Work Text:
Riften is both exactly the same as he remembers, and wildly different. The buildings are the same — The Bee and the Barb still has the painted plaque hanging outside the front door, and Balimund’s forge still stands proud at the edge of the marketplace. The bridge spanning over the canals creaks in the same way it did a decade ago, and though he can’t recall any faces, the stands in the marketplace don’t seem to have moved all that much, either.
An Argonian man stands behind a small cart, calling loudly about trinkets and jewellery, and a dark-haired, armoured Nord woman calls out about her weapons and armour. People mill about, lingering in front of the merchandise, and it’s habit, more than anything, that has him slipping a hand into the coat of a wealthy-looking woman with black hair braided out of her face.
The fabric of her clothes is thick, and expensive, and she doesn’t look twice at him as she brushes past him, unaware of the fine silver chain that leaves her pocket along with his hand. Lula grins at him, something wild and proud, and creeps across the marketplace closer to the Argonian. He’s not sure whether she’s aiming for the man himself, or for any of his wares — but Dylan whistles, sharp and high, and shakes his head at her the moment she looks over.
“Don’t ruffle any feathers,” he says, “Riften’s divided enough as it is. We can’t go stirring the pot anymore than our presence already does.”
“Spoilsport,” Lula grumbles, but she dutifully falls back into step alongside Dylan. She’s wrapped a dark cloak across her shoulders, and she’s not wearing the shrouded cowl that he knows belongs to the Brotherhood’s armour — but the red and black of her boots and handwraps still stands out, and it’s not hard to figure out what armour she’s wearing once you know how to recognise it.
Jack himself looks a little less remarkable, with his standard steel armour and leather boots — but his swords are a dead giveaway to anyone who would look twice, and so he makes sure to keep them sheathed, passing around the blacksmith’s forge with a wide berth. The Companions are renowned across Skyrim, and they’re usually welcome in all the holds, but they need to minimise risks of word getting back to Jorrvaskr that one of the Companions has been spotted so far outside of Whiterun — not when none of them are running jobs in the Rift.
Dylan leads them down a wooden ladder, all the way down to the canal, until they reach a dilapidated, foul-smelling door hidden at the far end of the docks. “Welcome to the Ratway,” he says by way of introduction, and Jack has to fight to keep his face from showing his disgust.
Lula, however, has no such qualms. “This place is awful,” she complains loudly, even as she’s the first to creep through the door Dylan’s holding open. “What, were there no stinking, ratty shitholes back in Falkreath for us to crawl through?”
“None with the rats I need,” Dylan says levelly, even though he doesn’t look all that pleased about being here, either. He picks up the pace once they’re all in the tunnels underneath the city, winding left and right through dimly-lit corridors and past bones that have been discarded and kicked into corners.
He’s not uneasy here, not in the way he was in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary — he’s mostly just… disgusted, by the amount of filth and the cloyingly thick air that lingers in the tunnels beneath the city, and they’re not too far from the sewers if he had to guess.
There’s a few skeevers that scurry over at them, wild, gnawing teeth gnashing just inches from his legs as he swings his sword at them to dispose of them, and Lula cackles in glee at the look of disgust he gives the sticky redness of his blades afterwards.
“Thanks for the help,” he grumbles, quickly reaching out to swipe the back of his sword along her cape, and Lula cries out in revulsion.
“You’re the honourable one between us,” she gripes, even as she gives the back of her cloak the stink eye and lunges at him to wipe it back onto his armour. “I thought you guys took care of animal pests and all that.”
“Sabre cats and bears and ice wraiths that invade places they’re not supposed to be,” Jack disagrees, “not gross over-sized rats that live in the sewers. That’s just where they belong.”
“Aw, hey now,” Lula coos, her eyes twinkling in sudden faux sympathy, “that’s no way to speak of yourself—”
“Are you two done?” Dylan interrupts smoothly, sending them both a half-hearted glare. “We’re about to cross the bridge, but stay close. The wood’s not what it used to be.”
