Kathodos: A Return of Exiles
- Thread starter Docta Corvina
- Start date
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Aww, haha! Poor Sjadbek! 
I am very glad that this chapter makes you happy, however. And thanks for reading and commenting once more! It's always greatly appreciated! =)
I am very glad that this chapter makes you happy, however.
And thanks for reading and commenting once more! It's always greatly appreciated! =)
Jersey Dagmar
Just in time for the fiyahworks show! BOOM!
LOL Penelope probably did follow Hadvar, but who is to say Penelope is even the Dragon born.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Aye, she did indeed follow Hadvar, Bulba. And as for the Dragonborn part, more shall be revealed in time.
Jersey Dagmar
Just in time for the fiyahworks show! BOOM!
A Breton? The Dragonborn? That's laughable.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Bretons are badasses too, kthx
bulbaquil
...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Bretons are badasses too, kthx
Case in point: Delphine and Mercer.
Also, what makes me think Penelope is the Dragonborn is the fact that there "may be spoilers for the main story".
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
OMG how did I miss this reply of yours, Bulba? D: I swear sometimes I just don't get alerts for things around here. Argh...
Needless to say, I wholly approve/concur!
Even though I don't much care for Delphine's attitude, she does get things done. Mercer --> Exemplary Breton BadassAnd hehe, indeed. I hope to begin delving into that side of things soon as well.
bulbaquil
...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Needless to say, I wholly approve/concur!
I feel much the same way about Delphine.
Sjadbek's thoughts on the matter are basically as follows: "Thanks for the help, and I really like your inn, and Riverwood's a great town and all... but I'm not in the business of backstabbing my friends and allies, even if they happen to be... well, you know. You want Mephala or Jarl Igmund for that."
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Chapter 5
Mercer had not been seen since his latest interrogation of Delvin and Vex in the Flagon. And while most were breathing a bit more easily because of his absence, Brynjolf was only growing more concerned. He paced the length of the thieves’ bar and the Cistern, speaking scarcely a word. After attracting a number of odd glances in the latter area, he retired to the Flagon for his own round of questioning. Delvin shared some of his concern, though he was decidedly more upbeat – at least outwardly so. He filled a tankard for the redheaded man beside him; Vex, also sharing their table, only continued silently snacking on a small loaf of bread. She would look up every now and then in acknowledgment, but she decided to keep her opinions muted – after all, they were not quite as compassionate.
“Don’t trouble yourself too much about it yet, Bryn. You know ol’ Mercer disappears on us from time to time. It’s just his way.”
Even the most hopeful of Delvin’s smiles could not assuage the Nord’s quiet panic. The latter just stared downward at the table, past the table.
“Just doesn’t seem right. I’m not one for omens and all that sort of thing, but I honestly can’t shake this feeling.”
Delvin vainly nudged the tankard closer to the distressed man, flashing him another warm grin.
“What you need is some rest anyway, Bryn. You been worryin’ yourself near sick with everything lately. You always do. But I gotta tell ya, things are lookin’ up. No, it ain’t perfect, but I think we’ve finally turned the corner. And that’s how I know this ain’t anything to worry about.”
Brynjolf finally lifted his gaze from the table, offering a meek smile of his own. His soft voice ever so slightly shook.
“I know Mercer can take care of himself just fine. It’s Nell. She’s been gone for days without even a word either.”
The slam of a mug on an adjacent table startled all present, forcing them to jump in their chairs. Then came the familiar scornful voice.
“Why do you care so much, Bryn?”
Tonilia had been doing her best to listen in on the conversation across the way, scowling at every second or third word. Mead usually tempered that spite to some degree, but this day her surliness went unchanged - perhaps even had been heightened.
Brynjolf merely shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. It was not altogether easy to bring the man to anger. And even when it did occur his aggravation was nearly always controlled, subdued. Almost polite. Most thought better of pushing him to that point; most saw no need to ever do so. But of course there were some who seemed to always let their private animosities prevail. The Redguard woman had always been one such soul. And she readily railed against Brynjolf’s silence.
“She knew the rules going into this thing. If she did something stupid and Mercer wants her head for it, that’s her own fault. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about or trouble yourself with. At the end of the day, she’s hardly family.”
With the venom of that final word, Brynjolf stood up from the table and shot Tonilia a harsh though clearly pained glare. He wanted to fire back, to lash out. The anxiety in him was now channeled into dread anger. But after allowing himself a heavy sigh, he too decided to walk away from it. All in the Flagon watched as he left to re-enter the Cistern, from which he would go top-side for air - and a chance to mull things over without castigation. After he exited the bar, all looks shifted to the Redguard woman at her lonely table. Still defiant, she sneered at the attention.
“What?! You know I’ve only said everything that you all damn well think but would never have the guts to! It’s pathetic.”
No one answered her charge with more than their own disapproving head-shakings. They all knew better. And wondered why Tonilia, who was by no means a new arrival herself, did not know as much as they.
After ascending to street level, the brisk breeze was a welcome companion. Late afternoon had seen most people in town scatter to their respective corners for the day. Riften was quiet. And as he was nursing a fresh headache, Brynjolf was quite glad for that. He slowly made his way near the marketplace, glancing at his fellow merchants languishing in their boredom. As soon as he glimpsed his stall, his own thoughts drifted here and there, ghostly echoes of past conversations rising and falling. Keeping his eyes on that weather-beaten stand, he leaned against the south face of the Bee and Barb. The present soon fell away from his sight, shimmering and melting into the busy and bright morning of all those weeks ago. Her light, unsure steps clicking on the ground, her twisting shadow, the coy clearing of her throat - it all bore out in his memory as clearly as the previous day.
