The days following Epesorn’s recruitment set him on edge. It seemed nearly every waking hour was spent riding to Windhelm. Replacing her initial appearance of confidence and surety was a quieter and tenser demeanor. The Nord did not explain the change in her behavior, but her hurried attitude made a point just as effectively as words could: time was of the essence. Her stress was contagious, so Epesorn stayed on high alert. He wondered if she trusted him at all. Not enough to give her name, clearly. Pity he couldn’t ask for it. They faced no extreme difficulties on the road. Sometimes they repelled wildlife, either by Epesorn scaring the beast with fire, or the Nord yelling loudly and waving her arms. Travellers were trickier. Epesorn was instructed to pull his hood over and make no eye contact when they passed others on the road. Thankfully, no one stopped them. Each night, they cooked their food over a fire, unwilling to stop at any rest points. Occasionally, the Nord would tell him stories. Most concerned Ulfric Stormcloak and various atrocities she’d been witness to, but others were happier. She mentioned she’d fallen for a man in Whiterun. Her stories were short and often broken by long stretches of silence, but they interested Epesorn all the same. At Windhelm, when the city was within sight, they stabled their horses and the Nord told him the plan to get in. She would feed the guards a cock-and-bull story, and once granted admittance, they would make their way to the Gray Quarter. Simple as that. If anything went wrong, he was allowed to do anything to avoid capture - apparently some tales had painted life imprisoned in Windhelm as worse than death. As it turned out, things went without a hitch. The Nord explained to the gate-guards that her Altmer friend here was a fierce supporter of the Stormcloaks, and he had fought bravely on their behalf during the civil war. She was an admirable liar, and it didn’t take long for the guards to give them access to the city. Epesorn could still feel their cold glares on his back. So much for patriotism. She led him to the drop-off point, a crumbling excuse for a house. It couldn’t have been abandoned for long, but still gave off a forlorn feeling. Mildew crept openly along the wooden boards. Every building in the area looked about the same - the Gray Quarter, had she called it? Apparently this was where the Dunmer went to rot. Even the poorest of Altmer did not live like this in Alinor. The Nord asked him to wait outside for a moment while she conferred with her associate. He kept on the lookout while waiting, feeling it was likely there was plenty of crime in this area. After a few minutes, she reappeared and waved him inside. “Make a good impression,” she said, then vanished into the street. He felt a clench of momentary fear, not unlike the fear a child feels when separated from its parents - which was silly, because he could fend for himself. He took a deep breath, forcing his shaking hands to steady. Epesorn stepped inside cautiously, taking in the scene. A bald Dunmer woman leaned by the door, unsurprised by his appearance. Looking past her and further into the room, he saw a second Dunmer and a Nord, both male. The Dunmer looked quite old. It came as no surprise to him that multiple dark elves were part of the resistance. Here in Windhelm, they would be the people hit the hardest by Ulfric’s reign. He tried for a smile, all too aware his heart was beating quicker than it should. Epesorn took a seat next to the Dunmer, lowering his hood to expose his sharp, golden ears. There really was no logical reason he should feel so nervous, but this was far from his comfort zone. The weight of his shortsword pressed against his thigh. He wondered if he should have left it by the door, but refrained from standing now that he was here. All that was left to do was wait.