{A collab by [@Chrononaut] and [@Leidenschaft], Sponsored by Alinor Vintage}

Vurwe had promised a large sum of money to be given to the mercenary company for her rescue. She promised that this gold would be given as soon as they reached the city in Skyrim with the bank that held it. She told no one which city it was. Occassionally, a man in tarnished armor, with a sullen and desperate look of consternation upon his face would say, "Do you have the gold?" and she would say "No." then send him off to fetch her a bottle of Alinor Vintage, which she reassured him she would pay for along with the reward promised.

This continued for weeks. She would deflect suspicion with small coin payments, as a sort of assurance she would pay the exorbitant reward of 5,000 gold to be divided upon the mercenary party. If anyone were to confront her about her lack of payment, she would act dejected and confused. "What payment?" she would say. Then, when reminded, she would say "Ah, yes! That payment. Well, it's in [whatever was the next stop]. You can carry on for that long, can't you?" as she slipped two septims into the hands of whoever was confronting her. They accepted these coins with diffidence and suspicious glances as they walked away.

The road was long and cold. Vurwe kept warm by huddling in the back of carts and swearing surreptitiously under breath each time the wagon hit a bump. She cursed each snowflake that crossed her steely gaze. Sometimes she would accuse the closest Nord of having summoned this winter to vex her. They would usually laugh and offer her some mead or a leg of ham. She would lift her nose in austere rejection of the slightest notion that she would drink, in her own words, "That snow piss."

It was through these methods that she reached Windhelm without being stabbed. Now that they had ceased traveling and some had began to suspect that she was playing them for fools, she decided now was the time to slip away into the Candlehearth inn until they went away. So, sallying to an empty inn room, she rested.

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It took exactly five hours before someone realized she hadn't paid for the room. They sent a heavyset Dunmer man named Gordol who knocked with one tap then shoved the door open with one burly arm. After a series of noises that sounded much like someone being chucked against a wall, Gordol came out carrying a screaming, flailing Altmer woman over his shoulder like a potato sack. He held her knife in a lions paw of a hand.

Jorwen was three big tankards of mead down and he was just starting to feel it. That old familiar feeling of sluggishness and sheepishness tainting all his actions. It wasn't enough to make him sing, thank the Gods, but he felt something. He turned around at a small commotion, some people laughing at something while calling, "Knife-Ear! Knife-Ear!"

His thoughts immediately went back to the Altmer lass from the redoubt that'd been traveling with them for a while. She didn't strike him as someone who would get into trouble, but trouble could find anyone in his experience. When he turned around, he was greeted with the tall lass draped over a big Dunmer's shoulder like a fresh kill, a knife in his big hand. He feared the worst, and he put a hand on Solveig's shoulder which she shrugged off and stood with her father. "D'you know her?"

"You could say that." Jorwen grumbled.

"Okay." Solveig said, stepping forward with her hand on her knife, which was no tool for eating, he could tell.

"Ah, fuck." He fumbled around on his belt and snatched a coinpurse with a fair few coins giving heft to the little thing. He tossed it over Solevig's shoulder just as she was about to do something they'd all regret and the Dunmer caught it in one meaty paw. "For you, big man. Let the lass go."

The Dunmer looked at the coinpurse then back to Jorwen, then back to the coinpurse and tested the weight in it. He nodded, tossing Vurwe unceremoniously onto a table and continued on his way to sit at the door with his arms crossed. Jorwen offered a hand to the woman, though he already knew his hand was going to be slapped away. Didn't hurt to try at a good deed, "What were you up to?"

Vurwe slapped away Jorwens hand of friendship, instead choosing the sharp barb of flustered impertinence, "Sleeping, as opposed to drinking like a slattern." She glowered reproachfully, sliding off the table and sitting as elegantly as she could while still looking absolutely pissed in the closest chair. She sat as tight as a spring, arms crossed and ruffled hair. Her fingers clenched her arms. She said, glowering at at Solveig, "Who's she? A relative or a whore?"

"Slattern?" Jorwen muttered, the word sounded strange on his tongue. His eyes went wide as Solveig stepped forward with a hand outstretched towards Vurwe's face.

"I'll cut you bad enough you won't even be able to whore yourself out!" Jorwen held his daughter fast until he felt she wasn't going to tear Vurwe's head from her shoulders. She muttered angrily, "Calling me a whore."