He did not even need to see her to know she was a newcomer to Riften. The slowness of her pace, the way that she barely touched her heels to ground, told him all. No doubt she had heard the mutterings about the fading city and all of her defenses were up. Eyes would surely be darting back and forth, searching for the treacherous cad wearing ragged clothes and a crooked grin. And she would still be searching and scanning the crowd as he approached her; she wouldn’t even notice he was there until he spoke to her and broke her nervous trance. His warm yet knowing smile would calm her skittishness. Her pockets were undoubtedly and piteously light. But for someone who seemed a hapless traveler on the surface, she certainly possessed conviction. It was anchored in those eyes, that poise. She seemed an intriguing paradox.
Of course potential recruits were becoming harder to convince lately. For all of his charms, he would still more often be met with a single raised eyebrow and a dismissive sigh as the mark pushed past him. He thus expected her to answer his proposition with contempt. And while she had indeed countered his comments about her modest purse with an affable sarcasm, after a few moments of obvious thought she surprised him with a smirk and a strong handshake. As he smiled back at her, he was certain that she knew more about Riften than any fresh visitor. Initial shy steps did not do her justice. Those soulful eyes bespoke a wisdom, an awareness, a determination. Even as they shook hands in acknowledgement of the deal, he nearly felt that she possessed a knowledge of him that opposed all logic. But he quickly dismissed it in his mind, citing weariness and a resulting susceptibility to worry.
With the collaboration agreed upon he would make his way back to his stall, only to have the young woman eventually make her way to it after inspecting the wares hawked by the other merchants. Dark brows wrinkled thoughtfully as she stopped to listen to him proclaim his elixir’s many miracles. She could not hold back a playful grin at his mention of a saber cat’s vitality while he rattled off the bottled benefits.
To his relief, the two would execute the veteran thief’s plan without mishap. He could tell she was not thrilled with the hauling off of the Dark Elf he called Brand-Shei, but she trusted his assertions that the latter’s stint in Riften’s jail would be relatively short-lived. In fact, she sternly made him promise it. And from that moment, while he had just seen proof of her talent and ability to be quite the asset, one to even impress their cynical Guild Master, he also knew that she was different. There was no denying it. But it was a pleasant sort of difference. As he left her with an invitation to seek him out at the Ragged Flagon, he half-wondered if she would follow through on it. Spirited as she was, she had assured him of an impending visit. And this pledge pleased him. He knew most would eventually warm up to her and sincerely welcome her to the outfit. Conversely there were some who he knew would greet her with little more than a skeptical if not bitter side glance – and he wondered how she would handle it. Not least of all, he was a bit uneasy about the Guild’s irascible leader. But the girl had her own charm and turn of phrase that he believed would work in her favor and compel even the most cantankerous to give her a chance.
As the weeks went by, his gamble had proven a good one. The young Breton woman had impressed at every turn, sometimes asking a few too many questions about marks and what earned them the Guild’s attention. She never really ascertained a career thief’s detachment. But all in all, she was a boon. Delvin certainly saw her as much, attributing to her presence a striking shift in fortune and a palpable newfound optimism. Even Mercer could not deny her knack for the trade, nonetheless eying her suspiciously. Efficient to a fault, she was relentless in her quickness and precision when it came to her assignments, never gone more than a day at a time. She would rise early in the morning, often before dawn, make great haste as far as Markarth and return the following day, all the more eager for her next job. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, they had collectively come to rely on her. And while her success delighted most, it almost seemed to chafe a few others. Brynjolf took quiet pride in his “new prodigy”, offering praise and friendly concern for her day to day welfare. Daily chats, once brief, became longer and more frequent.
Eventually the two would move such post-job talks out of the Flagon and Cistern and to the world above ground. The Bee and Barb became a favorite place for good ale and even better conversation. It was a decidedly fine line they initially walked, the line between business partners and genuine friends. But it was a line they had no qualms finally crossing with the passage of enough time. Still, even despite their complementary personalities and shared laughter, there was always a hesitance on the part of the Nord. During their talks, he never seemed too keen on speaking at length about himself or his past, rather simply answering questions with general statements and a readiness to shift the subject at hand. She would soon discover that coupled with this distance was an obvious long-held aversion to any sort of closeness beyond that of friendship.
One night in particular still haunted his memory. After finishing their customary rounds at the tavern, they stopped outside before parting ways for the evening. Under the misty light of a street lantern, she had coyly looked down, trying to hide her newly bashful smile. He just looked on, also smiling, truly bearing no idea of what was to come from his companion. But when she managed to gather her courage and look him in his soft green eyes, shyly speaking out the profound affection that had been thriving in her heart for weeks, his own voice became caught in his throat. He knew his speechlessness was not doing much to reassure her and he caught himself after a few moments. He managed to place a hand on her shoulder and remark to her about how sweet a sentiment it was and how much he appreciated it. Then, silence. A frosty breeze blew that night and she shivered slightly. Embarrassed and cold, she eked out a timid apology. She seized upon her shivers as her escape route, as her excuse to bid him a swift but kindly goodnight and hastily make her way back to Honeyside before her glistening eyes betrayed her. As he watched her hurry off into the darkness, his guilt grew. And he made his way back down to the Guild with his gaze lowered to the ground.
He had wanted to tell her that his hesitance was not about her. He wanted to tell how much he truly enjoyed himself when with her, how she had handily dropped his guard. And he wanted to explain how much such a thing terrified him – how much it always had. But instead, words became lost in the light wind, numbed in the chill of nightfall. He was immensely thankful and relieved for her good humor, which allowed her maybe not to entirely forget the previous awkwardness but at least to ostensibly move on from it and remain just as close as they ever had been. He gave her much credit for that, and it remained something that greatly impressed him. It again was a glimpse of that nigh otherworldly wisdom, that intuitive knowledge of him that she seemed to have from their first meeting. She never stopped smiling around him. And that in turn gave him hope.
