skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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Styrr has a book in hand when he opens it; he looks as though he’s been enjoying a quiet evening by the fire. “May we come in?” Freyja murmurs.

“Of course!” says the priest, as soon as he’s gotten over his surprise. “Of course, my child, what a pleasant surprise. All of Solitude owes you a debt after that terrible Potema business. And who is your friend?”

“He injured his hand,” says Freyja, carefully. She knows Styrr petitioned for Roggvir to have a proper Nord burial after the execution, but that might speak more to the man’s kindly nature than to his political sympathies. He’s certainly not going to turn them over to the Thalmor, but he might refuse to help them. “I’d have taken him to Angeline’s for a good strong potion, but it’s late, and the shops are closed.”

“A healer can do more good than a potion, at any rate,” the old man says, carefully marking his place in the book and laying it down. He gestures to a chair in the corner, and Eitri sits while Styrr gathers his own supplies, lining them up on the low table with the methodical grace of a man practiced at his profession. When he unwinds the bandage, however, the priest stills. "Where did you get this?"

"I – had an accident at the forge. The--"

Immediately Styrr draws back, face hardening. "I know what a cut from a sword looks like, young man," he says, with a trace of anger. “Why did you really come to my door so late in the evening?”

"You're a fair man,” says Freyja. “A healer. What does it matter how he got it?"

"Of course it matters!"

"You said Solitude owed me a debt," Freyja presses. "I had hoped you included yourself."

It's a ruthless blow, and the old man sags under it. His hands rub weary circles at his temples. "Of course," he says. "I - of course. I'm sure you have your reasons. I simply don't want to find that I've helped a fugitive escape the dungeons."

"You won't."

"I have your word?"

"On my honor as a warrior," she says. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Styrr sighs. "I never had reason to doubt it in our brief dealings – I suppose that will have to be enough. Let me see it, son."

As he starts to prod at Eitri’s hand, Freyja ducks back towards the doorway. “I’m getting dinner,” she says. “I won’t be long.”

Outside, however, she doesn’t head for the inn. Instead, with a quick deep breath and the sedate pace of someone who has every right to be there, she points her feet up the hill and strolls into the courtyard of Castle Dour. She climbs the stairs, takes a turn around the ramparts, gets a feel for the rhythm of the patrols. Then, without allowing herself to fully contemplate her actions, she slips a lockpick into the door of the Thalmor Headquarters.

What in the name of Aedra and Daedra are you doing, Freyja? she thinks, in the distinctly Dunmeri tones that her inner voice always takes when she's being an idiot. It's an old argument. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Indros would rage. You're already going to die centuries too early, the least you could do is not charge into every battle screaming "Victory or Sovngarde" before you've had a chance to size up the odds. She used to tease him for it. I'd say you sound like my mother, but she has more guts than you.

I'm not going to be in Sovngarde, in case you've forgotten, he'd scowled once. That had put a stop to her teasing.

But I'm not the one who died too soon, am I? Freyja thinks viciously, and then stifles that line of thought. Her current position is literally the last place in Tamriel for indulging in pointless reminiscence.

It seems to take forever; the squeak of the pick seems loud enough to wake the entire city. When she finally closes the door behind her Freyja presses her back against it and takes a moment to breathe. Waits until she can listen for footsteps without the distraction of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. She feels like a green youth preparing to collect her first bounty, not a warrior approaching her thirtieth year. As well you should, barks that snide inner voice. The Thalmor are not some half-wit crew of incompetent bandits.

As it turns out, however, her fear is baseless. The place is empty. Eerily so; it could be another wing of the Blue Palace, apart from the black and gold banners on the walls. There’s a kitchen in the basement, books on the shelves, neglected flowers in fine glazed pots. A ledger detailing shipments of alto wine and fresh fruit from the East Empire Company. Otherwise there are no files or documents, not even a safe where documents might be hidden. Freyja supposes she should have expected it – whatever else they may be, the Thalmor are no fools. They probably keep their intelligence locked up in the Embassy. She rifles the books, searches for hidden compartments in the desks, but the only thing that might be of interest is the large map laid out on a spare table.

Freyja leans over it, bracing her palms against the wood. Clearly the elves are keeping an eye on the war; little red and blue flags are scattered over the parchment, thrust deeply into the boards beneath. Hold capitals are noted, along with some of the larger towns and many of Skyrim’s scattered forts. A black flag marks the Embassy, and another marks a fortress to the west.

She cranes her neck, curious. It’s on the far northern coast, nearly on the border with High Rock, tucked between the mountains and the sea. A strange place for a garrison. Defensible, to be sure, but as far as Freyja knows there is nothing of strategic value nearby; Skyrim’s northwest coast is barren and remote, hardly even populated. Freyja leans further over the map. A fine, flowing hand names the fortress Northwatch Keep.

