[center][b]Patience[/b][/center] A blonde young man sat on a log before a little girl whose haunting thousand yard stare hid an ocean of grief. He plucked at the strings of his lute a few times, trying to get a sense of what kind of melody he should be playing – he was wracking his brain, the cogs were turning, as he tried his best to formulate some lyrics on the spot. Finally, as if someone had flipped a light switch, his face lit up and he found a rhythm on his lute. Strumming away at the strings, it was a moment or two of a beautiful melody, if a bit quaint, before leaning in as if to talk directly to the girl and the boyish charm of his voice smoothly entered the song. [i]“Oh, girl, I see you sittin' there Tryin' to be strong 'Cause life ain't fair, but darling It won't be long These people tryin' to tell you that Big girls don't cry So you try to keep a straight face, but It still hurts inside Well, let me tell you a secret I learned Long, long ago When I saw my brotha' for the first time Cryin' in the snow He was a soldier, he was a man He fights the good fight when he can't even stand When I asked him why don't he shy He told me the weakest men hide While the bravest men cry So darling There's no need to hide Darling, feel free to cry You gotta know how you feel When you're alone, deep in the Weald Darling, feel free to cry And let the blue birds fly, Let the blue birds fly, fly away”[/i] It didn't take much for the first couple of tears to start running down the young lass' cheeks, but it wasn't until the end of the second verse when the waterworks started running a full throttle. He was forced to finish the song early by the end of the first chorus when the little girl had herself latching onto the bard's side, and burying her face in his shirt and soaking it with her tears. He hesitated for a second, honestly surprised his song was able to reach her so profoundly, but his face softened and he set his lute down. He wrapped his arms around the girl and somberly held her there. Her body was shaking with grief, and her sobbing was slightly muffled and muted in his side. It wasn't long before the melancholy came over the bard as well. This wasn't an unusual case. In fact, this girl was just one of many. Barely even ten years of age, and she had already lost everything. Merchants, accountants, politicians, homebodies and busybodies alike were all displaced and shared a similar sort of story. Some might have been lucky to have one or two members of their family still alive, but they had all shared this loss together. Their homes were taken from them. Everything they once owned was lost and meaningless. Titles, power, and wealth – it meant nothing. The long journey along the Gold Road had worn everyone down, and the hope that these refugees had to find security in Skingrad was taken from them. The Count was apparently a popular fellow, but it would seem that even he had to take care of his own people. There was no right decision to be made – only one that would hopefully end in less total suffering. Unfortunately, that meant condemning the refugees to even greater suffering. “Hey, Calen!” A voice barked from behind. Curiously, the bard turned his head around in response. A tall, surly man with an unshaven face marched up and confronted him with his arms crossed. “What's this all about? What did you do to get Lessia cryin' again? Girl, I thought we talked about this.” The girl, Lessia, just looked up at the approaching man and sniffled, trying her best to rub her face dry with her dirty sleeve. “Oh, hello Cezare!” Calen chirped. “Are you Lessia's father, then?” Cezare's face fell somber. “No, I... he--” “No, Lessia lost her family, didn't she?” Calen asked rhetorically. “That's quite a thing to happen to a ten year old girl. Let's give her a chance to grieve.” “Calen, you know I respect you and the help you've given us, but now is the time to be teaching our kids how to be strong. Not breaking them down.” “What's so strong about being emotionally constipated?” Calen asked, catching Cezare off guard with the sharpness of his words. “It's good to let her process these emotions. Not only will it teach her how to cope with them in the future, letting all of the grief out now will help her become more focused later.” “You know what? Never mind I said anything. I thought you Skyrim nords would have more balls.” Cezare muttered, rolling his eyes as he walked away from him. “Oh, that must be some of your [i]world famous[/i] respect!” Calen called after him. “...I'm sorry.” Lessia's little voice piped up. Calen felt his heart wrench and his face softened again. “Oh honey,” he said gently, “you've nothing to be sorry about! Tension is just high around the camp right now. Nothing is your fault.” Lessia just buried her face in his shirt again. “Did you like my song?” Calen asked. He felt her nod, and he had to resist wincing as her chin dug into his rubs. “Will you remember it for me? Whenever you're sad, will you remember the lyrics?” He asked again. He felt her nod again – [i]ow, ow, oww.