These memories surfaced in his mind, and he found himself cycling through the very same emotions once more as he stared out at Riften’s square. Close to an hour had passed since he left the Flagon in anger. And he had spent it all playing back the days in his head. Late afternoon was slipping into early evening and he noted the slowly fading sun, partially obscured by gathering clouds. The phenomenon yielded a hazy half-light that gave him unusual chills. He chided himself for thinking too much like Delvin at times, who seemed to find dire portents in nearly everything. He nevertheless could not dispel the uneasiness that had continued to plague him. His thoughts returned to the young Breton woman and what she may have encountered on the road to and from Windhelm. He knew she was prompt and capable. And only something unexpected could have been delaying her. He tried not to think too gloomily, but he simply could not help but worry. Because she was family - part of the only real family he had. And family was everything.
By the time she had pushed on to Morthal, the sunlight was once more starting to fail. The storm-darkened sky, beautiful in its dusky radiance, was a dire signal to cut her perceived losses and seek refuge for the night. As Hjaalmarch’s capital, she knew there would be warm beds and ice cold mead waiting at a well-lit tavern, as well as shrewd traders with resources for her return trip. But for all of its comforts, it was a town that she was eager to leave at first light; something about the air, something in the way the wind gave a sad howl kept her uneasy. A presence stirred, one that lingered over the waters there. She had always heard tales about marshlands and their propensity for housing treachery and foul creatures of darkest imagination. And she likewise had always brushed off such tales as parents’ ways of keeping their children from wandering and falling in with loathsome wildlife, rather than anything mystical.
But Morthal had an altogether different feeling, one of congealed anger, sorrow and confusion. And it was entirely nourished by the voices on the wind. What sounded to her ears like speech could have been gusts through a hollow rock. What sounded to her ears like weeping could have been the plip-plop-plop of the mucky waters. Talk of a tragic fire and strange lights also only hastened her steps away from the settlement. Before her sight left the village, she thought she saw the same slight form clad in dark robes leaning against one of the buildings. Pale skin. Blade at the side. Is that…that odd man from the Talos shrine? She could not be sure. And she did not linger to gain certainty. Shaking her head, disbelieving and unsettled, she took one look back as she rode away to the west - and exhaled.
Morthal now behind her, she pressed on. The gray morning had not abated the rolling thunder, though no lightning was seen to burst above. The rain had not yet returned, but the smell on the wind told her it was not far behind. The cool, earthy scent that she loved to breathe in deep, it was as delicious to her as wood smoke. And it likewise always had the ability to calm her nerves, if even for a short time. So many little remedies for most any affliction were so readily acquired in nature. Her mother Corcyra, who had made a living collecting all that the world offered for potion-making, often lamented the lack of general interest she had perceived when it came to the serious study of such organic treasures. But then of course she would quickly follow her comment with an expression of gratefulness – she had no real desire for competition as Cheydinhal’s most acclaimed apothecary. It was a craft that was passed down to her children, even though her son would only very grudgingly accept her instruction. The many faces of Heron’s disinterest and displeasure would prevail until the lessons ended and he could look forward to joining his father and eldest sister in combat drills just outside the town walls.
As Kallias continued on and brought them closer to their destination, Penelope soon lost herself in pleasant recollections of a childhood that somehow did not seem so distant. She still could recall her first memories of the Arboretum, a place she had grown to regard as a refuge. The statues would whisper to her, as did the rolling green hills of the Nibenay Basin. Ruins of once-white stone structures dotted the countryside and she loved climbing up into them. She smiled at the memories of her father training her in swordsmanship near those ruins, the clash and clang of metal resounding and the blades themselves flashing in the dying sunlight. Even the remembrances of coronations and grand festivities in the Imperial Palace remained vivid, her father’s dashing smile and her mother lovingly admiring him in all his Legionnaire regalia. She and her sisters and brother would stand by smiling. Happy. Proud. Unknowing of the tragedy of the coming years.
They had no knowledge of the deep-seated enmities harbored by his old rivals in Hammerfell. They had no knowledge of the jealous paranoia fostered by some in Cyrodiil. The hushed chorus of threats would wax and wane. But never truly end. Their Breton mother, true to form in all of her formidable petiteness and feistiness, swore to protect her tall and broad-shouldered Redguard husband from any and all menaces with everything in her – promising to rip them apart with her bare hands, even. Their father Adrianus would merely chuckle and embrace his wife, offering comforting kisses. Brave and adept, he had lived a life almost entirely in the military and worked his way up the ranks by way of his skill and dependability – as well as his sheer likeability. When word of his quality reached the ears of the Emperor, he was summarily invited to become a member of his guard. And it was an invitation that Adrianus humbly accepted. For his family, it soon became evident that his new post was as much of a curse as an honor. But they never once wavered in their support. And they cherished every moment they had with him right until to the end, when he would leave on his final assignment. And disappear amid the frosty wilds of Skyrim, only his name remaining.
Penelope’s reflections abruptly ceased, the images bursting and falling to the ground like glass shards. After days of journeying, they had at last reached their destination. The great stone dragon head adorning the ancient bridge before her was a thrilling beacon. It stood as a silent herald of knowledge, shared secrets. Peace. She smiled broadly at it. Though initially hesitant to cross the bridge Kallias traversed the centuries-old stone, neighing sharply as she went. Her hooves were a tad shaky but after crossing into the village, she seemed more at ease. Penelope hurriedly searched for any sign of the outpost, quickly scanning the structures. After leading her mare into the tiny settlement, she spotted the fluttering colors of the Legion, a pair of banners hanging in front of one of the buildings.
Here and there she searched for a good place to hitch Kallias. Any solid railing or post would do well enough for now, she just had to find one. After rapidly dismounting and locating a suitable spot for her steed, she flew up the steps of the structure with the Legion’s black flags, the red dragons twisting in the wind. Upon pushing open the creaky old door she was met by three grimacing soldiers, all with blades drawn and donning familiar armor. Instinctively raising her empty hands to show no ill intent, she took a very slow half-step backward. One of the men signaled to the others to lower their weapons and then lead the Breton into the room, offering a sympathetic smile.
