Chasing Aetherius: Chapter 2 - Assembling the Team

  • Warning: Adult themes

     

     

    “For centuries, scholars have marveled at the sudden collapse of the Dwemer city-states. Even the Nords seem to have been taken by surprise, though their chroniclers were quick to ascribe their success to King Gellir's inspired tactics and the blessings of Shor.”

     

    16th of Evening Star 4e, 202

     

    Her eyes fluttered open and she heard his sleepy sigh as his arms shifted position. One still held her fast, keeping her pressed close to him, skin against skin, possessive, while the other snaked lower, and she was looking forward to his touch again.  Only for her lips to form a smirk when his hand bypassed touching her body and headed instead towards a fur, to make an adjustment. The way he wrote his lists, the way he poured over his books and scrolls, the way he obsessively corrected misplaced items. Now, the fur was the latest victim of his Altmerness. Her back was against his chest and she could feel his warm breath against her ear. Warm, she felt warm. To the point where their temperatures nearly matched. It had been weeks since she felt that way. His pale hand pulled the offending vale sabre cat pelt higher up to cover them again and she enjoyed its softness against her bare skin.  They now knew where those pelts had come from.

     

    The Forgotten Vale.

     

    They didn’t their first night together and for a moment her thoughts journeyed to the emotional intensity of that first night. When a wandering Star-Knight, with a whisper, called her “Mor”—she stopped herself, they both loved those books.

     

    “Ana?” His whispered breath on her shoulder and she felt his hand now close over hers. She leaned back against him, allowing her body to relax again. “I could feel you tense, are you alright?”

     

    She changed position to face him, her eyes finding his. “How long have you been awake?” She pretended to chide.

     

    “Avoiding the subject?” he countered with a small smile before bringing her close to him, “You are warm.” He murmured against her neck, kissing it several times, making her feel a different sort of warmth. “Not long.  You know I always like to wait for it. It had been a while.” He didn’t even bother to hide his building emotion with his next words. “I had… missed it.” He cleared his throat and she found herself growing angry at herself, her fingers finding the back of his neck, stroking his scalp. It soothed him. He released a ragged sigh and she let her mind wander as they lay among the furs that covered his—their bed, synchronizing her breathing with his, feeling his heat.

     

    Her first breath, that’s what he waited for. Every time they were together, she knew he waited for it. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t need to, but she went through the motions still, reflexive. Except when she was in a deep sleep, it stopped then, and he would wait, often rising earlier than she did just so he could feel it when she woke. Feel her draw her first breath.

     

    She had been cruel to her poor Beron, leaving him, after all they had been through together, letting him head back to his home—their home, alone, while she remained in Castle Volkihar.

     

    “I cannot make that decision for you, Ana.”  Spoken with a calm directness that surprised her and then again, should not have, when she had asked his advice on the matter after the dust settled from that grueling final battle. After, overcome with shame, hating what she represented, she tried to end her life.  He was giving her the freedom to make her own choice, something even her own parents had denied her, something, that to some extent, had been denied him as well. And she put him through the upheaval of leaving him. For what? She ended up not changing a damn thing. He had been right. Her mother had been right. And she could only think on coming back, wondering if he… would forgive her.

     

    She arrived at Jorrvaskr only this morning, tired and dirty from travel. He had come from Skyforge with Eorlund Gray-Mane, entering from the back while she came in from the front.  He was speaking with the Nord smith about a new armor he had just finished, carrying it in a sack of bearskin. The tanned, intricately carved reinforced latticed leather and darkened metal barely peeking. A design she had never seen before. Absolutely beautiful. His eyes danced in the light of the hearth while he spoke, his face flushed and streaked with soot from the forge. His braided hair a bit disheveled and damp from his efforts, but his expression was satisfied, confident. The way he always looked when he returned from the forge or after he had accomplished a task. The pride of an Altmer. She watched transfixed while he spoke to the smith, ignoring Koor slobbering all over her hands and armor, his tail slamming into her knees. How she had missed his face, his voice. The normally boisterous Mead Hall turned silent when he gave Eorlund a final squeeze on his shoulder and then crossed the Mead Hall to meet her, his steps proud, his back straight. There were no embraces, no tears, and no kisses when he reached her, only his intense gaze as he picked up her gear along with that great bearskin holding his new armor. And she met his gaze, her own head held high. Unashamed.

     

    “We go home now, my Ana. Our home.” He rumbled deeply, his private name for her, in the ancient custom of his people, while he pushed open the door, letting the sunlight bathe the Mead Hall, and Serana knew.  My Ana.

     

    Äelberon of Dusk loved her no matter what she was. He loved her more than she had loved herself.

     

    And you are still unable to tell him.

     

    Serana composed herself and faced him, still caressing his scalp. She could feel the muscles in his neck ease gradually. “I know you missed it, Beron. I missed being warm. Gods, I missed us.” She sighed, kissing his bearded cheek intimately before her head instinctively rested against his powerful shoulder, the lump in her throat still building. Damn it, they were supposed to be happy and they were, but shit, she was going to cry again. They had both shed tears today, so she thought quickly. “I even missed you perpetually adjusting everything. Damn Altmer. Please tell me Farkas messed with your head while I was gone?”

     

    Her fast thinking was rewarded with a chuckle and a tighter squeeze. “Thank you. And aye, he messed with my head, but you are far better at it, Ana. He was entirely too obvious. There was no sport in it. I found everything very easily.”

     

    “I will keep you on your toes.” She murmured her promise.

     

    “I expect nothing less, Ana. Nothing gives me more pleasure after a long day craving tea, than to find my missing tea satchels, after hours of searching, hidden where you keep your mead. Clever woman.” He pinched her backside gently, making her shift against him, smiling when his body responded to hers. A small groan of pleasure escaped his lips. “I will have to step up my game too. I am grossly out of practice.”

     

    “I wouldn’t say you’re that out of practice.” She raised her head, freeing a hand from his scalp to attempt to wipe a smudge of soot from his forehead. Bal’s Balls! They didn’t even bathe. For him not to bathe? He had missed her terribly. They both reeked. But somewhere under the soot was his smell and she had missed it.

     

    “Ha! Should’ve maybe drawn the bath before we ended up in bed, eh Love? Greir will kill me. Poor woman is forever cleaning up after me.”

     

    “After us.” Serana corrected. Contractions, meant he was relaxed, free. 

     

    “Aye, after us. Two messy Old Farts.”

     

    “Aye.” She languidly nodded, settling her head back onto his pale shoulder, letting her eyes close. She felt much better.  She was home. While she now understood her mother and enjoyed the time reconnecting with her, home wasn’t Castle Volkihar; home was a simple farmstead on a little cliff with views of the tundra and his beloved Skyforge. “Is it still day?” she yawned after a few moments of silence. He answered with his own yawn against the top of her head.

     

    “No, ‘tis nightfall.” He released a throaty chuckle. “You of all people should know when it’s nightfall.”

     

    She pulled her head from his shoulder and faced him, blinking, allowing her eyes to finally adjust to the darkness. “Shit. Already?”

     

    “Aye, already. We verily slept like the dead, Love.” He replied, his smile turning into a saucy grin, “And for this Old Fart of a mage, that’s a lot of sleep.” She felt a playful slap on her backside and then a lingering squeeze. “You tire me out.”

     

    “Likewise.” She answered with a kiss. She has missed his “verilys” too. That kiss turned into several, her hand resting on his chest, feeling that heart of his.

     

    “You stopped.” He complained breathlessly, breaking their kiss, leaving her flustered.

     

    “Sorry,” Her hand found his scalp again, while his hand rested on the small of her back as their lips met again.

     

    “Better…” Äelberon nodded, pausing mid-groan to suddenly pull from their kiss and regard her with searching eyes. She could feel his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, feather light. She liked how the flickering light of the hearth in the other room and the moonlight shining from the paned window played with his features. He always thought himself so ugly, his nose too big and hawkish, his jaw too square, rambling on about perfect inverted triangles and whatnot. He was riddled with terrible scars. The slashes across his face, the battle scars and marks of torture all over his body, the burn on his muscled neck. Her eyes lingered on it for a second. Where the muscle bulged just behind the jaw, under his ear, the fair, fair skin now permanently blackened to form the letter. 

     

     

    She winced inside. About half a pertan long. That must have hurt. She smirked to herself. “K” for Kin. Only bloody Orcs make everything dramatic as Oblivion. And that’s what you get for them making you a member of their family, Beron. Family does hurt sometimes. I’d know. Bal’s Blood! The random shit you think about after you wake up after a lot of sex. Serana sighed and met those eyes again. No, he wasn’t pretty, that was for sure, but you don’t like pretty. The beard needed a trim. Her eyes moved from his face to the sheen of his tousled, silver-white hair.  Did it grow a bit while she was gone? She wasn’t sure, but the lock that the draugr took off when he did Bleak Falls Barrow seemed longer to her, now nearly past his cheek.

