Thief [Skyrim]

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Enjoy this ultra horrid semi-unplanned story ≠)

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Song of the Chapter - "Morning Dew" by Adrian Von Ziegler

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Cold. Chilled blood and wind-whipped cheeks, fires not nearly hot enough to reach the high, drafty, cavernous ceilings that every home in the city seemed to have. Intricate carvings in the stone and woodwork too layered with ashen dirt and grime to be fully admired. Soot, from the braziers in each quarter, littering the snow and stamped into the frosted streets. Drinking water provided through melting chunks of ice over burning flame. That was all she knew before.

Bexima swung her dad's old short sword around as she watched the wispy clouds drifting by overhead, reflecting the orange glow of the morning, like powdered dandelions in fields of warm pastel and earthen hues. One glance at the white gloom back home and she'd know the beginnings of a blizzard would be on its way sometime that week. But it was a lot different where she was traveling than the county of Bruma, the air thicker and smoother, the colors softer and livelier.

She'd trekked through the biting cold of Pale Pass to explore Skyrim, which, like Cyrodiil, was a land of infinite wonders.

There were crystal clear, babbling riverbanks, pooling from the distantly roaring waterfalls and lifting steamily into the air as blanketed fog. There were jagged, ice-capped peaks plummeting down into endlessly rolling fields rich with whispering grass and blooming flora. There were carpets of pine needles layered over forest floors. There were villages of log cabins, with smoke billowing from the chimneys jutting from their thatched rooftops as mothers stewed supper for wide-mouthed children and heavy-gutted husbands. There were twisting paths of worn dirt and streets paved with cobbled stone, leading from bustling citadels to quaintly inhabited countrysides.

And there was much she had yet to discover.

Glancing over her shoulder first down at Lake Honrich lapping below her, then at the inn which held her sleeping acquaintance, she twirled the hilt between her fingers, digging the tip of the blade shallowly into the wood of the bridge. By the time she stood, the sun had risen from beyond the horizon and the clouds grown feathery and pale.

She remembered, growing up, her father would lead her outside the gates of their home county, and into the steep wilderness of the Jerall Mountains. They would hunt for hours, or, at least, her father would. She would watch with glassy eyes red from the wind at a safe distance, perched upon a boulder, in a ridge of the terrain, or behind a tree. She would be bundled up from head to toe in thick, fur-lined clothes her mother had sewn, petrified into stillness from the terror of slipping on ice. Her only movements would be to cup her gloved hands to her face and blow warm breath into them in hopes of regaining the feeling in her nose.

She scuffed the toe of her boot over the dent she'd made in the wood, swiping a stray shaving through the space in between the planks. She returned her sword to its scabbard on her waist and ambled back into The Bee and Barb, where Keerava was wiping down the counter of the bar. After nodding in silent greeting to the Argonian, she made her way upstairs to the room she'd occupied for nearly four weeks.

"Bear-Kicker," greeted her companion with a nod, sitting up in his bed and stretching out his stiff limbs.

"Milk-drinker." Bex responded coyly.

Lysandriel was her dearest friend, despite how little time they had spent together. The two had met not a month ago, after Bexima first crossed the border, him practically bleeding out and her fleeing Imperial soldiers.