“Apologies, girl, but I’m sure you’ll forgive our reaction. When a strange face bursts in the door, well, it’s a reflex.”
The dark-haired commander laughed and offered a friendly wink. Penelope was unfazed.
“Indeed, I understand. Gods know I usually know better than that.” She rubbed her forehead gingerly. The officer waved his hand in light-hearted dismissal.
“Speak no more of it, my child. Now, what can I do for you? Maro’s the name, by the way.”
The two briskly shook hands as the other soldiers in the room just looked on. One took to stirring a pot bubbling with fresh soup. The aroma called to the young woman’s hollow stomach and she shifted her stance to muffle its low grumblings.
“I’m just…I’ve needed to speak with you urgently!”
“Really now? What business do you have with me? What’s your name, girl?” Maro politely gestured to an empty chair, but she shook her head as she feverishly began her inquiry.
“I’m looking for information…about one of your fallen officers. Captain Adrianus, of Cheydinhal. Can you tell me anything about him? Where was he?”
The name possessed an obvious and curious power, as it drained Maro’s countenance of color and rapidly stripped it of his cordial smile. His own dark eyes shifted to the ground, then to the side, then to meet the equally vexed gaze of one of his subordinates. And then back to Penelope.
“Adrianus…who are you, girl?” He took a step forward, searching her face. There was a familiarity in it that seized him cold.
“Please, you must tell me what you know of him-”
“Wait…I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’m sure of it. Yes, you hail from Cyrodiil, do you not?”
“Perhaps. But what does that have to do w-” By now she was growing increasingly perturbed by his avoidance of her direct questions, and her expression began to tighten into an exasperated frown as he continued.
“By the Eight, you’re his eldest daughter! What the blazes are you doing in Skyrim?”
“Please forgive my agitation, it’s been a long journey here. But I know who you are and what you do – my father was one of you. I realize you might not know specifics about his mission, but you’re guaranteed to know more than my family was told. We’ve buried naught but an empty casket…you must help me! You must tell me what you know!”
“Oh, child…” He in turn shook his head sorrowfully, stepping past her and clasping his hands behind his back in gloomy rumination. He took a few moments to ponder his answer, giving a drawn out blink with his back still to her. After finally turning around to face her, he was affected by her obvious strength of spirit, by the aching depth in her eyes. And he found himself unable to turn the young woman away empty-handed, even though he knew he must maintain the utmost caution in his words – for both their sakes. “Alright. Tullius…General Tullius in Solitude…he would know more about the scope of the counter-insurgency operations in Skyrim. My contingent is here for a single purpose. And we only arrived here in recent weeks. Your father was here well ahead of our deployment. Tullius will know more. Though I must warn you, he’s going to be a difficult one to wrest details from. Even if he knew you, he would naturally be wary. Just…be advised.”
“So you’re confirming that my father was here to help deal with the Stormcloak rebellion?”
“Now let’s be clear, girl. I am confirming nothing. In fact, I’d consider it a personal favor if you carry on as though we never had this conversation.”
“But, why is this the attitude we’re being treated with? My father’s body still lies somewhere here in Skyrim! No one can tell us what happened or where – only that his operation met with catastrophe and no one survived. Surely even you must find that deliberately vague - nor would you find it acceptable if it concerned your father.”
“You must understand, child, it’s never as simple as it might seem. Nothing about the situation in Skyrim is simple. The Empire has enemies besides the ones openly taking up arms now.”
“Indeed?” The young woman gently cocked her head to the side, her brown eyes narrowing. Maro sighed once more. He blinked and continued, his voice lowering not quite to a whisper.
“You are from Cheydinhal, correct? Have you never paid any mind to the ruins of old Fort Farragut, to the rumors of the haunted house in your home city?”
She crossed her arms, shifting her glance thoughtfully. “I’ve certainly heard the stories. My siblings and I played in the dusty rocks of Farragut many a time. And that abandoned house…it’s unsettling and it may well contain spirits. But what does any of that have to do with my father?”
“Cheydinhal has a dark past, one which it has never truly shaken off. The ghosts there speak tales of two centuries prior. And don’t you think for a moment that treacheries don’t stir there still. The fell winds have long since begun shifting north.”
A shudder gripped her body, and she gave a faint gasp as thoughts of her stained blade and crimson images of grotesque faces flashed before her sight. Anger, disgust, and fear – all coursed through her again in simultaneous flight. That laughter, that hearty laughter that called forth the gore…she heard it echo in the now silent room. Cheeks flushed. Heartbeat quickened.
Her own voice, cracked and weakened by the sudden flashbacks, barely managed the rest of her words. “…What are you saying?”
“That this world is comprised of all manner of interests and desires - some righteous, some hellish. That we live and die where these interests and desires intersect. That you must leave Skyrim. I would have you on a swift coach back to Cyrodiil this moment if I could arrange it, but I know just from speaking with you here now that you’re not one to be moved unless you deem it necessary. From all reports, you’ve got your father’s stubbornness.” He gave another soft wink.
“You…you really knew him…” She felt the painful twinge suddenly beset her eyes, and she cleared her throat in an effort to stave it off. She could not allow for the tears. Not here. Not now.
“But I must implore you to leave this place after you’ve gotten whatever answers you may find in Solitude.” The officer’s urgency was reinforced as he placed both hands on the Breton’s shoulders and held her gaze. “You must look to your family in Cyrodiil. With your brother fighting here in the Legion, your mother and sisters…you must look to them. And to yourself.”
With that, Penelope gave a nod and shook Maro’s hand again in parting. Before the door even closed behind her, her mind was already intensely turning and pouring over every one of the commander’s words. She unhitched and mounted Kallias, pausing briefly to look to the ever-graying sky. As she started to ride off toward Solitude, Maro stepped out on the porch to watch her departure. After a heavy sigh, he offered a hopeful, quick nod of his own.