     

    “And verily you like it? The room?” He finally asked expectantly, pressing the back of his head against her fingers. No more caressing, kneading was what he wanted now and she increased the pressure of her fingertips.

     

    He was still thinking on it, Serana thought, shaking her head. And you still can’t tell him, stupiddon’t think about that now, he’s never said a word. He doesn’t care. Only that you’re with him. That’s all that matters to him. The room, focus on the room.  That he still thought on it. It was endearing. He knew that she would return when she wasn’t so certain herself. That kind of faith was rare, but he, being a creature of profound faith, gutted the little upstairs room while she was away. A part of her understood that the process of destroying and creating was cathartic for him, that he had grieved. She also suspected that his Shield-Siblings, especially Vilkas, told him to forget her, only he, stubborn as he was, didn’t. She could tell because he was a little thinner. Not so much that it was noticeable to others, and he looked robust, the strength still evident in his arms when he held her after their lovemaking, but she knew his body well, he had lost weight.

     

    He gutted the small upstairs room and created a space for her alchemy with a little desk for him to sit and read, compose music, write his poetry or assemble notes, and draw his smithing schematics while she worked. There was a small library in the same level, where he kept his many books, notes, scrolls, that gave him more space to work, but no, he put his desk in that room. He had missed the sound, he claimed with a cracking voice when he showed her the room; the first signs of true emotion emerging since they arrived home, his eyes misting.   What he missed was the sound of her grinding ingredients with her mortar and pestle to prepare potions. Her portable set that she carried everywhere. That was what he had missed.

     

    “You do not realize how much you love someone until the little things they do are gone. Until the little sounds they make no longer echo in your ears. Until their little idiosyncrasies that seemed to drive you mad when they were there now make you even more wretched when they are gone.”

     

    She fell apart when she heard him stammer those words and so did he.

     

    One day, you will tell him.

     

    “Beron?”

     

    “Hmm?” came his sluggish reply, his eyes following his finger on her jaw, the fire in them like two hot coals.

     

    “You don’t think that us ‘consecrating’ the room not five minutes later, making a mess, was enough of an indication that I liked it?” Serana saw those laugh lines wrinkle, making the eyes snap with humor.

     

    “You do have a point, Ana. Though we did make it to the bed the second time.” He interjected with pride.

     

    “Barely.” She grinned, hearing his stomach growl. He was starving. He could shoot a dragon from the sky with his bow, but damned if he could ever remember to eat.

     

    “Hmm. We are in the bed now.” He teased, leaning closer.

     

    “I don’t think your stomach is going to let you—“

     

    “I will eat later.”

     

    “It’s a naughty Mer who has dessert before dinner.”

     

    “I have always been partial to sugar.” He chuckled wickedly, pulling her to him. Damn raunchy bastard. The sex jokes were always horrible. On purpose.

     

    “I know.” Serana laughed, kissing him back when his mouth found hers again, now demanding, making her moan with pleasure, feeling the heat from his body and ignoring his stomach’s persistent protests. A second time was very rare for them and a third time? Never, and they would take advantage. Make up for lost time. Live for the little moments, as he would say. There were always rumors about Dragonborns, there were rumors about Elves too, and such rumors often made him blush shyly, but the intense stress in his life often killed his mood. What he had gone through in his long life didn’t help either. What his own people had done to him. Or they would both be so exhausted from the constant traveling that they would just fall asleep in a heap, not even bothering to undress. His mouth moved to her neck and he brought her leg up to rest over his hip, his grasp growing intense. Stop thinking, stupid, and just enjoy him like he’s clearly enjoying you. You’ll both eat later...

     

     

    “Xarxes’ arse, Koor!”  The flustered growl of a curse escaped Beron’s lips a few moments later when Koor refused to let up his yowls and barks, forcing them to abandon the third time. She watched his red-orange eyes focus on the open doorway to the hearth, listening to his dog, his face still flushed with passion and now annoyed. “Boy! Damn it, will you stop pawing on the door and yelling. Bloody all of Whiterun Hold can hear you!” He faced her and added rapidly. “It is not the first time they have complained about him either. What is eating the boy?”

     

    “Beron, maybe he just needs to go out?” Serana volunteered, nipping his jaw lightly, her fangs just barely grazing the hairs of his beard. “He’s been cooped up for a while, right?” She nipped him again. “Just let him out and then… come back.” She purred, nipping him a third time to get his attention.

     

    His eyes narrowed and he propped himself upon his elbow, listening, shaking his head sharply in disagreement, and she couldn’t help but smile and roll her eyes while she relaxed into the furs, her hand tracing the scar on his left flank. If he wasn’t going to cooperate, she was going to punish him. She was rewarded by his slight squirm and his large hand quickly grabbing hers and moving it closer to the center of his chest, where the skin was far less sensitive.

     

    Bastard was ticklish.

     

    “No, no, no, that is not it.” He countered, his voice now sporting his “tone”. “That is not the noise he makes for that. But it is not the noise he makes for danger either… If he would be quiet, we could hear too. Koor! Stop!” He bellowed, now sitting up on the bed, exposing the scar on his right thigh, her new target and her hand moved again. Her fingertips were light on the scarred flesh and he squirmed again, this time releasing a funny-sounding chuckle merged with a squeal.

     

    “Scamp’s Blood! Do I have to tie you up?” He warned, grabbing her offending hand like lightning. “Again?” Their eyes locked and she struggled against his grip, his hold tightening in response, challenging, his eyes starting to crackle. They were both smiling, waiting to see who would yield first. It was their way. He’s bloody strong for a living thing and you love that.

     

    Koor ignored his Master and continued to paw the door, his vocalizations intensifying, forcing them to abandon their own “play”, he letting go of her wrist.

     

    “You would have lost.” She grinned, her eyes narrowing seductively.

     

    “Sure.” He smirked. “And the Thalmor secretly want to bring Talos back.”

     

    Serana heard a tankard crash to the floor, a sack of flour, and, shit… the bowl of apples. Koor’s tail, it was wagging, and she felt herself relax into the bed, glad more than ever to be home. No, definitely not danger, only a mess. The husky’s low yowls were now interspersed with the crunching of apples and the occasional sneezes from the animal, making her guffaw.

     

    “Bloody bastard’s eating my apples!” the old Mer whined, but Serana could see it in his face. He wasn’t angry. In fact, it looked like he was going to burst out laughing too.  “He is going to get it, when I get out of bed.” His eyebrows lowered menacingly. “I think someone is in line for a castration…”

     

    “You raised the snowberry, not me—“

     

    A noise made Serana turn quickly towards the window. Footsteps. He opened his mouth to admonish Koor again, but she silenced him by pressing her fingers to his lips. “You hear that?”

     

    He paused for a moment to listen, kissing her fingers gently, while his face turned towards their bedroom window, the panels of thick glass obscuring their view, but not the sound. He heard it now too, despite Koor.

     

    “Aye, footsteps. On the path.” He replied, voicing her conclusions. “Two. One younger. Nord by the span of the gait.  But no, not one of the twins.” His voice deepened in thought. “And the other… hmm.

     

    Over the sounds of Koor gorging on the apples, they listened for a few seconds while Beron took a vale fur and hastily wrapped it around his waist to begin the search for their clothes, while Serana sat up on the bed, attempting to fix her hair.

     

    “Shit, Ana. There is flour everywhere. Greir is going to kill me. Koor, you dumbarse, away from the apples.” A snort of defiance, and another tankard flew, hitting the door with a dull, metallic clang. That had been Beron. “Now!”

     

    Us…” Serana corrected, a big grin on her face, hearing his bare footsteps quickly ascend and descend the wooden steps that led to the second level. “She’s going to kill us.”

     

    Her braids were undone, pulling her hair away from her face was the best she could manage, and his hair was completely loose. Where was his lacing? Ah, on the nightstand and she reached for it, while he entered the bedroom with her trousers. They struck her face nonchalantly and she responded in kind, tossing him his lacing, forcing him to drop the fur to catch it, leaving his body exposed. And she smiled. Scarred didn’t mean ugly. It was his height too, what a difference a few extra pertans made on a body, longer legs, longer torso. Muscles that were normally stocky on Nords became more elegant.

     

    “You were waiting to do that, weren’t you? Clever Ana, very clever.” He smirked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

     

    “Why deny me a great view?” She replied slyly, casually leaning back against the pillows. His response was to rush the bed and remove the fur that was half-covering her, his eyes devouring her. He tossed the fur to the floor and then pounced upon the bed like a stalking sabre cat, his hands lingering on her legs while they traveled up her body, his naughty grin and arousal making it clear that he was still thinking about a possible third time. And she didn’t lie to herself, she was thinking it too.  “Go get dressed, you old rascal.” Serana laughed, reaching to run her fingers through his hair. After a muttered curse and several parting kisses, he reluctantly slipped on his own dark trousers—she always liked the way that particular pair fit—and began to search the rest of the room, still listening. He handed her rose-colored siken shirt, the one she usually wore under her armor—it stank of travel—and then he paused to face the window, holding his coarsely woven smithing tunic in his other hand. She heard it too, something was off about the second person’s gait and they could now hear voices.

