Don't Drink a Gift-Bottle in the Road, DAY 8

"Upon the road, our mighty hero and his loyal companions journeyed. The way back to shining Whiterun, much easier to find, for following the road, than the little village of Ivarstead, or the harrowing Throat of the World Mountain. Perhaps the Dragonborn had been humbled by the four days lost wandering in the wilderness. Perhaps he had learned a lesson on patience after his mighty shouting battle with the four mighty Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Perhaps being set-upon by a strange group of cultists immediately upon being recognized as Dragonborn had dulled the blade of his impertinence. Perhaps his road of errors and missteps would one day lead him to--"

"I didn't see you helping for any of that. I'm getting more and more concerned about this whole 'being followed by a bard to record my epic journey' thing. Who was it that you said sent you, anyway?"

The bosmer bard turned up her chin at the argonian's criticism.

"Artists are never appreciated in their time."

"Some are never appreciated at all." Inigo muttered, only a little resentfully.

"I was sent," Astra began dramatically, "By Dibella herself, divine of beauty and art! Through the mighty aedric oracle of Nevenwood, I was enlightened and told that it was my destiny to follow and illuminate the path of the savior of Mundus, the legendary Dragonborn!"

There was a silence as the bard stared meaningfully into the sky and then dropped her pose.

Rach coughed.

"So.... Dibella, huh?"

She rounded on him in an instant change of demeanor.

"Don't you even start! I'm so sick of people assuming Dibella is just about... reproduction. She is the divine of beauty! That covers the arts, songs, all manner of crafts and revelries! But no, every slack-jawed, dirt-licking, mouth-breather just hears the name 'Dibella' and start to giggle like adolescent schoolchildren!"

The group walked in silence after Astra's outburst. Behind them, Lydia sniffed.

"So what kinds of revelries?" Rach asked.

This set Inigo to giggling and Astra to glaring.

"But really though," the lizard continued, "I'm confused how this story is going to turn out. Because you keep saying 'mighty hero' in ways that make me think you really mean... what was it... 'slack-jawed dirt-licking...'?"

"Mouth-breather." Lydia added.

"Yes, Lydia. Thank you."

Astra closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to soothe her just fury. The dragonborn delighted in trying and heckling her every chance he got. Still, it wasn't his fault he was an uncultured reprobate. Once she had suitably calmed herself, she spoke very simply and using small words.

"You must trust me, Dragonborn."

"Wingcutter."

"You must trust me, Wingcutter. When I am done, your tale will be one of triumph in spite of all manner of obstacles. A ballad for the ages. Of course I must play up your mistakes early on, it makes you seem more flawed and vulnerable than you let on. If I sound overly critical, it is simply because you are merely TOO perfect for an audience to believe could be real."

Rach squinted at the bard. She was smiling now, serenely, as if talking to a child.

"Are you just flattering me so I'll be more cooperative?"

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"Maybe," the Blue Khajiit added, clearly amused, "but she is not wrong. We all have our flaws, but I do think you are going to prove quite the hero."

"Oh fine. But I do have one request though."

"What is it, mighty Wingcutter?"

Rach squinted suspiciously again.

"When you say my name, you keep saying 'Ratch.' You need to say it more like Rock, but with phlegm."

"I'll do my best."

"Hand over your gold!"

Rach and Astra suddenly stopped short, with inigo bumping into them and Lydia bumping into him. Before them was a nord in tattered rags, wielding a rusty knife. He waved it in the air menacingly at his victims.

"I mean it! Everything you got!"

Rach looked back towards his three very well armed and armored companions with some disbelief.

"Is... is he talking to us?"

"I think so. I don't see anyone else around," Inigo responded. "Maybe he is drunk or crazy?"

"Maybe he got bit by a crazy person!" Lydia suddenly exclaimed, drawing her axe.

Rach shook his head. "No, Lydia, that is werewolves. You're thinking of werewolves."

"Sir..." Inigo said, stepping forward, "if you are determined to die, we will be happy to oblige you. It does seem a waste though, as I assume someone somewhere probably... wait..."

Inigo gave the air a long sniff and shuddered. Stepping back to the Argonian, he put a hand to cover his mouth and muttered to Rach:

"Skooma. His breath reeks of it."

"I have a knife!"

"Yes we know, shut up a minute!" Inigo snapped before turning back to Rach. "How do you want to handle this?"

Rach thought a minute as the unstable addict twitched and glared, his knife trembling in his hand. After a few long moments the argonian heaved a big sigh. He dug into his pack and withdrew a thin purple vial.

"Okay friend, I'll make you a deal. If you drop the knife, you can have this skooma. Okay? Fair? The knife... for the skooma."

The nord's eyes shifted back and forth between the knife and the bottle. They glazed over just from looking at the little purple glass. He threw down the knife.

"Give it to me! Please! I need it!"

Inigo was about to congratulate his friend on an effective ploy when the argonian tossed the bottle to the pathetically begging Nord. Inigo nearly choked.

"What are you doing?! Why would you give him the skooma!? It would be less cruel to simply have killed the poor wretch than to feed his addiction!" Inigo was suddenly angry at his friend, which was not a common occurrence.

Only a few nights before, in the little Vilemyr Inn, Inigo had confessed to Rach his own checkered past involving tragedy, not a little bit of it tied in with a skooma addiction the Khajiit had only recently broken. He was more offended that, knowing his past, Rach would so disregard him.

The desperate man didn't hesitate to pry open the little bottle and dump the contents down his throat. The argonian just watched. The man froze, a look of shock on his face... and fell over stuck in that exact position.

Inigo's anger turned to surprise, and then annoyance.

"You could have warned me."

"Sorry. I told you I'd find a use for all those empty bottles we found, though, right? Little bit of tree fungus, impstool and canis root always does the trick. Hey, Lydia, would you pick him up and carry him? We're only a mile or s from Whiterun, maybe that priestess Danica can do something for him."

"Of course." The houscarl agreed, moving in to accomplish the task.

Inigo glared at Rach.

"You have a kind heart, and a promising future, my friend, but you sure can be a... Lydia! Stop biting him! Why would you do that?!"