[i]11th First Seed
Jehanna[/i]

It always surprised Fjolte just how quickly the time passed — especially when he was doing nothing. It was as if the days just slipped right through his fingers and were carried away and out of his reach forever. He frequently mourned the days where nothing happened, and when he heard no word from Raelynn, and no word from Gregor, he had taken himself to the mountains. He could always find something to be done there, to detox himself of the cosmopolitan life of Jehanna and cleanse out the politics and danger with nature. 

The wild tundra was his playground, and he had informed Raelynn of his sabbatical with a bunch of fresh yellow daisies. He stopped worrying about being needed after a day, and had forgotten pretty much everything else after that. Any emotional ailment was mended by the harsh mountainscape and the activities it allowed. Rock climbing, diving, caving. Even the wounds he sustained were mended by nature herself, near frozen alpine water and plants along the way.

Being back in Jehanna was jarring to say the least. His room felt small and constricting, the air was always heavier and hard to swallow down. When he had called on his employer, she had not been there. Shona had tried to explain where she was but the Nord could barely understand her body language. He only understood that she was not in danger, and that was enough.

The temptations of city life were not lost, no matter how often he slipped back into the embrace of the wild, he would surely find an altogether different embrace when he rejoined society. Last night had been especially fruitful. He was looking good, his body toned further from the relentless graft, his beard had grown out and looked rugged enough to entice the fairer sex. Two fair maidens lay at either side of him. A blonde, and a darker haired woman. He smiled to himself, and gave a smile of acknowledgment to the sky above. [i]Bless you Kynareth,[/i] he thought — despite such things being so little to do with the divines at all. 

The Nord thought briefly of the masquerade ball, of all that happened there. Being enclosed in the walls of the Inn seemed to bring back everything that he’d pushed aside. He needed to talk to Gregor. He frowned, it was such an inopportune time to think of the Imperial, when he was sandwiched between two beautiful women — but something wasn’t sitting right with him, and he reluctantly tore himself away.

He quickly dressed himself, and set about the streets of Jehanna…

“Fjolte!” Gregor called out, surprised but gratified that he had managed to find the Nord so easily -- before he’d even reached the man’s accommodation. He waved to him to catch his attention. Gregor was wearing his traveling clothes again, the familiar black and red overcoat now finally properly rid of the bloodstains of their fight with the Daedroth, and his sword was sheathed across his back. The ancestral Mercurius ruby set into the pommel caught the sunlight rather handsomely. He looked like had been sleeping poorly, but there was a hungry fire in his eyes and a forceful energy in his limbs. “Gods, you look good!” he said, impressed by how fit Fjolte appeared. 

He had been dead set on his path when Gregor appeared to his side, the hand waving in the air and he couldn't ignore it. He looked so smart, as always - but there were some terrible dark circles under his eyes. "Ah! Just the man I was looking for," he said with a happy grin, wrapping his arms around the Imperial without checking that he was comfortable with that. He had missed him. "You're looking as dapper as always yourself," Fjolte added, shaking Gregor at the shoulder. "It's been weeks!" 

“Far too long, far too long,” Gregor concurred. He then realized what Fjolte had said and cocked his head at him. “You were looking for me?”

Fjolte nodded, "Aye! Checking you're still here. Wanted to talk to you, have ourselves a mess around even. That's if you have time for me, of course."

Gregor smiled. “Sounds great. I was looking for you too, actually. Have you had breakfast yet?”

The Nord quirked a brow at that, but didn't say anything about it -- thinking only of food now. "I could murder some potato bread and eggs… And sausage, ham… Bacon. All of it," Fjolte sighed. "Lead the way!" 

As commanded, Gregor brought them to a local eatery that had been a local favorite of his since he had arrived in Jehanna. The staff knew him by face and greeted him warmly, which he reciprocated with charm. Despite the sleeplessness that was evident in his appearance, Gregor was full of life and vigor. “Sit, sit,” he said to Fjolte and gestured towards a comfortable chair at a table in the back. “I’ll get you what you want.” He stepped up to the counter and drummed a little tune on the top with his knuckles while he waited, bouncing up and down on his heels. 

“I’ll have the usual, and my friend over there wants the whole menu,” he said with a grin and pointed at Fjolte when one of the maids was ready to take his order. 

She followed his gaze and laughed conspiratorially. “Careful with your generosity, mister, or you’ll ruin that body of his,” she retorted and let her gaze linger on Fjolte for a moment longer before she turned to the kitchen to have his order prepared. 

Gregor chuckled and returned to the table, taking a seat opposite him. “The food is on its way. Now tell me -- you first -- what did you want to talk to me about?”

Relaxed in his seat, the Nord let his eyes wander the room and the patrons that sat at their tables, enjoying the morning too. Just regular people, going about their day. Fjolte brought a hand to his chest and let his fingers rub over his ribs. "Had a lot of time to think out there, about that night at the Lord's." He sighed, and brought his hand back to the table. "Tried not to, but got thinking about it all when I got home yesterday too. Those thieves, they were [i]good[/i]. Too good, if you ask me. Don't you think?" 

What with everything that had happened since, Gregor hadn’t considered it. The thieves… their fight in the vault already seemed like so long ago, the memory faint and insignificant in comparison to the great, life-changing plans that dominated Gregor’s mind. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “But not [i]that[/i] good, because we beat them. Right?”

"I just got to wondering… If there are more? I don't know… We beat them only just. Ahh, it's nothing. Just paranoid mumblings," he shrugged, turning his lips at the corners. "Just seemed a bit organised, a movement, even. I don't know Gregor, I've been alone for a bit I'm going mad probably." 

“Well, now that you mention it…” Gregor mused and rubbed his beard. “They did seem pretty fanatical about the whole thing. Like they were willing to die for a cause. Which begs the question… what cause?” He wagged a finger at Fjolte. “You might be onto something here, young man. But I wouldn’t know where to start investigating something like that. Do you?”

"No idea, friend," Fjolte replied with a shrug. "Raelynn would know, was thinking to ask her about it. Gods know I could use some work right now," he chuckled. "But the cause… They wanted to make a bloodbath of a noble surrounded by their riches… Just seems too strange to be a one off, Gregor." 

“I have work for you,” Gregor said quickly, capitalizing on the sentiment as soon as Fjolte displayed it. “And it’s for Raelynn, though she doesn’t know about it yet. I want it to be a surprise. Are you in?”

His blue eyes narrowed, and Fjolte thought about it. "A surprise, ey? What is it you're proposing here?"

Gregor shook his head. “I need to know whether or not I can count on you first. So, are you in?”

His face turned to an expression that displayed offense, and he spread his arms out before laughing, "Gregor! Have I not proven it to you already?" He shook his head, but there was no malice. "Fine, fine, I'm in. Got bugger all else to do…"

Relieved and pleased, Gregor clapped his hands together. “Capital! Now, as for the details. Do you know the story of what happened between Raelynn and Sir Gaerford?”

"No," Fjolte replied, a brow raised curiously. "Who is Sir Galeford?" 

“Gaerford,” the Imperial corrected him and smiled. “You must promise never to speak of this to anyone else, [i]ever,[/i] alright?”

"Grayferd, yes, yes… I won't tell a soul." As if to demonstrate, Fjolte placed a hand over his mouth. "It'll die with me," he said, muffled.

“Good. Sir Gaerford is a noble from Wayrest that Raelynn was betrothed to, once upon a time. Things… ended poorly. He has a preference for men, apparently,” Gregor said flatly, “that he did not tell Raelynn about. Instead he just made her feel lonely and unwanted, which broke her heart because she loved him very much, until he was discovered and she ended the engagement. It was messy and emotional. She spared him the public disgrace of revealing his sexuality to the world, and he repaid her by keeping the Deserine family diamond that she gave him." 

Gregor smirked darkly. "That's where we come in. I want to get her that diamond back. It means a lot to her, so it's the right thing to do aside from probably being very lucrative, because she is wealthy and would be most grateful to us for its return. If you catch my drift." 

Something changed in Fjolte's expression, the smile faded and he was left looking dismal. "That… That explains so much," he muttered, looking down to the ground. He paid little attention to the story about the diamond, he could only picture Raelynn - confused and hurt. He'd seen that look on her before and it always did steal away the beauty she had. 

Something instinctual came over him, this was a private story of Raelynn's that she had confided in Gregor, and he didn't know that she'd like the diamond returned as a surprise… "Why the secrecy, why can't we tell her?" 

“Because she’d never agree to it,” Gregor said. “It might be too painful of a topic to contemplate for very long, and it would doubtlessly be on her mind the whole time if she knew we were trying to retrieve it. But she wants it back. I know that for sure. Thus, it’s better as a surprise.”

The Nord nodded along, agreeing with the Imperial. He had no more resistance to offer, he trusted Gregor. He did  however, take a breath in and brought his finger down onto the surface between them. "Not to mention that's where Sirion is, ey?" Fjolte said, expecting that if Gregor knew about this Gaerford, he would surely know more of Raelynn's affairs. "She'll not want to think about him either."

Gregor narrowed his eyes. "Who's Sirion?" 

That was a surprise  As the Imperial's narrowed, Fjolte's widened and he swiftly drew back his arm and tucked it under his chin. "Who's who now? I don't…" he muttered, looking anywhere but at Gregor. "I didn't say that," he tried to smile, it was sheepish and awkward. "I said, err, now that you mention it where is my… sirloin." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, squinting. 

The Imperial laughed and shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar, Fjolte. Come on, out with it. Who is it?”

Fjolte brought his fist down on the table, and clenched his jaw like he was holding the words in until he simply couldn't. "Her brother, he's her brother," he groaned, before pointing a finger at Gregor, "I did not just mention that. And I'm saying nothing else. Not til you tell me something!" 

That was a surprise. “She has a brother? In Wayrest?” Gregor asked in disbelief and raised his eyebrows practically up to his hairline. He wanted to ask more questions but he acknowledged Fjolte’s demand with a nod. “Alright, alright, that’s fair. What do you want to know?”

"I didn't know she had a Sir Grayford, so don't look at me like that," Fjolte shrugged. "Is there something wrong?," he asked frankly. The Nord may have let details slip away from him from time to time, and he may not have always paid attention to things around him - but he could see in the shadows under Gregor's eyes that something was amiss. 