She turns back to the ledger, energized now, flipping pages until she finds an entry marked NW. An outgoing shipment – food, mostly, enough for a small detachment. There are more entries like it, dated roughly a week apart. They’re unimpressive: cured meats, sacks of flour, root vegetables, occasional weapons and smithing supplies.

Unimpressive, that is, except for the potion ingredients. Freyja is no alchemist, but she knows what nightshade and deathbell are used for. Gotcha, she thinks, and pulls out her own map. Feeling rather flushed with victory, and mindful of her promise to bring back dinner, she raids their kitchen cupboards on her way out.

Ughnnnnn!

I'm so glad that I started browsing the meme again. I'm loving this as you can't imagine author-anon.

She slips outside and makes her way back to Solitude’s residential section without a hitch. She has just begun to relax her guard when a body collides with her own, so hard that Freyja puts a hand on her sword. “Oh,” says a voice, as she whips around. “It’s you.”

That greeting does nothing to calm her nerves, but the flyaway blond hair and round face of the little girl does. It’s only Addvar’s daughter, dashing home for bedtime; the fishmonger lives just across from Styrr. “Hi, Svari,” Freyja says. “You’re out late.”

“I guess,” says the little girl, listlessly. “Ma doesn’t really notice if I’m a little late anymore.”

Freyja frowns. While she’s fairly certain she’d make an atrocious mother, she's always had a soft spot for children - and especially for this one, with her bright smile and sad eyes. She's not sure she'll ever forget the ugly scene she walked in on the first time she arrived in Solitude, shopkeepers and fruit vendors clamoring for the death of their neighbor. She is accustomed to dealing with bandits and cutthroats, and far from squeamish about a few rolling heads. But the fury directed towards a man many of the townsfolk had known their whole lives startled her. The fishmonger ordering his daughter home while the little girl protested her uncle Roggvir's innocence was the icing on that particularly unpleasant sweetroll.

"Is your ma still going to temple?" she asks.

"Yeah," says Svari. "She's still sad a lot, though."

"You may just have to give her time."

"That's what Papa says."

"You look a bit sad yourself,” Freyja says, carefully.

"I wanted to play dragonslayers, but Kayd says there aren't any more dragons." Svari kicks at a stone, viciously enough to send it skittering away along the cobbles. "OR any dragonslayers. Except I heard a dragon attacked Helgen and saved Ulfric Stormcloak right before the soldiers were going to chop off his head."

It's not terribly hard to see why the child likes the story. Freyja’s heart twists.

"And Minette said that dragons are only stories for babies, and then Kayd told her to shut up because his ma said he had to be extra nice to me, and everyone feels sorry for me and whispers about me and I hate it!"

"Svari--"

"Go away!" The little girl ducks her head, scuffing at the street as though searching for another hapless stone, but not before Freyja sees that her eyes are brimming with furious unshed tears. "I don't want to talk anymore."

"All right," Freyja says. "If you don't want to hear about the dragon."

Svari stares up at her. "Dragon?"

Freyja hesitates. She avoids talking about her encounters with dragons, especially in Solitude; technically she's still a fugitive from Imperial justice, after all. But she bulls forward before she can let herself change her mind. Apparently, tonight is a night for daring. "I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked," she admits.

"Really?" The little girl stumbles over her questions, eyes huge. "Was it big? Did it breathe fire?"

Freyja chuckles in spite of herself. "Yes, yes, and yes. Oh my goodness, yes."

"Oh wow, I knew it! I knew they were real!” The girl bounds up the stairs to her front door. “I have to remember to tell Papa!"

Just don’t tell General Tullius, Freyja thinks ruefully, as the girl dashes inside. Then again, maybe the man wouldn’t care. At the time he seemed too busy with Ulfric Stormcloak to take notice of anyone else; it was one of his captains that actually sentenced her to death, and Freyja returned the favor almost as soon as she was free – with a smaller axe, but much more success. Likely the general has too much on his plate to worry about a single escaped prisoner.

She wonders when she grew so close-lipped about her own past. There was a time, when she was nineteen and eager to prove herself, when Freyja would have boasted for anyone to hear that she’d escaped one dragon and helped to slay another, regardless of the consequences. It’s not that she’s afraid to die. If that were the case, she would be staying far, far away from any actions likely to anger the Thalmor. Death is the currency of her profession, and Freyja is at ease with the notion that she will die with a sword in her hand, likely before reaching old age. But there is a terrible responsibility in being the sort of character that children play at being: a dragonslayer, a hero marked by the hand of fate. Even the idea makes her feel like a child herself. A girl, dressed in her father’s borrowed armor. An imposter bearing a wooden sword.

