Chapter Text
If you ever find yourself visiting Skyrim from the southeastern border in the Rift, you might want to stop by Riften. Beautiful view, fresh mead, tasty fish chowders, and the most handsome and capable mage mercenary you could ever hire in one of its biggest taverns. Me!
That’s right; for a meager 500 septims a week you could have a master of the arcane fighting at your side. Bandits? Thugs? Thieves? Rogue mages? Giants? Dragons? You name it, I can kill it. Being trained at the Arcane University has prepared me for the worst. And a well-aimed Chain Lightning can snuff out an entire Imperial battalion in a single hit.
Besides, what are dragons but overglorified winged lizards?
...
…
Alright. Fuck this.
Please hire me.
Get me out of here.
As of now, I’m currently in a one-week contract with a rather weird-looking and weird-sounding man from the Thieves Guild. A thief, and a very shitty one, to boot. He didn’t even try hiding the fact that the money he bought my services with was stolen. He took one look at me, winced, and said—“I need your help.”
But I wasn’t about to help a common thief. My skills were intended for adventurers, nobles, pretty-faced travelers…, not a filthy-looking fletcher who looks as if he could rob me blind and slit my throat at any moment. I have my sense of self-preservation still, thank you.
(Besides, I already helped him before—free of charge!)
Until he showed me the scars.
Apparently, this man wants to find a healer. In Whiterun, he said—considering the Vigilants of Stendarr wouldn’t want to heal a lowly thief with a poisoned stab wound on his left bicep. The bandages he fashioned out of wisp wrappings and hawk feathers would only keep it closed for a week at most. Two weeks if he could keep his arm from moving too much, he said.
And like the idiot I was, I agreed.
After all, who am I to ignore my natural instinct to take pity upon fellow mortal beings?
The man didn’t even appear to be thankful after that, let alone regard my existence in some way or capacity. Granted, after a full (and admittedly boring) 6 hours of following him, I still have no idea how he looks like at all. He appears to be in late twenties or early thirties, with a mask reaching up to his nose bridge, and brown hair tucked inside a gray hoodie. A pair of glistening yellow (green?) eyes peeked from underneath it. Very short for a human standard. Not a human, then. Bosmer? Couldn’t care anymore less.
He didn’t even give me his name.
(Granted, I didn’t give him my name, either. It’s not like we’re going to get well-acquainted after this.)
We were sneaking our way through the forest on the northern part of the Rift, making sure not to provoke the local spriggans a few feet away. A forest clearing a bit far to the west—I can’t remember the name off the top of my head. Autumn? Clearshade? Autumnshade Clearing? Never mind.
“We have to be quiet now,” the thief spoke all of a sudden, alerting me slightly. “Spriggans are… defensive. If we don’t do anything stupid, they might leave us alone.”
As if I didn’t know that. “Yeah, and your arm’s in no shape to pull a bowstring.”
“Yeah! That, too.”
Apparently, this man also has a tendency of not catching the sarcastic undertone of my voice. Pity.
We hid behind the bushes and waited for the spriggans to wander away. They had a surprisingly sentient behavior, those creatures. They strolled casually around the clearing, as if surveying their surroundings—one of them was busy observing some mountain flower bushes like a curious child looking at a toy from a store window. Kind of endearing, if not a bit strange. A few minutes of waiting and the thief suddenly tugged on my shoulder again, prompting me to move forward.
He doesn’t talk much, this thief. What little voice I hear from him is muffled by that half-mask he wears—the occasional coughing, hmm’s and huh’s, and casual comments about the wildlife around Riften. Suits just fine by me.
Still a dirty thief, though.
(Belmont is going to be very proud of me.)
Once the spriggans were out of view, we got up and ran as fast as we could. We made our way to an empty Dwarven structure jutting out of the forest grounds… or it was supposed to be empty, if it hadn’t been for a rogue wizard fighting some bears nearby. Fucking hell in a soul gem.
“Alright, mage—any ideas?” The thief shot up again, his eyes staring up at me from under the hoodie.
“Any ideas? How about you pick another route with less bears?”
He was silent for a while. Then, “… better fight bears than the Thalmor.”
(What does that mean?)
We hid behind the trees again, trying our best to blend in the shadows—not a small feat with the forest being so bright this summer. With my shoulder pressed against the thief’s own, I couldn’t help but notice weird smells coming off of him. Something of a mixture between an alchemist’s shop, burned leather, hot sweat, and sewage.
Yuck.
“Just wait it out… see which one wins,” the thief mumbled to himself, resting his back against the tree behind him.
You need to take a bath.
“I can’t wait until we finally get to Whiterun,” I found myself muttering in return.
“Yeah… less bears there.”
He made an attempt of chuckling through his mask, but ended up sounding more like a dying whine instead and quickly cut it off—not that it made any difference. Good. The more he enjoys his silence, the more I enjoy this one-week arrangement.
Seven days from now, I will be at the Bannered Mare, hopefully taking up jobs from a pretty-faced and more respectable adventurer. Maybe a warrior lady with a blazing red hair, or—never mind. Seven days from now, I will be in Whiterun, and I’m ditching this man for good. Mark my words.