[center][@Leidenschaft] and [@Chrononaut][/center] [center][h3]The Things They Left...[/h3][/center] [i]There are some kinds of memories that act as a bulwark to the mind. The first kind of memory, is failure. Failure is broken into mist and largely removed from the forefront of the mind. This veil of thought protects sanity. The second kind of memory, is childhood. These are the memories that are preserved in amber, to be catalogued as a better time and place that we can always recall. These memories are always readily accessible. When the veil fails, this is what most fall back to. The third and last resort, is love. Love is the salt and the earth, that the amber sits on and the veil mists over. When your early years were nightmare and your life a ruin of failure, you have at least one last reprieve in that someone, somewhere must have loved you. Or else what's the point?[/i] ----- Gordo and Raelyn were shooting eachother dirty glares across the Inn. They'd been slowly increasing the tempo, pitch, and decibel level of their singing in order to try to drown the other out. It had reached a point that those who hadn't had their glasses shattered when they'd increased their pitch to an operatic screech, were frozen in sheer astonishment. They'd never actually seen two bards fight with music before. This was another brief lull where the musicians gathered their breath and prepared to, despite the fact they were six broken lute strings and seven glasses of ale down, play again. "This fucking shouting is getting on my nerves. I wonder if they think they sound good." Cleftjaw asked as they stood in front of the tavern's door they'd just stepped through. "Who knows. I think every drunk thinks they have golden voices. Anywho, I'm looking for Vurwe. Care to drink with us?" Jorwen asked. "That venom-tongued knife-ear? No. Come find me after, though." Cleftjaw chuckled, slapping Jorwen's shoulder in a friendly gesture as he walked to a nearby table and struck up a conversation with someone. This left Jorwen alone in his search, but he didn't have to look far. though he'd caught the attention of Raelyn, it seemed. He wasn't looking forward to her asking about him hosting the duel, or how many duels he'd fought, or how well he knew Farid or any other such questions. She was fond of asking questions about him, but not so fond of giving him answers about herself. He found that odd, usually bards wanted to talk of themselves when they weren't singing about others. He took a seat at the bar, trying to sit as far away from Gordo and his- albeit, surprisingly sweet- loud voice. He ordered a cup of mead and waited for it to be brought to him. Raelyn grabbed the cup of mead a confused barmaid was trying to deliver to Jorwen and set it down, seating herself across from him. She smelled like alcohol. "Y-you see what did there with...The Fortunes of The Nine? Awful. Awful!" "I think that was..." He trailed off, his pointed finger slumping away from the cup in Raelyn's hands. "How do you fare? Been payed well by the festival-goers?" He asked. Raelyn slumped against the table, "Awful! They don't, they don't appreciate the arts. Well, music they love of course, but acting? Wordplay? Lost!" she threw up one arm, gesturing to somewhere above them. "Above their heads! No head for finer things like...like good Imperial ales and, and, soliloquys." she pointed forlornly at Gordo, "It's all his fault. Soon it will all be Dunmeri inspired music, used only to impress barmaids! It's all that...generational cultural influence..." she pointedly ignored the fact he was probably in the same generation as herself. Vurwe tossed and turned upstairs, the sound of Gordos melancholy song about loss and death awakening her from a drink-laden sleep. She groaned, swinging her legs to the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes. She was going to kill him. She stumbled down the stairs, hefting a wine bottle she was going to chuck at Gordo. "Vurwe?" Jorwen called from across the room, "I've been looking for you since Windhelm." She turned, her eyes flashing between Gordo and Jorwen. She had one bottle to throw. She lowered the bottle, "I've been doing the opposite!" she approached Jorwen, handing him the bottle. She leaned in and whispered, "You got a strong arm, just huck it at his big stupid head. Come on, do it!" Raelyn said, "Awww, come on, he doesn't need to have a bottle thrown at him! He's just, just the end of real music! Just hit him with your