Freyja shakes herself, pushing open the door to the priest’s dwelling. When she enters Styrr is handing Eitri a tall reddish bottle. “I can’t make any promises,” says the old man. “These things have to be attended to quickly, or even the best healers can only do so much. You’ll have quite a scar. Drink this potion, exercise it every day, and it may not always be crippled, though. You’ll have to wait and see.”

It’s nothing she didn’t expect to hear, but Freyja still winces in sympathy at the word crippled. She can’t imagine taking such a wound to her sword arm. Eitri seems to be in good spirits, though, and he has apparently won Styrr over; the man offers them his guest room for the night. “How’s the hand?” Freyja asks Eitri, as they climb the stairs.

“Better,” he says, flexing it with a wince. His fingers don’t hang so limp and clawlike now, though the movement is terribly stiff. “The old man did a good job. He owes you some kind of favor?”

“I…took care of a necromancer problem.”

“That’s what – when you said we needed to see a mage, I thought you meant…you know. Wizards. Not a priest.”

She forgets how suspicious she used to be of magic. “They use exactly the same healing spells, you know.”

“I suppose,” Eitri says, with a little wrinkle of doubt between his brows.

There’s a pail of water and a basin in the guest room, and they both make grateful use of it to wash up before Freyja starts pulling bread and fruit and fine aged cheese out of her pack. After the long day’s journey they are both famished, and for a time they eat in silence, kneeling on the rug beside a little table. “This is good cheese,” Eitri finally says.

Freyja toasts him with it. “Courtesy of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

He stares at her. “What?”

“I broke into their headquarters,” Freyja says. “They had a very well-stocked kitchen.”

“Are you insane?” he barks, with a heat that surprises her. “You could have been killed!”

“I could have been killed rescuing you from those justiciars, but I didn’t hear you complaining then,” Freyja says, annoyed. She hopes he’s not going to be the sort of man who treats her like glass simply because he took her to bed. “How else would you suggest we start looking for your cousin?”

“You could have said something—”

“What, in front of Styrr?” She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”

Eitri probes absently at his bandaged hand. “Obviously,” he says, after a moment. “Sorry. I just – I know what they’re like. The Thalmor.”

That’s fair enough, Freyja supposes. She chews on her apple.

“Did you find anything?” Eitri asks.

“Not much. The headquarters is nothing but the end of their supply line – and a way to keep some of the Legion’s spies busy, I assume. All they’ve got in there are shipping records.” His face falls. “Don’t give up yet – you can learn a lot about someone by where they get their bread and mead. You need to bag an elk, you stake out its food and water. People aren’t much different.” She unrolls her map, weights down one edge with a tankard. “All their supplies come through Solitude, but they’re only distributing them to a couple of places. One is the Embassy, and we're not getting in there - that place is locked up tighter than Cidhna Mine. The good news is it's unlikely they keep anyone but high-priority prisoners there. Not even the Thalmor can maintain that kind of security if they have to open it up for every poor bastard they accuse of worshipping Talos. Ever hear of Northwatch Keep?"

"No."

Freyja taps a finger on the north coast. "Neither have I, but I'd be ready to bet half my purse that it's where they keep the rest of their captives. It's remote, it's defensible - just the fact that we haven't heard of it says they try to keep it discreet. According to the records they send a cartful of food out there every week or two, along with a fair amount of nightshade and deathbell."

"Poison?"

"Mm. And given how remote the place is, I’d say it’s getting used for interrogation, not assassination."

Eitri flinches a little. Insensitive, Freyja thinks, chewing her lip, but it can't be helped now. "Even if I'm wrong, the Thalmor have the most efficient intelligence network in Tamriel - during the Great War they made the Blades look like children playing cloak and dagger. A network that big doesn't function without written records. Well-guarded ones, but still. If there's one thing we don't have, it's information. They'll have it."

“So the plan is to just – what, storm the keep? With two of us?”

“Even I’m not that crazy. A few justiciars I can handle, but a garrison of them would take me to pieces. Hopefully there’s another way in; a lot of these old castles have wells, hidden tunnels, that kind of thing. Either way, we won’t know until we scout the place out. We’ll just have to play it by ear.” Freyja rolls up the map, stuffs it back into her pack. “Get some rest. I’d say we’ve got eight, ten days journey, and that’s if we don’t run into trouble on the way. Men tell strange stories about the Sea of Ghosts.”

She lays down her sword and shield within easy reach of the bed, starts shedding her armor while Eitri peels off his shirt. From the corner of her eye Freyja catches sight of the solid wedge of his back, the pull and flex of his shoulderblades like two broad axe heads as he shucks the garment over his head. When he turns back to her she quickly averts her gaze. He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you broke into their headquarters. You’re a brave woman. Gods only know what they’d have done if they’d caught you.”

“There was no one inside.”

"Still. You shouldn't have done it."

"I specialize in doing things I shouldn't."

He smiles a little, takes a step forward. Brushes a strand of hair off her cheek. Freyja jerks back. "No."

