absently traced the delicate triskelion pattern formed by the ruby, enamel and gold. Made by him at Skyforge while he mourned her absence. They never wanted to marry, her uncomfortable around temples and both hating what marriage could sometimes represent, what it could sometimes do to people. The pain, the suffering of too many years presiding over unhappy arranged Altmeri marriages and her own awful experiences as a political pawn of her father. But it did not stop him from giving her gifts and her eyes found the pearl ring on her other hand. Kyne’s Ring. Given to him by the Goddess herself during his darkest hours. A gift given to her in the Forgotten Vale. A gift she had given back when he left Volkihar, only to be stubbornly given back to her when she returned.

     

    Serana glanced to her right, her eyes lingering on the amulet proudly displayed on his chest, joining Kyne’s second gift to him.  Four in one, the sturdy gold chain less likely to break, the clasp utilitarian, but extremely strong. Another blast of fireworks, this time gold and silver, like showers of sun fire. The light bounced off his new amulet. Her gift for him and her eyes left it to study his face. He was like an eagle in his aerie, keeping sentinel over the city, the bursts of fireworks reflected in his eyes. Seeing them, but Gods, not really seeing them, the eyes somewhere else. She rested her head on his bare shoulder and he responded by bringing her closer to him, touching. They then continued to sit and watch the fireworks in silence for some time and Serana allowed her mind to wander back to what brought them here.

     

    He seemed a little better once they reached Kynesgrove with Ulundil and Arivanya, leaving the couple enough gold to get to Riften and… Koor.  Beron left them Koor and even she became emotional when she witnessed the dog reluctantly part from his beloved Master. Understanding yet not understanding why his Master—no, his daddy as Gru or Decimus liked to put it—was pushing him away with a clenched jaw and flaring nostrils, the eyes blinking away tears. He loved his little Koor, with eyes like the Summer Skies. She, a hardened Volkihar, had cried when he told her the story because she understood then what the beast truly meant to him. That bit of defiance. That Vingalmo—may Beron’s father make him suffer in Coldharbour forever, she silently cursed—didn’t slaughter everything. Something lived. Something endured. Just like your daddy. The poor beast’s cries were still ringing in both their ears when they left Kynesgrove and Beron... didn’t look back, urging Allie forward with a hard slap to the reins and a disturbing growl, his eyes blazing with a hunted darkness. She remembered Beron’s last words to Ulundil while he embraced the stable hand’s still-shaking wife.

     

    “I will fetch you from the Ratway when the threat is over. I will come myself, Ulundil. Accept no one else. Trust no one else. Only me. And if someone else comes, run...”

     

    Whomever this “Fist” was, Beron was going to try to end them. Not try to end, end. She knew the look in his eyes. It was the same look after the Shadowscale.

     

    Of all the places he picked to camp, Beron picked the Shrine of Talos, on a narrow, elevated escarpment just across the river. A small camp with a tiny fire that she knew was just barely keeping him warm. They were now sitting in front of the statue, their backs resting against the bronzed ebony of the defeated snake’s coils, swaddled in furs. She could hear Allie munching on snowberries below, sheltered by a grove of conifer trees.

     

    Even lovemaking and exchanging their gifts failed to bring him out of his stoicism. They both welcomed the physical release, the strengthening of their bond, but it did little to improve his overall mood, which was still such a puzzle to her. Questions yielded nothing, arguments of “But we are alone now” or “You can tell me anything” failed to budge the Altmer’s stubborn stance. The eyes so far away.

     

    “What is a Fist?” She suddenly blurted out, not afraid to try again. “Please tell me, Beron.”

     

    He released a heavy sigh. “Gods, you are a stubborn woman. We have been over this. It is better for you if you do not know, Ana.”

     

    “Why? I can’t fight what I don’t know.” She protested. If she could feel heat climb to her face, it would be there. Why was he being like this?

     

    “You will not have to fight if you do not know—“

     

    “I’m not leaving you to fight this Fist on your own!” She bellowed, slamming her clenched fists down, the fur dropping from her shoulders, exposing her torso to the night air. “Bal’s Balls! Old Mer, you are fucking impossible sometimes!”

     

    He laughed at her display of fury and for a moment she wanted to smack him, hit him until he came to his senses, the moron, she was so bloody angry with him, until she realized that that was the first time he had truly laughed since leaving New Gnisis.  

     

    “You can snort and stomp like a bull all you want, Ana, but you are in no position to fight a Fist now, my Love.” His eyes traveled downwards before meeting her glare again. “Though I can see them being terribly distracted by your breasts.”

