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The sun had fallen deep into the bowl of the mountains, flinging a spray of vivid flames across the periwinkle expanse of the midsummer evening. The little city of Riften was closing down for the day; merchants were turning their keys in the doors of small shops and the grand plaza was bustling with the bodies of four very different individuals who’d spent the last twelve hours calling out to potential customers, determined to make back every drop of gold that their wares were worth.
One of these merchants was none other than Brynjolf, who had just stacked the three crates of elixir and was headed for the inn, and to bed. Even a man with his talent, chatting up women from the day before and playing it friendly with your common smith or farmer took its toll by the time the sun was up. While Brynjolf relished in the feel of every coin purse pressed into his palm and the glimpse of rounded curves peeping from muted-coloured clothing, even he had to admit that the whole merchant-game was an absolute bore.
Who was he to complain, though, when he went to bed with a stomach swimming rather sickeningly with cheap ale, and had to listen to the drip drip drip of water right beside his head? Earning a handful of gold and skimming a bit of it before it disappeared behind the heavy iron doors of the vault was fine by him, so long as the drinks kept coming and the ladies kept falling for his playful winks and, as countless had said themselves, his “dashingly good looks”.
Brynjolf had just set the crates on the floor beside his usual nightly post and had straightened when there was a delicate tap tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find a short Khajiit standing there, her one ear pierced from base to tip with golden loops, with a hood drawn up (ears poking out of small holes jabbed through the top) and hooding her bright gaze. Her fur was a reddish-brown, a little like tea that had steeped too long, and cinnamon-amber markings dappled her brow and cheekbones. She was pretty, for a Khajiit. The one thing that really stood out from her dark features were the two sapphire orbs blinking in the center of her round face; Brynjolf was mesmerized by them, and she had to give a low cough and prod his chest sharply with the object in her hand. He looked down, dumbly, and saw the wicked curve of a yellow dagger concealed in her hand. The tip was pressed to his chest, shaped something like a claw.
“Ah, that’s a bad idea, lass,” Brynjolf told the Khajiit. He was surprised to see her eyes scrunch up and her mouth curl into a smile that more or less resembled a catty sneer. He remembered seeing a sabre cat on the road sneezing, and it looked exactly the same.
“Saanja knows this,” she replied, her accent so thick that Brynjolf found himself straining to understand her. “Saanja knows many things, thief.”
“Many things, huh?” Brynjolf wasn’t worried. He could have easily reached down and twisted the blade out of Saanja’s hand and shoved it into her throat before anyone even noticed a thing out of place. But, after a day like todays’, he was bored and looking for some fun. Between this or a round at Haelga’s with whatever new maid had popped up, desperate for a job, Brynjolf was satisfied with the Khajiit.
“Ja, many things,” Saanja repeated. “You are thief. Buy me drink, thief.”
Brynjolf, mentally rolling his eyes at her “remarkable” observation and simple demand, stepped away from Saanja’s blade and waved his hands in a gesture of submission. “Mead?”
“Cream,” the Khajiit purred. “One bottle, warm, mixed with honey. Salmon fillet, if it not too much to ask of thief?”
Damn cats and their damned fish and cream, Brynjolf thought frigidly, heading for the counter to, very grudgingly, give Keerava Saanja’s order. The milk-white Argonian sneered at Brynjolf, and handed him the cream, then noticed the Khajiit standing by the door. Brynjolf followed Keerava’s gaze and noticed that Saanja had slid back her hood; a spill of shiny black hair was braided, drawn tightly from her scalp and falling to her mid-spine, where it swung in unison with her striped tail. Saanja grew aware of their interested stares and she offered the same, scrunched-up sneering grin that she’d offered Brynjolf only a couple of minutes prior. The short blade she carried was visible in her hand, and she went as far as scraping under her claws with it, fascinated with the grime that had gathered there.
“It’ll be just another minute or two,” Keerava muttered, fixing Brynjolf with a baleful stare. “That isn’t a problem now, is it?”
“Nay,” Brynjolf would have usually given the Argonian a pain-in-the-arse retort, just to rile her and ruffle her scales, but he honestly didn’t care. He was very tired and he wanted to give the Khajiit her meal, learn what boring “many things” she knew, the head up to bed with his crates.
Brynjolf chose to study Saanja as he waited – he had nothing else to do. Although petite, she looked strong and athletic; her spotty dark fur was groomed until it gleamed in the warm lights of the inn, and each of her seven, eight, nine gold earrings were spaced neatly along the outer edge of her twitching ear. Her gear was sparse but selected with care, Brynjolf noted. The dagger was the colour of bronze, resembling that of a question mark without the dot, and it looked old – old as in ancient tomb artifact used in the First Era, not old like a spoiled apple or a sword left to rust in rainy climate. Brynjolf hadn’t done a lot of adventuring, but he was somewhat keen of books, and Saanja’s dagger looked like something from a storybook or a magical adventure, wielded by some grand magician or something of the sort. The Khajiit carried a glass bow and a leather quiver stuffed with red-feathered arrows, and a long black sword hung at her hip, the sheath decorated with a beautiful pattern of silver loops and swirls.
Saanja held herself with an air of unrest and boredom; she looked ready to bounce across the tables just for the joy of it and caterwaul her way out the door, then shoot arrows at the stars, or something just as insane. Something about her pulsed with mystery and fun; no one ever saw the latter in Riften and hadn’t for countless years.
Brynjolf jumped lightly when the plate and bottle slammed down beside his arm on the counter, and he gave Keerava a warning stare. She returned the look as she casually picked up a damp plate and began drying it, the cloth swirling over and over the wood— an unspoken threat. Brynjolf plastered on a grin that made the Argonian clatter her scales dangerously, and he returned to Saanja, handing the Khajiit her request. Her eyes brightened and she perched on the edge of the bench, then looked up at where Brynjolf had leaned against the wall.