fists, that's, that's a proper brawl!" "Thank you." Jorwen took the offered bottle, sloshed it around, but sadly only dregs remained. He'd no desire to be swigging Vurwe's backwash, though she probably thought she had none and drank perfectly. He set the bottle down and ordered another cup, looked at Vurwe and then ordered two. "How did you even get to Dawnstar?" Vurwe sat down, "Oh that's a story." Raelyn shot up, grinning, "It is? Hold on, I gotta..." she tried to slide out of her seat, but ended up falling to the ground instead. She pulled herself back up, "Th-this floor has no grip!" she eventually called a barmaid over. "H-" she hiccuped, "Here's my key. Go up and grab my ink pot, paper, writ of passage...wait...no...don't grab that last one, that's a special!" The barmaid went up to grab whatever the Oblivion Raelyn was babbling about. Vurwe scowled at Raelyn, "Anyway, there I was, the only intelligent woman in all of Dawnstar. You know Gordo over there?" she gestured to Gordo. "I remember." He remembered paying Gordo to not kick Vurwe out of the tavern many nights ago. "Well he was no help at all." Gordo stopped mid song to yell, "I'm the one who loaded all the smithy supplies!" Vurwe grabbed the bottle of Alinor vintage and hucked it at him, "Your loud stupid feet almost got us hanged!" It missed Gordo. "You called the smithys son, the son of a goat!" "His father wasn't there, he could have been!" "His father was dead!" Raelyn recieved her paper and writing feather, "Can you repeat that again?" Vurwe said incredulously, "You're going to write this all down?" Raelyn nodded enthusiastically. Gears started turning in Vurwes head. "Well, in that case..." Gordo followed along sliding alongside Jorwen at the table, "We went out with the smithy supplies and got a weaponsmaker to make seventeen swords!" Raelyn wrote this down. Vurwe nodded approvingly, saying, "And with these swords, we lead the uprising!" Gordo said, proudly, "It was a proud day for Dunmeri kind..." Vurwe slapped Gordo, "No, it was a proud day for the glorious Altmer monarchy!" Raelyn whispered to Jorwen, "Are they lovers?" Jorwen's eyes went from Gordo to Vurwe and back again before he grimaced, "Don't ever ask me that again." He grabbed the two cups the barmaid delivered before hurriedly scurrying off after scowling at Vurwe. He handed one to the altmer woman, "I came here to talk to a friend, not be hounded by two drunken bards." Jorwen fumed, "Tell me the real fucking story. You don't lead an uprising with seventeen swords, besides, everyone who's read the damned Gazette knows it was Tennant." Raelyn protested, "But lies are a better story! Look!" she brought up the piece of paper, but on the opposide side. For a brief moment, one could see a stamped document with flowery handwriting. Raelyn flipped it around, realizing she had been writing on the back of her writ of passage, and hurriedly disappeared the document into her leggings with a level of folding skill that would make an origamist pack up their bags and take up gardening. Vurwe sighed, "Fine. We brought the smithy equipment to a cart we later borrowed." Gordo chimed in, "Stole." "[i]Fine![/i] Commandeered, but that's as far as I'm willing to go!" Gordo added, "We 'ad to move quickly, on account of the arrows." "I think it's possible the smithys son said something." "Maybe the cart man 'id?" "No, we didn't commandeer the cart before leaving, we did it after." Gordo leaned back, "Huh. I don'ts remember that." "We left him. In the woods? I mean, he was probably fine. Most Nords are warriors, right?" "You stole a wagon?" Jorwen asked incredulously, "You stole a wagon." He said, expecting as much of Vurwe, "Did you steal the smithy's ware- of course. You did. You're thieves." He said, nodding. He drank deep from his cup and only left the dregs, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You cause trouble wherever you go, it seems. So, you rode your wagon all the way here, what are you planning on doing with the rest of your goods?" Vurwe said, "Sale of course. I've effectively bought the entire towns steel and have been hiking the prices." Gordo nodded, "She's also been selling bronze as Dwemer metal. We've had a local metalsmith make little figurines." Raelyn gasped, "But I thought this was a real Dwemer fetish!" she brought out a warped piece of bronze that looked something like a very tiny humanoid figure with a cylindrical penis. Vurwe groaned, taking a deep drink from her