You know, mom, I have a house in Whiterun now, and a nord maid. Well, she calls herself a housecarl, but come on, how do you call a person of inferior rank and birth who provides services for you without any wage? I remember the stories you told me about life in old Balmora, how rich our clan was, and how many slaves and servants we had to serve us then. How I loved those stories! Now I have my own private nord maid, mom, and I must say, it’s not as great as I had imagined from your tales. I can’t really call her that way, at least not to her face - she’s as big and heavy as a pack mule, and has about the same keen intelligence and sweet disposition. Also I don’t think maids back in Balmora were allowed to be so grumpy and nagging like her. She mumbles around all the time and is incapable of performing the smallest chore without muttering against me and her false gods. I can’t stand her presence and I can’t even dismiss her without causing an undesirable rupture with the Jarl Balgruulf.
You see, the Jarl of Whiterun appointed her to my service when he made me a Thane. At first I thought it was an honor granted to me, and that I would be pleased to order around an arrogant nord she-warrior, but the truth is, she is not very skilled in anything. She’s good for nothing except complaining and mutilating poor creatures, and even those things she does more with enthusiasm than with skill and subtlety. Now I think the Jarl was just playing some kind of trick on me – he might be laughing right now, at my expense. Sometimes I have this nice dream in which I get rid of her and then dispose of her body quietly on the White River waters but, Dagoth Ur be damned, she has too many relatives in this city for me to explain her sudden disappearance. Though I doubt someone would miss so loathsome a creature, I have to consider that her kinsfolk, while secretly praising my providence, would be compelled to take action against me, even if only to keep their reputations, and then all the work I’ve had to get allies and build a good reputation here would be lost. So I have to tolerate her presence, and pray for Azura to send a stray dragon to end my misery. I’ll tell you mom, if you think you can lend me a hand in this matter, your help would be very much appreciated. You know how much I can take, but some things you just…
Only once, to my eternal regret, I took her out with me for a task, and I tell you Mother, never again! You know I normally don’t have much utility for followers, since a great portion of my work implies acts that are best performed sheltered by shadows and far from eyes of witnesses, but that time I was only following a hunch and didn’t expect to accomplish any deed that could be misinterpreted as “out of law” – Incidentally, did you know the laws of this savage country forbid people in my line of work from associating, mom? Who will you hire to kill your enemies, then? I’ll tell you mom, amateurs and criminals with no rules and no standards. I’m not surprised this land knows only chaos and war, with such senseless barbaric laws. I’ve heard somewhere in Skyrim there’s a guild for people like me, but it's out of law. They call it The Brotherhood, and I’ll soon try to make contact with them.
Sorry about venting my indignation in that way, mom, but that nonsense get on my nerves. So I had heard some rumors about three fabulous artifacts crafted by an ancient nord mage, who was murdered and robbed by his own sons! Such is those nords notion of filial piety, mom. I considered if such weapons existed, they could end up in no other hands but mine. Those rumors led me to Geirmund's Hall, a cave near Ivarstead, where I had to fight another horde of nord undead. I tell you mom, bad as was the smell of the undead, it was not half as bad as the stench coming from her sweat impregnated steel armor. I don’t think any steel was ever forged to endure that kind of abuse: flames, cold, lightning, poison, battering, it’s all right, but not that smell! When I made a friendly comment about the inconvenience of her body odor, and how it could denounce our presence, since it could be felt for miles even by undead nostrils, she acted all indignant as if I had intended an insult or something like that. She told me I smelled like the sweat of a snow troll just coming from hibernation, and I had to explain her mistake, since mer folks aren’t cursed with this particular plague that afflict the lesser races. You know, mom, mer don’t sweat, and she was just lying out of spite.
After some loud discussion that, without a doubt, waked all undead in that dungeon, we walked on, but now she was sulky and she moved still more noisily than before. You know mom, stealth is just not in the nature of these people, and she alone produced the noise and disturbance of a parade, activating all traps on our way. She almost got me killed a couple of times and the only reason I didn’t stabbed her right there, diplomacy be damned, is because I needed her to carry the loot.
Comments