He looks startled by her abruptness. Truth be told, he probably has a right to; half a moment ago she was aimlessly admiring the play of muscles beneath his skin as he undressed. Most men would take that as an encouraging signal. And she can't deny that she does want him, in the most primal of ways - that her body liked the way they fit together. He cocks his head at her. Freyja grits her teeth. She has her reasons - complicated ones, and she’s not about to explain them to him.

"A man told me once that there's nothing like a woman after a good fight," she murmurs, searching for a simpler explanation. "My tastes run to men, but I'm as much a warrior as he was." Even as she says it, she winces. She’d never call what they did making love, but it doesn’t feel right to dismiss it as an inconsequential tumble, either.

"Of course you are." Eitri‘s tone is so fierce that she raises an eyebrow at him. He shifts, ducks his head. His voice is gruff. "You saved my life, I'm not like to forget that," he says.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a long silence. “If I offended you--”

"You haven't offended me," Freyja says sharply. "I don't sleep with travelling companions, is all."

That furrows his brow. "Let me get this straight," he says. "When I was just some stranger whose life you’d saved you were happy to have me in your bed, but now that we’ll be sharing the road you want none of it.”

"That's about the shape of it.”

He looks at her curiously, scrubbing his beard, and then shrugs. “I – fair enough.”

He handles rejection well, she’ll give him that. Freyja crawls into bed. “Good night.”

Eitri hesitates. “Do you - that bedroll--”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” she snaps. “I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor like some blushing maiden. We’ll be sharing a tent for the next two weeks - it’s not much bigger than this bed, I promise you.”

He pulls his shirt back on before climbing in beside her, which Freyja finds quaintly endearing in spite of herself. Soon, though, she’s wishing she’d taken him up on his offer. It’s not the first time she’s shared a bed with a fellow traveler - crowded inns, lack of funds, sheer safety in a hostile place. A number of those beds were significantly smaller than this one. Still, she spends the next twenty minutes excruciatingly aware of the rise and fall of his broad chest beside her. Only natural, she tells herself. You did sleep with him, you’re not just going to forget. And it has been a long time.

She wonders if he’s facing the same struggle.

A/N: I've had a crappy week with RL problems (in addition to the drama going on here ;) )and writing this chapter helped take my mind off it. I was going to take most of it out because it's a bit of a distraction to the main storyline and doesn't really add anything overall but hopefully it reflects Igne's changing (and not for the better) mental state :s

And a big thank you once again to all you lovely Anons <3

13. Wake

I headed to the tiny bunk room all the whelps shared where I washed and dressed rapidly in civilian clothes, kicking my discarded nightshirt to the bed. The mixed feelings of guilt, anger and grief had me in a dark mood and I slammed my fist into the wall in a futile attempt to release it. It didn't work, leaving me cradling my hand and cursing like a Riften fishwife. I didn't bother to heal it, the dull ache acting as a distraction and deep inside me I could feel the Beastblood stirring at the pain and anger, yearning to be free. My mind felt like a scattered mess. No, it was more than that; I felt lost, overwhelmed. Sinking down onto my tiny bed I rested my head in my hands, focusing on my breathing, trying to regain control.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Breathe-

A cough at the door interrupted me and I glanced up to see Torvar leaning against the door jamb, "Kodlak wants to speak to us all upstairs, Igne. He sent me to get you."
"Right." I hauled myself wearily to my feet. Torvar was still half-blocking the door, a concerned look in his eye.
"What actually happened, Igne?"
I froze. I wasn't sure what Kodlak had told the others, or how much they knew about the Circle's secret and about the Silver Hand.
"Please, tell us. All we know is Vilkas comes back with you half-dead in his arms and then Farkas arrives and tell us that Skjor's dead. The Circle won't tell us anything."
"I can't, Torvar. Ask Kodlak."
"We have. He's saying nothing. We need some answers, Igne."
I grimaced, "We were out on a mission and we got ambushed. They captured Skjor and me and Vilkas, Aela and Farkas rescued us. That's all I can say."
He still wasn't happy, I could tell, but he rolled off the door-frame to lead me up the stairs and into the hall.

Upstairs the entirety of Jorrvaskr had gathered in a loose circle around the fire, faces sombre and withdrawn. Instantly my eyes sought out Vilkas, kicking myself at the flush that went through my body as his dark gaze met mine. Aela was there, separated from Vilkas by his brother and Kodlak, still pale but with a simmering anger discernible even from across the hall.

Torvar pulled me into the circle to stand in-between Brill and himself as we waited for Kodlak to begin.

Kodlak looked weary, dark bags under his eyes, and his voice was quiet, "We have lost a brother this day. Skjor personified the honour of the Companions and his heart beat fiercely with courage. His loss diminishes us all but know that Skjor will not be forgotten, his name and his deeds will echo through the hall of Jorrvaskr for eternity, an inspiration to all and our words and deeds will honour his memory. We will not forget."
The low murmur echoed all around as we joined our voices, "We will not forget."