“The Eight preserve you, child.”
Mercer had not been seen since his latest interrogation of Delvin and Vex in the Flagon. And while most were breathing a bit more easily because of his absence, Brynjolf was only growing more concerned. He paced the length of the thieves’ bar and the Cistern, speaking scarcely a word. After attracting a number of odd glances in the latter area, he retired to the Flagon for his own round of questioning. Delvin shared some of his concern, though he was decidedly more upbeat – at least outwardly so. He filled a tankard for the redheaded man beside him; Vex, also sharing their table, only continued silently snacking on a small loaf of bread. She would look up every now and then in acknowledgment, but she decided to keep her opinions muted – after all, they were not quite as compassionate.
“Don’t trouble yourself too much about it yet, Bryn. You know ol’ Mercer disappears on us from time to time. It’s just his way.”
Even the most hopeful of Delvin’s smiles could not assuage the Nord’s quiet panic. The latter just stared downward at the table, past the table.
“Just doesn’t seem right. I’m not one for omens and all that sort of thing, but I honestly can’t shake this feeling.”
Delvin vainly nudged the tankard closer to the distressed man, flashing him another warm grin.
“What you need is some rest anyway, Bryn. You been worryin’ yourself near sick with everything lately. You always do. But I gotta tell ya, things are lookin’ up. No, it ain’t perfect, but I think we’ve finally turned the corner. And that’s how I know this ain’t anything to worry about.”
Brynjolf finally lifted his gaze from the table, offering a meek smile of his own. His soft voice ever so slightly shook.
“I know Mercer can take care of himself just fine. It’s Nell. She’s been gone for days without even a word either.”
The slam of a mug on an adjacent table startled all present, forcing them to jump in their chairs. Then came the familiar scornful voice.
“Why do you care so much, Bryn?”
Tonilia had been doing her best to listen in on the conversation across the way, scowling at every second or third word. Mead usually tempered that spite to some degree, but this day her surliness went unchanged - perhaps even had been heightened.
Brynjolf merely shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. It was not altogether easy to bring the man to anger. And even when it did occur his aggravation was nearly always controlled, subdued. Almost polite. Most thought better of pushing him to that point; most saw no need to ever do so. But of course there were some who seemed to always let their private animosities prevail. The Redguard woman had always been one such soul. And she readily railed against Brynjolf’s silence.
“She knew the rules going into this thing. If she did something stupid and Mercer wants her head for it, that’s her own fault. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about or trouble yourself with. At the end of the day, she’s hardly family.”
With the venom of that final word, Brynjolf stood up from the table and shot Tonilia a harsh though clearly pained glare. He wanted to fire back, to lash out. The anxiety in him was now channeled into dread anger. But after allowing himself a heavy sigh, he too decided to walk away from it. All in the Flagon watched as he left to re-enter the Cistern, from which he would go top-side for air - and a chance to mull things over without castigation. After he exited the bar, all looks shifted to the Redguard woman at her lonely table. Still defiant, she sneered at the attention.
“What?! You know I’ve only said everything that you all damn well think but would never have the guts to! It’s pathetic.”
No one answered her charge with more than their own disapproving head-shakings. They all knew better. And wondered why Tonilia, who was by no means a new arrival herself, did not know as much as they.
…………..
After ascending to street level, the brisk breeze was a welcome companion. Late afternoon had seen most people in town scatter to their respective corners for the day. Riften was quiet. And as he was nursing a fresh headache, Brynjolf was quite glad for that. He slowly made his way near the marketplace, glancing at his fellow merchants languishing in their boredom. As soon as he glimpsed his stall, his own thoughts drifted here and there, ghostly echoes of past conversations rising and falling. Keeping his eyes on that weather-beaten stand, he leaned against the south face of the Bee and Barb. The present soon fell away from his sight, shimmering and melting into the busy and bright morning of all those weeks ago. Her light, unsure steps clicking on the ground, her twisting shadow, the coy clearing of her throat - it all bore out in his memory as clearly as the previous day.
He did not even need to see her to know she was a newcomer to Riften. The slowness of her pace, the way that she barely touched her heels to ground, told him all. No doubt she had heard the mutterings about the fading city and all of her defenses were up. Eyes would surely be darting back and forth, searching for the treacherous cad wearing ragged clothes and a crooked grin. And she would still be searching and scanning the crowd as he approached her; she wouldn’t even notice he was there until he spoke to her and broke her nervous trance. His warm yet knowing smile would calm her skittishness. Her pockets were undoubtedly and piteously light. But for someone who seemed a hapless traveler on the surface, she certainly possessed conviction. It was anchored in those eyes, that poise. She seemed an intriguing paradox.
Of course potential recruits were becoming harder to convince lately. For all of his charms, he would still more often be met with a single raised eyebrow and a dismissive sigh as the mark pushed past him. He thus expected her to answer his proposition with contempt. And while she had indeed countered his comments about her modest purse with an affable sarcasm, after a few moments of obvious thought she surprised him with a smirk and a strong handshake. As he smiled back at her, he was certain that she knew more about Riften than any fresh visitor. Initial shy steps did not do her justice. Those soulful eyes bespoke a wisdom, an awareness, a determination. Even as they shook hands in acknowledgement of the deal, he nearly felt that she possessed a knowledge of him that opposed all logic. But he quickly dismissed it in his mind, citing weariness and a resulting susceptibility to worry.
With the collaboration agreed upon he would make his way back to his stall, only to have the young woman eventually make her way to it after inspecting the wares hawked by the other merchants. Dark brows wrinkled thoughtfully as she stopped to listen to him proclaim his elixir’s many miracles. She could not hold back a playful grin at his mention of a saber cat’s vitality while he rattled off the bottled benefits.