His first instinct was to deny that something was wrong, but Gregor closed his mouth again. Fjolte was his friend and had been nothing but kind and understanding. The need for secrecy had seemed obvious before, but… Gregor began to wonder if, perhaps, he could tell Fjolte about what had happened after all. But he didn’t feel comfortable doing so just yet, so he decided to reveal part of the truth. 

“Well… yes,” Gregor admitted. “Being out here, working for Raelynn, working with you -- the Daedroth, what an adventure that was! It’s all given me plenty of time to think and evaluate what I… want from life, I suppose, but also what I [i]can[/i] do in the life I currently have. I don’t know… it’s just that… I don’t think I can save my marriage,” he said. The accompanying pained expression that flitted over his face deepened the bags under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. “We’re not right for each other anymore. I don’t know how to help her or how to make her happy, and she deserves somebody that does. Realizing that… well, it hasn’t helped me sleep, let’s put it that way.”

"Well," Fjolte began with a breath in, having listened to Gregor's tale. He ran a hand through his beard, sad to have heard it. He remembered how hopeful that the man had been that he could have saved it. "Sometimes we just change, our lives change, as people and as souls we move and grow over time. What used to fit doesn't… The winds erode some of us, some of us take deeper root to where we are, some of us are like the stream and rush onwards." He sighed, scratching at his chin.

"I'm sorry to hear it my friend, I really am… How will you tell her? I mean, have you thought of that?" He asked, casting a glance back to Gregor with concern worn across his face. 

Fjolte’s words were surprisingly profound and Gregor found that listening to them, really [i]listening[/i] to them, helped to soothe his aching heart. “Thank you,” he said quietly, averted his gaze and blinked a few times. After a deep breath and cracking a few knuckles, he turned his attention back to the Nord. “I have the entirety of the journey back to Bravil to think about that,” he muttered. 

“When my work here is done, when Raelynn has the diamond, I’ll go. There will be lots of matters to take care of, things to arrange. She should have the house... I think I’ll come back here,” Gregor said and looked around, smiling faintly. “Jehanna agrees with me. I like the Bretons and their society. I’ll deliver my masterpiece to the Guild in Cyrodiil, obtain my mastership… and then maybe I’ll open up my own smithy here. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds marvellous,” he smiled agreeably at Gregor’s idea. “These Bretons are in good need of someone to make their trinkets, you’d make your fortune here, I know it.” Fjolte relaxed back in his chair, it creaked as he did so and his smile changed. “I think that it’s so confusing because you’ll always love her, and she’ll always love you… That love simply changes, that’s all.” He heaved another big sigh, lips curling into a boyish smirk, “so if taking you to Wayrest and seeing to it that you don’t get hurt, killed, or make a complete arse out of yourself takes your mind off it… Well my friend. I’m all yours.”

Gregor doubted that she would always love him. Leaving her would devastate her. He knew that, and yet he saw no other option that wouldn’t make himself miserable for the rest of his life. Gregor knew what he wanted. [i]Who[/i] he wanted. But he smiled those thoughts away and grinned. “Excellent. Thank you, Fjolte, from the bottom of my heart.” 

The maid arrived balancing two plates of food -- one quite modest, just some local cheeses, nuts and fruits, and the other filled to the rim with a bit of everything that the eatery had to offer -- and placed them in front of the two men, her gaze lingering on Fjolte with a coy smile. “Here you go, boys, your meals, please enjoy.” 

Fjolte only had eyes for the plate in front of him, and he was at a loss with where to start. “Thank you m’lady,” he uttered up at her with an excited grin. “I most certainly will enjoy it.” Having lived solely off of rabbits and other game meats for over a week, the sight was to die for, grease pooling in the bottom with enough potato bread to soak it all up. He stabbed a sausage with his fork and took a large bite — eyeing up Gregor’s breakfast. “That a Bravia breakfast?” He asked, chewing away. “Half surprised you’re not skin and bone eating that.”

Gregor quirked a brow. “Bravil,” he said. “Not particularly, no, but we do believe that a light breakfast is preferable. I don’t know how you Nords do it, but for the rest of us mere mortals,” Gregor continued and smiled, “eating that much food in the morning incapacitates us until noon.”

“We Nords have steel stomachs, we’re weaned on meals this size,” he laughed. “But truly, my secret is a big breakfast, a small lunch, and smaller dinner, and then an even smaller second dinner. Sometimes the other way…” Fjolte smiled, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Ma always said if I wanted to grow up big I should eat enough to grow. I listened.” 

“Funny,” the silversmith said and chuckled. “My mother always told us off. [i]‘You’re not a boar, don’t stuff yourselves!’[/i] It was important to her that we didn’t eat too much, or too little. It had to be proper. The right amount. Just so. If she could see me now I think she’d glare at me just for sitting at the same table as you.”

That made him glance down at his food, and he pushed the eggs across the plate with the back of his fork thoughtfully. “She might give you a glare, but I’d win her over with my charm in a shake of a lamb's tail,” Fjolte chuckled.

After wolfing down the eggs and bacon with his usual finesse, Fjolte looked across at Gregor and cleared his throat. “But more importantly, my friend, we have to get to Wayrest. What exactly is your plan so far? How are we to get back this diamond?” He rubbed his chin yet again with the back of his hand, taking down an enormous mouthful of water with a heavy gulp. “And, what are we going to tell Raelynn? This journey will take us ten days at least there and back if we go on horseback and ride on some quick fucking stallions-- she’ll be without us for all that time… I suppose she’ll have to rely on some of her other employees,” he mumbled, answering his own question. He didn’t like the thought of leaving her longer still, especially as he hadn’t even seen her since he’d returned. 

“You want to steal a diamond from a noble - we’re going to have to have a watertight plan of attack my friend.” Fjolte said at last, with a sigh as he looked to Gregor with expectant eyes. “Last thing we want is to be thrown into a cell over that way.”

What to tell Raelynn, indeed? Gregor realized he hadn’t thought about that at all, and had only concerned himself with the details of what to do when they actually got to Wayrest. “I suppose… we’ll have to tell her that I’ve gone to Wayrest for silversmithing business, and I’ve asked you to come along as my friend.” He smiled. “Just two boys on the road, you know? It’s not a total lie, either, because Raelynn mentioned that she would like for me to craft a new piece of jewelry with the diamond as its centerpiece. With the mithril from the ring she gave me and the Deserine family diamond, whatever I create could also double as my masterpiece for my mastery exams with the Guild,” Gregor explained and winked. 

“As for the plan of attack, here’s what I’m thinking. Raelynn knows that Sir Gaerford added insult to injury by giving the diamond -- I believe it’s currently in a ring -- to his [i]new[/i] wife. If he has repeated the same pattern of behavior with her as he did with Raelynn, she is also currently… well,” the silversmith said in a low voice, “happily, or unhappily by my estimation, unfucked. Raelynn’s words. Now, of all things in this world, what are young noblewomen trapped in a castle with a loveless husband exceedingly vulnerable to?” 

Gregor looked at Fjolte suggestively. 

Fjolte's face dropped, his eyebrows straightened and he shook his head. "Are you whoring me out for a job, Gregor? That what you need me for is it?" His lips pursed, and he momentarily put down his cutlery. 

“Come on, Fjolte! Are you really willing to pass up the opportunity to stick it to the man that hurt Raelynn by seducing his wife under his own roof and making off with a diamond that doesn’t rightfully belong to him?” Gregor said and gestured animatedly with his fork. “Forget about me for a second. I’m just the man with the idea. The ultimate benefactor of this whole scheme is Raelynn herself. Wouldn’t you be willing to do this for [i]her?[/i] Also, Sir Gaerford’s wife is liable to be exceedingly pretty, you know. Nobles have nothing if not fine taste in women.”

The Nord scoffed, balling his hand into a fist as he rolled his eyes. "I'm not a cock for hire, Gregor," he laughed in disbelief at being asked this. "Committing adultery? Being with another man's wife? Whether she's getting some or not--" he gasped, leaning forwards to run a hand through his hair. "It wouldn't feel right. What if she's so lonely that she decides she wants more and here I am, sticking it to her, her husband, and then making off with her jewel? I don't know Gregor… I wouldn't feel good about it." 

Fjolte took a moment to think about Raelynn, her story, and of how much the diamond meant to her. He couldn't believe Gregor would play that card, but it was a solid one to play. "That will be a last resort, Gregor. If we can't get it any other way…" he groaned and slumped forwards more. "She probably is beautiful though…" 

“I bet it’ll feel right when you’re getting some of that tight, desperate…” Gregor trailed off and mouthed the last word, conscious of the other patrons around them. The light of mischief in his eyes sparkled brightly for a moment, before he turned more serious. “But alright, fair points. You don’t [i]have[/i] to actually sleep with her. Getting her alone in a room somewhere so that we can take the ring from her is enough, we can leave after that. Aside from the seduction ploy, do you have any ideas? We don’t have to do it my way, per se, but it’s the best plan I could think of.”

"If you're so bloody well into that idea why don't --" Fjolte stopped himself before he went too far, raising his hand apologetically. "Sorry, don't mean to offend," he added.

The Nord took a moment to take a bite of the potato bread, and he chewed thoughtfully, searching his brain for anything decent but it came up empty. "Gods blessed me with brawn, not brains. We'll do it your way…" he relented. 

Gregor tapped against his wedding ring with his thumb. “I’m not divorced yet, Fjolte. I know it’s a lot to ask and I wouldn’t have come to you if it was something I could do myself,” he lied smoothly. The truth was that he estimated Fjolte to be more likely to successfully seduce Lady Gaerford than he himself would be. The Nord was probably the exact opposite of Trystan; a wild storm of a man, untamed and raw and sincere. If his wife was anything like Raelynn, Gregor figured that she would have come to resent Sir Gaerford and everything he stood for. By comparison, Fjolte would be tantalizingly exotic and refreshing. 

“Thank you,” he said empathically and placed his hands together in front of his chest. “Raelynn is going to love it, I promise.” Gregor felt a twinge of guilt at deceiving and using Fjolte for his own plans and desires but it was quickly washed away by the thought of Raelynn’s reaction to seeing the tiara he planned to make for her… and what that would mean for them, together. His heart practically skipped a beat as he imagined it once more, the fantasy having already kept him up through most of the previous nights. 

