Markarth, Skyrim
Haakon Rammligr stretched his long muscled body languorously at the table of the Silver Blood Inn. He knew he caught the eye of every woman in the place, though his careful nonchalance would have indicated otherwise. He did not look a day over thirty-five, though he was in fact much older. He was the eldest, the chosen son.
Dibella knows I will miss these Nord women, and his mind hardened at the thought of his long ride to Solitude that night to catch the caravan bound the next day for the Imperial City. But he was hoping for one more piece of information.
His dark eyes scanned the tavern: Kleppr’s family busy at work as always, the old hag Bothela trying to catch the eye of Ogmund the bard (keep drinking that mead old man if you want to complete that transaction, he laughed to himself), Vorstag the mercenary staring into his tankard, filling his lonesome existence with dreams of heroism, the filthy smelters spending their wages on drink to forget the drudgery of their little lives.
I will rule over them someday soon, and in his divinely blessed existence, he saw no reason why not. As if to further illustrate his good fortune, Argis the Bulwark walked in, housecarl to his newly discovered niece, Elara Rammligr.
Haakon slowly lowered his head on his forearms, feigning a drunken nap, ears alert.
Hroki, Kleppr’s daughter, scurried over with a tankard of ale and Argis gave her a grateful smile.
“I received a letter from her, “Argis finished the tankard in one long gulp, which Hroki hurried to refill.
“Did she draw pictures for you, Argis?” Bothela chortled, while the housecarl raised his pointer finger for “one” and looked her straight in the eyes.
“She plans to be here in a fortnight and said she had some important things to discuss with me,” Argis puffed out his chest and the smelters at the bar envied the Bulwark for his size and battle prowess, not to mention the friendly auburn haired Breton he sometimes resided with at Vlindrel Hall.
“And she told you to be prepared to stay at the inn again so Onmund could stay in your room,” Bothela cackled even louder when Argis, trying to hide his smile, raised a second finger.
The group around the bar shifted in eager anticipation of the consequences of Bothela’s third successful bait of the Bulwark. Sometimes it was a wild race around the tavern, or a dousing with mead. One time it was even a duel with cast iron lids and pokers. One never knew what would happen around the crazy alchemist.
Hmm…so dear Elara has a friend. How nice.
As Argis tipped back the second mug of ale, and in the midst of the jostling and passing of drinks, Bothela shivered, intuiting an unfriendly interest in their conversation.
She looked around the bar and watched the door close. Bothela hopped down from her stool and walked to the recently vacated table in the crowded tavern. She vaguely remembered an elegant sleeping form with well-groomed raven hair, not a drunkard.
“Who was sitting here?” Bothela questioned Hroki, who came by to clear the table.
“Haakon,” replied the young Nord. “He stays at the Inn every so often. Says he is a merchant from the Imperial City.”
Roars of laughter erupting from the bar made Bothela turn around and grab Argis by the scruff of his neck.
“I need to see that letter now. I think our friend may be in trouble.”
“Maybe?” Argis focused two sober eyes on the tiny alchemist. “She will be coming alone.”
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Haakon tossed a bag of gold to the groom at the Markarth Stables, flashing a bright smile before the Nord fluidly swung up to his steed. He spurred the horse into action, fueled as much by his tight schedule as his joy in riding. Cold wind whipped his face and stung his eyes, but these moments, next to battle, made him feel most alive. Most of the time he spent being an obedient son in charge of his father’s merchant security, training and maintaining a troop of men that would make many a general envious. I wonder if Tullius or Ulfric will want us in the end, the Nord smiled, allowing himself a momentary flash of a golden future, purchased through years of careful cultivation by his father.
His mind wandered to his niece, this elusive woman who seemed to hold the fate of Skyrim in her hands. Father is not happy to have missed that fact; Haakon chuckled, remembering his father’s ire at the recent revelation of her existence. Years ago, his father had even sent the same mercenaries back to the farm in High Rock to make certain they had not missed anything. Apparently the farm had been abandoned and so no further thought was spared for what had seemed to be a passing fancy of Orin’s. Haakon could not help but suspect it was some sort of bizarre magic indigenous to the Witchmen of High Rock throughout the Reach, magicks which Orin’s woman had to know.
“You were always the fly in Father’s ointment brother,” Haakon spoke aloud half admiring. “But Bretons are not to my taste.”
His thoughts wandered ahead to Solitude and his imagination seized on the thought that he might capture a glimpse of the most beautiful woman in Skyrim. Pure Nord. He smiled, assured that his father’s current plan would grant him the same happiness that his youngest brother held briefly.
Comments
@Eviltrain, oh, I am sorry about that. I might have been too much in my head on those connections. Probably shoul... more