Onmund slouched in the corner of the Winking Skeever, staring through the raucous crowd, his mug of mead untouched. He was biding time until an Imperial caravan left for Cyrodiil, and trying to cope with the ramifications of who his father was.
The singing, dancing, and inebriated crowd blurred as Onmund reviewed the events of the last few days. His repeated petitions to see Elenwen, his only source for Altmer movements in Skyrim, finally bore fruit. She had agreed to meet him at Castle Dour, as the Embassy was closed for “renovations.”
She would have made that whole meeting more difficult, Onmund reflected.
She did not ask to be hunted down by the Thalmor.
It is no excuse for…for…
Slaughter? the voice offered helpfully.
While Onmund silently agreed, the voice added reproachfully, Coward.
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Elenwen had narrowed her eyes when listening to Onmund’s request to find the location of Toranir, a former Altmer priest who served in Skyrim. “And what business does a Nord farmer have with my brethren?” Onmund had opted to exchange his robes for a farmer’s tunic and a roughly sewn leather cap to carefully hide his ears.
“I understand he served in the temple of Arkay at Falkreath, but then left suddenly. I simply have some belongings to return, and as a gesture of appreciation, it is a delivery that needs to be made in person. He served the people of my hold unfailingly in their time of utmost need,” Onmund had bowed his head humbly, feeling her amber eyes pierce his skin.
The Altmer thrummed her fingers on the desk and gazed at the Nord thoughtfully. She sensed a deep reservoir of magicka within him, so she suspected he was not all he appeared to be. If he was an assassin, however, it certainly could not hurt her cause to send him to Toranir, might even help her. She stifled a smile at the thought of revenge on the Altmer who seemed to foil her every plan and who she believed was not completely loyal to the Dominion.
“You will have my answer tomorrow,” she had clipped and Onmund had turned to walk away. Hoping to gain an advantage over Toranir she added, “I would like to see these personal effects that you intend to return.”
Onmund, with trembling hand, had placed the amulet on the ambassador’s polished desk. Elenwen had carefully watched the Nord’s face and was struck by an unguarded flash of pain that he quickly conquered. She made up her mind that moment, though she would wait until their appointment on the morrow to let him know her decision. In the meantime, she would send her own courier to the capital of Cyrodiil to prepare Toranir for Onmund’s arrival, and the simple Nord would no longer concern her.
Toranir did not achieve his current post in the Dominion by being foolish, she thought, willing herself to forget that expression of honest pain and longing, for it had reminded her of much she wanted to forget: the Great War, her service far from Alinor, and her loss of Ancano.
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A chorus of greetings and applause accompanied the heavy creak of the inn door and flickering candles. Then a pure tenor voice sang out:
Kyne whispers “Fly with me,” and with winged feet I rise
And swoop with gulls, skimming the foaming waves of the Sea—In Solitude, except
for her, the wind and her breath the same.
That is the best friend of…
Quiet, Onmund commanded the voice, unable to frame the thought of Elara’s name.
…father, it finished.
Onmund abandoned himself to the song. The notes, soft and enfolding, carried him off, pulling up short on caesuras, only to then be embraced again by words, warm and deep. The song ended and Onmund craned his neck to get a better look at the marvelous bard.
Octieve San, you remember, El-
I know.
Her father’s best friend.
“Octieve, old man, good to see you again! What, has it been over thirty years? Glad to hear that you have not lost your voice to decades of staring at the bottom of a tankard.”
A tall electric figure strode through the crowd, which naturally parted for the handsome, dark haired Nord. The bard froze the instant he heard the silky voice and turned around, taking a deep breath before addressing the newcomer.
“Haakon Rammligr, I thought snakes only crawled out of their holes to sun themselves in the daytime.” Octieve bared his teeth in an attempt to smile.
Onmund felt his blood go cold. Rammligr? For once his extra voice was silent. It is not a common name, so maybe it is an uncle? One that had left armed to the teeth by Eorlund Grey-Mane to face the Great War in Cyrodiil? But why return to Skyrim after all these years?
For her, you fool, the voice hissed.
Onmund’s mind raced furiously to absorb this new development when he was brought up short by the bearer of that name standing before him.
“Greetings traveler. My name is Haakon Rammligr, and I will be leading the caravan to the Imperial City.” He offered his hand to Onmund. “Corpulus over there,” he jerked his thumb to indicate the man behind the bar, “told me you would be joining our little troupe. But I did not catch your name,” he added smoothly, an encouraging smile lighting his elegant features.
“Onmund, that’s all,” the mage replied, pleased that he did not stammer.
“Well, Onmund,” Haakon raised an eyebrow. “We will be departing shortly, so I would suggest leaving that mug alone. We go under Imperial banners and we need everyone to be alert in case of bandits, or Stormcloaks.” He smiled again and strode out the door, secretly delighted with his discovery.
Octieve slid into the seat next to Onmund. “Sorry stranger, but you just met a member of one of Solitude’s finest families. Ruined my appetite.”
Onmund looked over at Octieve and smiled slightly. “You know, I hate to say it, but you were wrong about the snake. He reminds me of a very hungry wolf.”
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