     

    “What? What is it, Beron?” She asked while she pulled her shirt over her head. Gods, if company was coming, they were both a sight and the ‘stead was a mess, though upon studying his face, he seemed to not care much today. It was only a mess by their standards. To Nords, saving the Jarl and Tilma, they would be fine. “Beron?” She repeated, watching a slight smirk appear, while he crudely bound his hair, just at the nape. She loved the way the smirk changed the character of his face.

     

    “What the Oblivion is Decimus doing here?” He asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

     

     

    Erik squinted in the moonlight trying to read while Decimus limped towards him, bearing the torch. Erik quickly turned from the runes elaborately carved on the ‘stead’s wooden doors to help the Imperial up the final set of steps.

     

    “Thanks, lad.”

     

    “How’s the knee?”

     

    “I’ll live. Was better to walk. I’m already not looking forward to spending even more time with my arse on a damn horse.” Decimus grumbled, stooping to rub it, and Erik turned his attention back to the door. Back to the runes. In the dragon language.

     

    Wuth Reymsufro Hofkiin.

     

    He had no idea what it meant while he attempted to mouth the words—he heard the Dragonborn and Vilkas speak the language frequently at Jorrvaskr—but he imagined it must be grand for all the fancy lettering the Dragonborn used to carve it. With its elaborate swirls and formal style, like a manuscript from the olden days. He had never been to his Harbinger’s home. The Dragonborn’s home. He was surprised actually. The Jarl had Dragonsreach and when Erik first stepped inside that great hall, Grulmar had to close his gaping mouth.

     

    “Stop gawking like ya never been outside Rorikstead.”

     

    He expected the Dragonborn’s house to be at least as big as the Jarl’s, with artifacts and a huge armory, many rooms and every convenience. Maybe even an oven or even a smelter within its very walls! But no, it was a… a farm. Not even a farm, because it was on a cliff and Erik was from Rorikstead. Cliffs made poor land for tilling. Too rocky. They heard the goats stir in the pen to their left and the quiet droning of resting bees at the garden in the far right of the ‘stead. The Dragonborn—Ronnie, they were supposed to call him Ronnie, though Vilkas often called him “Master”, even when they fought—had goats? Goats did give good milk and you could make cheese. The ‘stead was a lot smaller than he expected. Smaller even than the Grey-Mane’s or the Battle-Born’s homes in the city. This was his home?

     

    “You gonna knock on the door?” Interrupted Decimus before a yowl broke the silence again and they heard footsteps from within the ‘stead.

     

    “Oh yes, sorry.” Erik apologized, making to knock. He could also make out voices from within the ‘stead. Male and female. His Harbinger’s and then hers. She had come back. He wondered what his other Shield-Siblings thought of them together again. Some of them spoke about her like they spoke about Grulmar, never to the Harbinger’s face, and Erik dreaded the day the old Mer would catch them. It was cursing mixed with laughter, and then some muffled… moaning? Was it moaning? Erik furrowed his brow. But Koor was louder than the both of them.

     

    The Imperial laughed. “That husky of his is sure putting on a show. The snowberry probably knew we were coming from when we made the turn from the main road. Go on, lad.”

     

    Erik chortled and gave the door a solid knock. There was a moment of silence where both the dog and the voices stopped and then Koor went at it again, louder than ever. He wondered if that animal was part wolf, he howled so. The hounds in Skyrim didn’t make such noise and in the Mead Hall, Koor was the father of all milkdrinkers. But when that dog hit the battlefield, he became something different, silent, save his growls, with teeth that tore through throats; fiercely protective of his Master and devoted to his Mistress. Well, mistresses; Koor was devoted to Aela as well. Erik hoped the Harbinger wouldn’t answer the door, though he didn’t want her to answer either. That left the dog, and that was just a stupid notion that would’ve gotten a smack from Grulmar. Dog can’t open the tusking door.

     

    The front door opened and Erik saw a puff of flour and smelled… apples before the light coming from the burning hearth fire was blocked by his Harbinger’s massive form, a large, powerful hand held the door open, while Koor burst forth giving Erik and Decimus an enthusiastic greeting before bolting past them into the cold night, a dusting of flour in his wake. His quest simple, find the nearest place to relieve himself.

     

    “Told you he needed to go out.” Came her voice from within the walls. The Harbinger turned back towards the room and Decimus barely stifled a laugh when Erik felt his eyes bug out of his head. Holy Shit! There, in the moonlight, plain on the pale skin of his neck was a Dibellan bite! He had heard that you could get those, but he never got one before.

     

    “It is what happens when you think downing a bowl of apples is a good idea. Hope he gets the runs from it, cheeky bastard.” The Harbinger replied before turning back to both of them with a warm smile, the eyes lighting up. It was funny to see an Altmer smile. “Erik! Shield-Brother!” A hearty hand clasp and grasp of his neck that made Erik move with its force. The Harbinger greeted every one of them the same, whether whelp or Circle member.

     

    “Evening, Harben—Ronnie.”

     

    “Ha! I’ll add ‘HarbenRonnie’ to the list of new ones, Brother. But, Welcome! Welcome. Decimus!” A hand clasp for Decimus while he filtered Erik into a simple, rustic hearth with a modest, but well-stocked pantry.  There was a pile of flour that was in the process of being swept by her and apple cores were in a waste bucket along with the shards of a glazed bowl. But that wasn’t what grabbed Erik’s attention. Nor was it the tall and beautiful ebony-haired Nord vampire doing the sweeping, her fiery eyes studying both he and Decimus carefully. Nor was it the strange hand prints of flour over parts of her clothes, especially on her… um, no, don’t look at those. And shit, she had a Dibellan bite too, on her exposed collar bone. No, first thing Erik saw was the oven. The Harbinger had an oven!  Just like Jorrvaskr.

     

    And I, Erik the Slayer, a whelp, am in my Harbinger’s house. I am in the Dragonborn’s house.

     

    A raised step to the right, some carved support beams, and a railing separated the hearth from a wood-planked room that served as a small dining area and in the corner of it stood the Harbinger’s wolf armor on display. The wolf armor he wore when he became the Priest of Jorrvaskr. When an outsider took such a terrible thing upon himself to save his family. Wuuthrad and Ysgramor’s Shield were displayed proudly at Jorrvaskr, but he had several weapons here, including his bow—Okriim, his silver bastard sword, his ebony bastard, that strange troll knife he got from a giant, a very old battle axe, and the silver greatsword of Vigilant Tyranus. On the wall opposite the hearth was a set of double doors opened to reveal a bedroom, the piled furs on the floor nestling a lady’s chemise, making Erik’s face go red. It went even redder when he spied a pair of men’s underbreeches hanging from one the runged steps that led to the second level. Stop staring, stop staring at his bloody underbreeches! It’s the Harbinger’s underbreeches and that was definitely her chemise, not the Harbinger’s. They both had Dibellan bites! Erik gulped, willing his eyes back to the hearth when the Harbinger spoke. “Heard you limping up the walkway, Decimus. That knee of yours pestering you again?”

     

    “It gave.”

     

    “How?” The Altmer narrowed his eyes.

     

    “You’ll learn soon enough.” The Imperial sighed. “Hey, you piss flour now, Ronnie?”

     

    “Pardon?” Decimus gestured with his head towards his Harbinger’s crotch and sure enough, he sported flour… Gods, Erik could feel more heat build on his face. She had flour on… oh Gods!  His Harbinger only laughed and gave her a saucy wink. She continued to sweep, a naughty smile on her face. If she was blushing, Erik couldn’t tell.  “Aye, I had an accident.” He grinned. “But the snowberry started it. Do not fret, woman’s damn good with a broom…”

     

    “Oh, don’t go there, Old Mer.” Decimus shook his head, a silly smirk on his face.

     

    “You know I will, Old Blade.” The Altmer chuckled, picking up the waste bucket of apple cores to bring to the vampire to sweep the flour into. She had a name, Erik thought to himself. Serana, but Vilkas just called her the vampire or the Volkihar. It used to be much worse. They were better now and Vilkas and the Harbinger were again somewhat close, coming to an understanding and working together, but when Jorrvaskr first found out some months ago, he and Vilkas clashed. Hypocrisy, pedestals, and the old Knight-Paladin raised his weapon to defend the honor of a monster, a monster he said he loved… and lost. Vilkas left him lying broken in the mud of the Training Circle and Jorrvaskr was again bitterly divided for a short time, Vilkas’ cruel words driving a wedge between himself and his twin.  They managed to repair the damage, their wisdom and love for each other overcoming their anger, remembering what their Harbinger had endured for them, but Vilkas still grumbled about it, still not approving, and others shared his sentiments. She was little better than Grulmar to some of them and worse to others, a whore. Erik was unsure on the matter. He said he is immune to Illusion, Erik told himself, and he looks very happy. She looks happy too. She fought in that final battle just as hard as any of them did. It was said she was the one who struck the death blow.

