The interruption had been a surprise, and Fjolte stood still for a moment before turning his head. His jaw square and strong, expression stoic as he eyed up the stranger before him. It wasn't unheard of for bandits to pull such a ruse, and after he had traced Gregor's outline his eyes tracked the surrounding area, for a sign of anyone who may have been with the approaching Imperial. After rather a long, and tense pause, Fjolte's eyes drew back to meet those of his 'friend'. They were dark and as mysterious as he was, but there was something in the air that put the Nord at ease. He kept quiet still as he took slow strides towards the Imperial, his eyes narrow. There was a sword on the man's back, and he was dressed in good armour. "Aye…" he finally breathed with a nod, "aye I'll take your help…" And then he smiled, his posture softened with it, and suddenly he seemed immediately less intimidating. Gregor exhaled slowly, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath while the Nord had sized him up. It was an unsettling sensation, being inspected and evaluated like that. But, truth be told, he had made the most of it and returned the favor. When the other man relaxed, Gregor was reasonably confident he had read his body language well enough to judge that his acceptance of Gregor’s offer was sincere, and that he did not have anything to fear from him. As such, the silversmith held out a gloved hand for the Nord to shake. “Very good,” Gregor said with a nod and relief in his eyes, visible as he tilted his head back to look up at the man’s face. “The name’s Gregor Mercurius. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mister… ?” "Soriksen," Fjolte said with a light shrug before grabbing Gregor's hand in a powerful grip to shake. "Fjolte Soriksen of Rorikstead," he added - as Nords often did. Satisfied with the introduction, he turned back towards the cavern and then back to Gregor with a curious glint in his eye. "So tell me, what did he do to offend you…?" “That’s near Whiterun, isn’t it?” Gregor asked. “I’ve never been but I’ve seen it on the map.” He paused for a moment, wondering whether the Nord would want to know his hometown in turn. “I’m from Bravil, myself,” he added, but quickly moved on from that topic to answer the Nord’s question. Gregor was smart enough to work out the implication: Fjolte wasn’t here for the bounty but for a more personal reason. He made sure that the buttons of the pocket containing the parchment outlining the offered reward were firmly closed while clearing his throat. “Not me, personally. I’m here to capture him and turn him over to the authorities,” he said, and looked Fjolte up and down once more, leaving out some details deliberately. Details concerning gold, mostly. “Alive, if preferable, but I don’t think they’re very picky.” "Close enough to Whiterun, aye…" Fjolte replied nonchalantly, running his fingers over the stubble on his chin - briefly imagining how he might look with a thicker beard like Gregor's. He was a majestic looking gentleman indeed, and while thinking of that, he missed entirely most of everything else he said. It wasn't until the word 'alive' was tossed into the air that Fjolte snapped out of it. "Alive might be an issue… He might put up a fight, might slip and fall on the pointy end of that," he said, indicating to the sword on Gregor's back. "I need to teach him a lesson before he gets handed over to any authorities," he confessed, bringing his hands together to crack his knuckles. "Collect a debt." “He might,” Gregor echoed in agreement, followed by a sigh. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Don’t worry, I won’t hesitate to oblige him if he decides he’s had enough of living. I’d just like to avoid any unnecessary deaths if possible.” His eyes followed Fjolte’s hands at the sound of the Nord’s large knuckles cracking, and then back up to his face. He looked quite serious about what Gregor could only assume to be the physical beating he was about to deliver. “What kind of debt, if I might be so bold?” Gregor asked, his curiosity piqued. "Mr Lirrencel here had an agreement with my employer…" the Nord began to explain, now moving back towards the cave at Gregor's side. "He was offered a very reasonable sum, given half in advance… Well, some time passed and he never did honour his agreement…" He glanced sidelong at Gregor, "that sort of behaviour is taken very seriously. So, I'm here to collect that payment that was made in [i]good faith[/i]. That's all…" He smiled, but it was more of a devious curling of his lips than the friendly beam from only moments ago. "I can't have my boss shown up by a petty bandit." Gregor raised an eyebrow upon his realization that he had misjudged the fellow; he seemed like a wilder sort than the type to have something as mundane as an employer, and Gregor briefly wondered what kind of person could commandeer the services of such a proud Nord specimen. “I see,” he said. “That sounds reasonable to me. I take it you’re operating under the assumption that Lirrencel has stowed his payment in the cave.” The prospect of more gold for the taking was tempting but Gregor quashed that thought immediately. There was no chance of seizing it for himself without having to go through the Nord. “In that case, since your quarrel with him is of a more personal nature…” Gregor slowed his pace as they stepped in front of the cave’s entrance and gestured towards it. “After you. I’ll see to my business with him when you’re done. If it comes to a fight, I’ve got your back.” If Gregor was having any thoughts of double crossing Fjolte, they were not detected by the Nord. He was trusting of people in general, and the Imperial seemed affable enough. "Well I appreciate that brother, and so you know, I have yours too." It had been some time since he had worked alongside someone else, at least someone that wasn't a bandit like the very one they were hunting. He was curious about the man. He seemed almost too proper