     

    An explosion of light and the thunder of the fireworks highlighted their features in the night. He turned to her, picking up the collapsed fur, deciding whether or not to cover her up again. His eyes locked with hers and his tone became serious. “You do not understand, it will never end, Ana. It will never end. The hunt, the chase for me. But this old, silver fox no longer runs from the hounds. Now that his family is secure, he will wait, setting his own traps. We wait, Ana. And when it is revealed, you will know and understand why I have done what I have done.”

     

    He dropped the fur, making the decision to keep her exposed, and again, he traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, the hard edge leaving his voice. “I love the line of your jaw, Ebonnayne aure, did you know that? I have dreamt of touching that jaw for centuries. I have rendered it, and the beautiful face it frames, with quill and ink, charcoal, and paint. Learning its line, but not really knowing it, hungering for its cool softness.” He smiled, his expression thoughtful, the great silver brow lowering slightly and his voice dipping to that husky whisper that he only used when they were truly alone. “And now I know its line, because my fingers have touched, my lips. And better, I know the mind and heart that dwells therein and I love those all the more…” Beron’s voice trailed off and his fiery eyes searched hers for a moment before he shook his head slowly.  He watched the fireworks briefly and then shrugged, returning to meet her gaze, now cradling her face with both hands. They felt warm against her skin, despite the cold and for the first time she didn’t shrink from one of these moods of his. She didn’t tense up like she did her first night back when she thought of their first night together. Nights when he thought beyond… the mundane.  

     

    “I do not understand why the others chase Aetherius so, Ebonnayne aure. They are fools. I love them all, even Gru, which makes you a little mad, I think.” She grinned and he chuckled, his left thumb passed over her cheek. “But they are fools, Ana, fools. The Dwemer too. Because Aetherius is not in a forge, not in a ruin, not in chiseled shards of cold blue crystal, unfeeling and sharp. Aetherius, Ana, is right here.”

     

    And he kissed her. 

     

    Table of Contents

    Chapter 3 --- Chapter 5

     

Comments

49 Comments   |   Paws and 3 others like this.
  • Ebonslayer
    Ebonslayer   ·  March 22, 2018
    Even lovemaking and exchanging their gifts failed to bring him out [of] his stoicism.



    I was originally hyped and excited for Erik and his new date until Albee started borderline panicking, I goddamn hate the Thalmor (that'...  more
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Ebonslayer
      Ebonslayer
      Ebonslayer
      Even lovemaking and exchanging their gifts failed to bring him out [of] his stoicism.



      I was originally hyped and excited for Erik and his new date until Albee started borderline panicking, I goddamn hate the Thalmor (that's what I assume "Fist" i...  more
        ·  March 22, 2018
      Fixed the typo :)
      Well, it could be just Fist... :D Oh, who am I kidding, right? 
      Anyway, thanks for reading, Ebonslayer, we truly appreciate it. :)
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  August 15, 2017
    Much romance going here. I love it! Now I'm worried about this "Fist". o:
  • The Sunflower Manual
    The Sunflower Manual   ·  January 5, 2017
    Well, this was... steamy.

    And what DO they say about big hands?
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  November 24, 2016
    Trying to narrow down what it was I liked best in this chapter is very hard. I am not sure if it is the subtlety and realism with which the characters interact (although that is only to be expected as neither of you fail to deliver on that front); or mayb...  more
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Paws
      Paws
      Paws
      Trying to narrow down what it was I liked best in this chapter is very hard. I am not sure if it is the subtlety and realism with which the characters interact (although that is only to be expected as neither of you fail to deliver on that front); or mayb...  more
        ·  November 25, 2016
      Hehehe. We all know what Phil liked here. Ass and tits... :D And for some reason half of your message is gone - knowing you I think it´s because the comment is longer than the chapter itself :D
      • Paws
        Paws
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Hehehe. We all know what Phil liked here. Ass and tits... :D And for some reason half of your message is gone - knowing you I think it´s because the comment is longer than the chapter itself :D
          ·  November 25, 2016
        Ha!
        Here's the bit that's missing:
        I am, of course, slightly joking. I hope she is what she claims to be
        and not connected with a certain faction and fabulous face-shifting
        build from a certain Afflicted Lorc ;)

        Th...  more
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  June 26, 2016
    And more beheadings?XD
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 26, 2016
    LOL, this has turned to GoT in my absence. Wait, no, more sex, we need more sex. 
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  June 26, 2016
    Huh? Four white squares?XD
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  June 26, 2016
  • Exuro
    Exuro   ·  June 26, 2016
    Nooooo! Now I know the next chapter will actually be an online card game instead
  • Justiciar Thorien
    Justiciar Thorien   ·  June 26, 2016
    *retreats back into the shadows, waiting to see if her guess is right*