To his relief, the two would execute the veteran thief’s plan without mishap. He could tell she was not thrilled with the hauling off of the Dark Elf he called Brand-Shei, but she trusted his assertions that the latter’s stint in Riften’s jail would be relatively short-lived. In fact, she sternly made him promise it. And from that moment, while he had just seen proof of her talent and ability to be quite the asset, one to even impress their cynical Guild Master, he also knew that she was different. There was no denying it. But it was a pleasant sort of difference. As he left her with an invitation to seek him out at the Ragged Flagon, he half-wondered if she would follow through on it. Spirited as she was, she had assured him of an impending visit. And this pledge pleased him. He knew most would eventually warm up to her and sincerely welcome her to the outfit. Conversely there were some who he knew would greet her with little more than a skeptical if not bitter side glance – and he wondered how she would handle it. Not least of all, he was a bit uneasy about the Guild’s irascible leader. But the girl had her own charm and turn of phrase that he believed would work in her favor and compel even the most cantankerous to give her a chance.
As the weeks went by, his gamble had proven a good one. The young Breton woman had impressed at every turn, sometimes asking a few too many questions about marks and what earned them the Guild’s attention. She never really ascertained a career thief’s detachment. But all in all, she was a boon. Delvin certainly saw her as much, attributing to her presence a striking shift in fortune and a palpable newfound optimism. Even Mercer could not deny her knack for the trade, nonetheless eying her suspiciously. Efficient to a fault, she was relentless in her quickness and precision when it came to her assignments, never gone more than a day at a time. She would rise early in the morning, often before dawn, make great haste as far as Markarth and return the following day, all the more eager for her next job. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, they had collectively come to rely on her. And while her success delighted most, it almost seemed to chafe a few others. Brynjolf took quiet pride in his “new prodigy”, offering praise and friendly concern for her day to day welfare. Daily chats, once brief, became longer and more frequent.
Eventually the two would move such post-job talks out of the Flagon and Cistern and to the world above ground. The Bee and Barb became a favorite place for good ale and even better conversation. It was a decidedly fine line they initially walked, the line between business partners and genuine friends. But it was a line they had no qualms finally crossing with the passage of enough time. Still, even despite their complementary personalities and shared laughter, there was always a hesitance on the part of the Nord. During their talks, he never seemed too keen on speaking at length about himself or his past, rather simply answering questions with general statements and a readiness to shift the subject at hand. She would soon discover that coupled with this distance was an obvious long-held aversion to any sort of closeness beyond that of friendship.
One night in particular still haunted his memory. After finishing their customary rounds at the tavern, they stopped outside before parting ways for the evening. Under the misty light of a street lantern, she had coyly looked down, trying to hide her newly bashful smile. He just looked on, also smiling, truly bearing no idea of what was to come from his companion. But when she managed to gather her courage and look him in his soft green eyes, shyly speaking out the profound affection that had been thriving in her heart for weeks, his own voice became caught in his throat. He knew his speechlessness was not doing much to reassure her and he caught himself after a few moments. He managed to place a hand on her shoulder and remark to her about how sweet a sentiment it was and how much he appreciated it. Then, silence. A frosty breeze blew that night and she shivered slightly. Embarrassed and cold, she eked out a timid apology. She seized upon her shivers as her escape route, as her excuse to bid him a swift but kindly goodnight and hastily make her way back to Honeyside before her glistening eyes betrayed her. As he watched her hurry off into the darkness, his guilt grew. And he made his way back down to the Guild with his gaze lowered to the ground.
He had wanted to tell her that his hesitance was not about her. He wanted to tell how much he truly enjoyed himself when with her, how she had handily dropped his guard. And he wanted to explain how much such a thing terrified him – how much it always had. But instead, words became lost in the light wind, numbed in the chill of nightfall. He was immensely thankful and relieved for her good humor, which allowed her maybe not to entirely forget the previous awkwardness but at least to ostensibly move on from it and remain just as close as they ever had been. He gave her much credit for that, and it remained something that greatly impressed him. It again was a glimpse of that nigh otherworldly wisdom, that intuitive knowledge of him that she seemed to have from their first meeting. She never stopped smiling around him. And that in turn gave him hope.
These memories surfaced in his mind, and he found himself cycling through the very same emotions once more as he stared out at Riften’s square. Close to an hour had passed since he left the Flagon in anger. And he had spent it all playing back the days in his head. Late afternoon was slipping into early evening and he noted the slowly fading sun, partially obscured by gathering clouds. The phenomenon yielded a hazy half-light that gave him unusual chills. He chided himself for thinking too much like Delvin at times, who seemed to find dire portents in nearly everything. He nevertheless could not dispel the uneasiness that had continued to plague him. His thoughts returned to the young Breton woman and what she may have encountered on the road to and from Windhelm. He knew she was prompt and capable. And only something unexpected could have been delaying her. He tried not to think too gloomily, but he simply could not help but worry. Because she was family - part of the only real family he had. And family was everything.
…………..
By the time she had pushed on to Morthal, the sunlight was once more starting to fail. The storm-darkened sky, beautiful in its dusky radiance, was a dire signal to cut her perceived losses and seek refuge for the night. As Hjaalmarch’s capital, she knew there would be warm beds and ice cold mead waiting at a well-lit tavern, as well as shrewd traders with resources for her return trip. But for all of its comforts, it was a town that she was eager to leave at first light; something about the air, something in the way the wind gave a sad howl kept her uneasy. A presence stirred, one that lingered over the waters there. She had always heard tales about marshlands and their propensity for housing treachery and foul creatures of darkest imagination. And she likewise had always brushed off such tales as parents’ ways of keeping their children from wandering and falling in with loathsome wildlife, rather than anything mystical.
But Morthal had an altogether different feeling, one of congealed anger, sorrow and confusion. And it was entirely nourished by the voices on the wind. What sounded to her ears like speech could have been gusts through a hollow rock. What sounded to her ears like weeping could have been the plip-plop-plop of the mucky waters. Talk of a tragic fire and strange lights also only hastened her steps away from the settlement. Before her sight left the village, she thought she saw the same slight form clad in dark robes leaning against one of the buildings. Pale skin. Blade at the side. Is that…that odd man from the Talos shrine? She could not be sure. And she did not linger to gain certainty. Shaking her head, disbelieving and unsettled, she took one look back as she rode away to the west - and exhaled.
