Try as he might, Emeros struggled to shake off the unease that overtook him the moment he laid eyes on the stranger. Bloodied and half-alive, leaning against a bale of hay with his canary hair mussed in all directions, he found it hard to believe the Altmer were a bandit, let alone a bandit who survived against warriors like the Alik'r. And try as he might, he could not shake the slight current of lightning that stung under their feet as they'd approached the Altmer, the kind he'd encountered only a handful of times in his life, a hallmark of a well-trained Illusion mage. He looked between Athenath and Wyndrelis, his eyes trailing the backs of their heads, preferring to stay a few inches behind them since the encounter, attention darting to the landscape here and there. Glancing down at the map in his hands, he examined the ink he'd laid down that morning, the little crossing of a settlement that bore no name. Would there be an inn? Would the trio have to sleep outside, make a camp?
He found himself thankful they'd picked up bedrolls in Belethor's shop. The roads twists and snaking paths encouraged the idea further that they'd be camping a night or two on this road, and with the sun lower along the mountain edges, the possibility morphed into reality, if night set in.
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"But I don't want to be safe!"
The door to the inn creaked open, evening air bringing with it a chill over the hearth in the center of the building. By the time they had reached the tiny settlement - Rorikstead, he'd learn its name was - night settled thick around them, the horizon pulling a darkness over the landscape. The other two Mer had insisted that they should keep walking, that the settlement couldn't be that far, and Emeros complied with the odds stacked against him. Better to let it be and see if they made it to the town than to try to change two minds at once. Masser bled a deep, red light on the plains, the silver gleam of Secunda shifting the hue, the snow on the mountain peaks blush-pink in the combination.
The voice caught Emeros' ears as the three slipped inside, the innkeeper rubbing at his temples as he carried on with the same bickering that must happen here every night, based on the looks on both the men's faces. The trio stood at the door with the level of discomfort that arose when walking in on a conversation none of them were supposed to overhear, the younger man leaned against the bar with his hands splayed on the wooden surface, his protests continuing.
"I'm not afraid of the dangers out there. The only thing I'm afraid of is wasting my life here, in the middle of nowhere."
"Yes, that's your mother's side of the family talking." The innkeeper let out a slow exhale, a memory as bittersweet as Nibenese wine playing in his voice, "just stay on for one more season, that's all I ask."
At this, his son pressed his firm palms against the bar, momentum pushing his posture up as he stepped away, plopping indignantly atop a bench at one of the long tables in the ancient inn, polishing the buckle of a belt he'd laid on the wooden surface. All the while, his incoherent grumbles kept his lips moving.
The Bosmer stepped forward, his stride brisk, catching the attention of the innkeeper. He was an aging man, probably in his fifties or near sixties, his moustache and beard neatly trimmed, with thick wrinkles lining his forehead from years of worrying over the man who sat on a bench nearby. A few scars lined his hands and arms, once-deep wounds now only stripes on his tanned skin from years of hard labor, his figure formidable, even in the later years of his life.
"Excuse me," Emeros gave a polite smile, his posture straightening, "would it be possible for us to rent a room for the night?"
The Nord looked him up and down, as though surprised he were here at all. Apparently, Emeros surmised, they don't get a lot of business, especially from Mer who found themselves in the middle of nowhere on a chilly night. "Certainly. If you need a meal or a room, I've got both." He seemed half-distracted, flitting his attention between the strangers and his son.
"Excellent," he hummed as he gestured for his companions to join him. Wyndrelis immediately made the walk over, Athenath giving curious glances to the innkeeper's son, who locked eyes with him from his seat.
"If I can ask, are you three adventurers?" He leaned his elbow onto the table, setting the belt he'd been polishing aside. Emeros turned his attention to the younger Nord, tugging his cowl down from the top of his head, the green fabric slumping along his shoulders.
"I would hardly say adventurers, but... Yes, we're travelers," Emeros answered, exhaustion beginning to drag his words down. Between the past week, the stranger on the road, and the long day spent walking to the town, the thought of a warm bed and a warm meal was enough to leave him practically wilting with want.
"Great! My name's Erik. My father, Mralki-"
"Erik," Mralki warned, "come now, these strangers look like they've had a long day." The older man turned to the three, pressing his weathered palms to the surface of the counter. "I'm sorry about him. He's always had such an... Adventurous spirit."