“If it makes her happy,” Fjolte sighed, waving a dismissive hand at Gregor before he took another swig of his water. “Then it’s worth it,” he breathed out, scratching behind the back of his ear with his index finger. “Might be nice to romance a few other Wayrest girls anyway, I’ve been through Jehanna by now,” he chuckled almost darkly. He gazed off into the distance with a boyish smile, the mischief in Gregor’s eyes catching the baby blue hue of his own. “And whatever I end up doing, it’ll be good to work with you again, friend.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gregor grinned and raised his mug of water in a mock toast. “The ladies of Wayrest won’t know what hit them. Somebody should warn them that the King of the Pack is coming, otherwise this’ll practically be unfair. Defenseless, doe-eyed maidens, caught unawares…” The Imperial trailed off and chuckled. “Ah, if only I were a younger man.”

“Now now, I know you’re not divorced just yet, so I mean no disrespect,” as if to demonstrate that, Fjolte placed his hand over his heart with a sly smirk. “But I’ve seen the way the women here look at you too, you’re a handsome chap. You’re also not that old, friend,” the Nord laughed. “I think that Camille might have tried it on with you, had I not been there, of course.”

“Perhaps, but we’ll never know if we keep spending time together,” Gregor said and laughed. “I can’t compete with you!” An idea came to him. It was a devious question to ask, and potentially risky, but Gregor wanted to know whether Fjolte suspected anything. “Say,” he began, and cleared his throat to indicate that he meant what he was about to say seriously. “Do you think… do you think Raelynn likes me?” he asked cautiously, with all the airs of a man who didn’t really dare entertain the notion he was asking after. 

That question was unexpected, and the way that Gregor brought the conversation back to Raelynn when they had been so light-hearted made him curious as to why, but he thought no more about it and got to thinking about his answer instead. “I think she does,” he said, truthfully, with a shrug. “I saw how she looked at you when you gave her that heart. Wasn’t really a friendly glance,” his mouth pulled to the side and his eyebrows raised. “But who knows who Raelynn does or does not like? She seems very set with our good friend Hugo Desena right now.” His gaze fell back to his plate. “She changes her mind like the weather, Gregor.”

Gregor was silent for a few moments. “A tempest,” he said eventually, his voice soft, eyes fixed on Fjolte. Was he really getting in his friend’s way? If he was honest, Gregor didn’t think that Fjolte ever had a chance with Raelynn to begin with. They were so different. He was too pure and selfless for someone like her. “But you’re right, I find her hard to read as well,” he added as he spoke up and returned his attention to his food, feigning casual indifference as best as he could. “I’m just glad that she’s true to her word,” he said between bites.

"Mmm," Fjolte hummed in agreement before returning to the last of his breakfast. "She is indeed." As he took a bite of bread, he eyed Gregor curiously and chewed slower. "Do you like her?" He asked, thinking it was only fair. 

Could this be the opportunity towards opening up an honest line of communication with Fjolte? Gregor figured he could at least be honest about this, and then see how the Nord would react. “Yes,” he admitted, and then smiled sheepishly. “Not something I should be thinking about, I know, but… you know how it is. She’s intelligent, beautiful, capable -- what’s a man to do? Close his eyes and stuff his ears?”

Fjolte found that he was only surprised for a moment, it had been like he had said when he first met the Imperial. That he had eyes, and that Raelynn was beautiful. It would take an incredibly strong man to resist, or one like Sir Gaerford. “I know what you mean,” the Nord shrugged. He wasn’t without his own attraction to the woman. “Honestly Gregor, I’d rather she spent her time on a man like you than that prick she spends her days with right now.” He felt guilty to admit it, and he looked down briefly as if he regretted the words. “I don’t mean to suggest anything about Hugo, that was rude of me, and uncalled for.”

“It’s alright, I don’t care much for the man either,” Gregor reassured him and smiled. So Fjolte didn’t mind him and Raelynn being together? Or did he mean ‘a man [i]like[/i] you’ literally, and was he just praising his character? “He was quite rude to me in the vault and I’ve seen the way he looks at Raelynn. It was like there was just… nothing there, behind his eyes.” Gregor picked at his food for a bit before he sighed and looked at Fjolte again. 

“Don’t you want to be with Raelynn yourself?” he asked. 

The Nord leaned back in his chair and took in a deep breath and smiled, “No,” he answered sincerely. “You could say that the ship already sailed, friend.”

That was a surprise. “What… what happened?” Gregor asked. “If you don’t mind me asking. If that’s too private, I understand completely.”

Fjolte let his arm hang over the back of his chair, glancing down as he recalled the evening. “There had been a violent storm, and Raelynn had celebrated her birthday as she always does, apparently… I hadn’t known her for too long at this point,” he explained, gesturing softly with his hands, his entire posture softened in the seat and his eyes sparkled. “I was bringing her flowers, handpicked them, even in the storm. By the time I got to The Long Well they were destroyed. I had feelings for her, you know?” he sighed. The Nord paused before giving a carefree shrug of his shoulders again, as if to say ‘who could blame me’. 

“I got there and she was just… Drunk. Drunker than I’ve seen a woman get. A mess, you know?” Fjolte brought his hand to his mouth and shook his head. “Could smell it on her. If I were to light her hearth the whole place would blow up,” he laughed sardonically. “She was crying too, cried her make up off and the whole front of her dress was just wet with it,” he dabbed at his own front to indicate. He then felt bad for painting this picture of her for Gregor, but it was just as much his own secret as it was hers. “She was suddenly so overjoyed to see me, with flowers, in the doorway and she, well… She tried to, flirting and stuff…” a bashful expression overcame him, and he left it at that, sparing the details. 

“Long story short, I couldn’t— [i]wouldn’t[/i] do it. Not like that. I put her to bed, and then I realised that I just… I just don’t want to see her cry like that again, you know?” Fjolte rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and looked away from Gregor, regretting telling him, but at the same time feeling free of the weight of it. “Like I said, love changes.”

The Imperial sat stock-still during Fjolte’s story and for a while afterwards. The only moving part of him was his jaw, working away, chewing on the inside of his lips, like a man wracked by anxiety or deep in thought. [i]Love changes.[/i] Fjolte had laid bare the depth of his feelings for Raelynn and Gregor found that he felt, that he [i]knew[/i], that he could trust him, utterly and completely. More than anyone else, Fjolte would understand him, and Gregor was struck by the beauty of the Nord’s soul. 

“I’m in love with her,” he blurted out, simultaneously exhaling the breath he had been holding in. “Gods preserve me….” Gregor’s voice was shaky. “I’m in love with her, Fjolte. I didn’t know how to tell you before. You’re so…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I thought you would hate me, or judge me -- you have every right to do so. I’m married, and I’ve known the whole time that you had feelings for her. I thought you still did, and that I was getting in your way and that I was being a horrible friend. But I couldn’t stop myself,” Gregor rambled on, looking more haggard than ever. “Maybe I wasn’t, but I thought that I was, and things… still happened. When we were alone. I’m sorry.” Gregor groaned and buried his face in his hands. 

“I don’t deserve you as a friend, I really don’t,” he said, his voice muffled. 

Now that was a surprise, and Fjolte’s face expressed as much. All he could do for a while was watch Gregor, listen, and find a way to understand him. The Nord did not tense up, he did not clench a fist or his jaw, he just listened. All that happened was that he breathed deeper, filling his whole chest with the air before exhaling. “It’s not up to you to decide whether you deserve me, Gregor. And there is no ‘way’ when it comes to Raelynn. I love her,” he admitted with a smile, placing a hand on his chest. “With all of this, I do. But we’re two different people. She’s as changing as the clouds above and I’m as solid and wild as the tundra on the ground. So I love her how I can and that’s just…” His hand moved to the back of his head and he scratched. “As I am, I won’t change for her, and she won’t change for me. The only person who decides on the ‘way’ of this, is Raelynn.”

Fjolte still didn’t want to ask about what ‘things’ had happened, that could be left between Gregor and Raelynn, he had no business in it. “You’re my friend for the long haul, Mercurius. Written in the stars that one,” he smiled, pointing up to the ceiling of the Tavern. “So, as your friend… I suppose I vow to get you that diamond. Because… Something tells me it’s important to your heart.”

All of the guilt and the tension that had poisoned Gregor's mind and kept him awake throughout the night was wiped away like shadows as the sun broke through the clouds. An immense relief washed over him, followed swiftly by an overwhelming love for the man in front of him that welled up in his heart and spilled out over the edge. Gregor drew another shaky breath but there was no containing it -- hot tears fell from his eyes, ran down his cheeks and disappeared into his beard. There was so much he wanted to say and a powerful desire to pull Fjolte into a tight embrace, but limited by the public venue they found themselves in and hamstrung by the depth of his emotions, Gregor could only say one thing. "Thank you," he whispered. 

With a smile, he observed as Gregor’s tension melted away, and he felt nothing but happiness in his own heart - like it had grown a size larger to hear that Gregor had found love. There was much to arrange and to mend, but how could he be anything other than happy for the man? Now, he just had to find a way to allow Gregor to dress in that radiance from head to toe, to bathe in it and enjoy the love that he was feeling. It didn’t even cross his mind as to whether Raelynn loved him back, and perhaps that was for the best — a question for another day. 

The Nord finally gave a quick chuckle, shaking his head at the Imperial in front of him. “You see what happens when you eat a woman’s breakfast? Cry like a girl.” He made an amused face, but upon a closer inspection - his own eyes were misty too. 

That broke through the spell and Gregor laughed, a slow snigger at first that turned into a proper full-on belly guffaw, until he was clutching his sides and had his knees drawn up from the force of his laugher. He felt a thousand pounds lighter. "Damn," he managed eventually and gestured towards Fjolte's plate. "Better give me some of that right now, or I might drag you to the flower market and the spa," he joked and wiped at his cheeks, still giggling. 

“I’m not too manly for the spa, I’ll tell you that much,” Fjolte laughed while wiping away his own tears now. There were many things he wanted to ask Gregor, and things that he needed to tell him — but for now, he let the Imperial have his moment. It almost seemed as if the shadows under Gregor’s eyes had gone with the relief of having confessed. 