Kodlak let the silence stretch out a moment longer before he spoke again, "This is a day where our souls must cry, and our hearts will answer. Go. Grieve in whatever way you know."

The circle began to loosely break up, the members of Jorrvaskr loosely clustering together, talking in low voices. Only Aela and I didn't join in; Aela stalking straight back downstairs, face and body tight with suppressed anger. As for me I just stood there, feeling utterly disconnected from everything around me. Numb. It was a welcome change from the confusion and anger I'd felt earlier.

"How are you feeling now, Igne?" Njada's hoarse voice cut through my daze but it took me a moment to realise that she was talking to me.
"I'm fine."
She frowned slightly but carried on, "We're all heading to the Mare for a few drinks in Skjor's name now. Are you coming?"
"Yeah. Sure. I just need to speak to Kodlak quickly."

Kodlak was talking to Eorlund, Vilkas and Farkas. So I took a seat on the bench nearby and waited. The niggling dark voice that had been creeping more and more into my thoughts since I had discovered I was the Dragonborn was resurfacing, though whether it was being brought out by my captivity and Skjor's death or the Beastblood was anyone's guess. Not that it mattered.

It's time to stop being stupid and get down to business. No more distractions. No more playing games. Just duty. It's for the best anyway. It's not like you're actually going to survive this. It's not like you're going to have a future.

I had joined the Companions for a reason. And I had allowed myself to get distracted.

No more.

Kodlak had finished speaking with the two brothers, Vilkas casting me a hooded, unreadable glance as he strode off to speak with Ria. I hovered on the peripheries, waiting for Kodlak and as soon as Vilkas and Farkas were out of earshot he nodded me over.
"Kodlak? I know this is a bad time but I was wondering…can I look through your records later? I need to find the locations of Word Walls and the Companions have probably been to every cave and ruin in Skyrim at some point."

And I'm trying to avoid asking Delphine. I think that might make it too real.

The Harbinger gave me a tired smile, "Of course you can, Igne. But you'd be better off asking Vilkas which ones you need to look at. Sadly, I'm no scholar." He looked like a tired, old man. No more than that. He looked almost... defeated.

But what could I say? That I was sorry? Or that I would seek vengeance? Neither seemed quite right, almost trite and hollow, so I merely nodded and left him to his thoughts, joining the others as they prepared to head to the Bannered Mare.

Lydia was sat outside Jorrvaskr on one of the benches under the Gildergreen. As soon as she saw me, she sprang up, headed straight for me.
"Lyd-ow!" I rubbed my arm where her punch had landed, casting her a wounded glance as she glared down at me.
"Don't you dare do that again."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, "Good to see you too, Lydia."
Then I was utterly taken aback as Lydia, my stoic, unemotional Housecarl, pulled me into a hug. It only lasted a second but it felt... awkward. I just stood there, hands hovering at my sides until they came up to pat her on the back, whilst Farkas sniggered at me over her head. When she let me go, Farkas spoke up, "We're heading to the Mare for Skjor's wake, if you want to come."
"I shouldn't intrude." Though her gaze lingered a fraction of a second too long on Farkas's face.
Vilkas had picked up on it too, "Nonsense. Come along. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Trouble over there."
"Hey!"

Grumpy bastard.

The Bannered Mare's finest Breton brandy tasted like rat's piss. But I didn't give a damn. All of us, apart from Kodlak, Aela, Vignar, Brill and Tilda who had all elected to remain at Jorrvaskr, were at the Bannered Mare, here to celebrate Skjor's life and death in the time-honoured tradition of the Companions; by getting absolutely pissed.
"To Skjor." Vilkas raised his glass.
"Skjor." We all echoed, drinking from our cups. Silence fell whilst we reflected for a moment then gradually the conversation began to build up to a low buzz. I remained silent, alone in a crowd. My mind kept flashing back to burning pain and utter helplessness.

Never again.

A giggle from my other side interrupted my brooding. Ria was whispering sotto voice to Athis, "I'm off to Morvarth with Vilkas." Athis asked her something, voice too low to catch in the babble of conversation. Ria's voice lowered even further as she replied, still giggling, and I strained to hear the next words, "...warm me up anytime."

I reached for the brandy bottle, pouring myself the last of the golden liquid. Across the table, next to Farkas, Lydia threw me a disapproving glare, which I ignored, downing the warm drink in one gulp.

Across the room Mikael had spotted me and decided that it was the perfect time to launch in that blasted song. My mood darkened further with each word and I got up from our table heading to the bar.
"It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes-"
I slammed my coins down on the bar, "The strongest drink you have and keep it coming."

Maybe I can forget everything.