Jack eyes the half-rotted wood of the drawbridge that crosses the platforms with disdain, and tries not to disagree too loudly. Lula, once more, says what he’s thinking. “I don’t believe this was ever anything other than disgusting and half-functional.”
“You never know,” Jack offers, ever the optimist, “maybe the bloodstains are new.”
“They look quite old to me.”
“You’re old.”
“I can’t wait until Reeves is here,” Dylan sighs, and that’s enough to halt their conversation in its tracks.
“Reeves? Is that our thief?” Jack questions, jogging two paces to hover next to Dylan’s shoulder. “How do you know about her?”
Dylan purses his lips, expression tight, and if Jack didn’t know him better, he’d mistake it for anger. He does know him better, though, and so he recognises it for what it is — Dylan’s trying to hold back a grin. “She robbed me.”
“She robbed you?” Lula sounds entirely too gleeful for the revelation that they’re putting their lives in the hands of someone who was, apparently, robbed by a street thief, and she catches up to appear on Dylan’s other side. “Is she just that good, or are you just getting old?”
“No comment,” Dylan says neutrally, even though he’s definitely smiling, now. “I know she’s good, at least. That’s why we’re looking for her. She’s in the Ragged Flagon, along with the rest of the Thieves’ Guild. Try not to rob anyone there — they don’t take kindly to being on the receiving end.”
They pass through a mostly-empty room, a dinner table awkwardly positioned in the middle of it, and Dylan takes them past it to an unassuming doorway at the back. “This leads to the cistern — that’s where the Ragged Flagon is. Don’t talk to anyone that doesn’t talk to you first, don’t start a fight — and don’t do anything stupid.”
The last is aimed at Lula, which Jack takes a probably-undeserved amount of pride in, and then they step through the creaking door into the large, open room beyond. There’s a large body of water, a huge circular basin with a wooden structure in the middle of it, partially blocking the view to the bar that Jack can just barely see peeking out in the back. The smell’s less, here, and there’s the faint chatter of people mixing with the echoing dripping of water.
They walk along the edges of the water, and as they draw closer to the bar, a few tables and chairs scattered along the open space, a bulky blond man moves to step in the way. “You here to cause trouble?”
The gruff, unfriendly tone is enough to raise Jack’s hackles, and Lula’s hand imperceptibly twitches to where he knows she keeps her daggers. Dylan, though, remains perfectly at ease, breathing out slowly before shaking his head. “No. We’re just here to speak with someone.”
“Fine,” the man lets up, “but know this. I’ll smash your skull in if you try anything.”
“Generous,” Lula simpers, fluttering her lashes and ignoring the man’s responding growl. “I’ll keep it in mind if I’m feeling adventurous.”
“Lula—!”
He’s not sure whether he’s more amused or scandalised, but Dylan looks back irritatedly, and given how pointedly the bald, armoured man sitting at one of the tables ahead is staring at them, this isn’t the time for jokes. Lula schools her face and shrugs, breezing past the bouncer effortlessly. “Sorry. Let’s go.”
She strides ahead of them, nearing the platform, and only slowing down once she realises she doesn’t quite know where to go next. Jack hurries to catch up to her, careful not to brush against the grumpy bouncer, and waits behind her as Dylan walks right past them to head up to the bald man who is still unabashedly staring at them. “Delvin,” he greets, and the man sets down his tankard with a clang.
“Well, well, well — Dylan Shrike!” There’s an amicable air as he reaches out to clasp a hand against Dylan’s wrist, and a smile breaks out on his face. “I had to check whether I was seeing ghosts — by the Eight, it’s really you! Thought you went under with your old man.”
Dylan’s face twitches at that, something unwelcome and cold flashing across his face before it’s gone again. “Still up and kicking, unfortunately,” he grits out, before he shakes his hand out of Delvin’s grasp and crosses his arms stiffly. “I’m not here to catch up. Is Reeves here?”