to be here, collecting on a bounty of all things. He honestly looked like the sort to be indoors doing just about anything else. As Fjolte approached the mouth of the cave, he made out the shape of a bandit sitting down, watching. Watching in completely the wrong direction, mind. A quick scan of the cave showed that there was a tunnel down, and so that meant that this poor fellow up top was in quite an unfortunate position should he choose to deny what would be a polite request. "Good evening!" Fjolte announced, the bandit turned his head especially quick, his mouth hung open into a gawping expression. The Nord held up his hands, with no weapon in site he continued forwards, a smug grin on his face. "I'm here to see Jodane, just Jodane, just to get something that belongs to me." The smug grin remained, and the eyes of the bandit flitted between Fjolte and Gregor. In a moment of absolute wisdom, he drew his sword and took in a breath, "never should have come here!" He exclaimed before rushing at them… Gregor, standing a few feet behind and to the right of Fjolte, rolled his eyes. Instead of drawing his own sword in return, he was curious to see how his newfound Nord ally was going to use his fists, and limited his contribution to the defeat of the bandit watchman to a single flash of thunder magic, the bolt etching the air between Gregor’s outstretched hand and the man’s chest in painfully bright lines of lightning. The spell generally wasn’t powerful enough to kill anyone -- not counting those with hitherto undetected cardiac disorders -- but it would stop the bandit in his tracks long enough for Fjolte to do as he wished. It had at least stopped the bandit in his tracks, dazed him enough that he dropped his sword. He was much shorter than Fjolte, there must have been a foot between them, and it pained him to have to do anything too violent to him. He was just an idiot, afterall. Not fit to be the watchman but tossed up there anyway. Fjolte simply sighed and sent a tightly closed fist into his cheek, avoiding the nose, but landing it in just the right way to knock him out. He fell down quickly. His legs didn't fold beneath him, he didn't stagger, he just fell backwards with a thud. The Nord sneered, feeling a pang of regret for it. "Sorry lad," he said with a shrug, before turning back to Gregor. Seeing the man mould the elements in his hands was a surprise, maybe that sword was just a decorative piece. The fact he was a mage raised an eyebrow and piqued at Fjolte's interest even more. He might need to bring that up later - in any case, he was only finding himself with more questions, and less answers. "Come on, let's get down there," he said, waving his hand as he crept over the rocks and began his descent. There was something decidedly comical about the single, well-placed punch and the spreadeagled posture the bandit subsequently adopted on the floor of the cave, and Gregor felt a mixture of amusement and approval at Fjolte’s non-lethal tactics. One surefire way to gauge the quality of a man was to see how he treated his enemies, after all. He was heartened to know that Fjolte wasn’t a rabid barbarian. “Yes, let’s,” he agreed, not failing to notice the way Fjolte looked at him. Gregor knew that it was difficult for strangers to get the proper measure of him and he considered it one of his strengths. Being underestimated was definitely preferable to being overestimated. Descending further into the cave brought them to something rather like an antechamber, Gregor thought, for while the tunnel opened up into a wider cavern, he also spotted a path deeper into the underground grotto on the other side. More pressing, however, were the three bandits that jumped to their feet, yelling more incoherent battlecries while they armed themselves. Fjolte wasn’t even given the opportunity of brokering for peace this time. One of the bandits leapt over the table they had been playing dice at, axe in hand, and made for Fjolte, while another reaver, a Dunmer with dark gray skin and eyes the color of old blood, bore down on Gregor with ill intent. The third bandit, a Bosmer, had predictably taken up a bow and retreated towards the back of the cavernous chamber, keeping his distance so that he could try to pepper them with arrows. Now that they were outnumbered Gregor thought it prudent to draw his sword and it left its scabbard with a satisfying rasp, the brilliant steel blade scattering the light of the torches across the walls. He wielded the bastard sword in two hands and maneuvered, surprisingly light on his feet for a man in such bespoke clothing, to keep the Dunmer between himself and the enemy marksman. “This is the part where you fall down and bleed to death,” the dark elf hissed and locked blades with the Imperial. With no time to worry about Gregor, Fjolte sprung to action, avoiding the axe the first time with a well-timed duck and roll. His movement was quick and as he came back up he swung a punch into the bandits back. He was a burly fellow - another Nord, his arms could rival Fjolte's if they really wanted to compare. "Come one now," Fjolte huffed out, his feet moving beneath him quickly, kicking up sand. The bandit might have been big, but Fjolte was [i]fast[/i]. He dodged the heavy swings with ease, dancing around almost gleefully. "Fuckin' prick," the bandit spat out, stamina fading fast. He wasn't going to manage to hurt his opponent with the axe, and so he dropped it, rolling up his own sleeves and balling his hands into fists too. Try as he might, he couldn't keep up with Fjolte, who was ready to launch back. He performed a quick turn on his heel, lifting one leg up in a high kick that landed on the bandits chin with a meaty sounding [i]thunk![/i]. He staggered back only briefly before striking at Fjolte, his fist found the collarbone of his opponent, but it barely seemed to stop him. Instead, Fjolte countered back - taking advantage of the closeness of the bandit to swing an elbow. It