     

    “So what brings you two to my lair?” The Harbinger asked before turning to the vampire—Serana. “I will take this outside, Love.”

     

    “Don’t get lost.” She quipped, sweeping up the remaining flour into the bucket before he picked it up. “Don’t get distracted.”

     

    “Lost no, distracted…” He flashed a lascivious grin when his eyes fell on her flour-dusted breasts. “Maybe.” His eyes then returned to Decimus and Erik, narrowing them in study. They probably looked horrible, dirty from travel, with old cuts and bruises. He hadn’t even seen Grulmar. Wish he had come with them. He watched the Harbinger’s eyes rest on Decimus’ knee and the Imperial shift uncomfortably under the Altmer’s probe. His Harbinger’s voice deepened with concern at his next words. “You two look tired and I can see it in your faces, you definitely have a reason to see me. I will return shortly. See where that snowberry ran off to. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable and help yourself to whatever is lying around. Should have cheese, bread. I always keep wine for you, Decimus, mead for Erik and I will speak with Greir about making beds available for the night in the guest house. By the sight of you, you two could stand warm beds and full bellies. I do not like your looks. Love, prepare my pipe, please? Elf’s ears. I think I will need it.” She nodded, leaning the broom against the pantry wall, as he headed out the door.

     

     

    A sated, sleepy Erik watched his Harbinger kneel in front of a seated Decimus in awe, watching his pale hand glow as it hovered over Decimus’ bared knee, the nagging pain leaving the Imperial’s grizzled face. Several Companions had turned to magicks in the past months. Athis was already enrolled in the College, to further develop his py—pyro—whatever the Harbinger had called it and Ria was being taught some Restoration spells by the Harbinger himself. A pipe was sticking out of the Altmer’s mouth, wisps of smoke traveling to the ceiling, while he worked and the sturdy square table where they sat was spread with cheeses, jerkies, breads, and sweet treats. Erik took a sip of Lucky Moons Mead and swirled the liquid in his mouth, the honeyed brew seeping into his system. Serana and Decimus were drinking wine and the Harbinger had his canis root tea steeping. He was glad to be spending the night at the guest house. That meant only one thing, a Greir breakfast come morning. Best thing in Whiterun after Tilma’s breakfast. And jokes with Farkas if he was around.

     

    “Better?” the Harbinger asked, his eyes on the Imperial.

     

    “Aye, dammit, Son of a Bitch, what the fuck do you put in these things? I feel like I’ve slept for a week. Shit. Or I feel like I’ve had a good fuck.”

     

    The Altmer shook his head, a grin forming on his scarred features, “Well, that good and fucked feeling will wear off in a few hours, I am sorry to say, but the pain and swelling should be gone for a few weeks.” The Harbinger frowned and rose to find his seat again, pointing his pipe at Decimus like a parent points at a misbehaving child.  “Decimus, you let your knee go. I have told you—“

     

    “I know, between you and Grulmar, like two old bitches, I hear about my knee more than enough, thank you.”

     

    “Well, the fix is not permanent, Decimus.” The Old Mer explained, resting an ankle over one knee casually. “That knee can go at any minute after the spell wears off if you do not come for regular treatments. And always have that po—“

     

    “I got it, I got it.” Decimus interrupted, gesturing to the Harbinger with his goblet. “See Ronnie for that good-fuck feeling and take Grulmar’s potions. Later, later.”

     

    “Where is the lad anyway?” The Harbinger asked, his eyes briefly turning to the door. “If you two are this beat up, does he need healing?”  Their uncomfortable glances must have been really obvious because the Harbinger cursed under his breath. “Ah, I see. I take it he did not want you to seek me out. He at the Bannered Mare?”

     

    “Aye, with busted ribs, drinking. Says we don’t need you. You know Orcs. Stubborn motherfuckers.”

     

    The Altmer nodded and let out a gust of smoke, his eyes briefly traveling to the old battle axe on the wall, his eyes going faraway for a moment before focusing on Decimus again, “Aye, I know Orcs. So, now that you are healed and fed, have a place for the night and are here despite the fact that Grulmar clearly does not want you to be. Mind telling me why?”

     

    “You tell him, Decimus.” Erik volunteered, getting a stern look from the Imperial.

     

    “Hmph, figured as much. Well, we’re in over our heads, that’s why. Grulmar won’t admit it, but I will. You ever read, shit what’d Grulmar call that book, Erik, you remember? Aeth, Aether—“

     

    Aetherium Wars by Taron Dreth?” the Harbinger clarified.

     

    “That’s it, Har—Ronnie.” Nodded Erik.

     

    “I have read this.” The Altmer then chewed the inside of his lip for a few moments in thought, his pipe puffing away. Suddenly, the sound of his chair scraped against the wooden floor as he rose. “I will return.”

     

    “The Dwemer notes?” Serana asked, also rising from her chair.

     

    “You read my mind, Love. Come.”

     

     

    Serana didn’t think that either Decimus or Erik were prepared for what Beron meant when the “Dwemer Notes” were mentioned. They were Men, they expected a journal, perhaps a book, but certainly not the twenty volumes of detailed research notes that now lay crammed into every available space on that small table, including Aetherium Wars. A revised version, with Beron’s extensive notes in the margins, correcting Dreth’s assumptions in several instances. His memorized notes from Crystal-Like-Law.  Nor were they prepared for his lecture, delivered from memory, which lasted for over an hour, pages opening to show construct schematics, maps, and other drawings. 

     

    She gave Grulmar, the Orc, some credit, however; he, Decimus, and Erik were alive. Not many escaped Dwemer ruins, especially now knowing that Taron Dreth was missing half of the map. Grulmar knew enough, or was lucky enough to get them out. Stealing the page was something she would have done, she smirked to herself and Beron would have fumed for her dishonesty, until she explained. And then the fuming would stop, his expression bordering on ridiculous.

     

    “My clever Ana…” She could almost hear him say it. Almost picture his eyebrows descending, that beguiling little bald patch on the left brow…

     

    Now Dreth would have to search and it bought their party some time. Their party. The boy, Decimus, Grulmar, and a Dwemer expert based out of Windhelm that they were going to meet up with. Serana was not confident in the unknown and almost spoke up to volunteer them, only for Beron to cut her off. The boy, Erik, was silent for most of Beron’s words, though Serana could see him turn pale several times when Beron described their experiences in Alftand in detail.  Decimus was grim, his piercing blue eyes practically boring holes into the table in thought, processing every word. Searching for an appropriate argument in his mind. An argument to counter Beron’s.

     

    To counter that Beron didn’t want to go. Serana could tell. If he had wanted to go, he would have simply packed his notes and explained to them along the way. When he lectured, he was teaching, and teaching meant that he had no desire to be involved. That he was passing along the knowledge to ensure their success. It was puzzling to her because while it was a difficult expedition, he had enjoyed Alftand a great deal, the time searching for the Elderscroll—with a fussy, curmudgeonly Calcelmo in tow—a far better experience than their search for one in the Soul Cairn. He smiled in Alftand, almost giddy with excitement when he probed Dwemer secrets—giddy from other things as well.

     

    Her mind wandered there, remembering the look on his face when all three of them finally figured out, after hours of frustration, how to release the bloody Elderscroll from its casing within the Oculory. The celebration afterwards in Sinderion’s laboratory. Him indulging in a pipe and his sweet tooth while he poured over the Dwemer crossbow schematics he found in the Alftand’s Animonculory. And when Calcelmo finally fell asleep, his Dwemer notes gathered about him like numerous stuffed toys, she and Beron indulged in their own private celebration, uninhibited and free, not caring that they were in the darkest cavern in Skyrim, the towering glowing mushrooms providing a fanciful backdrop with their bioluminescence. Beron enjoyed Dwemer ruins, but he was not smiling now. Why didn’t he want to go? This was the Aetherium forge itself!

     

    You know the answer to that, she thought to herself, taking a sip of wine. You just got back today. He doesn’t want to go. He wants a day of fucking peace. Just a day. They didn’t even give him a damn day.  And you were going to volunteer him, stupid fool. The Imperial didn’t look like he was going to take “no” for an answer either. Both of them were stubborn.

     

    “I’d like to leave tomorrow, Ronnie, in the morning. Early. Short notice, I know, but Dreth’s on our tail, and I don’t like that. Not one bit. Who knows who he’ll hire up?  If it’s one thing Skyrim’s got, it’s fucking mercs.” He forced a chuckle. “I would know.”