Morthal now behind her, she pressed on. The gray morning had not abated the rolling thunder, though no lightning was seen to burst above. The rain had not yet returned, but the smell on the wind told her it was not far behind. The cool, earthy scent that she loved to breathe in deep, it was as delicious to her as wood smoke. And it likewise always had the ability to calm her nerves, if even for a short time. So many little remedies for most any affliction were so readily acquired in nature. Her mother Corcyra, who had made a living collecting all that the world offered for potion-making, often lamented the lack of general interest she had perceived when it came to the serious study of such organic treasures. But then of course she would quickly follow her comment with an expression of gratefulness – she had no real desire for competition as Cheydinhal’s most acclaimed apothecary. It was a craft that was passed down to her children, even though her son would only very grudgingly accept her instruction. The many faces of Heron’s disinterest and displeasure would prevail until the lessons ended and he could look forward to joining his father and eldest sister in combat drills just outside the town walls.
As Kallias continued on and brought them closer to their destination, Penelope soon lost herself in pleasant recollections of a childhood that somehow did not seem so distant. She still could recall her first memories of the Arboretum, a place she had grown to regard as a refuge. The statues would whisper to her, as did the rolling green hills of the Nibenay Basin. Ruins of once-white stone structures dotted the countryside and she loved climbing up into them. She smiled at the memories of her father training her in swordsmanship near those ruins, the clash and clang of metal resounding and the blades themselves flashing in the dying sunlight. Even the remembrances of coronations and grand festivities in the Imperial Palace remained vivid, her father’s dashing smile and her mother lovingly admiring him in all his Legionnaire regalia. She and her sisters and brother would stand by smiling. Happy. Proud. Unknowing of the tragedy of the coming years.
They had no knowledge of the deep-seated enmities harbored by his old rivals in Hammerfell. They had no knowledge of the jealous paranoia fostered by some in Cyrodiil. The hushed chorus of threats would wax and wane. But never truly end. Their Breton mother, true to form in all of her formidable petiteness and feistiness, swore to protect her tall and broad-shouldered Redguard husband from any and all menaces with everything in her – promising to rip them apart with her bare hands, even. Their father Adrianus would merely chuckle and embrace his wife, offering comforting kisses. Brave and adept, he had lived a life almost entirely in the military and worked his way up the ranks by way of his skill and dependability – as well as his sheer likeability. When word of his quality reached the ears of the Emperor, he was summarily invited to become a member of his guard. And it was an invitation that Adrianus humbly accepted. For his family, it soon became evident that his new post was as much of a curse as an honor. But they never once wavered in their support. And they cherished every moment they had with him right until to the end, when he would leave on his final assignment. And disappear amid the frosty wilds of Skyrim, only his name remaining.
Penelope’s reflections abruptly ceased, the images bursting and falling to the ground like glass shards. After days of journeying, they had at last reached their destination. The great stone dragon head adorning the ancient bridge before her was a thrilling beacon. It stood as a silent herald of knowledge, shared secrets. Peace. She smiled broadly at it. Though initially hesitant to cross the bridge Kallias traversed the centuries-old stone, neighing sharply as she went. Her hooves were a tad shaky but after crossing into the village, she seemed more at ease. Penelope hurriedly searched for any sign of the outpost, quickly scanning the structures. After leading her mare into the tiny settlement, she spotted the fluttering colors of the Legion, a pair of banners hanging in front of one of the buildings.
Here and there she searched for a good place to hitch Kallias. Any solid railing or post would do well enough for now, she just had to find one. After rapidly dismounting and locating a suitable spot for her steed, she flew up the steps of the structure with the Legion’s black flags, the red dragons twisting in the wind. Upon pushing open the creaky old door she was met by three grimacing soldiers, all with blades drawn and donning familiar armor. Instinctively raising her empty hands to show no ill intent, she took a very slow half-step backward. One of the men signaled to the others to lower their weapons and then lead the Breton into the room, offering a sympathetic smile.
“Apologies, girl, but I’m sure you’ll forgive our reaction. When a strange face bursts in the door, well, it’s a reflex.”
The dark-haired commander laughed and offered a friendly wink. Penelope was unfazed.
“Indeed, I understand. Gods know I usually know better than that.” She rubbed her forehead gingerly. The officer waved his hand in light-hearted dismissal.
“Speak no more of it, my child. Now, what can I do for you? Maro’s the name, by the way.”
The two briskly shook hands as the other soldiers in the room just looked on. One took to stirring a pot bubbling with fresh soup. The aroma called to the young woman’s hollow stomach and she shifted her stance to muffle its low grumblings.
“I’m just…I’ve needed to speak with you urgently!”
“Really now? What business do you have with me? What’s your name, girl?” Maro politely gestured to an empty chair, but she shook her head as she feverishly began her inquiry.
“I’m looking for information…about one of your fallen officers. Captain Adrianus, of Cheydinhal. Can you tell me anything about him? Where was he?”
The name possessed an obvious and curious power, as it drained Maro’s countenance of color and rapidly stripped it of his cordial smile. His own dark eyes shifted to the ground, then to the side, then to meet the equally vexed gaze of one of his subordinates. And then back to Penelope.
“Adrianus…who are you, girl?” He took a step forward, searching her face. There was a familiarity in it that seized him cold.
“Please, you must tell me what you know of him-”
“Wait…I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’m sure of it. Yes, you hail from Cyrodiil, do you not?”
“Perhaps. But what does that have to do w-” By now she was growing increasingly perturbed by his avoidance of her direct questions, and her expression began to tighten into an exasperated frown as he continued.
