[i]Morning, 13th of Midyear, 4E208 Gilane, Hammerfell[/i] Raelynn and Gregor had walked to the markets together, arm-in-arm, in warm and pleasant silence, probably both reflecting on the night before -- Gregor had, at least. Ever since they had reunited they had made up for lost time with enthusiasm and been intimate with each other as much as they could. Now, however, both of them had different errands to run and the couple had split with a kiss and a wave upon reaching the first of the stalls of Gilane’s lively bazaar. The paranoid part of Gregor felt comforted by the fact that Rhoka, Raelynn’s attentive handmaiden, would accompany her while she was out and about today, but he also had to wonder how much use the Redguard woman would be if Zaveed came for Raelynn again. That said, she had assured him that she felt that the Khajiit bastard had been dealt with and that something told her he would not come after her again. Looking deep in her eyes, Gregor had elected to believe her. The first order of business on Gregor’s list was to let a smith take a look at his steel claymore and his silver longsword. He carried his own whetstones, of course, but it wasn’t the same as professional with real tools, and it had been a while since Gregor had taken the time to have his gear properly cared for. In that time, he had fought several intense battles, with the last against Zaveed certainly not being the least, and Gregor could see the scars of that encounter on the edges of his blades just as well as on his own skin. Coincidence brought him to the same smithy that Daro’Vasora and Shakti had visited a fortnight ago and the same swarthy Redguard that had greeted them that day was there to greet Gregor now. She saw him approaching when she looked out of her shop and into the streets and already whistled appreciatively at the sight of Gregor’s claymore, which he held in his hands, before he even stepped across the precipice of the smithy. “Now that’s what I call a weapon,” she said with a grin as Gregor walked up to the counter and put the blade down for her to inspect. “Not a lot of those around. Cyrodiilic, early Fourth Era design, a bright steel alloy -- flexible, right?” Gregor nodded. “Yes. The smith told me that the edges of the blade are rippled to allow it to bend instead of breaking. That was… ten years ago, now. It’s been through hell and back with me,” he said and smiled as the woman picked up the massive claymore effortlessly and held it up to her face. She was stronger than she looked. “I can see that,” she said and tutted at the sight of the nicks and cuts in the steel. “Want me to give her the love she deserves?” “Yes,” he said gratefully and removed his silver longsword’s sheath from his belt before placing that on the counter as well. “And this one too, please. They’re both enchanted, by the way.” Gregor knew enough about smithing from his time as a jewelsmith in Bravil to know that such things mattered. Special tools and care needed to be used to maintain and sharpen enchanted weaponry. The Redguard nodded and took both swords to her workstation. “They’ll be ready in an hour.” Next on Gregor’s list was the barber. He maintained his beard himself but he did not feel comfortable cutting his own hair. He wasn’t looking for a radical change; just an inch or two off the end to get rid of split hairs and dead ends. Nobody in the party had ever seen him with is hair down, not even Raelynn, but Gregor’s hair was long enough to reach his shoulders if he didn’t have it tied in his signature ronin’s knot. He took a deep breath and was suddenly struck by the sheer mundanity of his day so far; breakfast in bed, a bath, an early morning stroll to the markets and some errands. It was a stark contrast to the events of the past three weeks, most of which had been a seemingly never-ending rollercoaster of life-threatening situations and high-strung emotions, but the reprieve was welcome. He enjoyed the warm sunlight on his skin, the hubbub and buzz of the citizens and the smells of street food that wafted by. Not even the sight of the Dwemer guard patrols could undo his good mood. That said, he felt somewhat naked without his swords (he kept his dagger in one of his leather boot, but it wasn’t the same) and his heart skipped a beat when he saw a Khajiit arguing with one of the local merchants, but after a second his brain caught up to what he was seeing -- reddish fur with stripes. Not Zaveed. He sighed. He wished there was some way he could meet Zaveed again in a controlled environment and make sure, face-to-face, that what Raelynn thought about him was true. Then he would be able to let it go. Fat chance of that ever happening, however, and Gregor pushed the thought out of his mind to resume his leisurely pace towards the barber. Children were playing on the streets, adults were shopping or talking animatedly to one another and hawkers came up to him to advertise their wares. He was a foreigner and foreigners often had money, of course, but it wasn’t difficult for Gregor to convince them that he wasn’t interested; his white shirt and tan breeches were still crinkly and a little messy after having spent so much time on the floors of the Hawkford residence following Raelynn’s repeated and forceful efforts to get him undressed. Gregor did not look like a wealthy man today. It was quite busy at the barber’s; many Redguard men were seated to have their birds trimmed or their wiry, unruly hair dealt with. The barbers themselves matched their clientele -- except one, that caught Gregor’s eye immediately, something that was reciprocated. A male Bosmer jumped up from his seat at the back of the barbershop and approached Gregor with vigor, his expression changing from boredom to something approaching excitement in less than a few seconds. “My good sir,” the Bosmer began and welcomed Gregor with a bow. “Can I interest you in a haircut? Or does the beard require trimming?” The elf had long, flowing hair not dissimilar from Gregor’s own and he smiled to himself as he realized why the mer-barber had been so excited to see him. “Haircut, yes, please. Just an inch off the edges. Split ends and so on,” Gregor said and moved towards the empty chair he was being directed towards. “Let me guess, Wood Elf; you don’t get to cut a lot of hair here, do you?” The Bosmer