"Now that's the way to do it." The stranger next to me spoke up in a dry but approving voice. He proffered his hand and after eyeing him warily for a minute I shook it.
"I'm Sam. Sam Guevenne."
"Igne."
"Well, beautiful Igne, you look like someone who can hold their drink. How about a friendly con-test?"
"I'm not in the mood," I growled at him, downing the drink Hulda had placed in front of me.
"Come on, it'll be fun and it'll take your mind off all those worries."

Not worrying sounded good. Really good.

I glanced over uncertainly at my friends. Farkas and Lydia were smiling together in the corner, his hand gently stroking her forearm. Athis and Njada were bickering, as usual. Eorlund was talking quietly to Torvar and Vilkas- Vilkas had his hand resting on Ria's shoulder, the two of them stood slightly apart from the others, deep in conversation. Oh.

"Why not?"

"Haha!" Sam grinned, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and turning me away from them, pouring two small drinks from the pitcher next to him.
"Let's start; round one. Down the hatch!"
The liquid slid down my throat like fire and I pulled a face, wincing, "Bleurgh."
Sam laughed, slapping me on the back, "One down, my friend, one down."
"Then let's make it two." I grinned, pouring us both another and handing it to Sam.
"Bottoms up!"
I giggled, downing the drink in one and slamming my cup on the table. Sam laughed and poured another, though most ended up on the bar. We clinked our cups together, spilling more and then chugging it. I was definitely feeling the pleasant numbness that came from the alcohol. And damn it, it felt good.

I'll just have another drink.

I couldn't even taste the drink any more.

I think it must be losing it's potency. In that case I'll have another one to even it out. I don't want to cheat my friend Sam.

"So Igne, tell Uncle Sam, is there anyone special in your life ?"
"No. Only stupid grumpy stupid idiots." I pulled a face determinedly not looking at certain people across the room.
"Ooh! You know what? You should marry my friend! You'd be perfect for each other, in an opposites attract kind of way."
"Meh," I mulled it over, "Suuuure. Why not? Can't be worse than him."
"Yeah!" Sam pulled me into another hug, "Ooh, wear this ring then."
It was a pretty ring. With a pretty sapphire. "Awww. That's pretty."
"Now we can celebrate your engagement."
There was another drink hovering in front of my nose and I blearily focused on it, Sam laughed, "Can you manage?"
I wrinkled my nose, still giggling, "Only if you pour it down my throat?"
"Deal!"
Sam pressed the drink to my lips and I obediently drank, punching him lightly in the arm when he spilled half of it down my bodice. I went to reciprocate but the pitcher was empty and I turned to Sam, pouting, and thumping the bar in time with my words, "I want more."
"Okay, I'll just go get some. Why don't you go speak to your friends whilst you wait?"
That was a good idea. Sam was full of good ideas. Unlike me and my stupid, stupid feelings that made me do stupid, stupid things. Or certain stupid grumpy faced idiots with their stupid silly faces.

Right, that does it. I'm going to do it.

I staggered over to where my friends were gathered. Vilkas was glowering at me, no doubt disapproving of my decision to actually enjoy myself for once in my life, and I poked him in the chest several times to make sure I had his attention. Hard.
"I jus' wanna say, I hope you have lo's of fat bear-killing children together."
"What in Shor's name are you talking about? How drunk are you?"
"Nooooo….ooooo...oooooo" I slurred, wagging a finger in the general direction of the tall and grumpy blur, "I, sir, am perfectly schlober so there." I stuck out my tongue for good measure.
"I think our little Dragonborn appears to be jealous of you and Ria, brother," Farkas grinned. Beside him, Lydia snorted as Vilkas choked on his ale.
I glared petulantly at Farkas, "I am not! I happen to be a happily engaged woman."

I waggled my hand at them all, before realising that I was waving my right hand and quickly switched it to my left with the diamond and sapphire ring sparkling on it, "See? Now if you'll excuuuuse me, Sam and I have to go and see a giant about a goat."
The stunned silence to my proclamation was satisfying.
"What's wrong with giants wanting a goat? That's the kind of discriminat-atory thinking the Stormcloak's use."
I gave a haughty sniff, ignoring my speechless comrades, and spun round to careen off people towards the general direction of my new non-judging best friend.
Some people are so narrow minded...