whooshed into the bandits face, and his free right hand was then the fist that smashed into his nose. The crunch was unmistakable and the wound bled instantly. The stream fell from his nostrils and over his bruised lip. He still carried on, wiping it away with a clumsy forearm. Meanwhile, Fjolte circled him, attention drawn to the archer by the sudden and dull thud of an arrow fired into a table beside him. "Shit," he muttered, watching the dizzier bandit and then the sneaky Bosmer… It hadn't left him free of inspiration, that was to be sure. A second arrow missed him only just. The pressure was on, and so he started his movement again. The third arrow came quickly after, landing in the same spot. He was a good shot, the Bosmer - just not good with a moving target. Fjolte counted, guessing that it would be on four… He guided the burly bandit, too concussed to know better right where he needed to be. "One," he lifted a foot… "Two," he began a spin with momentum to get him off the ground… "Three," his foot stretched out, the bandit was too dumb to know any better but this was a fight to the death... "Four," he counted - the kick sent the bandit back and into the way of the arrow. It pierced his neck, the tip cleared to the other side. "GREGOR," his voice boomed as he ducked again, out of sight of the arrows - they'd stopped now that the Bosmer realised what he'd done. "Some magic when you're able, brother…" The Imperial and the Dunmer danced with each other, their duel undisturbed by arrows while Fjolte fought the other Nord, and Gregor could tell that his opponent was enjoying himself. The elf’s blade was curved and wickedly sharp, an exotic design that he didn’t recognize, and he wielded it with expertise. Gregor’s blade was longer and heavier, however, and he managed to keep the Dunmer at range while he sought for an opening, threatening to punish any overexertion on the elf’s part with a solid disembowelment. The circular stalemate erupted into a flurry of blows after a few seconds and Gregor winced as he felt the hooked edge of the curved sword nick a cut into his elbow -- but he was almost more concerned about the fabric of his coat than anything else. “Why won’t you die?” the bandit spat and attacked again. Gregor managed to deflect and parry the next series of attacks and scored a satisfying hit against his enemy, raking him across the chest with the tip of his sword. It drew blood but it wouldn’t be nearly enough to dispatch his opponent. The ice spike that followed, however, faster than the Dunmer could react, buried itself into his chin, tearing through the esophagus and piercing the brain stem. The elf dropped dead, abruptly reduced to little more than a sack of blood and bone. Gregor tried to ignore the cold fury that hummed in satisfaction inside of him. That’s when the roar of Fjolte’s voice demanded his attention, and Gregor’s gaze followed, seeing the Nord take cover from the Bosmer’s archery. Of course -- the third bandit. The fight wasn’t over yet. Switching targets, Gregor cursed as the bow and arrow were trained on him. He swiftly dropped to the ground, the iron-tipped arrow whistling overhead, and retaliated with a volley of three fireballs that the Bosmer deftly avoided. He overturned and ducked behind a crate, creating cover from behind which he could easily stop the approach of either Gregor or Fjolte. Unless they worked together. “On three?” Gregor asked, glancing sidelong at Fjolte from his prone position, still breathing hard from the duel with the Dunmer. Fjolte nodded at him, he wouldn't say it out loud, but working like this had been fun for him too. He peeked around his cover, the Bosmer was still obscured behind flame. So that was thunder, ice, and flame that Gregor had at his command. The interest grew, and so did an idea, tickling at the back of his mind. "One…. Two…." He counted, glancing back to the Imperial on his, "three!" Gregor scrambled to his feet and dashed towards the crate where the Bosmer was hiding behind, blade in one hand and a stream of fire coming from the other, like a mythical dragon’s breath, that would obscure the bandit’s vision and hopefully force him to keep his head down against the blistering heat. Contrary to that expectation, however, something knocked the wind out of Gregor and he stumbled, falling to his knees after having crossed roughly half of the distance towards the crate. He gasped for breath and looked down to see an arrow sticking out of his vest and immediately felt with trembling fingers how deep the shaft had penetrated. Relief flooded him when he discovered that it had been stopped by the chainmail beneath his clothes and merely forced the air out of his lungs with the impact. He tore the arrow out of his vest and glanced back up, hoping that he had bought Fjolte enough time to seal the deal. And he had. He'd closed the distance while Gregor sent his flames. Appearing behind the Bosmer, the flame surrounded Fjolte almost in a semi circle, the smoke obscured his face so much that he looked more of a menacing shadow than a man. The muscles that were packed onto his arms rippled as he moved, and sweat lined his brow as he forced his fist into the Bosmer's ribs - who responded with a loud yelp at the dull thud that knocked him down and over the crate he had been hiding behind, towards more of the flames. He scuttled over the dirt, wheezing as the bruising took its dark hold of his torso. "Gnnnurgg… Stop, please…" he begged, rolling onto his back, the bow and arrow had been left behind. The wide eyes of the Bosmer archer met Fjolte's as he moved slowly towards him, dropping to his haunches over the bandit. The Bosmer then looked around him, at the Dunmer and at the Nord who had both met violent ends. "Please, I'll run away and won't come back, just don't kill me-" he begged tearfully, bringing his slender arms up to his face as Fjolte raised a fist. He hesitated, closing his eyes tight, the weight of the decision heavy… "Please