     

    “Decimus.” Beron began, closing a journal resolutely, tracing the embossed lettering on the leather, his expression—ah dammit—guilty.  One of hers, on the usage of soul gems in Dwemer constructs. How dispelling magical effects were essential in neutralizing them. Her theory. A theory that he made practice with his arsenal of powerful spells. His priestly magicks designed to do more than simply heal. Serana’s attention turned to Erik, noting the worry on his face. The boy knew his Harbinger. He was hiding it well, but Serana could see the fear in the young Nord’s eyes. Decimus seemed to pick up on it too and Beron’s tone of voice spoke volumes.  “Of course, you are free to take whatever you need from the cellar here and to make use of my notes—“

     

    Beron was going to give them weapons, information, probably even money, but not of himself and she could feel his conflict. In his eyes, his actions were unbecoming of his Order. The Order was gone, but he still clung stubbornly to his Tenets. His goodness, part of why she lov—she stopped—just part of why it felt so right. Shit. Now she felt bad and she silently grumbled, clicking her fingernails uncomfortably on the goblet’s neck.

     

    “Hey Erik.” Decimus suddenly barked, returning to his wine as the Nord snapped to attention, the color coming hard to his face, clashing with his red hair. “Haven’t seen Greir pop in yet. Why don’t you head over to the guest house and see if the woman needs anything. I don’t want her loading our heavy gear, not with a pup in the oven. You got me, lad?”

     

    Erik rose with a nod. “Sure thing, Decimus.” And Serana relaxed, taking another sip of wine.

     

    “Go with him, Serana.” Beron quickly added, his eyes still on the journal. She was taken aback for a moment, a little pissed even that those two were going to carry on without her, but she quelled her rising temper when she studied his somber expression. She sighed, standing from her chair.

     

    “Aye, I forgot that he’s never been.” She nodded. “Decimus.”

     

    “Serana, thank you.” The Imperial replied, squaring his shoulders before facing Beron.  “Go with her, Erik, she’ll show you, and give my regards to Greir and that fat, lazy dog of hers if he’s around.”

     

    “I will give Greir your regards, Decimus. I haven’t seen them yet myself. Come with me, Erik. Let’s see if Farkas is around. I need to tell him that your Harbinger wasn’t challenged enough.” Serana moved towards the door.

     

    “Huh?” Erik looked confused for a moment. “Wasn’t challenged? What do you mean? Oh, wait, let me get that for you, Serana.”

     

    She was surprised when the Nord beat her to the door, holding it open for her as she stepped out of the  ‘stead and for a moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tiny smile flash on Beron’s face, a pleased twinkle return to his eyes. Erik the Slayer could slay a dozen trolls, clear bandit caves, become the best merc in all of Skyrim, but what made Erik worthy in Beron’s eyes was that he held the door for his Ana, even though she was a vampire. And for that, she knew, that her Beron would now go. For Decimus too, and though she couldn’t fathom why, for Grulmar, but Erik’s simple action had sealed the deal.  And she would go with him, she smiled as the cool night air greeted her. Decimus would be surprised, all that mental preparation, all that shoulder squaring and Imperial posturing for nothing. Beron had already made his decision.

     

     

    17th of Evening Star, 202

     

    Ya people have no idea how it hurts when the sun rises up in yer head. Yes, in yer head, not outside. Ya just have to spend a night drinkin', and ya will know what I´m talkin' about. Or maybe not. Ya aren't a green pig who is scowled and spitted upon. Whisperin' and mockery behind yer back.

     

    And ya will be surprised, as long as it's behind yer back, it's good. That ya can ignore. But when some drunk idiotic Nord bard named Mikael comes to ya and laughts right in yer face...well, that needs some resolve to resist the urge to kill him on the spot. And when ya are drunk, it's quite easy to ignore that.

     

    But when ya get drunk even more and he comes back, tellin' ya into yer face that pigs shouldn't be allowed into taverns...that's when ya reply: “Then why are ya here then?”

     

    But that's a stupid thing to say. Why? Because there's five Nords in that tavern. And one Orc. And that Orc is ya. There's no one to back ya up, but that stupid bard has another four kinsmen to stand up for him.

     

    They call Orcs pigs. They call us pigs, if I have to be precise and for once admit I'm an Orc too. Just look at my face and ya will see the perfect paintin' of ugliness. No one looks at an Orc's face for too long.

     

    They call us pigs. But the truth is that people are pigs. They only piss and shit, that's all that comes from them. And we Orcs are buckets into which they piss and shit. I'm the bucket. And I'm telling ya, that bucket has to be poured on someone else's head when it's full.

     

    So when his friends leaned over me and asked me what I said...I repeated it, in all drunken stupidness. I think I broke Mikael's knee before they beat me unconscious. And that's probably all I remember. And now a damn sun is rising in my head. And I can tell ya...it fucking hurts.

     

    He woke up, but he didn't dare open his eyes. The rising sun in his head hurt more than enough, he didn't need to see the real sun, adding more to his pain. He remembered he had broken ribs. Now he had more, most likely. His face was numb and when he tried to move his jaw, it hurt so much he decided that it might not be that good an idea.

     

    Now who were those other four tuskers? I swear, once I remember their faces, I'll add them to my list of grudges. The list is gettin' really long...

     

    “Look, I think he's still alive,” sounded a voice in his head.  A very high-pitched voice, almost childish.

     

    “Nah, he´s certainly dead. He stinks, he has to be dead,” answered another childish voice.

     

    His nostrils widened and then he smelled it too. Dried blood and piss. They've pissed on me. Pricks! Once I remember their faces…

     

    Then he felt some weight on his back, feet maybe, and heard another childish voice. “Look! I've slayed the mighty Orc. Call me Braith the Orcslayer!”

     

    “Come down, Braith! I really think he's still alive. He's breathing.”

     

    “Don't be such a sissy, Battle-born! Look, Mila isn't afraid of one dead Orc.”

     

    “No, I'm not. But my mom will be looking for me. And I also think…he's alive.”

     

    He growled and tried to get up, but his limbs were stiff. He felt cold. It's winter dammit! They threw me out in the middle of the night, in tuskin' winter! He felt the cold, but as something very distant. He heard surprised cries in his head and finally managed to open one eye. And then he knew those weren´t voices in his head. Just brats making fun of me. Oh, how cruel can children be? Just as cruel as their tuskin' parents…

     

    He saw one girl grab a stick and carefully approach him. She brought the stick over her head, preparing to hit him.

     

    “Don't ya tuskin' dare, brat!” he growled, trying to get up, but ultimately failing again. She paused, but when she saw he was helpless, she prepared to hit him again. And she did. The stick landed hard on his back, adding more pain to his sour body.

     

    “What's going on here?!” thundered a voice and he saw her jump, dropping the stick, startled. “Get lost, kids! I bet your parents are looking for you, or something. Or do you want me to tell them where you are?” The commandin' voice of Decimus Merotim! Run, ya little bastards!

     

    He saw those three brats scatter like skeevers exposed to too much light and then a figure obscured the sun. The only thing he could see from his position was a pair of boots—tanned  leather, with plates made of a darker metal—and the rest was just a shadow. A big shadow.

     

    “Tuskin' Shiny,” he murmured and if he could spit, he would probably do it. Just like Decimus. That old fart can pull the spittle from his toes when he wants to be really nasty.

     

    The figure crouched and he finally could make out the face. Full, silver beard, unbelievable long white hair and eyes like two smouldering embers. And when they're only smoulderin', ya know ya will survive the day. When they are burnin'...that´s when ya know you´re in trouble. Which makes me wonder: I'm not in trouble?

     

    “Rough night?” rumbled Shiny. It almost sounded like a bear's laugh. If bears could laugh, of course. He would swear that's precisely how bears laugh. “Can you stand, lad?”

     

    He tried to cackle, but his position—lying on his belly, face deep in the ground, arms wide—somehow prevented him from doing that. It hurt like hell. “What do ya think?”

     

    “Charming as ever,” said a woman, and Grulmar's eye was trying to trace where the voice came from. He saw her only out of the corner of his eye, a woman with dark hair.

     

    “So ya brought Fangs along,” he groaned. “Lovely.”

     

    “She is lovely, is she not?” Shiny sighed, “Aye, the way the sun shines upon her ebony hair. The starlight in her eyes. But as lovely as she is, she is not nearly as lovely as you, especially now, the sunlight hitting you just so,” said Shiny and Grulmar would give anything to see his face properly, but for some reason, he was glad he could keep his one good eye open. “Hulda told us what happened, hmm, let me see...” Great, here comes Shiny with his tuskin' lists, “You broke Wilmuth's nose, bruised Sinmir's face and… and broke Mikael's knee! They had to carry him to the Temple, poor fool, or he would never walk again. And apparently, you decided to be a good lad and disinfect the doorway with your piss. Impressive.”

     

    “Will it help if I say they started it?”

     

    Fangs chuckled and Shiny laughed out loud. Son of a bitch made it extra loud too. Tuskin’ knew when an Orc had a hangover. “Who? The doorway?” asked the Altmer. “Well, we will need to sort you out, lad, before we can head out. How about trying to sit up first? Lend me a hand, Serana?”

     

    Grulmar heard a snort. “Going near that stench? No, thank you.”