Sam gave me a wicked looking grin as I threw my arm round him, "Let's go, Sammy boy!"
I grabbed his glass out of his hand and downed the liquid in one before letting Sam lead the way through the Bannered Mare to the door. I turned to stagger out into the fresh air after Sam, head spinning, only to be blocked by a wall. A wall that grasped my shoulder. Blinking to regain my focus, the wall coalesced into Vilkas.
"Are you really engaged?" He spoke so quietly that I had to concentrate to hear him over the revelries.
"I-" I couldn't think. And I felt sick. And it was really hot in here. I tugged at the laces in my stupid bodice, trying to loosen them, stopping only as Grumpy-Face pulled my hands away, "Well?"
He was ruining my good mood. Again. "Urgh. Why'd you even care? Shouldn't you be off cosyin' up to Ria before you go off on your little quest together?"
"Igne, you're drunk, you've been ill and you need sleep. Let's get you up to Jorrvaskr-"
"No." I yanked my hands out of his, "I am trying to have some fun. But apparently I'm not allowed to do that any more. In case a bloody fuckin' dragon swoops down on us. 'Cause that would be baaaad."
"Igne-"
I shook my head, pushing past the blur. He let me go. As I stepped out into the marketplace I could feel tears prick my eyes and I angrily swiped them away. The damn alcohol was making me teary and self-pitying and I hated that.

Sam was waiting for me in a pool of darkness by the well, "Shall we, my dear?"
He offered his arm in a mocking parody of the Cyrodilic nobility and shoving my confused feelings to one side, I took it with a wicked grin, swirling my imaginary skirts with my free hand as we strode off into the night.

I'd read any fic about sweetrolls to be fair...mmmm...sweetrolls...and it would explain why Alduin's so cranky all the time ;)

Thank you for the support and I'm so glad you love it! Phew! :)

Loving this and Freyja and Eitri's complicated little dance! I'd like to know what the actual reasons are....

Looking forward to the next chapter!

Snow rocks softly down onto the ground and building around Windhelm. Elsynia’s gaze wandered to the snow nearest to the fires, or burning wood, watching its melting speed. Tullius’ voice roared over the victorious Imperial soldiers. Inspecting her nails, she mused over the fight with Ulfric. Smirking, she remembered the look on his face as she dug her Daedric knife through his gut. He may have charismatic and a good leader, but his racism and arrogance in thinking he could defeat the legendary Dragonborn was his downfall.

Turning her head, she saw Tullius looking at her, and Rikke with a weird expression on her face. “The Empire thanks you for your service.” She nods at him. “And what will you do now, General?” He frowns. “I need to stay here because of the Thalmor.” And I am hopelessly in love with you. “I see. Perhaps I will come visit in two weeks after I take care of the remaining Stormcloak camps.”

It’s been two weeks since he last saw Elsynia and he is craving with need, but he will never make a move. The doubt of her showing any emotion for him is high. She may have someone she is seeing. Jealousy courses through his chest at the thought. At least the Thalmor gave him enough paperwork to keep him busy. Lost in his own world, he never sees the devious smirk on Rikke’s face.

A quiet relaxed mood sets on Castle Dour the morning after. Hundreds of Stormcloaks have returned the homes and the die-hards murdered in their sleep. It was obvious to the population who had committed the murders. No one dared, though, to speak out about the Dragonborn. Rikke sipped mead while Tullius nursed his wine. She would be here soon and Rikke could attempt to get them together. Elsynia would be probably able to catch on quickly to what she was doing, but Tullius, the damn stubborn man he was, would take some time before he caught on.

Rikke noticed a shadow pass from the corner of her eye. Looking up, she saw the ex-assassin gazing down at her with a smile. Winking, the assassin ghosted next to Tullius, the cloak around Elsynia moving barely. Leaning down, Elsynia breathed lightly on his neck causing the veteran to jump and glare at the Elf. She smirked. “Hello General.”

“Hello, Elsynia.” He pulls out the chair next to him, an invitation for her to sit. Rikke smiled, she may not have interfere that much. Sitting down gracefully, the Dragonborn noticed the Legate’s smile. “Why are you smiling, Legate?” Rikke shook her head and gulped down some mead. “Nothing.” Elsynia cocked her head to the left, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. The General, however, gave a confused look.

“I take you have heard the news about the camps?” She lifts a cup of wine to her lips. Nodding, he responded, “Yes. I’m surprised there isn’t a bigger outcry about it.” Elsynia grunted. “They don’t dare to.” Silence descends over the group. Elsynia begins picking at the wood of the table and Tullius returned to nursing his wine.

Rikke clears her throat to break the silence. “I have to report to the High Queen, she says there is something she wants me to tell me and report back to you about.” Tullius waves his hand. As Rikke passes by, she swiftly kicks a bottom leg of Tullius’s chair. He grunts as the chair suddenly falls towards Elsynia. The ex-assassin swiftly catches him but neither can stop the force that pushes his lips into hers.

Aw, come on Freyja, you know you want to. And I think I detect a bit of a crush from Eitri.

I'm very happy to see more of this. :)

Just finished my story so I can't work on this one.

4

By the end of the week, Brynjolf could barely keep himself together. He accepted any occupation offered to him - collecting from people who had defaulted on their loans, balancing the books for Mercer, helping Vekel unload a shipment of Alto wine. Anything at all to keep himself from launching a full-scale one-man attack on Cidhna Mine.