sighed, a sound filled with exasperation, and nodded. “A man with hair like yours, that is what I am used to, not these… tough and rugged bird’s nests the Redguards have,” the Bosmer said in a low voice as he leaned in to fasten the barber cape around Gregor’s neck. “I I was just passing through, truth be told, when [i]everything happened,[/i] you know what I mean, and the travel ban kept me here and, well, I ran out of money.” He spoke quickly and emphatically and wasted no time in moistening Gregor’s hair. “Tell you what,” Gregor replied, still smiling. “If you let me enjoy my haircut in peace, I’ll give you a few extra septims.” He could tell that the Bosmer was the type to talk his client’s ear off and it was worth a few coins to Gregor to avoid that. “Certainly, sir.” Gregor closed his eyes and made himself comfortable in the chair. The sensation of the Bosmer’s fingers on his scalp was enjoyable and Gregor idly wondered if everyone secretly enjoyed having their hair cut for that reason, or whether that was just him. He knew he liked it even more when it was Raelynn that ran her fingers through his hair, and he then spent a few minutes wondering what she was doing now, how much of her shopping list she’d already managed to procure. He had seen the list; it was long. The ingredients that she needed were manifold. To sit with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the city and the conversations of the other patrons around him, reminded him of long, lazy afternoons he would spend relaxing on the massive branch of an oak tree, that stood close by his home in Bravil, in a bid to avoid his chores. The branch was shielded from sight by lower-hanging branches and the tree’s copious canopy and as far as Gregor knew, his parents never did figure out where he spent all those hours. The memory made him smile. It was a thought he hadn’t had in a long time, but Gregor realised that there were a lot of good memories for him to reflect on. The first twenty-eight years of his life had been wonderful, carefree and wholesome. It had been all the more cruel that his father should have met such an unworthy end and left that same curse to his children and Gregor had spent the past ten years thinking as little as possible about the years that came before… but in the end, he thought, that did nothing to diminish the happiness he had been lucky to have. Whether it was his near-death experience or the sheer joy that his relationship with Raelynn brought him that prompted such thinking he did not know. Either way, it was comforting. He had lived a good life and if he succeeded, he would be able to go back to it. Or something like it, anyway. Gregor knew that Briar would not be waiting for him and that it would be hard for his family to accept him back into their lives after so many years, even if he did manage to save them from the family curse, but Gregor could feel, deep down, that he could have such happiness again with Raelynn, at least. One day, they would have their own home and an oak tree for him to sit beneath on a warm summer’s day. Was she even the domestic type? The question jolted through him so suddenly that it almost made him open his eyes and he chuckled softly at his own expense. Any day in which [i]that[/i] was the most burning question on his mind was a good day. He thought about it for a second and decided that yes, she probably was, and had been before she had left her home in High Rock for a taste of adventure. Gregor paid the Bosmer his regular fee plus a few extra coins, as promised, after the elf had finished cutting Gregor’s hair. He swept it back and tied it up in its usual style and it looked no shorter that way, but Gregor could feel that it was healthier now. He still had some time left to kill before the smith would be done with his weapons so Gregor found a nice place to sit in the shade and procured a kebab for himself to eat. He savored the juicy meat and the tasty spices and watched the people go by. It was a stark contrast to how he had turned their heads just a few days before when he was on his way to confront Raelynn at the Hawkford residence; now their eyes seemed to drift over him without really seeing him. He was just another man having lunch and staying out of the sun. Nobody special. The smith, too, received a tip, and she inclined her head gracefully in appreciation of Gregor’s generosity. He inspected his weapons carefully before he fastened them to his person once again but he saw no flaws with the woman’s work and Gregor made sure to compliment her on her skills before he left. There was one last errand he needed to run. His black battledress had been significantly damaged during his fight with Zaveed, so Rhoka had delivered them to a tailor yesterday to have them mended and now it was time to pick them up. Gregor was anxious to have his clothes back. For some reason, he did not feel like he was complete without being in possession of all of his gear, even if he wasn’t wearing it all the time. His mind wandered while his feet took him through the streets, stopping every so often to remember the directions Rhoka had given him, and he felt like he was coming to an inevitable conclusion. If he was going to have the life he dreamed of with Raelynn, he had to do two things: complete his quest and continue the fight against the Dwemer until they were no longer a threat to his existence. Both were considerable challenges and one was measurably more difficult than the other, but… there was a way to combine both goals into a single objective. The thread the tailor had used to sow the rips and tears shut was the exact right shade of black to fade nigh-seamlessly into the textile of his clothes and once again Gregor found himself impressed with the handiwork of Gilane’s craftsmen. His gold pouch was much lighter than at the start of the day, but his weapons were sharp, his clothes were mended and his appearance was well-groomed. Satisfied, Gregor set off back to the Hawkford residence. In the distance, looming above the roofs of the residences and shops of the citizenry, the Governor’s palace lay shimmering in the sunlight, its silhouette distorted and shifting in the midday heat. Gregor found that his eyes were drawn to it while he walked. A small smile tugged at his lips. He was going to kill Governor Rourken.