Chapter Text
Rain thudded down on the inn’s roof, keeping up a dull, constant hammering that was slightly muffled by the straw thatching it. Once or twice, Aegir found himself glancing up from the bar to scan the ceiling for any leaks trickling from the floor above; the Lost Man’s Reprieve had only been rebuilt a month ago, and he was still worried about the structural integrity.
Still, a roof over your head is better than nothing, he reminded himself with a grim chuckle, leaning over the counter to survey the main floor. Better than some lean-to shelters in the ruins of a ghost town, that’s for certain.
His weary eyes roved around the long, low-ceilinged room, scanning tonight’s patrons. Some off-duty guards were playing dice over at a table by the fire, and a few townspeople talked quietly over a pint or two of mead nearby. Some, he’d worked with on the construction taking place the past few months, others he’d more recently become acquainted with, both as neighbors and friends — he knew everyone in his inn.
Everyone except one.
The only lone figure was a tall man in blue mage’s robes — likely an elf, Aegir thought, his eyes narrowing — sitting at a corner table, leafing through a book. A hood obscured his face, but the light from the hearth caught the yellow tint of his fingers as they traced over the pages.
Altmer. Aegir stiffened, all of his da’s tales about the Great War and all of his own memories from the Civil War coming back to him: recounting golden armor and weapons flashing in the Cyrodilic sun, remembering black robes and the crackling of magic. One of the Thalmor? A spy?
He shook his head, trying to dispel his unease. No, it can’t be. No Thalmor would dare set foot into Skyrim... not now. Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t turn his back for fear of what the mysterious stranger might do.
The door opened, the full sound of the downpour outside distracting Aegir from the Altmer. He turned his head just in time to see a young man wrapped in a soaking-wet fur cloak and hood close the door behind him, shutting out the rain again.
Pushing back the hood from his face, the young man ran a hand through his damp, unkempt dusty-brown hair, sighing. He shrugged the cumbersome cloak off his shoulders, revealing a knapsack against his back and faded, well-worn dark leathers.
“You can put it over by the fire,” Aegir called, gesturing towards the hearth.
The young man glanced over at him, smiling slightly. “Many thanks.” Pulling an empty chair closer to the fire, he draped the sodden garment over the back of the chair. Some of the soldiers gambling nearby looked over at the cloak and its owner for a brief moment, and then returned their attention to their game.
“You know,” the young man said, sitting down on a stool at the bar, “I bought that cloak because I was expecting it to be snowing in Skyrim — not raining.”
Aegir laughed, the sound dispelling his earlier suspicion and fear. “You have to expect any kind of weather in these parts, lad. Just be glad we’re not up further north.”
“Oh, I am. It’s plenty cold enough for me right here.” The young man propped up his elbows on the counter. “Got any Cyrodilic brandy?”
“I’m sure I have a bottle or two around somewhere.” Crouching down briefly to search his stock, Aegir found a bottle gathering dust on the bottom shelf and stood up, plunking it down in front of his customer. “You have the coin, traveler?”
Nodding, the young man fished out his coin purse and counted out the septims, pushing the pile across the counter before taking the brandy.
Curious, Aegir observed the man across from him as he drank. He was a Breton in his mid-to-late twenties, with keen olive eyes, a crooked nose, and a square jaw covered in razor stubble. His leathers were like none the publican had seen before: myriads of straps and buckles, protective shoulder and knee pads, pouches and pockets. A steel dagger and sword hung from his belt alongside a small yet bulging leather satchel.
Only one thing was certain: this man was not the average traveler.
“Looking to rent a room for the night, traveler?” Aegir asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Yes.” The young man took another sip of brandy. “I’ve been on the road from Markarth since this morning; it’ll be nice to get some rest.”
Pulling out a ledger, a quill, and a pot of ink from under the counter, Aegir started a new entry. “Name?”
“Roseign. Loran Roseign.” He pulled his gloves off and laid them on the counter, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “Put me down for one night.”
“Sure thing.” Aegir made the necessary notations and pushed the ledger off to the side. “Where are you from?”
“High Rock.” Loran smiled. “And as you can tell, I’m not a very experienced traveler.”
Aegir laughed. “You’ve gotten out of the country; that’s more than what most people accomplish in their lifetime.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Loran agreed, taking another sip of the brandy. “Being able to go to new places and experience new things is a blessing.”
“Ever been to Skyrim before, then?” Taking out the rag from the belt of his apron, Aegir began to wipe down the counter.
“No, this’ll be my first time here.” Loran took a break from drinking to turn over his gloves to allow them to dry a little more. “I must confess that I actually have no idea where I am, but it’s a good thing that I got here before the storm got worse.”
“About a month or two ago, you wouldn’t have found much lodging here,” Aegir told him grimly. “This is Helgen.”
“Helgen?” Loran leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. “The town that was burned down by that dragon?”
“The very same.” Aegir started working on rubbing away a very persistent stain on the wood. “It lay in disrepair for quite some time, but the High King and Queen ordered Helgen to be rebuilt maybe six months ago; as you’ve probably seen, we’re still working.” He shrugged. “But the inn’s up and running, and that’s what I care about.”
“Did you see them? The High King and Queen?” Loran asked curiously.
Aegir smiled to himself. Another royalty-loving Breton... what else is new? “Not the High Queen, but Ulfric Stormcloak himself came to the laying of the first cornerstone.”
