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i. Elsewhere.
"From the frigid North comes the Brawler.
A babe of one race, child of another, but member of none.
Their strength will rival your own.
Where the fire burns the sky comes the Footpad.
Born from nobility, brought low by choice.
Their cunning will see through your tricks.
The arid reaches of sand will bring forth the Pilgrim.
Once the trusted soldier now without king or war.
Their strategies will confound you.
Pastoral paradise is home for the Sage.
Knowledge is their motivation and aspiration.
Their intelligence will match yours."
The ethereal voice was diminishing even as the body, from which it emanated, became more wizened and desiccated. Still, the questioner was not satisfied, letting a haughty sniff erupt from their nose.
"When can I expect these interlopers?" Said with the regal attitude that only the Altmer can exude, even with a construct that had no concept of self or station.
"This one cannot see. Cannot see." The body was mere ash in bodily form, now, and as it began to dissipate into nothing-ness, it's final words whispered away, "They come. They come."
The ash that was once a body floated away on a breeze that did not exist, could not exist, in this sanctum.
The Altmer stared one last time at the place where the body had been, turned on their heel and strode from the chamber.
ii. Öenthir.
It was the way of the Mages Guild to send their lowliest students out into the wilds of Tamriel to search for and recover books of old. Even copies of The Lusty Argonian Maid were carefully retrieved, catalogued and shelved in the Infinite Library deep in the bowels of the various Guild halls throughout the continent.
Öenthir was one such lowly student. Talented, for certain, but with a tendency to dream higher than her current skills, and station, would imply. She believed, wholeheartedly, that she had a destiny for something greater. Scryers and soothsayers of the Guild would dispute that, as wholeheartedly. She would, one day, be a relatively powerful mage, but otherwise unremarkable. Such was the destiny that had been set out before her.
Until that time, her position, as it was for any student, regardless of the loftiness of their destiny, was to retrieve books.
It was with a deep sense of boredom that Öenthir placed the book she had been tasked to find deep into her cumbersome satchel and with a deep, equal sense of impatience that she would wile away the time until the Guild's Librarian opened up the portal to return her to Auridon. To Vulkhel Guard and the Guild Hall.
In the meantime, she wandered through this backwater city at the arse end of the world dreaming once again of her future career as Guild Master and, one day, Arch Mage. She truly believed it. She felt it deep within her bones, no matter what any of the others told her.
The mood around the city was a tenuous, hopeful one. The Three Banners War had lulled, somewhat, over the past few weeks with each faction held in an uneasy position of stagnation, and here, in the area of Skyrim known as The Rift, the city of Riften was tempting fate by breathing a collective sigh of relief. Of course, Riften was a Nord city and Nords were not averse to fighting. 'Relish' would be a suitable word to describe how Nord's felt about fighting, but even Nords can tire of it. Eventually.
Öenthir sauntered into the Shadehome Inn, the little more reputable tavern, having developed a minor thirst. It was, as she expected, a bit of a dive. Drunken Nords throwing mead down their throats as if their lives depended on it. Men and women alike. It was loud, dirty and cloying, but it was also probably the best, cleanest place to get a drink of any kind.
The innkeeper crumpled his forehead when Öenthir asked for a wine and once again when she changed her mind and asked for a tea.
"We have mead." He growled and Öenthir took the offered mug of tepid slop that locals seemed to love more than breathing, with grudging acceptance.
There were few tables not occupied or broken and she hesitated to sit with any of the locals. They liked to talk, did the Nords, and their talk was often far too loud, bawdy and fixated on their fighting prowess. Öenthir did not believe she would find those conversations in the slightest bit interesting.
She considered joining the Redguard woman sitting at the corner table near the window, but one scowl from those intense dark eyes and a glimpse of the strange weapons held close at hand buried that idea.
Finally finding a table that hardly had any mead spilled upon it, she sat down, smoothing her skirts, and tried to calm her mind, detaching herself from her surroundings and prepared herself to wait for the portal home.
iii. Itagaki.
It was too cold. Even with the blazing fire in the large hearth and the crush of Nord bodies, drinking, shouting and otherwise carousing, it was still too cold. Why people made their homes in this Divines forsaken corner of Tamriel, she had no idea.