“Always business with you, eh?” The heavy accent has the words coming out thick, unfamiliar, and Jack struggles to place just where Delvin might be from. “Very well. Reeves is out back with the rest of the Guild — I’ll have word sent for her. In the meantime, make yourself at home — grab a drink.”
Dylan, decidedly, does not grab a drink, but he does wave Jack and Lula over, inclining his head towards Delvin as he does so. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time. Tell Reeves I have an offer for her — we’ll be waiting out by the Riften stables. I doubt she’ll say no.”
“Up to no good, eh?” There’s a knowing grin on Delvin’s face as he lets his eyes roam over Jack and Lula shamelessly, taking in the red detailing on her armour and the leather-wrapped handles of Jack’s swords. “Ah. Don’t see the likes of you travelling together often. Well, say hello to Astrid for me when you see her, won’t you?”
He knows what Lula is, then, and he’s clocked Jack, too — it’s all he can do to hope that this Delvin will know to keep his mouth shut. Dylan seems to think the same, forced smile tightening just ever so slightly at the edges and tossing a single gold coin onto the table. “For your trouble,” he says, as though there’s difficulty in sending word to someone who is, apparently, well within reach.
Delvin calls out a greeting towards Dylan’s retreating back, and Jack hurries to keep up with him. “You really do know people everywhere,” he says neutrally, watching the terse set of Dylan’s shoulders as he stalks back the way they came. “Old friend of yours, then?”
Dylan doesn’t answer him for a moment, dead set on disappearing from the cistern, but the moment they pass through the door and end up back in the Ratway, the disgusting room with the table haphazardly placed in the middle, he sighs, tension draining from his posture as if a string was cut.
“He’s a friend of my father’s,” Dylan says quietly, once Lula’s shut the door behind them. “Haven’t seen him in a decade. Didn’t even think he’d recognise me.”
Lula clicks her tongue, sending Dylan an appraising look. “Soooo,” she starts, drawing the word out far longer than truly necessary, “you haven’t even spoken to half of your contacts in roughly ten years? Starting to have a little less faith in this plan of yours, old man.”
There’s no bite to her tone, and Dylan rolls her eyes at him. “I knew he was running with the Guild — I just didn’t know he’d be here. Besides, he’s not the one I was looking for — I know enough people at the Guild that we’d have gotten to Reeves eventually. We just happened to find him before we found Brynjolf.”
“Brynjolf?” The name slips out before he can help it, flashes of memories of red hair and a distinct accent cropping up, and he grimaces when both Dylan and Lula turn to look at him instantly.
“Yeah, why? You know him?” Dylan’s gaze is questioning, searching him for anything that might give him away, and Jack blinks away the hazy memories and shakes himself out of it.
“Maybe. Just— unusual name, for these parts.”
It’s true, is the thing. The name fit in here just as much as the accent did — which is to say, not at all. He’s easily recognisable, and even though Dylan minutely narrows his eyes at him, daring him to say anything else, he thankfully drops the subject.
“Yeah, yeah, people have stupid names,” Lula grumbles, and then turns around again to head back to the creaky wooden drawbridge. “Can we get going? I don’t want to breathe in whatever diseases linger here any longer than I have to.”
That’s enough to get them moving, and it doesn’t take long for them to close the door to the Ratway behind them, creeping along the wooden docks and up the stairs until the fresh air has washed away the last traces of the cloying canal stench.
“What now?” Jack can’t help but ask, once they’re lingering near the edge of the marketplace. The sun’s slowly starting to sink, glowing yellows and orange spilling across the sky, and the merchants are packing up their stands. “We’re just going to wait?”
“Yes,” Dylan confirms, and casts a look over his shoulder as he nudges himself off of the railing, starting in the direction of the city’s gates. “If I’m correct, Reeves will have spotted us by now and is on her way to the stables. We’ll speak with her there.”
