Solveig had taken to keeping to herself in a corner, eyes scanning the room for anyone that looked anything like a Reachman. She'd only seen one in Markarth, but he didn't look like a barbarian. He looked like an elf crossed with a man, long fingers, slightly pointed ears and angular features, subtle bulges in his bottom lip where his muddied blood had put tusks. The only touch of barbarism in him was the single feather braided into his hair. But to her, that was her mentor, the one that taught her to fight. He was no barbarian, no more than any fighter. She had to shake her head to put her mind back on the task at hand. It was a different Reachman she was looking for. She'd gotten further sidetracked by a wounded man reading passages from a holy book aloud to a few others. “And to the sinners there shall be no rest, not in sleep nor in death,” Solveig swallowed and frowned, “To the thieves, there shall be no riches; to the murderers, there shall be no sleep.”

The only thing that jerked her mind away from wanting to walk over to the holy man and punch his jaw loose was Sevine's voice. She asked for help carrying supplies to the library. She simply nodded and stood, rolling her shoulders in preparation. There was a young lad in the company that was struggling with a large crate. He couldn't have been ninety pounds without his armor and Solveig simply lay a hand on his shoulder. The lad looked up at the woman who stood two heads taller than himself and took a step back. Solveig gripped the crate, straight-backed. With a grunt, she heaved it up to rest in her hands and lean against her shoulder. “Follow along.” She said to the lad, pushing up his nasal helm that barely fit him.

“You're strong.” He said. “You're like my Pa. Was your Pa a plow-horse? Bet he was by the thickness of you.”

“Watch your fucking tongue.” She spat, and the lad recoiled at her outburst. She felt a little bad, it was obvious he was making at a joke. “My Pa's Jorwen Red-Bear. He fought as a Housecarl in Ulfric's army during the Civil War.”

“Oh.” The lad said, keeping alongside her. She didn't actually mean for him to follow along but it was how it was now, she guessed. “My Ma died during the war, when I was still a babe.”

“Who'd she fight for?” Solveig cocked a brow. She'd never heard of many fighting women recognized in the songs past those in Ysgramor's 500 or during the wars with the Dunmer.

“No one. She was a farmer.” The lad said, looking down at the ground, “Stead got burnt by Stormcloaks. Pa was a Legion man.”

“Oh.” Now it was her looking at the ground, “War...it's like that. Or so my Pa says. I'm sorry though.”

Suddenly, the lad had a fire lit in him, “Why? Your Pa done it?”

“My Pa doesn't burn farmsteads, little lad, he's too much repute for petty brigand shite like that!” The lad's fire died with the whirlwind of Solveig's temper, and that made her winds falter in turn. “My father's better than that, like yours. But I won't lie, there's some people capable of doing good for every man capable of some black deeds on either side of anything.”

“D'you reckon?” Solveig looked at Sevine and Do'Karth, her mind went back to her mentor. Her mentor had slurs thrown at his back his whole life in Markarth by both Nords for being a Reachman and Reachmen for living amongst Nords. Solveig reckoned he had enough skill to slay each man who threw the slur but didn't. He only had a heart big enough to let a girl follow him and learn. And her father. She'd wait at the door for him and give him mean looks for being away, but he still wrapped her in his big stone-hard, mammoth-strong arms and tell her he loved her. The Red-Bear, a monster in the fray, telling a little girl that he loved her.

And as she stepped up beside Do'Karth and Sevine and saw the welcoming looks on her companions' faces, she nodded, “Aye, I do reckon.” And with something of the first little smile she'd had in days, she hefted the crate in her arms and nodded to Sevine, “Pick something up and follow along.”

Once they'd gotten to the library, Solveig put the crate down as gently as she could, clapping her hands free of dust and putting them on her hips. As she inhaled the smell of dusty tomes and aged scrolls filled with obscure knowledge and old tales, she opened her eyes and looked upon it all. “I hope we're not carrying each of these fucking things out of here. We'll be here until sun-up next morning.”