Athenath shrugged. They didn't say anything, but there was a look dawning on his face that told Emeros that the Altmer was just as drawn to talk to the Nord as Erik was to him. Maybe once, long ago, Athenath had been in the same position, Emeros theorized as he spoke with Mralki. The bard turned, looking around the empty inn, the crackling of the hearth and Erik's furious polishing the only noise to interrupt the dim. "I take it you don't get much business around here."
"Not in a while, no," Mralki replied, his voice plain, "not since Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion started a new war. This is a peaceful town," he explained, leaning forward, elbow resting on the bar as he gestured to the room around them, "we're simple farmers, you see, but since Ulfric used the power of the voice to kill the High King, we've seen nothing but trouble. But, at least I have my son, stubborn as he is," he jabbed with a grin, Erik looking up for a moment from his task, huffing, and returning to his work. "Come, let me show you three to your room. You must be weary."
"Extremely," Wyndrelis muttered. Emeros turned his attention to the Dunmer, the revelation dawning on him that he'd not said a word since they'd found that so-called bandit among the carnage, simply communicated in nods and gestures of agreement when Athenath insisted the trio keep walking. He wondered if the mage, like himself, held suspicions as to the true nature of the events that transpired at the ruined fort.
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The bed had welcomed the three with open arms. They'd talked about getting dinner, or at least something to bite on, but the moment they had kicked off their boots and settled their belongings in the chest at the foot of the bed, they found the blankets all too irresistible, the pillows too well-carved to their heads, the mattress perfectly soft from wear over the years, and the droning of insects outside and crackling of the hearth like a lullaby. The road had taken more time than anticipated, and more energy than any of them had known it would.
They slept well into the morning, and by the time Emeros stirred, it was to the crack of thunder and the drumming fingertips of rain against the roof.
"Gods," he murmured, rolling over on his back. He turned his head to see the still closed-eyed forms of his friends, watching them carefully in the dim, cloud-covered light. He didn't want to wake them, but if they were planning to stumble out of their room before noon, he'd have to. "I don't think today's our day to travel," he said in a louder tone, loud enough to rouse Wyndrelis, who shoved Athenath's shoulder after a moment. The Altmer simply clutched the blankets tighter around himself.
"Why's that?" The bard asked, voice barely audible, sleep still dragging at the edges of his consciousness.
"Listen."
The pattering of rain against the walls and windows caught the younger elf off-guard. They popped one dark eye open, listening closer now.
"Storms," Wyndrelis stated plainly as he stretched, bags under his eyes not fading even after the long, welcome sleep. The three laid there a while, listening to the roll of thunder or the occasional wind picking up the rain and slamming it firmly into the side of the inn, the draft that dampened the building and carried its humidity over their tired forms. It was a lucky thing they'd gotten on the road the day before, then, else they'd be stuck in Whiterun for gods know how much longer. Emeros silently wondered how long this storm would last, and if it would mean being stranded in Rorikstead for more than one day. The trip to Solitude was already a long one, but to stretch it out would be less than ideal.
Athenath huffed loudly, sitting up and tossing the blankets off himself as he scooted to the end of the bed. He'd slept against the wall last night, curled up facing it, habit of blanket-thievery continuing. Emeros had managed to cling hard enough to his side to keep himself warm, something he figured he would learn to do without a single thought if they all continued their travels together after Solitude. He watched the other as they pulled their boots from the floor, curls mussed, straightening out their tunic. "I'm gonna get something to eat, you two can sleep in if you want."
"I believe we're all awake," Emeros replied as he sat upright, and at the mention of breakfast, his own desire to leave the thick blankets rose. It sounded like a very good idea. The alchemist pulled the blankets down from himself and shuddered at chill that rose to meet him. He wondered if Athenath so much as sensed the cold, the Mer showing no reaction when they'd left the warmth, instead getting ready and rushing out the door with easy steps the moment he had his boots on. He drew in a breath, the humidity of the outside storm drawing into the building, a permeation of thunder through the walls, crackling of lightning far beyond Rorikstead.
Wyndrelis raked his fingers through his ink-black hair, still looking as though he'd not slept nearly enough. Perhaps he'd used too much magicka yesterday healing that stranger, the vision still haunting Emeros after a long night's rest. With a clearer head and ample time to think about it, the doubts settled in and made a nest in the pit of his gut. Who was that Mer? He didn't catch a name, none of them did. If they had, maybe it would be easier. A name told much about a person, especially, judging by his accent, coming from Alinor.