“Great,” Lula grumbles, trailing after Dylan as she rolls her eyes behind his back, shooting Jack an exasperated glare. “Go to the stables to meet the mystery people, Reeves. Surely they’re not going to kill you, Reeves. They’ve got an offer you can’t refuse. I’d run for the hills if I were her.”
Jack bites back a laugh, even as Lula’s voice goes up and down in a mock impression of Delvin’s accent. “Well, I could say the same for you. You’re the one who decided to travel along with two random men, too.”
“Well, that’s because I know I could take you,” Lula brags, a challenging grin on her face. “Besides, you’re equally stupid. What made you decide you wanted to follow a stranger into the unknown?”
Jack bites his lip, hesitating for a moment, before he admits, “I got stuck in a cave and Dylan got me out.”
Lula cackles, loud and shrill, and Dylan shushes her from upfront, even though there’s barely anyone around paying attention to them. Most people are either at the inn, or in their houses, and the streets are slowly running empty. Lula stomps his shoulder, and Jack can’t help but laugh at her, too.
“You got stuck in a cave? Man, c’mon—”
“—It’s not my fault the ground wasn’t solid! Usually when you hope for the ground to open up and swallow you in a pit, it’s only a joke. I didn’t want to actually get stuck in a hole—”
“You got stuck in a hole in a cave? Oh, Jack,” Lula giggles, and there’s something distinctly smug in her gaze. “No wonder you follow Dylan around like a lost puppy — he rescued you from dying in a pit.”
“I would have gotten out eventually,” Jack grumps back, shaking off her arm when she tries to loop it around his neck. “It’s not like it was fatal.”
“It was just a hole in the ground,” Lula says, and at Jack’s reluctant nod, “a hole in the ground that you couldn’t get out of because you fell in.”
“Are you done laughing at me? It was two days ago — get over it.”
“If only you’d gotten over it instead of going in it—”
They’re still bickering back and forth, only half heated and partially paying attention to the city’s gates as they’re drawn open to let them in, when Dylan stands still to catch their attention. “Are you almost done?” He points towards the stables, two greying mares nipping back and forth along the stone wall of their stables and a long, lithe woman leaned back against the door to one of the stalls. “We have company.”
She’s not much more than a silhouette against the half-light of the sun, though when she shifts, the orange glow spills across the curves of the pouches and pockets adorning the belt she wears across her shoulder, a lightweight leather armour matching the brown cowl she pulls off her head.
Fiery red hair spills across her shoulders, and when she stalks closer, there’s a determined set to her brows. “You’re the one that’s been asking after me. Delvin says you’re a friend.”
“I am,” Dylan says easily, “as are my associates. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a while.”
“That’s nothing new,” the woman — who is presumably Reeves — says, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. “What do you need — a jail break, heist, burglary? If you’re looking for a sweep job or a shill, talk to Vex — she handles those sorts of things.”
“I’m well aware,” Dylan says coolly, and Jack watches as the woman’s face doesn’t change. “I’m not here for the jobs you do — I’m here for you.”
Reeves chuckles — a raspy, amused sound, and when she uncrosses her arms, a dagger gleams in the dimming light of the sun. “That why you brought one of the Brotherhood to my doorstep?” She turns to Jack, tilting her head at him as she considers him. “I thought your kind was against this sort of thing.”
“We are,” Jack says, at the same time that Lula speaks up: “He’s not.”
“Not what we’re doing,” Dylan cuts them both off simultaneously, stepping forward to move just ever so slightly in front of them both. “You know the world is changing. Riften may be small, but not even the Guild can escape the rumours of dragons that have been going around.”