"A relative." Jorwen said, easing away from his daughter, unsure if she'd try at it again the second he took his hands away, "My daughter, actually. I'm sure you two will get along fine. You're a long way from home and she's the one with the knife, girl." He looked back at Solveig, "And the ones with the knives can do well to be kind to the ones with the gold. She's got a few pieces to spare."

The pair took a seat opposite Vurwe. As soon as things seemed to have settled down, it seemed Solveig was apt to fix it, "So, Father, who's the elf-whore?" She shot a sharp look Vurwe's way and made no effort to hide it. "Camp slut?" She leaned closer, "Can't imagine you'd have decent earnings."

"Actually," Vurwe began haughtily, "I have a store of gold that the limited scope of your intelligence has no way of properly visualizing. Beyond that, I convinced Ashav that I deserved a share of the earnings." She raised a hand that had among its fingers three expensive looking rings. Beyond that, her dress with its filigree design and opulescent material looked like it belonged in a Breton court rather than the harsh life of a mercenary company. Though with many of the imperfections it had earned on the road, it looked like it had seen better days.

"Your Father helped me in my daring escape from a Forsworn stronghold. Namely by carrying my things." She remembered the event well and how she had been absolutely surrounded by idiots. At one point she had even accused a nearby archer of having the aim of a blacksmith and had taken the bow from his hands. After missing the first shot, she blamed the craftsmanship of the bow and threw it back to the confused man.

"Oh, well my father is a kind man by all accounts." Solveig said, "If it were me, I'd have shoved your things up your ass and kicked you down the nearest ravine."

"That's no way to talk to friends. Or acquaintances. Not even she-elf ones." Jorwen said. He looked to Vurwe, "Can't say you look like you're having an easy time with lodging. I could invite you to stay at our home. So long as you don't say anything to make my wife cook you up for our next meal."

Vurwe accepted the offer on the basis that she would likely not be able to slip into this inn without Gordol being sent down to huck her at the wall and drag her out again. The lodging couldn't possibly be any worse than most nordic rooms, which seemed to be comprised of itchy straw beds and animal furs. Even the pillows were made of straw, which was baffling as they had chickens. What were they using the feathers for?
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A few hours later, the three and Jorwens wife found themselves sitting at the most tense dinner in all of Skyrim. Vurwe had organized her utensils in the proper Altmer order and was busy, it seemed, waiting for Jorwen to eat more before she did. Jorwens wife seemed baffled that Vurwe would eat only after Jorwen had, and Vurwe was even more baffled that Solveig was eating more than her father which made her appear glutenous to Vurwes refined standards.

Jorwen nibbled at a leg of lamb, watching Vurwe sit with her nose upturned with might be a stick up her arse with the way she had herself. The one who seemed the most unperturbed by it was Solveig, wolfing down her meal while her eyes were locked on Vurwe like a wolf's, protecting its meal from its rivals. He looked at his wife, who only shrugged, cleared her throat and began eating. After she swallowed the morsel, she spoke in a polite tone, "So, how do you and Jorwen know each other?"

"Found you up an ass's arse, didn't you, Pa?" Solveig said before swallowing noisily and shooting a dark smile at Vurwe.

"She was in a Forsworn redoubt before we took it. Reachmen were probably looking to ransom her." Jorwen smiled to his wife, "You're alright now, aren't you? Fine enough to [i]speak?[/i]"

"Yes, they felt I was valuable for reasons that I completely understand." she said, daintily lifting a nibble of meat and placed it in her mouth with a smooth, refined motion. She gave Solveig a lip curl that seemed to be a subtle increase in the amount she was frowning. It seemed she could always frown harder, somehow.

Dinner had continued on much like it had started. Solveig's savage glares with Vurwe countering with subtle frowns and an aura of self-importance. Jorwen's awkward smiles and Halla's shrugs. Despite being so old, the two women were at each other's necks like adolescents the whole night, and when they all finally lay in their beds to sleep, Jorwen had no doubts that Solveig was dreaming of wringing Vurwe's neck until her head popped. To be honest, he felt much the same meeting her, but her insults and glares had blunted over time. He wasn't so sure about Solveig's feelings. He sighed and his wife laid an arm over his chest, "What's wrong, Warrior?"

"Nothing." And he closed his eyes, hoping that it would be just that.