The Bosmer's thoughts clouded with the memory of the prior day as he stood, cowl resting on the nightstand next to Wyndrelis' glasses and Athenath's amulet. He stared at the assortment of items for a moment, his interest locked onto one belonging in particular. Gingerly, he took the amulet into his hand, examining its carved surface, the interlocking, woven patterns of Mara's sign. The gem in the middle was a bright, turquiose stone, its once perfectly spherical shape rubbed slightly flat with the years. He turned the amulet around, spotting the inscription that had caught his eye before.
Too bad he couldn't read it. From his best guess, it was in Ta'agra, which raised more questions than answers. He furrowed his brow, bringing it closer to his face. He could read several languages, but now he cursed himself for not seeking out the chance to learn Ta'agra when he'd been on the road for so long and spent so much time among the Khajiit caravans, since they'd taken the same routes, and traveling in numbers had been the best safety precaution through many of those years.
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"What is it?" Wyndrelis asked, startling the alchemist. He spun on his heel as he caught sight of the Dunmer, whose circle-rimmed eyes and half-asleep expression made him look more agitated than usual. That was simply how his face sat, apathetic and cold, even in many of the moments he seemed to be enjoying himself. Emeros held out the amulet.
"Athenath's amulet. There's something written on the back, but I'm afraid I can't read it."
Wyndrelis pursed his lips. "Let me see."
Emeros handed it over, watching the leather cord chain droop into the Dunmer's cupped palms. Wyndrelis held it up to the light, and skimming the writing several times, he shrugged and set it back on the nightstand. A beat passed, then he began to push at the chain with his index finger, shifting it into a position where it looked as though it hadn't been disturbed since the moment the bard had taken it off. He rubbed the lens of his glasses against the smooth fabric of his tunic and stretched, turning his eyes back to the Bosmer.
"I have no idea what it says," he said, "but we could ask them, if you want."
"Absolutely not, he doesn't need to know we were-"
"Hey," Athenath called from the doorway, leaning against its frame, "what did that bandit say? About uh, curved swords?"
"Curved swords?" Emeros repeated, ensuring he heard the other right. Athenath nodded.
"Yep. Curved swords."
He paused, watching as Athenath's brow narrowed and Wyndrelis stood still, his own eyes moving from one of his companions to the other. The canary-haired Mer had described them as warriors, and Emeros had met plenty of warriors who carried curved swords. He toed closer to the doorway and peered out into the hall, his intrigue entirely taking up his thoughts.
Two men sat in the further corner of the inn, drinking something and talking quietly to one another. Their clothing, their postures, everything about them reeled with the familiarity of his time in Hammerfell. The only question was why, why were Alik'r warriors in Skyrim? He'd had a few unpleasant run-ins with Thalmor hired warriors during the aftermath of the Great War, lucky not to be their target. He would mind his business and pretend not to see them if he could help it, if he knew that they were hired by the Dominion. Thalmor gold was a motivator for many things. And if the Thalmor couldn't enter Whiterun Hold due to Jarl Balgruuf's neutrality, then it made sense to hire Alik'r warriors, but...
He thought back to Belethor. His stomach churned. He glanced to the chest holding Athenath's knapsack.
He caught the nervous shuffling of his friends' feet, realizing the silence had stretched on far too long, and looked to the pair. "You two go get breakfast," he waved his hand. "I need a moment more to wake up, I'm afraid."
Athenath left, returning moments later with a platter of the slim breakfast options in this town. No coffee here, just water, milk, or ale. This town was far too out of the way for any merchants from Whiterun to show up with imported goods, so whatever was grown or butchered or foraged locally was all that made itself available, especially with the Civil War disrupting the entirety of the province. Athenath removed the tankards from the platter and set them out, sighing dramatically as he flung himself into a chair.
"Gods, I just wanna get to Solitude," they groaned, picking up a wooden spoon, a bowl of warm porridge before them.
"I know," Emeros rolled his eyes, grinning as he spoke, "but even if the storm were to let up soon, we'd be traveling in mud."
"We can withstand some mud." Wyndrelis took a seat at the table. He had a point, but it didn't seem that any of them exactly wanted to brave the soggy terrain right now. Emeros joined his two friends, and through breakfast, they sat and planned out their next moves. Once the rain stopped, they'd wait a few more hours and then leave, so that the ground had a chance to swallow up the downpour. The road to Solitude wasn't too much longer now, but it was no use risking it being a miserable experience. Emeros didn't want to chance any of them growing ill out here. He only had a few healing potions, and it wasn't worth getting sick and using them all up.