     

    “Very well, a priest’s work is never pretty. Glory of Auri-El and all that,” the Altmer grinned.

     

    Grulmar felt strong hands grabbing his shoulders, rolling him on his back and then making him sit. His sight became blurry and his head dizzy and something in his stomach decided it didn’t want to be in there anymore. So he just let it out. After a few very painful seconds, he felt relieved and leaned against the wall of the Bannered Mare. He looked at the Altmer crouching in front of him, in a fine-looking new armor made of leather and blackened metal. Really very well-made, and probably light as fuck even being heavy. Brand new armor… Well, not so new anymore. It had all possible colours on it now; from green to brown, a little red…

     

    “Nice armor, Shiny,” he chuckled and closed his eye.

     

    There was a silence for few seconds and then Shiny rumbled: “You did that on purpose, eh? Though believe it or not, I have had worse.”

     

    Grulmar chuckled again, more than he should, because his ribs again reminded him it wasn’t such a good idea. “Want me to do it again?”

     

    Shiny laughed again.

     

    “Do we really need him?” asked Fangs, much more annoyed, handing Shiny a linen from her pack, which Shiny used to begin wiping his cuirass. “Just look at him. One night and he stirs more trouble than that hungry snowberry in our house.”

     

    There was a loud bang of a door that echoed in Grulmar's head for the next few seconds.  He opened his eye and saw Erik and Decimus walking towards him with his equipment. Completely forgot about it. Where did I leave it? In the kitchen, I think. Or the restrooms?

     

    “I hope you're proud of yourself, lad,” growled Decimus, “because I´m not. You should have rested, not get more broken bones. If you weren't half-dead I would add few more to that.”

     

    “Sorry, mom,” sighed Grulmar. Always the tough guy, Uncle. Ya know I don't really appreciate this tough Orc love, do ya? But still, wasn't at least some love better than none?

     

    “Ronnie, you think you could patch him up?” pleaded Decimus. “I know I wouldn't, but still…”

     

    Grulmar opened his eye and looked right into Shiny´s. “Ya can take yer magic and shove it up yer-”

     

    His eye saw a big fist and then only darkness.

     

     

    Decimus rubbed his knuckles and returned Äelberon´s surprised stare. “What? It's for his own good.”

     

    “I am not staring. Better your fist than mine. I am the archer.”

     

    “You’re an asshole, Ronnie.” The Altmer flashed another grin, which forced Decimus to grin too. “Don't exhaust yourself, heal what you can, but do me a favour. Leave that bruise I just did. I want the idiot to remember it.”

     

    The Altmer regarded the Orc’s face. “Bruise will remain in all of its glory, Old Blade. Just make sure no one walks in on us. Been here over a bloody year, heal over at the Temple, and they still blanche a bit when they see the magicks. Nords are—“

     

    “Superstitious,” finished Decimus. “Yeah, I know. Erik, keep an eye on the market.”

     

    The young Nord nodded and turned around. Decimus was surprised he was so calm. Normally he would be more caring about Grulmar. Scamp's shit, they are like brothers most of the time. But Grulmar was acting like an ass lately, so it wasn't that difficult to guess Erik was mad at him. Decimus's eyes then shifted towards the big Altmer. Or maybe he´s acting all tough guy in front of his Harbinger. The Dragonborn.

     

    He snorted and that made Serana raise her eyebrows. “Something funny?” she asked.

     

    Decimus' mouth widened in a grin. “Ah, nothing. Just realized I'm seeing a Dragonborn healing an Orc's hangover behind a tavern. That's not something you see every day.”

     

    The light around Äelberon's hands faltered when the Altmer raised his head. “Ha! You should frequent Jorrvaskr more often. I cure more hangovers...”

     

    That made Decimus smile. “You know what? Maybe I should. I quite fancy Uthgerd. Can't resist a strong Nord woman.”

     

    “Neither can I...” Äelberon chuckled, his eyes lewdly meeting Serana’s briefly, but suddenly he grew serious, the glow around his hand becoming more prominent. He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing in concentration, a little sweat on his brow now appearing. “He took quite a beating, Decimus.  Auri-El’s Grace that the ribs did not break and pierce a lung. A miracle really, for I know how Nords kick. Felt it myself firsthand at Dawnstar. So long ago… Oghma’s tits, hurts like Oblivion when a Nord kicks you in the ribs… almost have it, there’s... just one bone... that’s being stubborn...” The Altmer made a low grunt from the strain, but he could do shit that Danica couldn’t even try.

     

    Oh, yeah. Miracle. That's our Grulmar. The truth was, there wasn't anyone in the world who could attract more trouble than Grulmar. At least Decimus didn't know anyone else like him. But just as he attracted trouble, he was also very good at getting out of it. Most of the time. He gets his green ass kicked as often as he don't. “He's tougher than he looks,” he said out loud.

     

    The Altmer nodded, with a crooked smile, still working. “Aye... He is still an Orc after all.”

     

    “Yeah, just make sure he never hears you saying that,” Decimus grimaced and looked around. Right there, behind the Bannered Mare, Whiterun looked empty. Almost dead. But he heard voices from the market, the steps of guardsmen on patrol. Laughing children. Grulmar was lucky it's quite warm today. If there was snow...he would probably be dead. And nobody in the Bannered Mare would give a shit about an Orc freezing to death behind the tavern.

     

    “Why?” asked Serena and Decimus looked at her, puzzled by her question. “Why shouldn't we call him an Orc? He clearly is one.”

     

    The Imperial shook his head. “It's not my place to explain it. Let's just say he's ashamed because he's an Orc. He hates himself for being Orc. And he hates everyone who reminds him of that. He hates everyone who hates him for being Orc.”

     

    Serana's eyes locked with Äelberon's, exchanging stares for few seconds, like he was explaining to her how it was with his eyes. And she understood, it seemed. What the Old Mer went through was almost as bad. And those were his own people, Decimus thought with a tiny shudder. Only one race may be more cruel than Orcs. Altmer. The Altmer then shook his head, his expression turning grim. “Not everyone hates Orcs. Not everyone hates him.”

     

    Decimus couldn't help himself and shook his head in disbelief. “I'm sorry, Ronnie, but you're blind as fuck. Have you ever heard what Maul says about Grulmar? About Orcs? Not even the Companions are fond of him.” I don’t dare mention what they still say about her. Äelberon wanted to protest, those eyes of his beginning to crackle with their fire under his lowering brow, but the Goldpact Knight stopped him with a raised hand. “It's not your fault and there's nothing you can do about that.” He pointed at Grulmar: “It's his fight. He should convince them he's not a green savage.” Ah, shit. The Altmer was right pissed now. Those milkdrinkers over at Jorrvaskr won’t know what hit ‘em. You don’t piss off Ronnie.

     

    “Not every Altmer is Thalmor,” Ronnie hissed and Decimus nodded. Took him a while before he learned that after the Great War. Took Jorrvaskr a while before they figured that out too. Fucking slow learners. Ronnie was the best thing that ever happened to those damn snowberries in a good long while. May Kodlak’s soul rest, but he didn’t do shit for his Shield-Brothers.

     

    Old Mer let out a final gust of air, the golden glow from his hand stopping and stood up, looking at Grulmar with pity, biting the inside of his lip in thought. Pity? No, not pity, Altmer knew better than to pity an Orc. It was understanding. But those two terms could be confused by a person with an angry chip on his shoulder. Just be careful with that, my friend. He can confuse your understanding for pity and push you away. And I need you two to get closer.

     

    “I did what I could with his ribs, though he will need a rest to fully heal.” said Äelberon. “But I assume with Dreth now in the picture, we are not going to wait? Even with him injured, I would not. Serana and I are ready if you are. I have already taken the liberty to send a coded correspondence via courier to Calcelmo. Should arrive at Markarth before we reach Windhelm. Hopefully the old codger has a few more Dwemer ruins in him.”

     

    “Nah. There's no time. We have to hit the road. Just get some potions in him, that should do the trick,” Decimus shook his head and took Grulmar's sack. There was a wooden box in it, with potions and poisons, everything packaged in straw to prevent the vials from shattering. “If only I knew which one I should give him.”

     

    Serana came closer. “Let me see what he has,” she reached for the box and studied the vials. She pulled one out and looked at the card on it. “Wheat and Blue Mountain Flower. Hmm, I'm surprised the Orc has his potions so well organized.”

     

    “Reminds me of someone I know…” quipped the Altmer.

     

    “Aye, definitely not you, Old Mer,” she shot back. “You wouldn’t know a magicka potion from a health potion if it—“

     

    “One is green, one is blue, and one is red,” he quickly interjected. “That is all I need to bloody know. Besides, the labeling is extremely inconsistent.”

     

    “Sure, we’ll blame inconsistent labeling—“

     

    “Will that help him?” interrupted Decimus, pointing to the vial.