don't hurt me, please!" He continued, sobbing. Fjolte looked to Gregor, the Bosmer was in no position to fight back, but it wasn't all up to the Nord to make the choice. Gregor had been shot, and had it not been for his armour… That was a killing shot, sure as sure. He clenched his jaw and his nostrils flared, anger momentarily rushed across his countenance. "Should we?" He asked aloud, tone cold. Taking deep breaths and absent-mindedly stroking his chest where he’d been hit, undoubtedly already bruising beneath his armor, Gregor got back up on two feet and plodded over to Fjolte and the Bosmer, his sword loose in his hand. His mind was telling him no, but the anger in his heart told him yes. For a moment, Gregor hesitated. Then he shook his head. “Take his weapons,” the Imperial wheezed, followed by a coughing fit. He took another deep breath to steady himself. “Then let him go.” Fjolte ran his hands over the Bosmer, removing only a dagger from him. After that, he stood up, taking hold of his collar to drag him up too. He kept a tight hold of it, even after he'd found his footing. With a strong tug the Bosmer was inches from Fjolte's face. "Run, take your friend out there with you. Don't be here when we leave…" That was when he let go, the Bosmer staggered again but ran as fast as he could and then he was simply gone. "Let's find Jodane…" he sighed, a huff of anger left him and he felt his own adrenaline start to settle down, enough so that whatever had descended over him was pushed back. After a long exhale, he noticed that Gregor wouldn't be standing upright properly for a while after a blow like that. "That's got to hurt…" “It does,” Gregor managed through gritted teeth. He looked down at his feet and closed his eyes, pressing the hand that had been massaging his chest flat against his vest. A beatific glow emanated from between his fingers, illuminating his features from below, and the soft chime of Restoration magic echoed through the chamber. A few seconds passed before the light faded and Gregor glanced back up. He rolled his shoulders and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He smiled and nodded. “That’s better. I’ll get a real healer to look at it when I get back to Jehanna but it’ll do for now. Let’s go.” With a tilt of his head, Fjolte observed yet another display of magic from the man. It was impressive really. Annoyingly so, almost. "Alright, fucking show off," he scoffed- meaning nothing by it, the slight chuckle in his voice indicated that. "You mages…" he sighed as he turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the next tunnel, following the torches on the walls. "If it's to Jehanna that you're headed, I'll take you to the best…" he said with a smirk, looking over his shoulder briefly at Gregor. As they continued through the tunnel, they came across an opening, and the sound of running water could be made out. A stream, and a beautiful open section of the cave. The walls dampened and glistening in just about every shade of blue, catching silver too from the light sources. To the side as they rounded out of the tunnel, a high wooden platform had been built as scaffolding to reach the heights of the walls. It looked secure enough, and from underneath, Fjolte could hear hurried footsteps, back and forth. As he cast his gaze up, he could just make out the dark figure of a man pacing... "Jodane," he whispered. Momentarily distracted by the natural beauty of the cave, Gregor only snapped back into focus when he heard Fjolte whisper. He turned to face him and nodded. The sound of the water meant that they could whisper without being overheard. “How do you want to do this?” the Imperial asked as quietly as he could. Fjolte was the one whose employer had beef with the man, after all, so Gregor decided to just follow his lead. Jodane seemed preoccupied, and so Fjolte pointed to the staircase. "We go and have a chat with him, like gentlemen would," he said, matter-of-factly. As if he wasn't covered in smoke, dirt, and had blood on his knuckles. After all, what was the Breton going to do? He was simply a cornered rat now with nowhere to go and nothing to do but pay up. He didn't really care if Jodane saw either of them, either he'd fight and Gregor would throw an ice spike - or he'd piss himself. Maybe both. As the soles of Fjolte's boots touched the stairs they creaked, but Jodane kept pacing. The higher they climbed, the more that could be made out of the man. He was frantically packing, muttering under his breath as he went. So much for him being a true bandit, he looked to be trying to escape… "Oi," Fjolte announced as they made it to the top of the stairs. That got his attention at last, and he scrambled over his case. "Shit, shit, [i]shit[/i]," he cursed. Recognising the Nord at once, he took a step back. "Look, if this is about the job-" "It is," Fjolte interrupted quickly. "You see, I was stopped by someone and I couldn't - it was too risky, surely you can understand…." Jodane's beady brown eyes then fell on Gregor, a man he did not recognise at all. "You understand, don't you friend?" He asked Gregor, his eyes desperate for some back up. Gregor scoffed. “I’m not your friend,” he said and crossed his arms over his chest -- making it evident he was not going to intervene on the Breton’s behalf. He was still sore where the Bosmer’s arrow had hit him and felt a sharp stabbing pain if he breathed in too deep, not to mention the rips in his vest and the sleeve of his overcoat. None of that served to make Gregor any more amicable towards the wanted man. “I just watched him beat up your men with nothing more than his bare hands,” the Imperial added and gestured towards Fjolte with a nod. “If I were you, I’d do whatever he says. You’ve got nowhere left to run, Jodane.” Having received no support, it was as if he resigned himself to whatever fate was coming to him, and instead of just keeping quiet and playing ball, he pointed a finger at Gregor, curling his lips