“Dragons aren’t real,” Reeves says derisively, though she does sheathe her dagger. She rolls her eyes and lets herself lean back against the side of the carriage that’s still stood in front of the stables, despite the fact that there’s no horse hitched up to it. She looks affronted, the most expressive she’s been all evening. “It’s all just rumours to—”
“To what?” Dylan interrupts, a sudden fervour to his words, “to level a small town? To kill dozens of people indiscriminately, burning up in endless fires? The dragon is real, Reeves. I was there. I saw it. Alduin, the World-Eater is here, and he’s just the beginning of it all.”
Alduin. It’s a name he hasn’t heard spoken aloud before — only seen it written down in one of the old tomes that Kodlak Whitemane keeps in his library, tales of fire and death raining from the sky as the deity of destruction takes on the form of a dragon. Alduin’s a myth, a legend — but so had the dragons been. He hasn’t been seen for thousands of years, but if Dylan says he’s coming back now…
“How do you know?” Reeves asks, voice suddenly quiet, and her hazel eyes are blown wide when she stares back at Dylan. They’re all silent, Dylan’s words enough to put seemingly the entire world on hold. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Completely,” Dylan says, solemn and stark, and he suddenly seems a lot older, exhaustion and the burden of carrying the world on his shoulders. “That’s why we’re here. We need you — someone with your skills, if we want to have any chance of stopping it. Of saving it all.”
Reeves looks on, unblinking, and then she shakes herself out of her stupour, a bright and blinding grin making its way onto her face and her eyes sparkling. “Well, if that’s all,” she says, and then she pushes herself off of the wagon, stepping closer to hold out her hand to Dylan. “Hand-picked by a stranger to save the fate of the world? How could I say no?”
“Just like that?” Jack sputters, not even bothering to wince when Lula digs another pointy elbow into his side. “You don’t even know who we are.”
“If you wanted me dead, you’d have tried to kill me already,” Reeves says easily, “and either you’re all completely crazy and will make for a good story when I get back, or what you’re saying is the truth and a very large dragon is going to try to end the world. Either way, I’m in for a good adventure — and just imagine, if we succeed. Our names will be plastered throughout all the books in Skyrim for our heroic deeds.”
If we succeed. It’s not something Jack’s thought much about, if he’s entirely honest — he barely knows what they’re going to do, once they have their little team complete, and this is the first time Dylan’s mentioned the overly-powerful, vengeful dragon that they’re apparently going to— fight? Kill? Kindly talk out of eating the world?
It’s not something he’s ever trained for, but then again — he doesn’t think he’ll ever be prepared for taking on a dragon. No one can prepare for that. The best thing he can do is trust that Dylan knows what he’s talking about, gather as much information as he can and try to get along with the others — especially now that there’s four of them.
Dylan clasps Reeves’ wrist firmly and shakes it, a determined grin on his face. “Welcome to the team,” he says, inclining his head, and once he lets go, gestures to himself. “My name is Dylan Shrike, and these are my associates — Jack Wilder, from the Companions, and Lula May, with the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Interesting friends,” Reeves comments neutrally, and then she fakes a bow, half-heartedly folding herself inward as she dips forward. “Henley Reeves, Thieves’ Guild — at your service.”
Lula laughs, bowing right back, and Jack can’t help but join in — and then they’re all left staring expectantly at Dylan, who is still standing in between the half-circle they’ve come to form. Jack watches as he glances between them all — between Lula’s gleeful, bordering on smug expression, the challenging look Jack knows is on his own face, the clear amusement on Henley Reeves’ — and Dylan shakes his head resolutely, crossing his arms. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing that. Come on, we’re leaving. We need to find our mage.”
Henley Reeves, it turns out, is not as energetic and bubbly as Lula is — but she’s absolutely vicious when she has to be. She’s not as good a pickpocket as either of them, but she knows her way around a lock and has made her living, apparently, out of jailbreaks and burglary.
There’s a division, in the Guild, between who takes on which jobs — and Henley’s made her specialty out of escapism. Sometimes she gets hired to break into a prison, either to break a client out or solely to taunt the guards, when the jobs are slow and she gets bored, and other times she’s sent out to retrieve jewellery and valuables from people’s houses across the hold.