He brought himself back to the table, placing his elbows on the surface. “So, more importantly when do we leave for Wayrest? Let’s get this godsdamned diamond already.”

"Today," Gregor said firmly, the mention of Wayrest bringing him back from his extreme mirth. "Unless you have something to take care of first. As far as I'm concerned we just drop Raelynn and message and then I'm good to go." 

“I was going to say, if we tell her we’re going to Wayrest the jig will be up,” Fjolte said with a tilt of his head. “She’ll fucking [i]know[/i]. So I say we go now,” he said, suddenly sounding triumphant, bringing a Nordic fist down on the table hard enough to make the plates jump. “What say you Gregor?” He asked, leaning in close to the Imperial to whisper it - with bright and expectant eyes. 

He considered it for a moment before nodding vigorously. “Ah, to Oblivion with it, you’re right. The faster we’re gone, the sooner we’ll be back. I have everything I need on me,” Gregor said, patted his pockets and fingered the hilt of his bastard sword. “What’s the fastest way there? Overland, I assume? We should see if there are any trading caravans departing for Wayrest today.”

“Caravan would be the way, would get us to Evermor, and then onwards from there…” Fjolte wasn’t the best at setting travel plans. Not serious ones, he was a man who simply followed along wherever he wanted — actually having to organise passage to Wayrest made him feel slightly anxious. It wasn’t something he wanted to fuck up. “We get to Evermor, we can stock up on supplies and get good horses and take the last leg ourselves?”

“Works for me,” Gregor replied. He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast and got to his feet so fast he almost tipped over his chair as it scraped backwards across the floor. “Let’s do this.”

[hr]

[i]13th of First Seed
Western Reach, between Jehanna and Evermor[/i]

“And that’s when we learned it could breathe fire,” Gregor said and threw the chicken bone over his shoulder. The light of the campfire bathed his features in warm orange, a stark contrast against the backdrop of the night and the pines that towered over them in the dark. 

Aren barked out a laugh. “You’re shitting me,” the Dunmer said, scarlet eyes wide and a hand stroking his black goatee. “I was with you until that, now I don’t know if I believe you.”

The Imperial shrugged. “It’s the truth. It nearly burned Fjolte here to a crisp. He had to… well, tell it in your own words, my friend,” Gregor said and looked to Fjolte to back him up. 

The caravan had paused for the night after their second day of traveling. They were making good time and Gregor found himself in good spirits, and thoroughly enjoyed all the natural beauty that High Rock had to offer. The Reach was a hilly, forested area and not even the rumors of flesh-eating barbarians that allegedly roamed those parts could sour Gregor’s appreciation of the fresh air and the dense woods. 

The people that made up the caravan were an eclectic bunch. Mostly traders from all over Tamriel and a few other hired guards, like Fjolte and Gregor himself were. Aren was one of the merchants and he specialized in antiques from lost civilizations; that had brought them to Gregor and Fjolte’s adventure in the seaside crypt and the Daedroth within. It was a good arrangement with good company, that would see them not only travel to Evermor free of charge but even put a pretty septim in their pockets. He just hoped they wouldn’t have to come through on their pledge to defend the caravan from attack. 

"Don't know that it nearly burnt me to a crisp, but aye," Fjolte replied, halfway through a meat kebab. "Didn't breathe fire for long after I hit him on the nose and boxed his ears," he continued. The Nord even dragged himself up from sitting to standing and swung a demonstrative fist at the air. "Just like that," he huffed out. "Then I did this--" Fjolte slowly lifted his leg until he was perfectly balanced on one foot, tip toed, like a mantis. "Then I struck again, while Gregor here had some magic to show him!" He leapt forwards, flying through the air for a brief moment with a kick before landing back on his feet.

"All for a chunk of rock," he sighed, shaking his head. 

“What kind of rock?” Aren asked, not terribly interested in the details of their fight. He directed the question to Gregor. 

“A Khajiiti moon dial,” Gregor answered truthfully and picked up a second chicken leg. 

Aren’s eyes took on an avaricious gleam. “Well, well, well, a real treasure,” he said. “I’m impressed. Who has it now?” 

Having seen the look in the Dunmer’s eyes, Gregor shrugged and watched him carefully. “I don’t know. It’ll be long sold by now.” 

Before anyone could say anything else, an arrow whistled past Aren’s ear and buried itself in the logs of the campfire. “Get down!” Gregor yelled, but a second arrow had already arrived and buried itself in the neck of a Breton man that had been sitting by the fire and listening to their conversation. He keeled over as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. From beyond the light of the campfire came a terrifying scream, and another, and another -- until they blended together in a single bloodcurdling wall of noise. Gregor had thrown himself to the ground, but this was no position to fight back from. He looked up just in time to see shades emerge from the gloom, clad in furs and bones and with warpaint on their bodies. They carried wicked weapons and Gregor saw the source of the death-wails in their mouths: skull-shaped bone whistles. The sound they made was just like the screams of a woman being murdered. It made Gregor’s hair stand on end. 

When the barrage of arrows had ceased and the Reachmen charged, Gregor leapt to his feet and looked to Fjolte. “To me!” he roared and drew his sword with a satisfying rasp. 

"What the fuck," Fjolte exclaimed, the sound terrifying and burning through his ears. It was an assaulting sound that could have been enough to throw him off guard. He was in no position to get to Gregor, he was too busy pulling the other travellers to the ground - one very shocked, elderly woman whom he brought down in a manner that was as gentle as it was deft. "Stay down my lady, stay on the ground, alright?" He spoke, as reassuringly as he could to her -- meeting her eyes until she nodded back and squeezed his hand, frightened. "We'll sort this, I'll come back for you," he promised, bringing her hand to his lips to plant a comforting kiss on her knuckles before he charged after Gregor. 

"This ain't good," he said, his brow so furrowed that it cast a shadow over his face. "I can't get up close and personal," he hissed - his hands bare, no armour on his person. 

No sooner had he said it, did a veil of light envelop him that made him feel [i]powerful[/i], almost untouchable -- the same veil fell over Gregor too, and as the Nord turned his head, he made out the form of another Imperial, a red haired woman, whom Fjolte recognised as being another of the hired guards.

"Get in there, both of you -- I'll push them back" the mage called out.

Aren rose to his prodigious full height and produced two daggers from within the folds of his robes, a derisive snarl on his face. “You dare fight a [i]Dunmer?”[/i] he spat towards the charging Reachmen and joined Gregor and Fjolte’s side. 

Impressed and heartened with the red-haired mage’s spells and Aren’s fearlessness, Gregor turned to face their foes with grim determination. No sooner had he done so than the first of them, gibbering and foaming at the mouth, leapt at him and sought to disembowel him with his stone axes. Gregor hastily blocked the strike with his sword, digging his feet into the earth, and pushed the Reachman back. The rest of the barbarians charged into the fray as well and the situation quickly devolved into a frantic melee. 

Gregor and the Reachman exchanged blows and parries, each searching for an opening in the other’s defenses, but the frenzied berserker was blisteringly fast and Gregor was forced on the defensive, his sword making elegant arcs through the air as it continuously moved to intercept the Breton’s axes. Growing frustrated, Gregor threw out his hand and forced the Breton back with an uncontrolled belch of flame. Mockingly, the Reachman squealed as he pretended to be afraid of the fire before grinning viciously and charging back in. Frowning, Gregor tried the spell again but his opponent shrugged off the flames this time, a magical glimmer on his skin protecting him from the heat, and one of his axes slashed across Gregor’s forearm. The Imperial almost dropped his sword and cursed. The magical shield cast on him had held and spared him from bloodshed, but the pain from the impact could not be softened. It fueled his anger and he went on the offensive, blade flashing in a series of powerful slashes, determined to wipe the grin off the warrior’s painted face. 

"Take heed, enemies, for the strength and courage of our Divines carries us through our strife," the Mage shouted out with unbridled conviction from behind Aren, Gregor, and Fjolte - her words invoking magicka into her palms which she sent forth to the fighting trio. Her rallying cry of courage hit them each in the back and rushed through to their chest, blooming like flowers inside of them. A new sense of strength and drive would quench them.

Fjolte felt it immediately, it was like one of Raelynn's potions had been breathed into him from the lips of the Imperial at their backs and with that invigoration, he took on an opponent of his own. A spear-wielding reachman, far shorter in height than the towering Nord. The reachman lunged, attempting to go straight for the chest - the heart. Fjolte dodged it, slamming his wrist sideways against the pole of the spear in his attempt to knock it from his hands, and step closer. These men were out for blood, and blood they would get. 

Blanketed in magical armour, and with the strengthening armour, he roared out into the face of his challenger. Fjolte continuously moved his forearm against the spear at each thrust. Dodging and countering. Dodging and countering, moving the enemy away. With each successful hit, he felt the integrity of the weapon start to give out. He was going to snap the fucking spear out of the man's hands and beat him with whatever was left of it. 

The mage’s spells empowered Gregor’s assault and it wasn’t long before the Reachman stopped grinning, his face twisted into a snarl of concentration. Gregor wasn’t proving the easy prey he had hoped to find. The Imperial’s morning practice routines were paying off and he slipped comfortably into the well-practiced step, strike, step, strike pattern of attack, the strength of his blows forcing the Reachman to stop trying to parry his sword and merely evade it instead. Gregor’s mind was clear and with every passing second he felt like he could tell more and more what his enemy was going to do next, where he would duck or jump to in order to evade the sword. [i]There![/i] The next swing would force him left. The Breton did as predicted and Gregor’s hand shot up, already aiming at the space the berserker was going to occupy within the next moment. It wasn’t fire that he called upon this time; it was ice, a long, terrifically sharp spike of it, and it slipped through Reachman’s magical defenses and between his ribs with ease. The warrior gasped, eyes wide, and stumbled to a halt as the magical chill of the ice spike spread through his body. 

“Dodge [i]this.”[/i] His face as hard as stone, Gregor raised his sword high and brought it down clean across the Breton’s neck. His head rolled away as his body collapsed into a twitching heap. 