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It wasn't hard for Erik to grab Athenath's attention. His curiosity had been thoroughly piqued from the moment the trio had made their way into the inn, striding over to talk with him. Wyndrelis, needing the calm and quiet of it, had decided to remain in their room.
This left Emeros to speak with the Alik'r warriors.
He'd known many, spending several years in Hammerfell both during and after the Great War, even becoming friends with a handful of the traveling mercenaries. But the more he thought about Belethor and the Thalmor and the book Athenath had stolen and what the Thalmor would do to get any mention of Talos or anything associated with him, his heart would pick up speed, his sternum would batter at itself like rushed knocking at a door. There was an ache at his chest that he could not subdue. He would try, but it rose up against him as turbulent as the seas anyways.
He told himself, you don't know for sure. So, he would speak with them, and ask if they were here for business or leisure. Honestly, if the dragons hadn't returned and he'd not been at Helgen and there were not a raging Civil War, Skyrim would be good place to get away for a while, provided one could withstand it.
One was shorter, with a shaven head and short beard. The man sipped from a warm tankard, his hands wrapped around it to keep them warm. The taller of the pair had a square jaw and a heavy brow, eyes consistently turning to the door, as if he were hoping the weather would ease any moment now, and the pair could be on their way. Emeros did his best to stop his pulse from rattling in his chest as he approached, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.
"Gentlemen," he began, the pair looking up from their chairs at him, "are you waiting out the rain as well?"
"Indeed," the shorter one replied, setting his tankard aside. "We're waiting for these storms to pass. Wish we'd known they were coming in in the first place, but it beats getting caught in them."
"Certainly," he chuckled, relaxing. The shorter man gestured for him to sit at the table near their chairs, and he did, resting his elbow on the wooden surface. "My friends and I are heading to Solitude, in search of the Bard's College. Particularly," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Athenath, whose laugh bounced through the air like bells, "he's the one seeking it out. Myself and our other companion," he then gestured to the doorway of the shared room, "are simply accompanying for the time being."
"Ah, the Bard's College," sighed the shorter one dreamily, "you know, I've thought of going that way myself to browse the instrument displays, there. Or, around this time of year... tell me, are you familiar with the Burning of King Olaf?" Emeros shook his head. The man leaned forward, his companion giving him a smirk as he splayed his hands out. "It's a great celebration held by the College every year. They put on plays for it, and the whole city is decorated for the affair. I'd love to go there, but," he sat back with a sigh, "well, we're here on business, you see."
Emeros' heart dropped. He concealed his nerves. "Truly? What sort of business?"
"We're looking for someone. Redguard, like us," the smaller man gestured between himself and his companion, "she's supposed to be somewhere in Whiterun Hold. Unfortunately, due to a... Misunderstanding with the guards of Whiterun city, we're not allowed within the walls at the moment."
The immense relief washed over him in one sturdy wave, the knowledge that Belethor's missing tome was not the reason they were here. Still, at the mention of an incident in the city, his intrigue bled into an arc of the brow and a slant of his posture forward.
"Can't do anything with this rain," the taller warrior made a small gesture to the door, leaning back against his chair with a sigh. He couldn't be much older than the other man, who rubbed at his jaw contemplatively for a moment before he leaned forward in his seat, glancing to the other Mer, busy in conversation with Erik. He glanced back to Emeros.
"Maybe you could help us, actually," the bearded man said, a gleam in his eye from the hearth's flames, "she's likely not using her real name, but again, we can't exactly check, ourselves. If you happen to be going through Whiterun in the near future, we'll pay you for any information you may have of our query."
He thought it over. He had no idea what he was getting into, should this come back to bite him. Yes, they were not after Belethor, but what woman could they be trying to track down, and why? The alchemist rolled the memory of the fort over in his mind like a bundle of dried herbs between his fingers, the sight of the canary-haired Altmer blooming again to the surface in this dim hall. He leaned back onto his elbow, head cocked.
"That sounds like quite an offer. My companions and I would be happy to assist you. I have to say, after finding the bandits you two took on, I'd worry if I were one of your targets. Especially if that's how you can fight when outnumbered." The pair's faces grew grave. Emeros said it like a joke, with a grin on his mouth and a small, breathy chuckle leaving his lips, but the moment he caught their expressions, his face fell.