into a snarl, "Deserine hires just about any trash now then," he spat. "Fine. Take the damn septims back," he stomped over to his case, rifling through it to find a heavy coin purse, which he tossed to the ground. "Take it and go." Fjolte knelt to pick it up, examining it by the weight. It felt right enough. "Need interest, friend. You embarrassed my employer… You owe more than a bag of gold now." He slipped the coin purse into his pocket. "Oh, and he's not part of the company, he's here for business of his own… Ain't that right?" He looked over his shoulder to Gregor with a playful smirk. “Quite right,” Gregor confirmed. He kept a straight face and produced the bounty posting that called for Jodane’s arrest from his pocket before tossing it at the man’s feet, unopened. “You’re wanted by more than just Deserine.” [i]Whoever that is,[/i] Gregor thought to himself. “Once your business with my friend here is concluded, you’re coming with me,” he said and slowly lowered his arms back to his side, ready to call on his magic at a moment’s notice. “Dead or alive. Your choice.” "I'm not going with you," Jodane responded defiantly, "and you're not taking a damn thing else from me." He slammed his case shut, and picked up his own weapon, a spear. He held it tightly, and all of a sudden he did look like a bandit. Just another bandit. "The interest can be the head of her favourite little slave," he hissed, thrusting the spear in Fjolte's direction aggressively. "Then yours too, for good measure," he snarled out at Gregor. With the movement, the scaffolding began to wobble and creak, Fjolte hopped back out of the range of the spear, but Jodane rushed forward again… With grim determination, Gregor brought the destructive power of his spells to bear and unsheathed his blade once more. A combination of spells and deft bladework overwhelmed the Breton quickly, before his spear could do any harm to Fjolte, after Gregor stepped inside of the long weapon’s reach. Jodane sank to his knees with a fresh burn mark on his face and Gregor’s steel bastard sword buried deep in his gullet. “Idiot,” Gregor hissed. The Breton looked up at him, lips moving feebly as he attempted to say one more thing, but the life faded from him with every weakened pulse of his heart and he expired before he managed to form the words. Gregor sighed, pulled free his sword and averted his gaze, looking to Fjolte instead. Jodane sank onto the ground, dead. “Do you have what you need?” As Jodane fell to his crumpled heap, Fjolte made his move - popping the case back open to rummage through. Just clothes and books, “a moment, brother,” he said to Gregor with a wave of his hand as he continued his exploration of the available loot. He came across a crate, pulling it open to reveal what he had really been after… “Well I’ll be damned,” he sighed, crouching down to gaze into the jewelry scattered over the bottom. There sat amongst what looked to be rather dull and unimpressive pieces of brass and crockery and various rings and bracelets was a necklace. Silver. It was thick like a choker, and featured a row of three sapphires. The one in the centre was the biggest, and the two at either side were smaller but still as beautiful in Fjolte’s eyes. He didn’t have a trained eye, either. He couldn’t see that the sapphires weren’t truly flawless. He just saw a shiny piece of jewellery that might go a long way to making someone smile. He held it out for Gregor to look at too, “this will do…” he smiled, looking at Jodane one last time. “Debt is paid… As for you,” he glanced back to Gregor, his eyes as blue as the stones. “Take anything you’d like too." Gregor's eyes widened at the sight of the hoard of jewelry spilling out over the wooden planks of the rickety platform, and he smiled gratefully when invited to partake of its looting himself. He knelt down beside Fjolte and glanced sidelong at the piece that the Nord had selected. It was obvious at a glance that the silver was an alloy, diluted with something else, and that the sapphires weren't of very high quality. Nevertheless, Gregor nodded in approval. "Very nice," he said, keeping his thoughts to himself. The silversmith rummaged through the loot, dismissing most of it as nigh-worthless kitsch, until his eyes fell on a subtle but unmistakable sparkle. He held up the object to the light for a proper inspection. It was a ring, the gold band so old that it had faded into a colour approaching bronze -- nothing a little love and polish couldn't fix, however. More interesting were the small gemstones set into it. A row of garnets, mostly, but Gregor spotted what seemed to be three flawless diamonds in the center of the fixture. He turned the ring over to search for the maker's mark, but it had faded with age and was illegible. As it was, the ring's value was hard to gauge, but the diamonds… he could use those. Satisfied, Gregor slipped it into his pocket along with a set of earrings and a bangle that interested him because it might be of Argonian make, which would fetch a decent price on this side of the continent. He straightened back up and looked around until he had spotted Jodane's spear. It would suffice as proof of identity for Jehanna's steward in order to obtain the bounty. "I think that's all for me," he mumbled and looked back at Fjolte. "You mentioned a healer?" “Aye, back in Jehanna. The best hands around.” Fjolte replied, eyeing up the goods that Gregor took. The way he’d examined them was interesting, and yet he’d taken what looked to be a burnt out brass ring. Well, whatever, he thought to himself and gave a nonchalant shrug. He’d find whatever value he wanted in the goods, he supposed. “Those jewels are pretty nice,” he commented still, “selling them on are you?” he asked - trying to be subtle about it. He wanted to learn more about the Imperial, and he’d take that chance for knowledge where he could find it. "I might," Gregor replied noncommittally. "Haven't decided yet." He glanced at Jodane's