Only feet away from Gregor, Fjolte was still working on his own Reachman. He swung a fist at the enemy, knuckles making contact with the bone armour and it stung him more than he’d hurt the attacker. “Shit,” he wheezed, realising he needed to change his tactic, the jagged edge of the bone had torn through the back of his hand and the blood sprayed out and into the dark air. Now might have been a good time for a steel warhammer, he briefly thought before lowering his posture. He took a step back. This wasn’t an ordinary foe, and he couldn’t simply brawl his way out of this one.

His movement slowed, and the emphasis was placed on the balls of his feet - and then he brought his right leg back, the knee of the left at an angle to the ground, his right arm came up to protect his face and as he waited for the enemy to adjust to the change, Fjolte moved in this stance - switching between legs and arms, almost like a dance.

From his side, the Reachman growled low. The pole of his spear had splintered, and while the first punch had hurt Fjolte, it hadn’t left him completely free of harm either, a dull ache had assaulted his ribs and he leaned into it, as if afraid of stretching his body in the wrong direction and feeling the growing, gnawing pain. He rushed forwards yet again with the spear, watching as the Nord before him changed his technique - he was slower now, moving gracefully in the dark and shimmering with his ironskin. His chest was rising and falling with deep, calming breaths. It unsettled the Reachman, and when he thrust his spear this time the Nord easily avoided it by bending his back, standing up fully when it was withdrawn.  

The three defenders of the caravan were outnumbered and another Reachman took the dead man’s place. Gregor brandished his blade, the redhead’s magic giving him strength and preventing any feelings of fatigue, but the slender wildling that stood before him now showed no fear. He was beautiful, beneath the warpaint and the fur and the bared teeth, with long dark hair and bright eyes like copper, and that gave Gregor pause for a moment. 

The attack that followed made him regret that immediately. The Reachman, armed with an axe and a dagger, moved like quicksilver and Gregor sucked in a sharp breath of alarm as he moved to evade and block the ferocious slashes and thrusts. Despite the barbarian’s slim build and short stature there was an unyielding strength behind the blows and Gregor knew immediately that he was outclassed. He had to end this, [i]fast.[/i] The Imperial shot a bolt of lightning at the Breton and his eyes went wide in astonishment as his opponent evaded the bright flash with a raptorian jerk of his head. 

“I’ll carve the Cross in your chest,” the Reachman hissed in a voice that was entirely at odds with the fairness of his features, and he beat his pale chest with the clenched fists in which he held his weapons. Before Gregor could say anything in return, the warrior was on him and three deft strikes within the span of one second saw the silversmith disarmed, the glittering longsword skittering away across the ground. Gregor backpedaled away frantically and attempted to hold the Reachman at bay with both ice and fire, but like his comrade before him the Breton walked through the flames without a care in the world and he swatted away the shards of ice with catlike reflexes, breaking the spikes mid-air with the edges of his weapons. 

Two sidelong glances confirmed that Aren and Fjolte were still occupied with their own opponents. “Help!” Gregor yelled all the same -- the Reachman was upon him and leapt at him with a savage roar. 

“I don’t think so,” came the stern voice of the mage, and she sprung forwards in Gregor’s direction, satisfied that the other fighters were holding their own, there was nothing else she could do to help them and so she turned her attention to her fellow Imperial. In the clutch moment of the savage Reachman touching down on Gregor, from his side a loud rumble disturbed the very air around them and with an echoing blast, a blue light erupted into a swirling mass of energy and from within a towering Golem brought through an ice cold wind that gave bite to the battlefield. His huge arm lurched forwards and tossed the Reachman out of the air - for now.

The redhead swooped down beside Gregor, her gaze penetrative and her thin lips in a severe frown. “Are you alright, comrade?” she asked, holding out a hand to steady him. The Frost Atronach now the shield between the clear leader of this pack, and the two Imperials.

To their left, Fjolte felt the cold that blew from the Atronach in action on his skin and it was like being back in Skyrim. That brief touch of snow and of frost fueled him almost as much as the mage’s spell had. He laughed, running his hand across his forehead as he saw the spearman fret, his stamina depleting. 

The Nord needed to reach Gregor, and this enemy was the only thing in the way now. He was satisfied with the state of him, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep up any longer and so with that in mind he tore towards him, falling forwards with one hand outstretched so that he fell into a fast cartwheel, bringing down his legs with a collected force to strike the Reachman dead centre. He stumbled back, spear still outstretched as he watched Fjolte land in a crouch, this time when he moved with the spear, the Nord was ready - clasping the pole in his hands in an almighty clap. He pushed back, the tip of the pole jabbing it’s wielder sharp in the hip. Then again, and again, and again. 

Fjolte twisted his hands with a fast enough movement to finally snap the bladed tip of the spear clean off. It fell behind him and the Nord sprang back up to his feet, his weight taking ownership now of the pole. When he brought it upon his enemy it splintered again, the cracking of the wood second only to the loud cracks that it made when it was brought upon the bare flesh of the the Reach’s barbarian warrior. The last one was the one he allowed his full might to shine through, bringing it with a whistle to the man’s jaw. His helmet fell before he did, and as if in disgust, the Nord finished the destruction of his primal weapon by breaking it completely in half over his knee and dropping the pieces beside the body, broken too.

“Gregor!” he called out, making a dash to his friend’s side. 

The warrior’s axe had caught Gregor in the arm. He grimaced as he pulled the weapon free and placed his hand over the tear in his clothes and the injury beneath, bringing his knowledge of Restoration magic to bear to mend the flesh wound. “Thank you,” he said to the mage between his heavy breaths and marveled at the sight of the Frost Atronach for a moment before he heard Fjolte call out to him, and he smiled at his friend at his approach. “I’m alright, but it’s not over yet,” he said to the pair of them and lifted his sword again. 

Aren joined them, robes disheveled and hair a mess, but the barbarian he had been fighting lay dead and bloody on the ground. “Bloody savages,” the Dunmer spat.

After his rough landing, the Reachman had leapt back to his feet and he remained there, watching them, now armed with only a dagger but no less fearsome because of it. From the darkness of the night behind him three more Reachmen emerged, wielding bows and slings -- the archers that had signaled the beginning of the assault. “I am Bone-Claw,” he declared and dragged the jagged edge of the dagger over his palm, spilling his own blood. His eyes began to glow and a hidden, intricate patchwork of tattoos beneath his skin became visible as it radiated the same baleful, yellow hue. “And you… are carrion!” he roared, his voice deep and supernaturally powerful. 

“Gods, what’s happening to him?” Gregor asked, eyes wide in disbelief, but there was no time to answer. The monster that was Bone-Claw charged and the arrows of his warband whistled over his shoulders, seeking their hearts. 

The red-haired mage stepped forwards, brushing the side swept fringe from her eyes with a scowl. “He’s a child of the Reach, baptised in blood and all manner of cruel magic and shaped by ritual, be on your guard!” she commanded, raising her own arm up to the sky fiercely, her Atronach followed suit, his form groaned with the motion and he adopted a powerful stance to catch the momentum of Bone-Claw.

Fjolte gritted his teeth, the courage of the mage was impressive but she had no armour - just cloth and a leather harness to hold it all in shape - but her hands were glowing near constantly and she flung barrage after barrage of spells into the trajectory of the ranged fighters. “Be careful!” Fjolte called out to her. She merely looked over her shoulder and smirked before moving again, lightning spiralling around her forearms, making her glow in the darkness.

A bolt caught and tore through an archer, sending him back to the ground with a heavy thud and a crack, he’d landed on a jagged rock and it was unlikely he’d get back up. Fjolte danced behind the woman, his ironskin still holding for the time being, but he could feel the vigour fading. As if the transformation of Bone-Claw had dissolved it from his form with the sheer intimidation and fear, and complete lack of understanding. As he turned to look once more at the harrowing figure, a rock hurtled towards the Nord, clipping the side of his head with a sharp edge so tremendously that Fjolte [i]heard[/i] the tearing of his flesh in his ear. It threw out his equilibrium and he fell to the ground, dazed. 

“Fjolte!” Gregor yelled and jumped over Fjolte’s body to stand guard over him, using a Ward spell to block incoming projectiles, suspending arrows and rocks in mid-air in front of him as they thudded into the magical shield. “Are you alright?” 

Bone-Claws, unholy magic from the realm of Oblivion unchained within him, barrelled into the Frost Atronach with as much power as a charging Werebear. True to his name, the Reachman had grown large bone claws that sprouted from the knuckles of his hands, piercing the skin and leaving it jagged and bloody around the base. The Atronach teetered, hung in the balance and ultimately held, slamming back down onto the ground with both feet. Bone-Claws howled and a rapid series of punches saw him drive his claws into the ice repeatedly, boring holes in the hulking glacier-giant and shattering more of its form with each blow. It seemed impossible, but the small warrior forced the Atronach back with his supernatural strength. His hair floated in the air around his head like a man submerged, and lit from beneath by the glow of the power in his skin it looked like a crown. 

Gregor cursed. “Get up, Fjolte, we need you!”

"Always… My… Head," Fjolte panted angrily, bringing the flat of his palm to the bleeding gash. The sounds of the Frost Atronach being chipped at brought him around enough to spring himself back to his feet. "Let's torch the slugs," he growled, looking Gregor in the eyes with more anger than he had carried before. The lightning magic dying down as the mage continued to deplete her own wells of magicka.

“I don’t have enough left,” the mage shouted back at them, the fire in her eyes dimming low, and where there had been strands upon strands of electricity circling her, now there were only small sparks. “My summon…” she gasped as her eyes caught the scene - a lump in her throat choked the words, and she watched in horror as Bone-Claws tore him apart. She could feel him weakening too - as if his life was a part of hers and she sank to her knees as if she were in pain. She remained that way for only a second, before the fire reignited in her narrow eyes, and she held out a fist. “I’ll buy you boys some time… But then it’s on you both alone,” she flashed a glare at Gregor before firing out her last bolt of lightning towards the Atronach…

The Imperial did not miss. The arc of lightning coated the Atronach like a spiders web and crackled around the gargantuan. It groaned out in it’s last breath - pained. An otherworldly rasp that seemed to come from somewhere else entirely and as the magic warped into the summon, it bellowed out before dying, claws of the Reachman buried within its chest. Everything that held it together exploded forth, shattered spikes of ice and stone blew in the radius of the creature and the frost did not leave either, it spread across the forest floor - a thick blanket of perfect snow in an imperfect circle. Crystals rained down, almost peacefully around the pile of rocks left behind and several glacial stalagmites ran the circumference of the grave. After the explosion, there was silence...