Both of the men looked to one another uneasily. "Bandits?" The taller one asked, voice lowering. Emeros knit his brow. His chest tightened again.
"Yes, I'm... my friends and I, we passed a fort coming out of Whiterun. We came across quite a sight, the only survivor said he was a bandit, that he and his compatriots tried to rob you," Emeros explained. The pair hung on tight to every word, as though each detail contained the smallest bit of information that might save or end a life, balancing precariously on the Bosmer's tongue.
"Did you see where this survivor went?" The taller one asked. The shorter of the warriors leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he listened to Emeros, who shook his head. This was true - he did not see where the Altmer went, the trio had gone on their way before he'd made a decision on which path to take, and they certainly didn't see him here and now, in Rorikstead. At this, they both exchanged looks, something akin to concern riddling their features. No, not concern, Emeros realized, but a solemn note of confusion, tinged with something heavier.
"Those were no bandits," the shorter warrior spoke quietly, "I'm afraid those were Thalmor. Gods know how they got into Whiterun Hold. We were attacked, one of them threatened us, and we fought back. I thought we..."
The room spun. The floor cracked open. The roar of the hearth rumbled louder than the thunder outside in Emeros' ears. The burning in his chest was replaced by hammering, anxious, the shaking of his palms. Thalmor. How could they get into Whiterun Hold? But he remembered how they were dressed, and didn't the young man say he knew Illusion magic?
"You look tense, friend," the shorter warrior noted, his tone sturdy and low. Emeros hadn't realized his nails digging into the knees of his trousers, the fabric tight under his palms. He unclenched his hands. Breathed out.
"Apologies. I suppose that finding out any Thalmor have gotten this far into Skyrim startled me, is all," he explained. He glanced to Athenath, talking with Erik and listening to the younger Nord tell stories of his life in Rorikstead. The Altmer looked intrigued, a grin on his mouth as they stood there while Erik polished dishes and trays for his father. Emeros turned his eyes to the trio's room, Wyndrelis likely reading or examining the map or listening to the rain, he couldn't see the Dunmer to be sure. He knew the mage was exhausted from yesterday, he saw the circles under his eyes earlier and he knew that he'd used more magicka than necessary to heal the canary-haired Altmer - the Thalmor agent, Emeros thought bitterly - but how? Had there been something he'd missed so thoroughly that he helped a Thalmor agent and didn't notice? Had Wyndrelis, too, sensed something, and it kept him up all night? He wasn't sure, but Emeros settled on one thing.
He was not going to tell them. He would keep this to himself.
He turned back to the warriors, the taller of the pair tugging a cloak from his knapsack that he'd set beside his chair, draping it over his lap. The chill of the rain dragged in from under the door, and Emeros wished to himself he'd brought his own cloak to use as a quick blanket. He folded his arms over his middle, fingers clasping together neatly, all the information he'd gleaned within the past hour congealing together into a delicate portrait of the day before. A Thalmor agent had attacked the Alik'r warriors, they fought back, and accidentally left one survivor. Gods, and the trio had sent him to Whiterun. His blood ran cold as he thought of Heimskr. He may not like the man, certainly, but...
"May I ask about your target? If I'm to help you find her," he made a small gesture with his hand, "I'd like some information as to why you're seeking her out."
"We're hired to make sure she is returned to face trial for her crimes. She sold out a city to the Dominion," the taller warrior replied. "Though, maybe we should hesitate to trust you." His voice, still level, still calm, gave only hints of the well-trained venom beneath. The fact that the trio had aided the scraggly Thalmor agent dissolved much of the good-natured air between the three. Even though it was a mistake, that he didn't know who this person was and that he lied to them, it still found a way to bite into what had been a burgeoning friendly acquaintanceship.
"I was raised by my Altmeri family, but I assure you, I've no allegiance nor fondness for the Dominion. None of us do, truth be told."
Both of the Alik'r warriors glanced between one another. "How can we be sure?" The taller of the pair asked. Emeros tapped his fingers together and gave it some thought, allowing the crackling of the hearth and the distant conversations of his friends to filter through the swirling tension that surrounded the three men.
"The Dominion has taken much from me. I suspect the same can be said of you. In fact," he tugged at the chance for snaring information of his own, leaning closer, speaking in a low voice, "if I do help you, then perhaps there's something you can assist me with, as well."