cup. She somehow did this daintily. "I don't know if I should be ashamed or amused at your actions. Bring me to the cart, show me what you have, at least." Jorwen said, drinking the last of his cup. --- Vurwe brought Jorwen to cloth covered lean-to which was guarded by about four rough looking men in chainmail. Two horses were hitched to posts outside. One guard glared at Jorwen through his helmet slit, "He the one from that song in'he? He causing you trouble Miss Highorin?" Vurwe shook her head, "No, he's fine. He may pass." The man growled at Jorwen as he passed, "You turn into your bear form, and I stick you with this silver dagger." he moved his hand meaningfully to a sheath on his belt. Inside was a cart, piled to the brim with mostly bronze but also quite a bit of steel and fully constructed shields, daggers, and figurines. There was no way they were going to be able to leave with all of this.The shields were emblazoned with what looked like Altmer with beards, in a style that was supposed to look archaic. "How?" Jorwen asked, more curious than disappointed at this point. He stepped forward and picked up one of the figurines, "I don't understand these though. The mercenaries like money, drink and whores. I don't know if they'd waste it on these. This though," He picked up a big sword, almost as long as his own, "You could make a fair bit of money." He felt wrong talking of reselling stolen goods, but the fact remained. He put the sword back down, "Provided these aren't ceremonial or cheap. And how did you hire those men out there? Bear form?" "I offered them a lump sum of gold in exchange for not stealing the cart we stole." Vurwe said simply. "They were highwaymen." Gordo frowned, "You 'aven't heard The Ballad of a Red Bear? By that bard with a white rose?" He pulled out his lute and strummed a bit, singing in a baritone, [hider]Come by full moon, but do not stray, he comes by night, lives for the fray, watch for ragged beard red by blood, tormenting paws pound through the mud."[/hider]. He paused, "You know, that one." "Is that..." Jorwen trailed off, rubbing at his face, "Has she been singing of me? My Name?" He took a seat on a stack of 'dwemer' shields, grasped up a bottle of Alinor vintage lying on the ground, bit off the cork and poured himself some of it into a 'dwemer' cup. He looked around as he raised the cup to his lips and noticed there were a lot of bronze in here that he could very safely bet was supposed to be dwarven-make goods. "And you're hiring outlaws." He remembered he had two of them by the name of Mire and Brittle following him around on the orders of one of Morthal's most wanted and disgraced Nords. "Has anyone ever told you that it's hard to be friends with you?" "You should talk, I'm associating with a man who feeds on the agony of those he kills and made a pact with Molag Bal." she gestured to one of the guards who walked in, "Plus they're a conscientous lot of fine young gentlemen." It was the earlier man, holding the silver dagger in his hand now, "Just making sure you're safe Mistress Highorin, it's reaching sunset." "Don't worry, he's mostly harmless. Gordo could probably wrestle him down." "How many people in Dawnstar know my Name now?" He asked, very apparent that he was wokring hard on keeping his voice low, "I've spent a long time trying to distance myself from that Name, you know?" The highwayman narrowed his eyes and his hand inched towards his sword, "You ain't scaring me, boy. Had many people reach for their swords in my presence and you don't hear much about them anymore, do you? This blathering cunt right here is my friend, leave." "M'lady?" The outlaw glanced towards Vurwe for a second, but his eyes remained on Jorwen's. "He's fine." she waved a dismissive hand and the guard disappeared through the cloth curtain. Gordo rubbed his chin, "It's not a very large place. The songs less fun to sing than my The Dunmeri Stallion, but if it got into the heads of some merchants or the fishermen...well...who can say?" Vurwe sighed, "I suppose it's not the right time to introduce my anti-werebear medallions, is it?" "It is very hard being friends with you." He finished off his cup and poured himself more, rubbing his eyes. "So, you stayed behind in Windhelm for a few days, what happened?" "Well, it all started with..." -------- Vurwe opened a letter, delivered by courier. The royal Highorin seal was stamped in the corner. "I hope this missive meets you well, in whatever hovel you