“Aye?” he asked when Saanja stretched out her hand, palm up.
“Tan-ku.”
“Get it yourself,” Brynjolf replied gruffly, thinking the Khajiit had said “tankard”. Saanja’s face fell immediately and she prodded Brynjolf’s thigh. He looked down irritably and Saanja repeated what she’d said more clearly: “Thank you.”
“Oh, aye.” Brynjolf felt a flush of embarrassment at rudely rebuffing her. Saanja shrugged and started to eat, her ravenous swallows reminding Brynjolf of his own hunger. He figured that he could pinch a bit of food from behind the counter when Keerava and Talen-Jai switched in a few hours, but he wasn’t too keen on waiting that long. Besides, most of the Guild would be going to bed with near-empty bellies or pass out in a drunken state over Vekel’s cheap ales and meads.
“Waaan shum?” Saanja asked, mouth full, holding up her bottle of cream. She’d already taken a drink from it and she might have been carrying an assortment of diseases, but Brynjolf took it and pressed the glass to his lips, taking a swig. He nearly gagged. The cream was thick, really thick, and disgustingly sweet. The slick honey and vague traces of salmon made it even worse.
“It is good, ja?” Saanja retrieved the bottle then settled into the remainder of her dinner. Brynjolf swallowed, took a steady breath and sarcastically muttered, “Aye. Delicious.”
It was several minutes before most of the inn inhabitants gathered their things and left, abandoning food-smeared plates and tankards on crummy tables. Brynjolf strode over to one of the tables, deftly snatched a half a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese, and returned to Saanja. He sat on the bench beside her, used his dagger to slice the bread top from bottom, and made himself a sandwich. It was as plain as Oblivion, but it got rid of the sweet fishy aftertaste on his tongue.
Saanja didn’t feel the same way about his choice of dinner. “Cheese on bread? Yuck. Where is meat? Fish?”
Brynjolf found it humorous that Saanja didn’t bother to comment on his, although petty example, theft skills. He didn’t answer, but instead brushed the crumbs from his lap and stood, making for his crates and, hopefully, for bed.
“So, we shall talk now?” Saanja bounced up beside him, possessively clutching her cream, and gave Brynjolf her funny smile. She sat down at the table against the wall and gestured to the seat across. Brynjolf would have strangled her if he hadn’t been holding the crates, and he definitely didn’t want to sit with his back to the door.
“I tell you what I know, then we part ways,” Saanja made her words sound like a promise. Brynjolf, undoubtedly glaring at this point, let the crates slam on the floor, causing the vials to jangle together alarmingly. He sat in the chair, angling so he could see both doors with a twist of his head, and regarded the furry annoyance sitting across from him. Saanja sat with her elbows on the table, her fingers woven together to cup her chin upon, and she fixed Brynjolf with an innocent stare. Who in Oblivion cursed me with this one?
“Alright,” he said. “Go on, so I can get to bed.”
“There is woman,” Saanja dropped her voice to a whisper. “She is intent on changing the ways you know.”
“Since when is there no woman seeking to screw with me?” Brynjolf stared pointedly at Saanja, raising a brow to indicate his double-edged meaning, and she curled her lip.
“Certainly not Saanja, stupid thief!” Saanja spat. “A different woman. An elf woman.”
An elf woman…?
“Tell me more about her. What does she look like?” Brynjolf sighed, sorting through a list of the mer faces he knew.
“Saanja has never seen elf woman. Said she is aligned with bird daemon.”
“A bird daemon, eh? Sounds like nonsense to me,” Brynjolf covered his yawn and blinked the tired tears out of his eyes. Saanja was glaring at him with obvious frustration; he heard something thump the table’s legs and he glimpsed her tail lashing from the corner of his eye. “Is there anything else that you have to say, because I’d really like to go…”
“An evil is poised on the edge of crevice,” Saanja suddenly hissed, leaning forward, her eyes wide and intense. “Darkness will swallow you all. Lies will erupt. It is all lies, thief. Do not trust the magic man.”
Brynjolf gaped at the Khajiit, caught between disbelief and amusement, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or throttle the Khajiit. Saanja sounded as crazy as Delvin when the ol’ codger got going about his “curses” and superstitions.
Saanja suddenly looked worried. “Please, thief. You must believe me! Save yourselves before she tears your soul away!”
“Who?”
“The bird daemon!” Saanja repeated, and Brynjolf realized that he’d finally had enough. Scraping the chair on the floorboards, he stood and reached for his crates, but Saanja banged her hand flat and bared her teeth. “Sit!” she ordered.
Brynjolf, at the end of his tolerance for the Khajiit, leaned forward and jabbed a finger at her. “Look, lass. I suggest that you take your arse out of that chair and make for the door before I make it to three. You haven’t given me anything but riddles, and I’m a tired man. Do not piss me off. One…”
The feverish gleam in Saanja’s eyes vanished abruptly and her lips curled into a feral curl. Demure, she poured some of her cream into a tankard half-full of abandoned mead, swished them together, and took a drink. She tilted her head back to get the last drops, bravely exposing her throat, then slammed the tankard down. She slowly licked the cream from her whiskers with a bright pink tongue.
Saanja stood gracefully and dropped a single septim on the table. She sashayed by Brynjolf, rolling her gaze up at him, somehow threatening and sensual all at once, and uttered, “The magic man will betray you all. May your road lead you to warm sands, thief.”
Brynjolf closed his eyes, listening to Saanja’s boots step lightly over the floorboards. The door creaked open and a chilly draft breezed in, and Saanja paused. She fixed her gaze on the Nord’s tense back for a brief moment and murmured, “Truth is, he already has.”