     

    “No, this is a painkiller,” she shook her head. “Something to keep him on his feet. We'll need that later.” She took another vial. “Garlic and Juniper Berries. This one should help him. He'll be out for a few hours, but it will accelerate the healing.” She took the cork out and sniffed, grimacing. “Well, I'm surprised. It's quite potent.”

     

    “By how you’ve scrunched up that pretty nose of yours, I bet it does not have your secret ingredient…” the Altmer shot her a saucy look.

     

    “You do like your honey, Old Mer.”

     

    “Verily…” he winked, a naughty twinkle in his eye.

     

    Decimus waved his hand, to quicken things up and to stop those two from going any further. “Just pour it down his throat and let's be on our way. I think that Dreth might have figured out we're alive and have half of his map by now. Better to be gone before he catches our scent.”

     

    And right now, Grulmar's scent is very strong.

     

     

    You can't buy happiness with gold.

     

    The thought rang in Dreth's mind, a thought that made his head hurt. He knew that it was bullshit. People who say you can't buy loyalty or happiness with money were just people who didn't have enough funds. And Dreth had plenty since he published Aetherium Wars. He stole Katria's research and published it as his own and she could do nothing about it.

     

    Well, except proving I did steal it. By finding the Forge, right? How pleasant it was to see her crushed body in that ruin? Very pleasant.

     

    He looked at the place in her journal where normally the second half of the map would be. Yet it was missing, stolen by that damn Orc! Arkngthamz was a disaster.

     

    Why didn't you just let them bring you that piece? Why did you have to go after them with hired bandits? Because it was cheaper. Money was a sickness and he knew he was sick. He wanted more, he wanted more gold and more fame. So it was easier to pay a few hundred gold up front to bandits than pay a few thousand to that damn Orc and his friends.

     

    They did the hard work for him, all he had to do was just collect the prize. And he did, but then everything went sour. Damn the Nord woman! Why does she have to haunt me even when she's dead? He shook his head and chuckled. That actually makes perfect sense. When else would someone haunt you then when they're dead, right?

     

    He got cocky, he knew that now. He got the shard, he got the journal, so he jumped on his horse and made a run for it all the way to Markarth. He didn't care about those bandits he hired, they got their gold and it wasn't his problem if they got themselves killed by those constructs. He arrived in Markarth, rented a room, and finally opened Katria´s journal. Only to find half of the map missing. What a...disappointment.

     

    By the time he got back to that ruin, he found that Greenskin and his friends had survived and were long gone, the Reclamations only knew where. So he had to return to Markarth and plan his next moves.

     

    He looked around the Silver Blood Inn, his red eyes carefully studying every person there, scanning and calculating. People were either tools or obstacles. And tools could be used to remove obstacles.

     

    The Inn was quite crowded, people took every seat available and still that wasn't enough. Half a dozen people or so were standing near the bar, demanding their flasks of mead. Those who walked Markarth during the day would say it´s almost a ghost town, but at night—when miners, founders, and blacksmiths gathered at the inn—the city got a whole lot more lively.

     

    “So what's the job then?” sounded a voice with a heavy Nordic accent, breaking the chain of his thoughts. Dreth blinked a few times and looked at the two men sitting on the other side of his table. The younger one was in scaled armor, sporting red war paint on his cheek, brown hair, and a perpetual frown. The second was older, with a fan of long grey hair around his head, crowned with a bald scalp and sad eyes, wearing an iron cuirass.

     

    Taron smiled and waved his hand. “I'm sorry, my friends. I get distracted sometimes.”

     

    “Yeah, whatever you say, Dunmer,” snorted Vorstag and repeated: “So the job?”

     

    “Ah, yes. Recovery of an ancient artifact, travel around Skyrim to find other similar artifacts and then discover a treasure so big it will make all of us famous and rich. It will include routing out competition and getting back what was stolen from me. Grand adventure, if I dare to say.”

     

    Both mercenaries looked at each other, most likely wondering if the Dunmer was sane. He smiled, I wonder that often myself. “Who's the competition?”

     

    “A petty thief, called Greenskin and his mercenary friends.”

     

    Belrand's eyebrows shot upwards and again he exchanged stares with Vorstag. “Greenskin? That means that Slayer and Old Blade are with him. You want us to go against the Goldpact Knight?”

     

    Taron tilted his head. Goldpact Knight? So that's who that old Imperial was. They say they are some of the best mercenaries around. So apparently, his new would-be-employees were aware or maybe even friends with this trio? “So you know them then?”

     

    “Of course we know them,” nodded the older Nord. “Decimus is my friend. Greenskin and Erik are some of the best treasure hunters in Skyrim. To be honest, it isn't business I would like getting myself into.”

     

    “Speak for yourself, grandpa,” growled Vorstag. “I wouldn't mind getting a chance to cross blades with old Decimus.”

     

    “Then you're as stupid as you're young, Vorstag.”

     

    It certainly looked like they might come to blows, so it was a good time for Dreth to intervene. He heard something he didn't want to hear, but any information about the competition could prove valuable. If these men—two of the toughest sellswords in Skyrim—were saying that Greenskin and his allies were formidable enemies, he was willing to accept that. It just proved to him that it wouldn’t suffice to merely hire some random gang of bandits.

     

    “Gentlemen, please. Let's not argue. You both clearly know who we'll be facing. So my question is: would that be a problem?”

     

    Belrand laughed at that, which made Taron smile in return. He didn't know why the Nord was laughing, but he tried to smile anyway.

     

    “Problem?” smiled Belrand. “We're mercenaries. Every problem can be settled with gold,” He chuckled. “So I'm saying this up front, standard contract won't suffice here. You'll pay us seven hundred and fifty Septims, up front. You'll pay for our expenses—food and drink, and in addition to that, we'll be allowed to keep anything we find in those ruins—besides the prize you're looking for. And each of us will get five percent of the earnings gained from the treasure.”

     

    Dreth did the math in his mind and was quite surprised at those numbers. Now he knew why these men were the finest sellswords in Skyrim. They certainly knew how to bargain. I should have hired them in the first place. He was considering bargaining with them, but then again, they seemed to be worth the money. And yet...there was one thing that needed to be settled first.

     

    “Sounds all good, my friend. But tell me honestly. Do you think you two will suffice against the Greenskin and Goldpact Knight, plus any other dangers we might encounter in these Dwemer ruins?” he said, his fingers tapping on the table. They exchanged looks again and Taron expected they would start arguing, bragging, like any other Nords he had met. So he was quite surprised when Vorstag said: “No.”

     

    “So how many men should I hire then?” he raised his slanted eyebrows.

     

    “Eight,” Vorstag said, his frown turning further downwards. “At least eight.”

     

    “In that case, gentlemen, you understand that I can't pay you as much as you are asking me to. I'll give you six hundred gold pieces up front, cover your expenses and give you three percent of the earnings. You'll also be in charge of finding me other mercenaries that would be willing to join us on this grand adventure. Do we have a deal?”

     

    And again, they looked at each other and then both nodded in unison. “We have,” said Belrand. “We'll send couriers to our contacts in Skyrim. People who would be willing to join up. The best of the best, of course.”

     

    “We might need him too,” growled Vorstag.

     

    Him?

     

    Belrand shook his head. “No way, that damn butcher might complicate things way too much.”

     

    “You're just hoping that our superiority in numbers would convince Decimus to give up, Belrand,” answered Vorstag, spitting on the ground, which got him a scowl from the other patrons of the inn. “And what if he won't? The bastard never backs down from his Goldpact. He might be the only one who could force Decimus to retreat. Or kill him.”

     

    Dreth didn't understand who they were talking about, though he got the chills just hearing the way they spoke about this mysterious “him”. But if at least one mercenary believed they might not be up to the job, if they needed someone extra because of that damn Goldpact Knight, he wanted him on board. He cleared his throat and tapped on the table with his hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but who are you talking about?”

     

    Now, it would be nice if they are talking about the Dragonborn, but “butcher” didn’t fit well with local accounts. Still depends on what he had done. Could well be a butcher to his enemies, thought Dreth with a smile. Did they know him perhaps? He had heard precious little about that one. Most of it ramblings off drunk Nords. No name really, though he guessed he wasn’t a Nord, by the way some spit on the floor when they mentioned his deeds in the inns and taverns around Skyrim. Nobody could bloody shoot dragons out of the sky with a bow. Blowing fire and ice out of his mouth. That was preposterous. More than likely, entire units of guards took down the bloody beasts and perhaps he assisted them. Nords were crazy. But still, the Dragonborn, he mused and almost opened his mouth to offer the suggestion, only to pause when he saw Belrand’s face.

     

    Belrand exchanged a worried glance with Vorstag, looked towards the bar and then shifted his attention back to Dreth. He seemed quite nervous, and that was making the Dunmer nervous. “Bleak Walker,” Belrand whispered.

     

    Bleak Walker. Dreth had heard about them. Butchers and killers, all of them. They were a dangerous weapon to wield, but when they were aimed right...if he had one on his side, he knew that Greenskin and his allies would end up dead. Leave the Dragonborn to his business then. Besides, dragons were not something Dreth wanted to deal with on their grand adventure anyway. He had his job. He leaned forward and whispered: “Where can I find one then?”