“That must have been quite the event,” Loran remarked. “Still, it’s a shame that you weren’t able to see the Dragonborn herself. Songs about her exploits are sung even in the courts of Daggerfall, you know.” He laughed. “The bards are full to bursting with praise for her, and they all but exploded with joy when they heard that she’d given birth.”
“Imagine the whole of Skyrim doing that, and you’ll have our reaction to the new prince,” Aegir chuckled, tucking his cleaning rag away. “After so many years of misery, this land deserves some happiness —” His voice trailed off as he looked up, his eyes unconsciously going to the corner table.
The Altmer there was no longer reading his book, but rather watching the two of them.
“What is it?” Loran asked, finishing off the last of his drink.
Tearing his eyes away, Aegir turned back to his customer. “I wouldn’t look now, but the elf at the table over there is watching us.” Watching you, perhaps?
Despite the warning, Loran turned his head to look before facing Aegir again. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I was supposed to meet him here.” He stood up, grabbing his gloves and leaving the empty bottle on the counter. “Thank you again for the drink.”
Aegir nodded, trying to keep from frowning as Loran made his way over the corner table. Unlike the Altmer, Loran didn’t seem that suspicious, but something about their interaction just didn’t sit right with him.
Trying to shake his unease off, he turned back to the bar as the muffled pounding of rain and the muted rumbling of thunder sounded over the roof.
Ronan quietly sighed, slipping his still-damp gloves into one of the pouches on his bandolier as he walked. He wasn’t a particularly good liar, and he never had been fond of lying to others anyway; thankfully, the innkeeper didn’t seem to suspect anything.
The Altmer glanced up with a coolly disinterested look as he sat down at the corner table. “You are Ronan Sorleigh, I presume?” he asked in a low, crisp voice.
“I am.” Ronan leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “And you are?”
“Valmir. I am a scholar from Firsthold.” He shook Ronan’s hand. “Your Guildmaster, Jolaine Marat, spoke quite highly of you, you know.”
Ronan smiled slightly. “I am Mistress Marat’s protégée, after all; a teacher praising their student is only natural.”
“Not like she did.” Valmir closed his book, placing it by his goblet of wine. “When I approached her with this contract and told her I needed the best thief she knew for the job, she immediately volunteered you.”
“Then I’m flattered that you took her advice,” Ronan said honestly. “So, what’s this ‘job’ that you speak of, Valmir?”
Valmir glanced around the Lost Man’s Reprieve to make sure no one was listening in before continuing. “First of all, Mister Sorleigh, you must understand that I do not need anything ‘stolen,’ per say... rather recovered. If I had a choice, I would have done this by myself, because time is of the essence; however, given the circumstances, I felt it prudent to have some specialized backup.”
“I understand.” That time, his words weren’t exactly true. “Please, continue.”
“I am a scholar of ancient religions,” Valmir said, lacing his fingers together, “and for the last decade, I have been writing my masterpiece: a comprehensive volume on the Dragon Cult. It is nearly finished now, but there is one last thing that I wish to address: Forelhost.”
Ronan frowned. “Forelhost? What’s that?”
“It is an ancient fortress in the mountains of the Rift, dating back to the first era or even earlier, and it was there that the remaining members of the Dragon Cult made their last stand against the army of High King Harald.” Valmir’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “The history hidden within those walls... ah, it is almost too great to comprehend.”
“So if this is just an archeological expedition, what do you need me for?”
Once again, Valmir did a quick check for eavesdroppers before continuing in an even lower voice than before. “I believe that within the ruins of Forelhost, there lies the body of one of the Cult’s rulers: a Dragon Priest, Rahgot by name. In addition to exploring Forelhost itself to provide insight on the Cult’s strongholds and way of life, I wish to retrieve Rahgot’s mask and staff — the emblems of his power — in order to study the magic that they hold.”
“And this is where I come in,” Ronan finished.
Valmir nodded. “Precisely. Due to my mastery of the arcane arts, I am quite capable of defending myself, but as I wish to avoid whatever traps and pitfalls are lying in store, I realized that I would need someone with a light step and quick fingers.”
“Why contact the High Rock Guild, though?” Ronan mused, crossing his arms. “I’m sure that Alinor has a Guild chapter, and I know that Skyrim’s is based nearby in Riften; either would be logical choices.”
A muscle ticked in Valmir’s jaw. “If you really must know, Alinor’s Guild was wiped out long ago, and if I approached the Skyrim Guild, I would most certainly be risking my neck. Nords are not known for their tolerance towards elves.” He glared in the direction of the innkeeper to make his point, then turned back to Ronan. “Guildmaster Marat, on the other hand, has long been a friend of mine, and I have always trusted her with matters such as this that require considerable discretion.
“I need not tell you that this is one of those matters. I have guarded my research jealously from more cutthroat scholars than I for a decade, and I will not treat this expedition any differently. It must be kept secret at all costs.”
Ronan nodded. “Of course. When do you wish to leave?”
“First thing in the morning.” Valmir stood, tucking his book under his arm. “Forelhost is a day and a half from here, at the very least, and I would like to get there as soon as possible. I hope you have a horse, because that is the only way we are going to get there in a timely manner.”
“I do. I will be ready tomorrow morning.” Ronan stood up as well, tilting his head slightly. “I look forward to working with you, Valmir.”
Valmir smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “As do I, Mister Sorleigh. As do I.”