corpse and averted his gaze again. The man was a bandit and he deserved what had been coming to him, but it still felt wrong to chat about what to do with the man's belongings even before he was cold. "Let's get out of here." [hr] The campfire provided a homely warmth under a canopy of trees that they had found, in the shallow mouth of another cave, closer to Jehanna. They had walked as far as they could manage from the bandits cavern before deciding to give up and rest for the night. It was cold, and the darkness so thick that they could barely have seen an outstretched hand in front of them were it not for the torches they carried - now pressed against the logs of their campfire - a makeshift spit hung over it with two rabbits being turned over sporadically, the smell tantalising and inviting. Fjolte stretched back against the rock, watching them. He would happily have eaten them raw if it wasn’t for Gregor taking the time to prepare them properly. Just another of the contrasts between them. Gregor carried with him a gentlemanly patience that Fjolte simply didn’t possess. He supposed it was in some way one of the differences between Imperials and Nords in general. They were refined, cultured… Nords were hardy and tough and manners weren’t always the first priority. Still, he gave thought to Gregor’s brief stroke of violent malice in the cavern and a chill caught hold of his spine. Where Fjolte demonstrated a certain restraint, Gregor had a chilling finesse in his tactics. “You really did have my arse in there,” he said, breaking the silence to distract himself from thinking about the food. “I’m grateful, been a long time since I’ve worked with anyone. It was a stroke of luck when you came my way.” Gregor looked up from what he was doing -- putting his travel allotment of salt and spices back in their respective pouches -- and returned Fjolte’s gratitude with a nod. “Think nothing of it, my friend. The feeling is mutual.” He followed the Nord’s example and made himself comfortable against the wall of the cave’s mouth, on the other side of the spit, and observed Fjolte from across the flames for a moment. He was curious to see how the large man carried himself within the walls of Breton civilization, or more specifically, if he felt as much at home there as he seemed to do so out here in the wilderness. Gregor had become a little more accustomed to the sounds of wild animals and the pitch black darkness of night since he started traveling, but it was still sufficiently alien for him to feel not entirely at ease. He was just as grateful for Fjolte’s presence as he had been for Gregor’s aid in the cave. There was a reassuring aura of dependability and warmth about him. At least, there was now that he had accepted Gregor as a traveling companion. Gregor hadn’t forgotten how intimidating Fjolte had been during their first meeting. “Forgive me for prying, but how did a man like you end up in the employment of anyone else?” Gregor asked, and then immediately hastened to add: “It’s just that you seem like such an independent spirit, especially given that you’re used to working alone. I mean no offense.” The Nord had to think about that, as was evidenced by the way his brow creased as he pondered over it. "I…" he began, running a hand under his chin to scratch an itch. "I travel, and I needed some coin at some point," his hand waved, "I took on what I thought would be a simple bit of courier work, and well… that became another job, then another and I suppose… Just stuck with it," he finished with a shrug. "Still travel around mind you, just always find my way back here to help out. Still do my own things…" he explained, placing his hands into his lap. "You're pretty far from Cyrodiil yourself, what waits for you in High Rock exactly?" Fjolte asked, drawing a knee up to his chest, relaxed. It was a more mundane answer than Gregor had expected, or perhaps hoped to hear, but it was reasonable. Many people merely happen into their circumstances, after all. He pondered for a moment how much he should tell Fjolte about himself. It was generally wise for a silversmith to keep his occupation to himself. More than one of Gregor’s colleagues had been forced into servitude of a bandit gang in order to provide them with a steady supply of reforged jewelry to pawn off. That said, he quickly decided that he trusted the Nord. “I’m a silversmith by trade,” Gregor said and held up his hands: three rings decorated his fingers, made from various materials in different styles -- though the gold band on his right hand stood out by virtue of its simplicity -- and pointed to the lobe of his scarred left ear, from which dangled a single earring. “Made these myself. I’m apprenticed to a master in Bravil and by his reckoning, the time has come for me to become a master in my own right. To do that, I need to present an exquisite piece of my own design and construction, a proof of mastery, to Cyrodiil’s Guild of Silversmiths. Jehanna is Tamriel’s foremost producer of mithril. It’s a rare material, even more so today than in the past, so to present a proof of mastery forged from it would be…” He paused for a moment and shrugged with a smile. “Let’s just say it would help my chances,” the Imperial finished and dropped his hands back into his lap. Fjolte let that sink in, the amount of responsibility that Gregor had. The work that he did was so important and precise, the picture began to make so much more sense to the Nord, and he looked at the Imperial with a new respect, imagining him at work with stones and metals. “That’s…” he began after a long breath. “That’s one of the most impressive things I’ve heard,” Fjolte remarked truthfully. “I often wonder what my life could have been had I picked up a trade, but truth be told I’m just a farm boy,” he laughed. “I don’t have the patience for something like that, and probably don’t have the intelligent eye for design either…” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling somewhat