Itagaki wished she was still at home in the welcoming heat of the Alik'r, but she had made a pact with herself to make this pilgrimage and she'd be damned if she turned back now.
She had made the pact in the heat of grief and the burning fire of her dishonour. Yes, her remaining comrades and fellow vassals had tried to tell her that she had not been at fault, and, to a degree, she understood and agreed with them, but still she felt it. It had been her duty to protect her liege lord and her people and she had failed. Not only failed, but had survived.
She still felt the pain in her gut, sometimes, where the victorious leader of the enemy had cut so deep. Especially when it was cold and it was always cold, here in Skyrim. The healers, what few that survived, had performed a miracle in saving her life, but for what? To be a warrior without a war? A vassal without a lord? A daughter without a family?
Yes, she had survived. By the grace of the Divines. But, she needed to understand why she, of all that had been on that battlefield, had lived. Thus she had formed the pact and begun her pilgrimage. To understand. To visit the sacred places throughout Tamriel. To seek out the truth of her survival from the wisest of the wise and from their patrons, the Divines themselves in all their forms and incarnations. If they would deign to enlighten her.
Glenumbra and the other realms of High Rock gave no respite and now it was the turn of Skyrim and then Morrowind and then ... wherever could provide insight.
The little Bosmer elf mage, whose hesitation so visible at sitting near Itagaki, had settled herself down a table away. She looked out of place. More out of place than even Itagaki herself! She was a wood elf, but she held herself, and had that haughty air, of an Altmer. There was a story there, for sure, but not one that Itagaki cared to pursue.
The drink that these Nords laughably called alcohol had disappeared down her gullet and had made no impression on her chill, or her mood. Perhaps another would bring a modicum of warmth? Regardless, it wasn't a patch on the rum her people would brew. Dark, thick, warming in the chill of the desert night, cooling in the thick warmth of the day. How she wished she had brought some with her!
She rose and made her way to the bar, avoiding the jostling on the way. A Dunmer. Skin as dark as the darkest rum Itagaki had been thinking about and as beautiful a dark elf woman as she had ever seen. The elf was probably one of the best pick-pockets she had ever encountered, too, and it was only due to Itagaki's innate distrust and razor-sharp warrior's instincts that she had avoided losing all her coin.
The dark elf caught Itagaki's eye and gave the cheekiest of winks, long white hair contrasting with her dark complexion and dark eyes. She knew she had been made and she didn't appear to care.
For the first time in a long time, Itagaki almost smiled. She held it back, though. A beautiful, cheeky thief was still a thief and didn't need any encouragement. Besides, she needed more of this muck the Nords loved so much.
"Same again?" The innkeeper seemed surprised, "You drink like a Nord! I tell you what, if you're still standing after this one, the next one will be on the house."
Itagaki looked around to see if she could see the cheeky thief, but she had disappeared in the crush of the crowd.
iv. Tilly.
That had been close! The pretty Redguard was quick!
Tilly made a mental note to be more careful about the marks she was going to take advantage of. Perhaps she had become a little bit lazy after preying upon Nords for so long. When work becomes too easy, it can lead to mistakes and in this game mistakes can land you in gaol, or worse.
Of course, if the real work hadn't dried up, she wouldn't have had to resort to pick-pocketing. A skill she had perfected at an early age, but had neglected for some time now. This lull in fighting had had an unexpected knock-on effect and Tilly had become one of the casualties of the uneasy peace. Picking pockets was a quick and easy way to keep herself in the manner to which she had become accustomed.
She considered and rejected the stuffy looking Bosmer. It was clear she was a mage and, after a particularly nasty encounter a few years previously, she had learned never to anger mages. But there were plenty of drunken Nords around to relieve of their coin and valuables.
Lifting a purse from one Nord, Tilly's mind floated back to the pretty Redguard. That had been too close. If she had been caught, she would have had to have killed her. Redguards were notable for not taking thieves kindly and for the many and varied punishments they would inflict upon those caught. It would also have been a pity. Someone that pretty didn't deserve to die at the end of a poisoned knife.
