"Wake up, boy."
Something prodded Pilus insistently in the stomach. Groaning, he turned over, lazily swatting at the curious voice in a half-hearted attempt at resistance.
Silence.
Maybe, Pilus thought, if he started snoring, he could convince his body he was still aslee-
Prod.
"I said wake up. You can't shleep out here all day."
"Wstfghl."
"I know, I know," said the voice as Pilus' eyes fluttered open.
"Trusht me, I know."
Pilus gaze was greeted by the wrinkled face of his assailant. Or at least, the parts between the eyebrows and the nose. The rest of the old man's face was covered in snowy hair which sprouted magnificently from every orifice on his face. In fact, if degree of wisdom correlated to whiteness of hair and length of bear, Pilus knew with certainty that this man would be deemed the wisest in Skyrim and, possibly, all of Tamriel. As it was, the effect was somewhat offset by the man's roguish eyes and gummy smile.
"There we go," the man said, pulling Pilus upright and helping onto one of the many crates haphazardly stacked in the alleyway. He pulled up a second crate and sat, his eyes fixed on Pilus.
"Sho," said the man, his words garbled by a lack of teeth.
"What're you doin' in my alley, boy?"
Pilus considered the question. He didn't rightly know how he'd ended up snoring on the cobblestones. Something about... kidneys. Then the man's words caught up to him.
"Your alley? You live here?"
"Don't be shilly. I don't live here." The old man grinned.
"I jusht vacation here. Gotta get away from the wife shomehow, right?"
Pilus stared at the man incredulously, his mouth opening and closing.
"Jarl Ingwar," said the man, holding out his hand.
"Pleashed to meet you."
"Jarl? You're the Jarl?"
"No, no, not the Jarl, jusht a Jarl." Jarl sighed nostalgically.
"Old pa, resht his soul, never did quite grashp social climbing." The smile faded.
"Neither did the wife, for that matter. You have a young lady, boy?"
Pilus shook his head.
"Er, no. Not... not exactly."
"Ah," said Jarl, nodding sagely. "A young lady has you, then?" When Pilus didn't respond, Jarl leaned over and gave him a sympathetic pat.
"Don't give up hope. I'm sure that'sh nothing a good shave couldn't fix."
"You think so?"
"Here, you're a mage, right?" The old man tapped his nose slyly.
"I know all about thoshe magic fingers."
Pilus shifted uncomfortably at Jarl's saucy grin.
"You can tell?"
"My son was a mage, see? Took after hish mother. It's the robesh, they're a dead giveaway." Jarl's expression saddened.
"Rather literally, in hish case." Pilus searched for a suitably sympathetic reply, but none came to mind.
"People 'round here don't trusht mages," Jarl continued. "Damn foolsh, the lot of them. I said, I said you mages always know what you're doing, 'cause you have to go through yearsh of study, right?"
"I-I suppose so." Pilus was flustered. Jarl seemed to have an unusual confidence in the wisdom of magic users.
"Right. Mosht people, when a mage tellsh them what to do, get sushpicious. But not me. Not old Jarl! 'Cause I know you lot know what you're doing."
Pilus stroked his beard thoughtfully. After some consideration, he quietly drew his surgical knife.
"Er... that so?"
Jarl nodded firmly.
"Yes. Ye-"
Blood spurt from the old man's neck as Pilus' knife punched through it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Several hours later, as the sun drooped in the evening sky, Pilus walked under the stone gates of Solitude. It had taken several hours of persistent questioning but, after some deliberation on the matter, he'd finally managed to garner the direction Elsa and the others had gone.
The wind howled as he trudged along the mountain road, past cliffs and over crags. If he listened, he could hear a single word echoing over and over in the deafening roar of the weather.
Pilus...
Another man might have panicked, or searched wildly for the word's origin, but Pilus wasn't crazy. He knew it was just the voices.