“Shezzar’s bones,” Gregor whispered as he climbed back to his feet -- the Atronach had exploded so violently that he had instinctively dropped to the ground. Fire surging through the air some thirty feet away grabbed his attention and he saw the unexpectedly ferocious Aren squaring off against the archers with flames whirling around him and gore-drenched daggers flashing dangerously in the night. 

That left Bone-Claws for them to deal with. 

The enraged Reachman burst through one of the ice crystals that now coated the earth and charged towards him and Fjolte. His skin was covered in frost, his inner light struggling to shine through, and his movements were more sluggish than before. “This is our chance!” Gregor yelled to Fjolte and he answered Bone-Claws with the cold metal of his sword. Now they were evenly matched in speed and Gregor roared back at the slavering, bloodthirsty monster of a man while they danced and tried to eviscerate one another. A particularly clever backwards riposte saw Gregor’s bastard sword slice through one of the bone claws and cut it off at the base. “Get him!”

Two of them. One of him.

Even though he'd been slowed down he still carried on his shoulders a mighty presence that was crushing down upon the Nord, near suffocating. He'd never faced such an opponent. But Fjolte [i]enjoyed[/i] a challenge. The fear and apprehension that was moving tumultuously inside of him parted and made way for excitement. He let Gregor take the front, to occupy him with the threat of steel. He charged to flank Bone-Claws. His fists balled into iron, and they made satisfying purchase with his ribs in an agile and unstoppable attack of three solid punches. One, breath. Two, breath. Three, breath. Retreat.

He jumped back, the crunch of snow underfoot invigorating enough to send him straight back in. This time he slammed his elbow hard against the Reachman's face, staggering him on the spot and as quickly as Fjolte had moved in, he was back out again with a fast backflip - lifting himself a good height from the ground. He landed with a smirk. They were going to win. 

Seizing the opportunity that Fjolte's deft footwork and devastating punches had created, Gregor ducked low and swiped his sword beneath the reach of the dazed monster's claws. The tip of his sword sliced clean through Bone-Claws' thigh and hot blood gushed in rapid pulses across the snow, steaming where it landed on the cold ground. Bone-Claws screamed, an unnatural noise that forced Gregor to clap his hands over his ears. 

That's when he saw the blood wasn't just steaming. It was smoking. 

Tendrils of raw magical power lashed out of the Reachman's body. His own blood had triggered the transformation and sacrificing more of it increased his power. The arterial wound would kill him, that much was certain, but in the little time he had left, Bone-Claws would be a threat like never before. When he moved it was like he was moving between worlds, his body at the epicenter of a larger, shimmering shade that enveloped him, horned and sallow-eyed: the spirit of a Dremora Lord. 

"I smell weakness!" the entity roared across time and space and twin blades tore a hole in the fabric of reality, coalescing into shape a split second before attacking Gregor with dazzling speed, almost faster than the eye could follow. Raw instinct took over and Gregor parried and dodged frantically, coming less than an inch away from dying three times within as many seconds. Bone-Claws screamed and twitched within the blood-magic and the Daedric power that now possessed him entirely, and Gregor tried a wild thrust at the man's heart to put an end to this madness and an end to his misery. The ethereal Dremora deflected it effortlessly and sent Gregor crashing into the dirt with a brutal kick. 

"What the fuck?" Fjolte hissed through clenched teeth, sparing no moment in rushing towards the Dremora, making sure to hold his arms at shoulder height, to protect his face - this was his shield. He danced around the opponent, excited still, this was no longer a fight. It was a test at how many of the attacks he could dodge until the last of the blood was spilled from the leg wound that Gregor had expertly inflicted. 

If there was one thing that Fjolte could do, it was out move just about anything. The Nord tempted the Dremora too him - and as it went for a swinging hit, Fjolte backflipped, managing an easy complete rotation in midair before landing easily on the snow. It was beginning to melt now, snow didn't belong here, and nor did this Dremora. "Gregor?" He asked aloud, not moving his intense glare from the scarlet orbs of the Dremora. "Some magic…" he added in between each of his acrobatic movements. Everything around the Nord was nature. Every rock and boulder on the forest floor belonged to him, every tree was part of Fjolte's world and when he focussed on that energy - everything that flowed around them, he only seemed to move faster. He was a furious force on the snow, his expression fierce and unyielding to the creature. 

Prone on the ground, but still very much alive and kicking, Gregor pushed himself up on his hands and knees. The wind had been knocked out of him and he felt like he’d bruised his entire ribcage, but magic -- that he could do. Gregor straightened up, raised his hands and focused on the blur of occult darkness that moved to skewer Fjolte. The trail of blood that it left behind told him that Bone-Claws didn’t have much life left to him. It was almost over. 

Alternating between fire, ice and lightning, Gregor leveled an elemental barrage of spells at the Dremora, slowing it down by forcing it to employ its own magical defenses to stop the thunderbolts and fireballs it couldn’t avoid. He grimaced with the strain of draining his magicka reserves like this so rapidly. 

The Dremora could tell that it was fading. “I’m not finished!” it roared and lashed out with one final strike, lunging for Gregor and seeking to impale his heart on its twin blades. 

Gregor’s eyes shot open wide and he gasped as the apparition moved -- too fast to stop, too late to block. But when the tips of the blades were inches away from his heart, the Dremora abruptly flickered and disappeared in a flash of purple energy. Bone-Claws, exsanguinated and charred from the raw forces of Oblivion, fell dead to the ground. 

Fjolte couldn't believe his eyes, he dropped to the floor, exhausted and just stared at the body as his breath caught up to him, his heart racing in his chest from the spectacle of it. The side of his head felt hot, and the steam of blood had reached his neck. His knuckles too, were shredded from the bone armour. He simply punched the snow and buried his hands in it. The ice cold bringing fast relief to his aches. "You 'righ Gregor?" He asked - his mouth barely able to form the words.

From their side, the mage once again spoke up - this time her voice was quieter, softer - carrying none of the authority she'd held before. "I'm h-hit," she stammered, sitting up from the ground. There was an arrow clear through her shoulder. "Is it over?" She followed up, blinking over at the torched husk of a body. 

Aren returned to them, having left behind the corpse of one of the archers -- the other two were gone. He stared at the body of Bone-Claws, breathing hard and wiping blood from his blades. Even the grim and unflappable Dunmer was wide-eyed at the sight of the remnants of the strange entity that had terrorized them. “Yes, it’s over,” Aren said and jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “The rest of them fled when this… thing, for lack of a better word, began to… glow.” He frowned, dissatisfied with being unable to find the right words. “That voice… I’ve heard it before. That was a Dremora, sure as sure. Is that what these savages do? Bind the spirits of Daedra to their flesh in exchange for power?”

Gregor, having finally caught his breath, sat up straight and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said at last. This was far beyond his area of expertise. He looked towards the red-haired mage instead and only then noticed that she was injured. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said to Fjolte and crawled over to where his fellow Imperial lay, gesturing for her to turn her shoulder to him. “Let me take a look at that.” 

Meanwhile, Aren knelt down next to Fjolte and offered his hand to the Nord. “And what about you, big man? Are you injured?”

Fjolte placed a hand full of snow against the gash on his head, the immediate relief brought colour to his cheeks. "Aye, aye… Seen worse injuries than this'un. Once had my own leg hanging by a thread after I fought a troll, y'know?" He mumbled, his eyebrows raised and he nodded. "I'll survive," he concluded -- having nothing to say about the Dremora either. He just gazed down at the corpse nonchalantly now that the danger was past them. 

Meanwhile, the mage had sat herself up and was scowling, "Damned Reachmen. At least it's clean through, nothing important hit, just needs pulling through if one of you will do the honours before we go back to camp." Her eyes flitted between Gregor and Aren, "you all fought valiantly, as it goes." 

“Just doing our jobs,” Gregor mumbled while his fingers sought purchase on the arrow shaft. He gripped it firmly and pulled it free from the mage’s shoulder. “There we go,” he said and placed his hands on either side of her shoulder before the familiar glow of Restoration magic sealed the entry and exit wound. He looked her in the eye and gave her a nod that indicated his mutual respect. “Your magic was invaluable, sorceress.” 

Aren nodded and clapped Fjolte’s shoulder. “Well fought, outlander.” He straightened back up and looked around while he stretched out his back, shoulders and arms, as if he had just awoken from a long nap on an uncomfortable sofa. “That’s quite enough excitement for one day, I should think. What do we do with these?” he asked and nudged the dead Bone-Claws with the toes of his boot. “Bury them? Burn them? I don’t know their customs.”

“A good team needs a good balance, my magic is nothing without a sword to aim it at, Sir, but your words are very kind,” the mage said, grimacing with a hiss as the arrow was pulled clean - but the warmth of the magic brought colour back to her cheeks. “You’re a mage too, colour me surprised to see you have a healer's touch about you,” she remarked with a raised brow and a smile, before glancing too, to the claws over the ground.

Before she had a chance to say anything else, Fjolte narrowed his eyes and spoke out, “destroy them. Dark magic like that is just dangerous, we don’t want Reachmen to collect them and do something else with them.” The Nord stood, glancing down at the mage as she drew herself to her feet too. “God’s know what they can create from forsaken bones…”

“A healer’s touch indeed,” Gregor said with a knowing smile and a memory of Raelynn’s hands on him in his mind. Fjolte’s grim declaration brought him back to the present and he nodded in agreement. “Whatever this man may have been in life, in death he is nothing but a monster and his corpse should be destroyed.” 

Aren shrugged. “Very well,” he said and conjured the same hot flame he had wielded to ward off the Reachmen, something that came easy with the Dunmer blood that burned in his veins. The searing gout of fire turned the already charred body of Bone-Claws into brittle ash and even his claws cracked and splintered in the fierce heat. What remained, the wind carried away. 