     

    Vorstag pointed towards the bar, though Taron wasn't sure who he was pointing at in that crowd. “The guy with the ebony sword on his back. Sleeveless armor. Redguard.”

     

    “Then if you´ll excuse me…” Dreth smiled, standing up. He walked towards the bar, carefully picking his way between its patrons and nearly bumping into a wench with tankards full of mead. He apologized to her and scanned the bar.

     

    It took him a few seconds of searching before he found the man—a bulky man with very short hair and a nasty scar on his left cheek—sitting behind the bar in the middle of the crowd. And while he was right in the middle, there was empty space around him, almost as if people were avoiding him for some reason. And Dreth could probably guess why.

     

    There was an aura of fear around the man, something that couldn't really be grasped, but it was there. An intimidating presence. He was wearing a leather vest with iron plate protecting his chest, two sheaths with daggers made an X on his belly, gloves with spiked knuckles, and Dreth saw the hilt over his shoulder—a black hilt with gold and red ornaments.

     

    He was just sitting here, one hand on the counter, the second clutching his tankard, his eyes looking into it. He poured the liquid down his throat with one large gulp, then banged the counter with the tankard. To Taron's surprise, the innkeeper immediately took that tankard, shoved it under the bar and took a new clean one. Within a few seconds the man had a new tankard full of—well, full of whatever he was drinking. How Kleppr heard that particular tankard’s bang was beyond Dreth, but it clearly told him that he should be careful around that man.

     

    Taron Dreth drew a deep breath and headed towards the bar. It took him a while until he got to that man through the crowd, especially while trying not to spill everyone's drinks. When you spill a Nord´s drink, there´s a fight coming. And frankly, I don't want poor Kleppr to clean up the mess after me. My style of fighting is rather messy, lots of burning.

     

    He leaned closer to the Redguard—Redguard? The man was quite pale for a Redguard, but if Vorstag said Redguard, then he believed him. “Excuse me, sir—“

     

    The man's eyes rose from his tankard, finding Dreth's and completely shutting him up. Eyes of light brown, nearly gold in colour, and completely devoid of any emotion or life.  “What the fuck do you want?” the man growled with a deep, thundering voice.

     

    “I don't want to bother you, Sir, just believe me on that—“ Taron started but the man didn't let him finish again.

     

    “Spill it, Dunmer. What do you want?”

     

    “To hire you,” Dreth gulped. “For an expedition—“

     

    “Three thousand.”

     

    Taron's eyes almost popped out of his head. “With that much gold, I could hire six other mercenaries.”

     

    “Then why don't you? It's clear you need me. Three thousand.”

     

    “See, I am hiring more mercenaries,” said Taron, pointing towards his table. “Vorstag and Belrand are two of them. More will come. But they say we might need you. Because we'll be facing a Goldpact Knight.”

     

    The Redguard's eyes never turned away from Dreth, their dead attention always focused on him. When he mentioned Goldpact, he expected some life would flicker in those eyes, but nothing. The Redguard's face remained without expression.

     

    “Four thousand,” the Bleak Walker said, which caught Dreth off guard.

     

    “Excuse me?”

     

    “Goldpact Knight. Higher price. Four thousand,” said the Redguard with a flat voice.

     

    Four thousand was a lot of money, and yes, Dreth could afford that. It would hurt his capital only a little, but still, it was a lot of money. He didn't like it when someone was trying to sell him something that clearly wasn't worth the money. He heard about the Bleak Walkers' reputation as a group, but this Redguard didn’t do anything to convince him he's worth the money. Would the Dragonborn be cheaper? Dreth shook his head, dismissing his notion. No, you don’t want dragons dropping in. They might actually be worse than Bleak Walkers. You can get this Redguard down a couple of thousand...

     

    He was prepared to bargain, opening his mouth, when he noticed how a drunken Nord was getting closer to the Redguard. He was so drunk he probably didn´t even perceive the intimidating aura around the man. “Wow, that'sh a nashty shcar on your fashe, friend.” He leaned closer to study it and spilled some of his mead on the Redguard's arm.

     

    The Bleak Walker just tilted his head and looked at the Nord, and Dreth smiled in anticipation of what had to come. This is getting interesting. Should be educational to see this Redguard beating the shit out of that Nord. Yet, the Redguard somehow managed to surprise him again. Instead of fight, he nonchalantly pulled a dagger from one of the sheaths on his belly and buried it under the Nord's jaw. One of the Nord's eyes popped out of its socket with blood pouring from it, the other was looking at the Redguard in surprise. Then the body fell to the floor and the Redguard set the bloody dagger on the bar.

     

    The whole inn grew silent, everyone gaping at both the dead body and the murderer. The Redguard just drank from his tankard, his eyes again finding its bottom. “You should call the guards, Kleppr. Someone's been murdered,” he said without any emotion, without even raising his voice, yet Dreth didn't doubt everyone in the inn heard him. The Redguard then looked at Taron. “Four thousand. When you make up your mind...I'l be around.” With that, he got up from his chair and left the inn.

     

    After he left, the Silver Blood Inn seemed to take a breath again and people resumed talking, mostly about what had just happened. Dreth was scanning the room, but it seemed that the poor Nord didn´t have any friends here. He decided it might be a good time to get back to his own table, before the guards arrived. Safest city in Skyrim, he thought with a tiny smirk.

     

    He sank into his chair and sighed.

     

    “Didn't go as you planned?” Belrand asked.

     

    Dreth smiled in return. “I'm getting used to it. But I think that this Bleak Walker will prove useful.”

     

    Anyone with such talent for killing will prove useful for what is yet to come.

     

    Author’s Note: Dovahzul translation

     

    Wuth Reymsufro Hofkiin. (Old Fart’s Home)

     

     

Comments

48 Comments   |   Molicha and 3 others like this.
  • Ebonslayer
    Ebonslayer   ·  March 21, 2018
    I'm sad to see Belrand will probably die. He was my favorite Merc and probably my favorite follower overall in vanilla Skyrim.


    Also, during the entirety of the exchange between Erik, Decimus, Albee, Serana, and later Grulmar I was chu...  more
  • Caladran
    Caladran   ·  August 8, 2017
    What a lovely chapter! So much feels. I'm worried about Grulmar and his party, and this Bleak Walker. Something nasty is coming this way!
  • The Sunflower Manual
    The Sunflower Manual   ·  January 3, 2017
    This 'Bleak Walker' must be formidable indeed if he survived long enough to make a name for himself pulling theatrics like that.
    • The Long-Chapper
      The Long-Chapper
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      The Sunflower Manual
      This 'Bleak Walker' must be formidable indeed if he survived long enough to make a name for himself pulling theatrics like that.
        ·  January 3, 2017
      Who cares about the Bleak Walker! The Albee got some. :D
      • Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        The Long-Chapper
        The Long-Chapper
        The Long-Chapper
        Who cares about the Bleak Walker! The Albee got some. :D
          ·  January 3, 2017
        Lol, you´re killing it, Lis :D
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  December 21, 2016
    Glad to see you reading Molicha. 
  • Molicha
    Molicha   ·  December 21, 2016
    It seams the broken orc's party will have to face some pretty nasty ennemies in the future. 
    Get through at least. Why, it's thrilling  : )
    • Karver the Lorc
      Karver the Lorc
      Molicha
      Molicha
      Molicha
      It seams the broken orc's party will have to face some pretty nasty ennemies in the future. 
      Get through at least. Why, it's thrilling  : )
        ·  December 21, 2016
      Yay! Good to see you reading. And yes, they have quite a path ahead of them.

      Also...The Broken Orc´s Party? That an official name now? Sounds like one helluva party :D
      • Molicha
        Molicha
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Karver the Lorc
        Yay! Good to see you reading. And yes, they have quite a path ahead of them.

        Also...The Broken Orc´s Party? That an official name now? Sounds like one helluva party :D
          ·  December 21, 2016
        I don't know their party doesn't have a name doesn't it ? It's just that Grulmar received a wicked beating, so he is broken for now x) 
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 28, 2016
    Thanks Phil and Exuro. Yeah, I couldn't wait for the Albee to get some either. 
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  June 28, 2016
    The opening pages of chapter two were certainly riveting. The return of "Fangs" and her steamy relationship with Harbenronnie definitely made me smile, along with references to Dibellan Bites. Just when I thought things were going to get really pornograph...  more
  • Exuro
    Exuro   ·  June 19, 2016
    i thought I was going to have to wait until the end of Book 2 for Albee to finally get some Mean Avengers team, not letting him take a vacation.
    That bleak walker is a certified bad-ass
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 10, 2016
    Thanks, gnewna. I am sorry I put you through so much squeeeeeing. 
  • Gnewna
    Gnewna   ·  June 10, 2016
    Oh dear, I think I just squee-ed myself to death...