[/i] “That's good! I'm glad you liked it. Remember: brave girls cry. There's no shame in it.” Calen repeated. “I have to go check up on Danish now, okay?” Lessia pulled away from Calen and nodded. With a pat on her head, he pulled a few strands of hair out of her face and stood up and began walking. Everywhere he saw were people he had become somewhat familiar with – not too much, only a few conversations he had with them on the road. They were people who he had at least worked together with to make sure everyone survived the trip from the Imperial City to here. They weren't the first ones to arrive either. There were others waiting outside the gates, a few who the people from his own group recognized and were grateful to the gods to find them still alive. Freya, the one he had been flirting with on his way to the Imperial City from Bruma, had reconnected with her mother and hadn't done much speaking to one another since. He couldn't blame her after nearly losing her, and he was willing to give her all the time and space she needed. Others became even more dejected when they still hadn't found their own friends and family. The last few days has been an exhausting carousel of emotions. Those who felt they had nothing left or wanted revenge against the dwemer joined up with a recently formed militia group called the Colovian Rangers. It sounded not too different from what Murtagh would've done, but Calen knew where his value lies, and it was not with them. A minute of walking brought Calen to the other end of the camp where the stables would've been. The local stablemaster was a little more generous than the city of Skingrad was, but at the same time, the stablemaster didn't have dozens upon dozens – possibly a hundred – of horses arriving at his doorstep like the city had people. There were fewer to accommodate, and Danish? Well, the short pony didn't take up much space. He has been... surprisingly calm. He'd remember the commotion of Solitude being enough to shake the pony's nerves enough to send him running, but the couple years being driven on the road must've steeled him a little bit. Enough to at least tolerate the young boy that was currently on his back. The kid seemed rather disappointed in Danish's less-than-enthused disposition, who was more interested in eating the grass than giving the child a joy-ride. He wasn't reined or had a saddle on him or anything, just his halter. The kid probably had no idea how to ride a horse. Amused, Calen strolled up beside Danish and the kid sitting atop of him and greeted him with a smile. “Hey there, would you like me to help?” “No.” The boy replied indignantly, crossing his arms. “Stupid horse just won't move.” “Now, now, don't call him stupid – he hasn't deserved it [i]yet.[/i]” Calen insisted. He picked up the piece of rope that was attached to the bottom of the halter and put it in the kid's hand. “You probably already know that if that touches the left side of his neck then he'll turn right.” “Uh... yeah.” The boy replied, applying pressure on Danish's left neck. Danish himself made an impatient noise but started turning on the spot towards the right. Calen smiled, and kept himself on Danish's left side and away from his rear end. “And the other side...” The boy let go of the pressure on Danish's left neck and let the rope touch his right neck. The pony followed the cue and started turning left. “This is called neck reining.” Calen beamed with a smile. Though hesitantly, the boy started to smile back at Calen. The bard reached into his pocket and procured a small handful of dried oats, immediately catching Danish's attention. From then on, the pony started ignoring all of the cues the boy on top started giving him and focused solely on Calen, who had put the hand of oats behind his back. “Danish, kiss!” He said with kissy sound, leaning his head in to the pony. Danish lifted his head to gently tap Calen's face with his nose. “Kiss!” Calen said again and Danish repeated the gesture. “One more time,” Calen asked, making the kissy sounds again. Danish nuzzled him a third time. “Good boy! What a good boy!” He praised, extending out his hand and letting Danish eat his prize. The whole act had captivated the child riding atop the pony who was grinning from ear to ear with an awed-like expression, bringing an even greater smile to Calen's face. In times like these, it was important to be patient. Especially with Tamriel's most vulnerable. Lose it, and well... what else did you have?