“By the Eight, you’re his eldest daughter! What the blazes are you doing in Skyrim?”
“Please forgive my agitation, it’s been a long journey here. But I know who you are and what you do – my father was one of you. I realize you might not know specifics about his mission, but you’re guaranteed to know more than my family was told. We’ve buried naught but an empty casket…you must help me! You must tell me what you know!”
“Oh, child…” He in turn shook his head sorrowfully, stepping past her and clasping his hands behind his back in gloomy rumination. He took a few moments to ponder his answer, giving a drawn out blink with his back still to her. After finally turning around to face her, he was affected by her obvious strength of spirit, by the aching depth in her eyes. And he found himself unable to turn the young woman away empty-handed, even though he knew he must maintain the utmost caution in his words – for both their sakes. “Alright. Tullius…General Tullius in Solitude…he would know more about the scope of the counter-insurgency operations in Skyrim. My contingent is here for a single purpose. And we only arrived here in recent weeks. Your father was here well ahead of our deployment. Tullius will know more. Though I must warn you, he’s going to be a difficult one to wrest details from. Even if he knew you, he would naturally be wary. Just…be advised.”
“So you’re confirming that my father was here to help deal with the Stormcloak rebellion?”
“Now let’s be clear, girl. I am confirming nothing. In fact, I’d consider it a personal favor if you carry on as though we never had this conversation.”
“But, why is this the attitude we’re being treated with? My father’s body still lies somewhere here in Skyrim! No one can tell us what happened or where – only that his operation met with catastrophe and no one survived. Surely even you must find that deliberately vague - nor would you find it acceptable if it concerned your father.”
“You must understand, child, it’s never as simple as it might seem. Nothing about the situation in Skyrim is simple. The Empire has enemies besides the ones openly taking up arms now.”
“Indeed?” The young woman gently cocked her head to the side, her brown eyes narrowing. Maro sighed once more. He blinked and continued, his voice lowering not quite to a whisper.
“You are from Cheydinhal, correct? Have you never paid any mind to the ruins of old Fort Farragut, to the rumors of the haunted house in your home city?”
She crossed her arms, shifting her glance thoughtfully. “I’ve certainly heard the stories. My siblings and I played in the dusty rocks of Farragut many a time. And that abandoned house…it’s unsettling and it may well contain spirits. But what does any of that have to do with my father?”
“Cheydinhal has a dark past, one which it has never truly shaken off. The ghosts there speak tales of two centuries prior. And don’t you think for a moment that treacheries don’t stir there still. The fell winds have long since begun shifting north.”
A shudder gripped her body, and she gave a faint gasp as thoughts of her stained blade and crimson images of grotesque faces flashed before her sight. Anger, disgust, and fear – all coursed through her again in simultaneous flight. That laughter, that hearty laughter that called forth the gore…she heard it echo in the now silent room. Cheeks flushed. Heartbeat quickened.
Her own voice, cracked and weakened by the sudden flashbacks, barely managed the rest of her words. “…What are you saying?”
“That this world is comprised of all manner of interests and desires - some righteous, some hellish. That we live and die where these interests and desires intersect. That you must leave Skyrim. I would have you on a swift coach back to Cyrodiil this moment if I could arrange it, but I know just from speaking with you here now that you’re not one to be moved unless you deem it necessary. From all reports, you’ve got your father’s stubbornness.” He gave another soft wink.
“You…you really knew him…” She felt the painful twinge suddenly beset her eyes, and she cleared her throat in an effort to stave it off. She could not allow for the tears. Not here. Not now.
“But I must implore you to leave this place after you’ve gotten whatever answers you may find in Solitude.” The officer’s urgency was reinforced as he placed both hands on the Breton’s shoulders and held her gaze. “You must look to your family in Cyrodiil. With your brother fighting here in the Legion, your mother and sisters…you must look to them. And to yourself.”
With that, Penelope gave a nod and shook Maro’s hand again in parting. Before the door even closed behind her, her mind was already intensely turning and pouring over every one of the commander’s words. She unhitched and mounted Kallias, pausing briefly to look to the ever-graying sky. As she started to ride off toward Solitude, Maro stepped out on the porch to watch her departure. After a heavy sigh, he offered a hopeful, quick nod of his own.
“The Eight preserve you, child.”
bulbaquil
...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
But she can't leave Skyrim! The game won't let her!
Of course, I know what you're doing - maybe she'll be joining the Legion as an excuse to not need to leave Skyrim? I mean, the Stormcloaks aren't really operating outside of it....
But you need to get her back to Riften - Brynjolf thinks she's dead!
Of course, I know what you're doing - maybe she'll be joining the Legion as an excuse to not need to leave Skyrim? I mean, the Stormcloaks aren't really operating outside of it....
But you need to get her back to Riften - Brynjolf thinks she's dead!
Jersey Dagmar
Just in time for the fiyahworks show! BOOM!
Damn you for being a better writer than me.
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Haha, you're on to me, Bulba!
Yeah, there some questline items that I have been wanting to address and they'll be dealt with quite soon, hehe.Poor Bryn, yeah, I do need to get her back!
He's certainly beginning to think the worst. Interesting times ahead!Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Gawd... I should stop reading other peoples writing. What I manage to come up with seems like a short summary compared to this. Keep it up.
Keep it up.Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Thanks, Pun! You should never stop sharing your work here with us either - I'd be very disappoint!
You should never stop sharing your work here with us either - I'd be very disappoint! 
Docta Corvina
Well-Known Member
Thanks again everyone for the continuing support! It means a great deal to me! I've really been enjoying the process and am thrilled to continue!
bulbaquil
...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Yes, yes, yes, please do continue this. Penelope must not leave Skyrim! - at least not yet. My characters demand it continue as well, though Sjadbek asks that his alternate self be kept alive until Alduin is defeated (he doesn't exactly want his soul devoured in Sovngarde, you see)