Tilly remembered what life had been like back home. The life of a thief was easier in Morrowind. Simpler. Oh, punishments were almost as severe as the Redguard ones, but the guards were more easily bribed. Punishments more easily avoided. That was, of course, before she had accepted the call to her real business, where the real fun had begun. It had been hard as a thief, back home, but it could have been much worse. If she hadn't run away at such an early age, who knows what she would have become. Who she would have been. Tilly didn't like to speculate. She was glad she had escaped from that horror when she had.
A mug of mead found its way into her hand as she circled the inn, was quickly emptied and as quickly left on a table. One more coin purse should be enough for a room for the night and passage to healthier pickings. Whiterun or, possibly, Solitude would be good. Lots of rich merchants and fat coin purses to be had there and guards more interested in the shininess of their armour than on the actions of a single Dunmer thief. It seemed like the most brilliant of ideas.
And, there it was! A coin purse so full, so bulging and an owner so drunk that it was almost crying out to be plucked and given its freedom. Freedom to be placed in her own pockets.
Tilly sidled closer. Neither appearing to be heading that way or to be randomly circling. Natural movement. Natural hand raising. Naturally moving closer to the coin purse that naturally belonged in her hands.
And it was a natural hand resting heavily upon her shoulder that stopped her, mid cut.
"Be good, little elf." A thick Nord accent whispered in her ear and she tensed for the fight that was about to erupt.
v. Revna.
The raucous and often bawdy singing, loud, aggressive conversations and the sounds of people drinking quickly and heavily were like honey to her ears. The mead was strong and tasted like glory in a mug to her palate. It was a little too warm for her liking, this far in the south of Skyrim, but it felt homely and familiar. It stirred feelings of fervency. Pride swelling in her chest. These were Nords! These were her people! She itched to join in. To sing along. To clash flagons of mead together and to add her voice to the cacophony. She wanted to crush her body against these fine Nord men, but that would not do.
It wasn't to be, however. Although she had been raised by Nords, filled with Nord tales, taught Nord fighting techniques and had Nord values instilled in her, she had not been born a Nord.
She felt her tail flick in irritation. Nords were well known for having no love of those who were not Nord and a Khajiit 'pretending' to be a Nord was contemptible, if not outright heretical, to them. It didn't matter that she knew nothing of being Khajiit, meant nothing that she had only ever known Nord life and culture, nothing that her mothers had told her she was a true daughter of Skyrim in her heart. Nothing. She didn't belong and it was unlikely she would feel at home with Khajiit either, with their strange way of speaking and even stranger customs.
She tried not to think of home. The loss was too painful. Yet, even there she remembered the uneasy looks, the quiet whispered insults. When she came of age and joined the trials and games, defeating everyone who stood before her, they said being Khajiit was unfair to her opponents. Where was their Nord pride then? But she still missed home and she still felt great fondness for the village and the people, now gone.
With an absent mind, Revna laid her hand upon the greatsword, Jotnbann, beside her. It had once been her shield-mother's and her mother's before that. Her hearth-mother had told Revna it was hers now, to pass on to her daughter someday, but Revna didn't feel that she deserved it. Many an eye had appraised the sword and its quality even as they were drinking. It was a fine sword. An old sword.
Revna sighed and patted the sword with affection. She was about to reach for her mug of mead when she saw the dark elf take it from the table. She watched, amused, as the Dunmer drank the contents in one gulp (impressive) and then place it down at another table. There was a swagger to the girl, an easy strut that Revna found herself envious of.
Here was a girl, a dark elf girl, amongst a throng of Nords and she did not care one jot that she was out of place. Didn't care in the slightest that she didn't belong. Yet, Revna had lived among Nords all her life and never felt half as confident in herself. Revna cared too much.
As Revna watched the dark elf circle the room, she understood what the elf was. A sneak thief. A cutpurse. She was about to take that man's purse and, Revna knew, that if she was found, the entire inn would fall upon her like ravenous wolves. Grabbing the greatsword, Revna launched across the room and grabbed the elf's shoulder.
"Be good, little elf." As the words exited Revna's mouth, she realised she was too late. The man had already noticed that his purse was hanging by a thread and the dark elf that had been in the act of taking it. With a roar, he reared to his full height. "You might want to step back, little elf, this could get messy."
Then Revna punched the man square in the face and all Oblivion broke loose.