Fjolte watched on as it all turned through the wind and was whispered away. Just like that - nothing but dust. It strangely made him think about death, and its meaning. One day, he hoped to be granted entry to Sovngarde, but would the path there be found in his remains being scattered to the wind, just specs of dust. What would he leave behind beyond lines of dust in the winds. "Well then…" he said with a shrug and a sigh, before turning his gaze to the woman. "Let's get you to the camp, some hot tea or mead into you. God's know I need some myself," he admitted with a mirthless chuckle.

"I'll agree it to it, Nord." She quipped back with a smile. "Those hands of yours might be required elsewhere, let's see that nobody else is hurt."

[hr]

[i]Early Afternoon, 15th of First Seed
Wayrest, High Rock[/i]

Gregor looked up at the sign that was fixed to the shop’s facade above the front door. [i]Deserine,[/i] it spelled out in elegant lettering. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. If Fjolte was correct, this was likely to be where he would find Sirion, Raelynn’s fabled younger brother. Considering the task they had arrived to the city with, the smart thing to do was to leave well enough alone and minimize his footprint. But he couldn’t resist. The opportunity to learn more about Raelynn and her family was one that Gregor couldn’t pass up on. Even now, after not having seen her for more than a week, she dominated his heart and mind. His hand reached up to absent-mindedly fix the collar of his coat, the blood and dirt of their fight with Bone-Claws washed out of it by now, and he threw the folds of his cloak elegantly over his shoulder. Having left his sword back at the inn that he and Fjolte were staying at, Gregor looked the very image of the sophisticated gentleman. 

Satisfied with his appearance, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, a faint smile playing on his lips, and waited for his eyes to adjust. 

A bell attached to the door frame rang out. A single, sharp chime that pierced the silence that had settled in the small shop. Small enough that the counter was but a few steps from the entrance. In built display cabinets lined the walls, and the round window at the front was set at the perfect point in the wall to catch the sun, warm rays spilled onto the pristine floor - wooden, with a running rug from doorway to counter.

An untrained eye would find it to be a modest establishment - only a few wares were displayed and none of them seemed very exciting. Books, cutlery, and a row of vases. There was a long book on the counter however, filled with descriptions of items; [i]Sapphire and Diamond Necklace, Aldmeri Glass Chandelier[/i]. Of course the valuables were kept under lock and key, out of sight. 

The chiming bell summoned the proprietor from his office behind the counter - and a few moments after, having settled down his quill and his work, he stepped through the archway. 

A tall young man, young looking in the face - but mostly in his emerald green eyes. Magnifying spectacles rested on the bridge of a strong nose, and there was not a blemish or frown line upon his skin. His hair was short, a chestnut brown - slicked back with wax into a style that suited someone older than he was. A smudge of ink ran from the tip of his thumb to the bottom of his palm, as well as there being speckles of it across the back of his hands. Silver polish stained his cuticles and sat underneath his otherwise neat nails. It was clear the young man had not expected a potential customer through the door - the evidence in the way his workman hands and fingers twitched together before he ran them down the length of his apron. "Good afternoon, Sir-" he said with a smile, his voice was youthful too, the breath underneath it nervous and inexperienced. 

He eyed the customer, an Imperial if he'd ever seen one. Thick, dark hair groomed well. Like it was the way he always wore it. He carried himself too, with the confidence of an intelligent and well-to-do man. He carried no weapon, but held himself upright in a way that suggested he was free of its weight, the proprietor deduced. His smile was curious also. "How may I be of service?" Sirion Deserine asked, letting his hands fall into the front pocket of the apron. 

So there he was. Gregor was surprised at the superficial lack of a resemblance to his blonde, blue-eyed sister, but the Imperial did not show it on his face. He merely observed Sirion for a few moments before he turned away to hang his cloak over the back of a chair, sensing the young man’s uncertainty and therefore seizing the opportunity to establish dominance over the imminent conversation. He turned back slowly and took a step closer to the counter with the unhurried gait of a man with nowhere better to be. “Afternoon,” Gregor replied at last and inclined his head ever-so-slightly. He gestured towards the hands that Sirion had hidden within his apron. “You work with your hands?”

Sirion blinked behind the glasses, observing Gregor with less of a keen eye as his sister had, but observing all the same. The confidence he exuded was uniquely his own, and in a way, was unsettling for a reason that the young breton couldn't identify. "I do, yes," he replied. He brought a hand out of the pocket and ran it over his chin, clearing his throat as he did so. “Restoring, fixing, tinkering…” His green gaze flickered to the coat on the back of the chair. Did this gentleman want to spend a generous amount of time here? He straightened his back and cleared his throat again, a good customer like this would be good on the books… “If there is anything you wish to see, please -- it’s my pleasure to help you.” Sirion bowed his head forward. That’s how his father had taught him to greet people, and he was slightly embarrassed he’d only [i]just[/i] remembered that. 

Gregor’s smile widened. He hadn’t expected to find that he and Sirion had anything in common, but it would seem that he was mistaken. “What a pleasant surprise. I’m a silversmith myself,” he said, ignoring the invitation to peruse the store, and only broke eye contact to look down at his hands as he removed one of his self-made rings from his fingers; forged from silver and featuring a row of small amethysts. It was suitable for a man in its understatedness, but quite delicate and elegant all the same, and he closed the remaining distance to the counter in order to hold up the ring for Sirion to take and inspect. “Tell me what you think of the craftsmanship,” Gregor said and added in a reassuring tone: “Feel free to be honest. I won’t bite.”

With the ring in hand, any inklings of social awkwardness seeped away, and he held it in the direction of the window, letting the light dance across the cut stones. He raised a brow in agreement of it before reaching into his apron and pulling free a sharp tool, it looked like a curved needle on a stick and he pressed the point carefully against the gap between the stone and the socket. “Hmmm,” he mused aloud, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s nice, amethyst is a good beginners stone to work with, easy to procure. The style is… Unique in its own way. But, in the respect of it being a more abundant stone, it’s more difficult to showcase amethyst so that it stands out. This is a fair effort, Sir.” When he looked away from the ring, and back to Gregor - he found himself feeling shyer again, wondering if what he had said was offensive, or the words of a know-it-all. “It’s very nice,” he added with a smile. 

That elicited a laugh from Gregor and he waved dismissively at Sirion’s last words. “That was a fair assessment, no need to sugarcoat it for me, and you’re right. I was still an apprentice when I made it. Amethyst was the best I could get my hands on. The expensive materials are for the customers, after all,” he said and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “You know your stuff. I suppose that’s what you Deserines have in common, no?” 

As the young man handed it back, his brows raised at the mention of his familial name - and the indication that the man knew of them. “Oh, you know my father?” he asked instinctively. At the thought that he did indeed know his father, Sirion straightened himself up again, having found that he’d slouched over the counter during his brief appraisal. “I mean, thank you. Yes, we know some things. Jewellery isn’t really my area of expertise, I mean, anyway.” He fumbled, finding his palms were beginning to sweat for no real reason at all. He slipped them back into the pockets.

Gregor slipped the ring back on and wisely let the question about the Deserine patriarch pass without comment. It could be an advantage to let Sirion believe that he did know his father. “Then what is your area of expertise, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Well, I actually am quite interested in the history and artifacts of the deep elves. The machinations,” he admitted with a slight smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “Anything made of alloy… Just not, not jewels,” he laughed slightly. “Hard to get a hold of Dwemer relics, so I, I happen to enjoy cartography too. It’s delicate work, soothing.”

It was easy to picture the young man in his workshop, tinkering away in the eternal pursuit of deciphering the secrets of the inimitable animunculi of the Dwemer, or poring over old maps in search of an undiscovered buried city. Gregor found that his interest was piqued and he momentarily pushed his curiosity regarding Raelynn aside. “A fascinating area of study, by the sounds of it,” he said as he finished nodding along to what Sirion was saying. The Deep Elves were older than the period of history that Gregor was generally interested in -- the rise and fall of the Septim Empire -- but their mysterious nature had an undeniable attraction to it. “This is probably a cliche question, but… do you have any idea where they might’ve gone?”

“Well, that.. That really is the question, isn’t it?” Sirion asked quietly, with a nervous laugh. “Who really knows? I have… Theories but I’ve never, well, I’ve never explored the ruins of the Dwemer myself. But I believe that they were punished for their hubris by the Gods, they were removed but not killed or destroyed… They are just, behind the curtain - so to speak. They once,” he paused, and brought his thumb to his lip, furrowing his brow. “They were once in the centre of the stage of Nirn, but now they wait in the wings for another act,” he chuckled nervously. “That makes… Quite frankly no sense.” There was a slight grimace on his face but he laughed it off again.

Gregor fell silent for a bit. “Another act?” he asked and raised his eyebrows. “You believe the Dwemer may yet return to Nirn?” It struck him as a ridiculous suggestion. It had been more than a thousand years… maybe even two thousand years. Gregor wasn’t quite sure of the dates, but he knew it was a fabulously long time. “I don’t know about that, my friend. It seems a little fanciful. But you’re the expert, so…” He trailed off and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think I would want to be around to see them return, if I’m honest. I have seen a few of those machines of theirs with my own eyes, and those things are just what they kept around to defend their cities while they still lived in them,” Gregor said and lowered his voice. “Imagine what they might return to reclaim their cities with, hm?”

“Oh my, well -- perhaps they might, perhaps not. Perhaps in one thousand years from now, Sir!” Sirion clarified, not wanting to worry the man with his delusions of grandeur. “I just find something so truly mysterious about their disappearance… All of those empty ruins and cities - yes, yes. I suppose they would get something of a shock to see Nirn now, you’re right!” he said with another nervous laugh. It even took him a moment to catch on to what Gregor had said, about having seen the machines himself. Sirion’s eyes widened in awe, and he removed his glasses at last, pinching them at the bridge between thumb and forefinger. “You-you’ve seen some?”

“I have,” Gregor said and looked over Sirion’s shoulder as he recalled the memories. “People had been disappearing from a small mining village in Skyrim and the jarl posted a reward for anyone who could get to the bottom of it. Myself and a few of the locals banded together and followed a few tracks that led away from the village. Sure enough, those trails led to a cave that turned out to be a Chaurus nest. But as we kept going we kept finding human artifacts; sandals, earrings, that sort of thing.” 