flustered at his own… [i]plainess[/i] in comparison. “But you know, I always just liked being out in the world discovering things, meeting people, cultures. Free spirit I am,” he added with a grin. “Simple man, simple needs.” As if out of nowhere, a thought did occur to him — after hearing of Gregor’s background and trade, and he began to laugh again, slapping his thigh, “I don’t know whether that is something you should keep to yourself brother, when I introduce you to my good boss.” The Imperial was bemused by the compliment. Fjolte seemed entirely sincere in his awe at Gregor’s craft, so he accepted the expression of admiration as gracefully as he could, but he would have thought he was being made fun of if anyone from Cyrodiil had spoken to him that way. Silversmiths were respected, to be sure, and it was a very decent profession, but nothing that would draw such a reaction from anyone. Hell, the Nords themselves were seen as some of the finest smiths in all of Tamriel. Gregor wasn’t sure whether to chalk it up to the man’s simple background or his racial culture. “Thank you for the compliment,” Gregor said and rubbed his neck somewhat sheepihsly. “But I’m not a master yet. You should see what my mentor, Roderic, can do with gold leaf, or enamel, or… well, anything, really. His is the truly impressive work.” He fell silent for a moment before he laughed softly. “You know, I have often wondered what my life would have been like if I had done what you did. It is only these last few years, since I have been traveling beyond Cyrodiil’s borders for work, that I have developed a bit of a taste for adventure.” Gregor almost added that this was to be his last such outing, as promised to his wife, but he closed his mouth and merely shook his head. “Alas. It seems I have already found my calling.” Speaking of, he raised an eyebrow at Fjolte’s last comment. “I thought you were taking me to see a healer?” Fjolte’s eyes narrowed as he, again, found himself thinking on Gregor’s words. He had never known that gold could grow on trees. In all of his own travels, he’d never encountered such a plant. He expression glazed over as he thought about that some more, and he wanted to probe Gregor further on it, but something told him that it was for the best not to ask about it, for now. “Oh, well — yes. She is the healer,” he said at last, his expression warming up at her mention. “She’ll fix you up. Just… About the silversmith thing… She has something of a reputation for that kind of finery so, unless you feel like being locked up in her dungeon making tiaras…” his voice trailed off, he ran a hand over his shorts, smoothing out a crease before laughing again. “Don’t tell her I said anything like that.” There were two options here; either Fjolte [i]did[/i] work for some kind of bandit queen, or he worked for an aristocrat. One was decidedly more troubling than the other. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” Gregor said and chuckled. He leaned forward to check on the rabbits while he thought about the implications of what Fjolte had said and it wasn’t until he had handed one of the succulent shishkebabed animals to the Nord and sat back down with his own that he said anything further. “Deserine, right? That’s what Jodane called your employer. A Breton name, if I’m not mistaken?” He nodded in response, already tucking into his meal, mouth full of the rabbit. “Mmhmm,” he swallowed it down, a wonder that he even tasted anything. “Raelynn Deserine,” he said, before taking another bite and chewing again with all the etiquette that was to be expected of a Nord when given meat. “She’s a Breton alright, real beautiful one too,” he cast a glance to Gregor and shook his head - as if to indicate that both of those things were troublesome. He wiped his chin clean of juice. “But if anyone can get you Mithril in Jehanna…” Fjolte gave another of his carefree shrugs, chomping through the rabbit happily. “She’ll make you jump through flaming hoops though…” He stopped, lowering the skewer to meet Gregor’s eyes again, his own wide and regretful, “don’t tell her I said that either.” “My lips are sealed,” Gregor promised. He consumed his own rabbit in a much more modest fashion, briefly lamenting the lack of cutlery and a proper table, but that was the reality of life on the road. He kept his bites small and dabbed at his chin with a handkerchief he produced from an inner breast pocket to prevent the juices from leaking into his beard. He was sure he looked like a bit of a poof to Fjolte, whose ravenous devouring of the rabbit made more sense given their environment, but he couldn’t help but be a little bit annoyed that the Nord made no effort to savor the taste. Gregor hadn’t seasoned the rabbits for nothing. “So, a beautiful Breton woman who is both a healer and a… proprietor of rare goods, I suppose?” he asked and lowered his shishkebab to laugh softly. Having warmed up to Fjolte, the laugh extended to his eyes now and they shimmered pleasantly like a hot cup of tea on a dark autumn afternoon. “I think I’m beginning to understand why you’ve stuck around. She sounds formidable.” “Like I said, she has a reputation.” Fjolte said, pressing a bone to his lips to draw out the marrow. “But… Well, maybe you’re right about that. I’d be lying if I said I… err,” he confesse, suddenly feeling slightly bashful — “if I hadn’t thought about us… doing some [i]after hours[/i] work…” His eyebrow raised and a smirk appeared after all, Gregor seemed like a man's man, someone who knew the score. “You must know the feeling, sometimes we aren’t always thinking with this-“ he tapped at his temple and grinned boyishly in Gregor’s direction. “Simple needs…” Gregor nodded knowingly with something boyishly mischievous on his features for the first time since they had met. It made him look younger and for a moment, the dignified beard and clothes looked a little out of place. “Absolutely. I can’t begin to describe my father’s relief when I finally settled down. The first thing he said was ‘thank the Divines, now all the men in town will stop pestering me about what you’re doing with their daughters!’ Looking back on it now, I almost feel bad for all the trouble I caused him,” he reminisced and shrugged. “Almost.” “God’s, why am I not surprised you have a wife, eh?” He joked, setting a dry bone down at his side, his fingers working at the rabbit for the next. He pulled one away with an easy snap. “You must miss her being away so much,” he commented, without the awareness that, yes, he might really miss being away from his family. “Still, handsome man like you — I’ll fucking bet you got around.” The smile didn’t leave his face but a cold stoicism returned to his bearing and Gregor fidgeted with his wedding ring. “Yes, well… yes, of course,” he said, and sighed. Fjolte was still for all intents and purposes a stranger and that meant that Gregor felt free to discuss certain things that he otherwise was forced to keep to himself. “A word to the wise, my friend: don’t put too much stock in marriage. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. At least, not necessarily.” His voice was low and layered with an undertone of hurt. He thought about Briar, her raven hair and ice blue eyes, and the tattoo on his forearm. It itched beneath his clothes. “It was good at first -- great, really. But people change. Things… happen. Or don’t happen. And then they change.” Gregor took a deep breath and bit his lip. “Truth be told, I’m glad to be out of the house when I can. And this,” he continued, gesturing at Fjolte and the campfire and Jodane’s spear, upright next to him, “a little danger and adventure, pretending for a while to be someone else -- it’s exactly what I needed. So thank [i]you,[/i] Fjolte, for indulging me.” As Gregor spoke, Fjolte ate slower, a brief moment of politeness as the Imperial told his truth. For the first time, he felt sorry for the man, and that left a little patch of emptiness in his own heart for his new friend. “That’s rough… I’m sorry to hear it. You know, my parents have squabbles and they bicker. Maybe there’s a truth in that marriage thing. Gods know I’ve avoided commitment to a woman proper.” He ran his oily hand over his pants leg to dry them, to wipe them clean of the food. “I hope that you can find more peace and enjoyment on your travels, wherever they take you.” Fjolte wished he had a glass, or a bottle to toast it — to toast to their working together. He was glad to have at least helped him so far. “Maybe time apart will help you both find your way back to each other,” he said, an innocently hopeful tone in his voice. The Imperial exhaled softly through his nose. He appreciated Fjolte’s sympathy, truly, but it wasn’t like the Nord could offer any truly helpful advice without knowing the full story, and that was something Gregor wasn’t keen to get into at length. “Perhaps. But squabbles and bickering are unavoidable. The real problem is when you no longer feel like the person you married is the person you’re with today.” He had looked away while he spoke but now he focused his gaze back on Fjolte. “That’s what I envy about your way of life. You meet people in a moment, you get to know them as they are and enjoy them that way, and then you move on. You’re spared from forming expectations and attachments to them and the pain it causes when those start to ring hollow, and the person you were used to spending your life with is... gone.” Gregor took another bite of his rabbit and made an effort to empty his mind. If Fjolte was paying attention, he would visibly see the stiffness in his shoulders relax and the tension leave his hands. “Anyway, enough about that,” Gregor declared with a note of finality and gestured towards Fjolte. “You’re a traveler, so my question for you is this: what is the most interesting place you’ve ever been?” “Aye, my way of life is all great and exciting until the day that one hundred bastard Soriksen’s knock on my door,” he said with an easy laugh and a sigh, smile dropping only slightly to hint that it wasn’t completely a joke. In answer to Gregor’s question, well, it was easy and his answer came without having to really think about it at all. “Elsweyr of course. It’s where I learned to fight the way that I do,” he swung a punch at the air to demonstrate, his finished carcass beside him. “From Corinthe to Torval through to Senchal… Beautiful place,” he sighed wistfully, staring up above him to the nights sky, before closing his eyes. “But, interesting can be found anywhere. It’s simply a matter of perspective.” “Elseweyr,” Gregor echoed. Now it was his turn to be impressed. Bravil wasn’t far from Elseweyr’s borders at all but its status as a duo of vassal kingdoms to the Aldmeri Dominion meant that his father had always strictly forbidden any voyages there. And for Fjolte it must have been quite a journey. From the frozen tundra of Rorikstead to the warm sands of the Khajiit homeland was practically the full width of the continent. “They say the sun always shines there. I should like to see that, someday.” “Oh yes, that it does” Fjolte said fondly through a yawn, “may your road lead to warm sands…” he smiled before sliding down the rock onto his back, eyes heavy lidded and sleep coming and going in waves. “We’ve quite a trek tomorrow friend, and I can-“ he yawned, stretching his arm out, “barely keep my eyes open… You should… Try to sleep too…” It was endearing to see the big man slip into and surrender to drowsiness so easily. In some ways, Fjolte was like an overgrown child, but Gregor wasn’t sure if that was a fair comparison to make -- or if Fjolte had merely unlocked the same secret to carefree living that children possessed. “You’re right, sleep well,” he said and finished the last of his rabbit before settling down on the bedroll he’d already laid out beforehand. For the first time in a while, Gregor drifted off to sleep without discontent gnawing at the edges of his mind.