"Must be love," Delvin quipped one night, slipping onto a barstool next to Brynjolf, who was downing his third cup of mead in an hour.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm talking about the girl."

Brynjolf frowned. "It's not unreasonable to be worried about the lass."

"No," Delvin replied slowly, "but you ain't exactly been acting the way you normally do when you're worried. You've been cagey as hell all week, and in all the years I've known you, I've only seen you like this twice. And both times, there was a woman involved."

Brynjolf stared at the remains of his drink and contemplated the older thief's words. He knew he hadn't been himself lately. He shoved the empty mug aside.

"She's my responsibility, Delvin," he said finally. "I'm the one who brought her here."

Delvin shook his head. "Word is she was already living the life long before she showed up in Riften. Give yourself a break. You don't see Vex losing any sleep, and she's the one who sent Githa out there."

Brynjolf scoffed. "Well, she wouldn't, would she? Vex never did like the lass."

"Vex likes her more than she lets on, and you know it." He clapped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "She'll be fine."

"They sent her in there to die, Delvin."

Delvin shrugged. "She's resourceful."

"She's young."

"She's not that young. And she's a good fighter. She came back from Goldenglow with nothing but a few bruises. Better than Vex's foray over there." Delvin poked a finger at Brynjolf. "And you didn't go to pieces then."

Brynjolf waved the other man's hand away. "What do you want me to say, Delvin? That I'm..." He stopped himself and took a breath. "Why? What purpose could that possibly serve?"

Before the older thief could reply, Brynjolf got to his feet and pushed roughly past all the tables and chairs as he moved toward the Ratway. He would normally have slipped out through the Cistern, but he couldn't stand looking at the other guild members when one of their own was in trouble and no one else seemed to care.

He was grateful that he didn't have to deal with any of the lowlifes that often occupied the Ratway as he stepped out into the crisp Riften air. The darkness helped to hide him, though he was not especially interested in stealth as he let his feet carry him up the stairs from the waterway and into the marketplace.

He paused past the circle of wooden stalls, suddenly reminded of the day the odd young woman showed up in his city.

She was dressed modestly in fur armor, long chestnut hair pulled back in a careless braid, a steel dagger at her waist. He might not have paid her much mind but for the gold necklace glinting at her throat beneath her cloak and the silver ring sparkling on her index finger. Nobles and merchants never tried to hide their wealth, and the poor didn't have any wealth to hide. She couldn't have come by such trinkets honestly, and there was something in the way she scanned the people in the market that told him he had found a kindred spirit.

His suspicions were further fueled by the way she eyed him when he inquired about the source of her good fortune. She had smiled, pleasantly amused, but he noted the narrowing of her eyes. She was sizing him up, too, and he found her scrutiny both unnerving and exhilarating.

His suspicions were confirmed when she accepted his offer for a taste. Her gaze never wavered from him as he worked to distract the crowd, and yet she had a sense for when someone was watching her because she always paused just short of getting caught. By the time their ruse was over, she had cleaned out all of the merchants in addition to planting the ring on their mark and walked away without anyone accusing her of wrongdoing. She was glorious.

Brynjolf sighed and pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to shake the memory of her gaze. He wondered, hardly daring to hope, if the same lass could wheedle her way out of her situation in Markarth. She was a natural thief, but there were only so many places to hide in a mine, and even Delvin, the best sneak he knew, couldn't hide for weeks at a time in such an unforgiving environment.

Brynjolf wandered through the city for a long while, letting his feet carry him wherever they pleased until he found himself at the door to Honeyside.

He had never been inside her house in Riften. She rarely spent time there, and she had never invited him. She wasn't a particularly private person, but she compartmentalized her life like no one he had ever met before, and whatever she kept inside her Riften home, she kept it separate from the Thieves Guild.

It didn't matter tonight.

He placed a steady hand on the door and tried the handle. When he found it unlocked, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching before pushing the door open and slipping inside.

Kylie Jo :)

Eee, glad you like it~ And you know he's about to get his ass handed to him!

It's cool - thanks for the heads-up.

Glad I'm not being raked over the coals, but when I realized I wrote the wrong city name, like I said, I just wanted to crawl under a rock xD

Yes~ I normally play an Imperial mage/archer, and was like 'Hmm... I'm too lazy to be bothered to make a new save file, so let's write a different archetype instead :D' But yes, I found the Drainblood Battleaxe, and it's my new favorite toy.

ohhhh! and now? poor igne jealous and drunk! you know that you can not leave us hanging for a long time I'm curious to know how this story will end! vilkas, you could act a little! Chapters fantastic as always good work!

This story is compelling and it is becoming my drug, please update as soon as possible! good job!

ohh you have to give us a new chapter soon! this is really good!

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