His gaze flickered back to meet Sirion’s. “Then Falmer. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Used to be near-mythical, of course, but they’re real enough. We chased the Falmer into the depths of the caves, determined to eradicate them, until we encountered Dwemer architecture deep underground. That’s when the spiders started coming out of the walls. Not real spiders, mind you, but mechanical things. We turned back when we heard something larger rolling around in the deep. Falmer are one thing, creatures of flesh and blood, but those machines?” Gregor shivered at the thought. “None of us were willing to tangle with that. We hoisted a few Falmer corpses on the spikes they like to make -- you know, as a warning to them to stay hidden -- and that was that.”

The young Breton had been hanging on every word, his elbows resting still on the surface of the counter, the glasses folded and at his side, his gaze meeting the dark eyes of the Imperial. “I see… That sounds, really rather incredible,” he said finally. 

Either the man was telling the truth, and he was not quite the gentleman he was masquerading as -- or he was telling lies or exaggerating a much simpler truth. Sirion wasn’t quite sure which was the better option. And his thumb found its way to his lips again as he bit at it nervously. His father had frequently warned him about people who told extraordinary stories like that. But he saw no reason not to believe Gregor, really. The thought of Falmer being displayed on spikes was grizzly though, a contrasting behaviour to what the Imperial was displaying now. Sirion didn’t like to imagine such violence, and he stepped back from the counter, smiling sheepishly. “Well, none of us know what’s to happen in this world from one day to the next, I shall keep on with my studies of the Deep Elves. Maybe one day I’ll learn their secrets but until that day I am a merchant…” he said, almost tripping on the words as he broke the conspiratorial conversation and returned it to business. 

Gregor smiled. “Of course,” he said and made a show of looking around before his gaze settled on the list of objects that was on the counter. “You run this store by yourself?” he asked, pretending to be absent-mindedly making conversation while he tapped his lips with his index finger, eyes flitting from word to word on the list without taking anything in. 

"It is my father's store, I am managing it under his tutelage," Sirion answered with a smile. "About one year now," he added before slipping his hands behind his back. "Is there something in particular you're interested in?" The young man asked, eyes flitting between the book and what he could make out of Gregor's face. 

He looked up briefly and shrugged before staring back down at the pages. “Not sure… I’m here on business, and I was wandering around to kill time, but I [i]am[/i] an admirer of the finer things in life…” Gregor mumbled. “The sapphire and diamond necklace,” he said, louder, and placed his finger just below the fine script. “What make is it?”

"That one, I think… It was from Daggerfall. It's not too old," Sirion explained - unsure of that the man meant by 'make'. He felt put on the spot, but attempted to exude confidence anyway. "An heirloom of a noble family. It's very beautiful," he finished, hands fidgeting behind his back. "You're a silversmith -- you can look at it yourself, if you'd like to, Sir."

“I’d like to, yes,” Gregor said and straightened up. “Daggerfall, you say? Perhaps your father procured that necklace himself then, hm?”

"Yes, anything from Daggerfall is his work," Sirion answered with a nod. He then cleared his throat and excused himself and snuck back into his office.

With the wall between them, he let out a long breath. The man was intense. He wasn't without charisma, but Sirion found himself out of his depth with such a customer. The fact that there was still a strange energy surrounding him had also never left the Breton's attention. Was he some kind of spy? Or just nosy? He seemed to be interested in his father and in the Deserine name, or perhaps this was just neuroses talking. It had been weeks since he'd had something of a serious customer and that was something that he needed to change. Sirion unlocked the drawer that housed the necklace, taking out the piece. In the dark of his office it didn't look like much at all, but the moment he rounded the corner with it again. It sparkled in the sunlight, and feeling calmer for having breathed out of sight, Sirion carefully placed it down on the counter. 

"Quite a heavy chain to hold the plating for the stones - but it still looks very pretty, don't you think?" The Breton asked, bringing out his tool again to hold links of the chain up. "Even though it features diamonds - the jewelsmith allowed the sapphire to be the centrepiece." 

Gregor agreed with Sirion’s assessment. Allowing the sapphire to shine was a tasteful choice. He had no intention of purchasing the piece, but he found that it could serve as inspiration instead. “Yes, the chain is a little heavy for my tastes…” he said and while he was pretending to think, he looked back up at Sirion. “You know, I heard the name Deserine when I was Jehanna last week as well. No relation?”

Sirion's brow furrowed and he tilted his head. "My sister resides there, yes. She runs some tasks there…" His voice quietened, and he tried to recall when last he had spent time with Raelynn, his eyes were drawn to the sapphire. The blue stone that reminded him so much of her now. "My sister lives there," he repeated, meeting Gregor's eyes. 

“Do you miss her?” Gregor asked quietly. 

Sirion found himself taken aback by the question, and he found himself struggling to answer it for a while. Did he? Did he miss how cold Raelynn was towards him? Did he miss the bitterness and disdain? "I do miss… my sister," he answered, his eyes remained locked to Gregor's and he found something of a confidence in himself. "Why do you ask?" 

A smile crept over Gregor’s countenance and he looked down at the necklace. The blue gleam of the sapphire was reflected in his eyes. “Perhaps with the stones reversed?” he asked, the question directed at nobody in particular. “A diamond surrounded by sapphires...” Gregor rapped his knuckles on the counter and nodded. “Olive green and glacial blue, set in gold, with mithril filigree lining…”

"Well, that would be the work of a master craftsman. This piece, while it is very beautiful, it was not made by the hand of a master craftsman," Sirion observed. He stepped back, letting the Imperial continue his inspection of the piece, holding on to a sigh.  It was clear this man wasn't going to buy anything. 

Gregor looked back up at Sirion, his face inscrutable -- except for a hunger in his eyes, devoid of malice but intense all the same. “And she would like it, you think?” 

"Uhhh…." He replied, the shift in energy made him instantly uncomfortable. "I… yes? Any woman would like a piece like that I'm sure." 

Satisfied, Gregor nodded and pushed the necklace back to Sirion. He looked around and his eye fell on something in the display cabinets, not valuable enough to be locked away. It was a silver brooch, the metal shaped in such a way as to resemble a flower. [i]A Jehanna Stargazer.[/i] He smirked at the coincidence, sensing the hands of the gods at work, and tapped on the glass. “I’ll take the brooch, if you please.” 

"Of course!" Sirion responded, snapping to attention before retrieving it from the glass. As he lifted it out, he noticed that the silver was tarnishing on one of the petals, just a small amount - but enough to have reach into his pocket to pull out some equipment. This time, a tiny brush, and a small jar of polish. "Just a moment, Sir," he said in Gregor's direction. 

Sirion picked up his glasses and placed them back on carefully, the now-dipped brush held precisely, bristles aimed at the offending spot. Quickly, in tiny circles he ran the brush over the petal. Only the ambient sound from outside, and the sweeping of the brush against the brooch could be heard. "It should be in perfect condition, for her-- for you. For… To have," he fumbled out again. 

Satisfied, he removed the polish residue with a clean square of cloth and took a piece of paper from behind the counter and began wrapping it with as much intense precision as he had polished it. His folds were exact, without measuring he had found the centrepoint and it wrapped perfectly into the paper - tied off with brown string in as neat of a bow as one would expect from Sirion. "Twenty-five, for you Sir."

The boy’s awkwardness was endearing and Gregor decided that he liked him, while simultaneously wondering how much Sirion had picked up on -- or if he was merely confused. Gregor counted out the coins from his purse and handed the septims to the proprietor. “Thank you for your time,” Gregor said as he retrieved his cloak from the back of the chair. His eyes sparkled again and he chuckled. “See you around, Sirion.”

[hr]

"Where in Oblivion have you been all afternoon? And why do you look so smug?" Fjolte asked, huge arms folded over his chest. He donned a loose grey linen shirt and a pair of respectable looking trousers. His hair combed back and styled in all its glory like a single long ponytail, no sign of the shaved barbarian sides. He narrowed his eyes at Gregor and sighed through his nose, holding a hand flat out towards him, "You know what? I'd rather not know -- got my own mission to think about," he rolled his shoulders forwards, as if readying himself from behind the merchants stands in the marketplace as they were packing away. 

If his research had been correct, the Lady Gaerford took a stroll later in the afternoon to visit the stable, and if his research had been correct,  she'd be about to head back to the manor soon enough. Fjolte scratched at his beard, waiting patiently for the sight of a woman with raven hair, and blue eyes. "You owe me for this Mercurius…" 

“I’m aware of that, not to worry,” Gregor said, scanning the crowd from behind Fjolte’s shoulder, keeping himself mostly out of sight. It would be his job to sneak into the manor later that night, once Fjolte had learned where Lady Gaerford kept the ring she’d received from her husband. He was about to elaborate on his afternoon jaunt when his breath caught in his throat. 

Katarina Gaerford had appeared into view, and Gregor had to blink away the afterimages of Briar that burned on his retina. Ravenhaired and blue-eyed, she was the spitting image of his wife -- from a distance, anyway. Looking more closely Gregor could see that Katarina was plainer and both her gaze and poise lacked the spirit that Briar had possessed, but the resemblance was still somewhat uncanny. “There she is,” Gregor said in a hushed tone and pointed her out to Fjolte. 

"She's very beautiful," Fjolte acknowledged with a small smile. "Makes my work easier…" As he had done with his shoulders, he rolled his neck, feeling it crack as he readied himself. "Here goes nothing, I'll leave a window ajar for you before I leave…" 

With all said, he was off - and he moved as if he was every bit the lost traveller in the sprawling scape that was Wayrest. He walked slowly, his mouth open as if in awe, eyes squinting up at the sights. If he hadn't been so handsome, he'd look gormless. It would be only a few steps now until he met Katarina's path - a foreign obstacle in the road, a charming rogue with nowhere to go… He kept moving until finally it happened - his body collided with Lady Gaerford's, and he feigned surprise immediately, staggering back in shock - "Gods, my Lady, I'm so sorry for my clumsiness!" He was grateful for the fact he'd not completely barrelled her over to the floor. "My head is in the godsdamned clouds today!" 


[Right][i]To be continued…[/i][/right]