"I'm starting to feel like Skyrim just hates us," Aria mumbled as the stray cat marched down the stairs, fully expecting to have been curled up on the foot of Cronic's bed by this time of night. It rubbed against the wall beside Cronic's bedroll and purred loudly.

Aria was staring at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep... Not that she wanted to. It wasn't the assassins, dragons, vampires, dragon cultists, OR draconic vampire cultist assassins. Just the nightmares. Always the nightmares...

(Thee may skip to the morning if he wants to! That, or a heart-to-heart about respective character histories or something. Cronic's choice.)