reside in. Trouble brews in Summerset. Talk of metal ships, war. Duke Ganron has gained political influence and vows for action. I oppose the action of course, why fight for a force that is destroying the Nords as we speak? But this is not about me as much as it is about you. Your...reputation, in High Rock has brought some very interesting eyes upon yourself. Have you checked under your bed?" Vurwe stopped, lying low to the floor and checking. Nothing. She continued reading. "Or perhaps behind a tree. I know not how the peasantry lives. In any case, your actions may have inspired some...traditional methods of dealing with embarassing nobility. Those who express less culturally appropriate sensibilities are not often suffered long. What comes to mind is an excerpt from a letter I received from your father years ago. As follows, -My daughter, Vurwe Highorin, has been uncourtable. Those I have brought to her, she has stung with a tongue of venom and many verbal lashings. I once thought that perhaps her ability to craft words, create works of fine art, and establish what I can only call a merchantile dictatorship would be enough to keep men to her side. This has not been the case. You know that certain forces are plotting my death as we speak. If I am to die, orchestrate a removal of my daughter from her royal seat at the nearest opportunity. Summer birds only know what she would do, given power to establish mandates. I'm sorry, I know that you hate leadership more than anything. But please, sister.- The same forces move now. Yes it is entirely your fault. I know of your work to bring Duke Ganron to an, albeit unsavory, justice and I approve, but you cannot stay in Windhelm. At least if you like your neck attached to your head. Good Luck, You Will Need it, Torema Highorin -------- Gordo tsked, "She drank for weeks after that..." Vurwe sniffed, saying somewhat stiffly, "I hadn't heard from my father..." she clutched a necklace at her neck, a symbol of the eight divine. "Well, since he died." "Oh," Jorwen gripped his cup loosely, and it wasn't just the drink that made him look at Vurwe in somewhat of a new light. "I'm sorry." He said, his voice dipping a bit into sadness. He looked away, expecting her to lash out at him, and perhaps wanting it. It wouldn't do for the venom-tongued, apparently very resourceful woman to look anything but in his eyes. Vurwe grabbed a bottle of Alinor vintage, popping the cork and drinking from the bottle. She looked down at the label. "I still see him in my dreams. Blood, a bolt in his back. It's what sent me to this gods forsaken snowscape." She paused, then whistled. The guards came, surrounding Jorwen nervously. "Please escort Jorwen back to the Inn. I have some things I still need to take care of." Jorwen rose of his own accord, knocking back the last of his wine and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, leaving the cup on the stack of shields. He nodded to Gordo, who nodded back with an understanding. Before he left with the guards, one of which he reached out to push away from him but ended up stepping back anyway, he turned back, "A woman like you needn't be ashamed." He knew what the drink could do to a person, and so did more than half the Reachman tribes in Eastern Skyrim and the westernmost fringes of High Rock. It pained him to see her like this, as much as it pained him to see his daughter distraught. Though she shed no tears, he saw it. "Not ever." With that, he turned, brushing aside the outlaws and leaving Vurwe behind for the second time. She wasn't the first to have that done to her by him. He knew that. Vurwe's outlaws stopped in their tracks the same moment Jorwen sighted Mire and Brittle standing before him some paces away. "We'll leave you, Red-Bear." "Aye." He spoke, not turning an inch towards them. He looked from Mire to Brittle and settled on Mire, "Where's my daughter? I've something to say." Mire only nodded, turning and walking and Jorwen followed. He cast one glance back to the hovel and the cart and the horses. He frowned, turning back and leaving. ----- [i]When all memory has failed and you have nothing, there is but one more reprieve. It is called mead by the nords, skooma by the khajiit, but its effects are the same. The opposite of memory, to forget. So the mists part, the salt and the earth give way, and the amber tumbles into the void. One bright day, thus shall it be for all of us. - Raelyn Giordano, an excerpt from Beautiful Lies [/i]