She’s been all across Skyrim, apparently, though she despises the cold — which leads to a lot of grumbling once Dylan mentions that they’re heading north towards Winterhold. She’s fascinating, in a completely different way from Lula — where Lula wears her heart on her sleeve and tells him about anything and everything she can think of, Henley is a little more reluctant with her stories, and every time he pries something new out of her, he’s surprised all over again.
She can hold her breath for nearly eight minutes without a potion of waterbreathing, born from a petty decision to break into one of the Argonians’ underwater stash, and she once stole one of the stones of Barenziah — a mythical crown, that Jack hadn’t even known existed — right from the bedside table of the jarl in Windhelm, having broken into the Palace of Kings to do so.
She’s got a sharp sense of humour, and a sharper tongue — and as they set out north towards Winterhold, the beginning of what will be roughly two days of walking, she regales them with all the gossip she knows about. Jack listens with a half ear, keeping an eye out on their surroundings and the rustling in the bushes, when suddenly she reaches over to knock him in the shoulder, a proud smirk on her face.
“I thought you were a goner, first I saw you,” she says, and the words aren’t as biting as they probably should have been. “Noticed you in the marketplace swiping from Maven Black-Briar, of all people. Figured you’d be in prison sooner or later.”
Up ahead, Dylan freezes in his tracks at the mention of the name, and Lula blows out a disbelieving laugh, too. “Maven Black-Briar?”
“Tell me you didn’t,” Dylan says up ahead, turning on his heel to glare at Jack half-heartedly before burying his face in his hands at Jack’s confused look. “Please tell me you didn’t rob the most influential, dangerous person in Riften the mere second we set foot in the city.”
“Uh,” Jack says, and he feels a flush creep up his neck, “I’d love to, but I’m not sure that would be the truth.”
Lula’s openly gawking, now, eyebrows raised high and a shit-eating grin on her face. “Dark hair braided out of her face, expensive brown coat, looks a bit like she’d spit on you if she could?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack says, fishing the necklace he’d picked off of this Maven Black-Briar out of his pocket and dangling it in front of himself. “I suppose I did, yeah.”
Lula cackles at that, and even Henley lets out a surprised laugh. “No one in Riften is stupid enough to steal from her — she’s got most of the Guild and the guards in her hand. I figured you had a plan, or a death wish.”
“I didn’t really think about it, if I’m honest,” Jack admits, and lets the necklace go when Dylan takes it from him. “I just figured she was an easy mark.”
Dylan inspects the necklace for a moment, clicking his tongue when he sees it. “Silver emerald, nice. Very expensive.” He hands it back to Jack and sighs again — a sound Jack has become overly familiar with in the past three days. “Maven Black-Briar is an easy mark because no one in their right mind would dare to steal from her. She’s got more power in that city than the jarl.”
Jack wraps his fingers back around the necklace and grimaces, an apology ready on his tongue. It’s not like he’d actively been trying to endanger them — Maven had just walked too close, and she hadn’t been paying attention— “I suppose it’s good that someone, at least, is keeping her on her toes.”
Jack feels his eyes widen as he glances up at Dylan, and Dylan’s smiling at him in a way that reads vaguely approving. “We’re lucky that we’re leaving the Rift, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t indiscriminately steal from every person that we meet, but if there is one person who I’ve wanted to rob blind for years, it’s her. Good job, kid. She never even saw you.”
The praise sinks deep under his skin, warm and kind and entirely unfamiliar, and Jack shifts as he turns to hide the necklace back in his pockets. “Thanks,” he grumbles, ducking his head lower to avoid Dylan’s knowing gaze, and Lula bumps into his shoulder in response.
“I can’t believe you stole from a Black-Briar,” she says, “Last time I was in the city, she nearly caught me sneaking out after a contract. I was dodging her guards for a week.”
“Oh yeah,” Henley agrees easily, “she does that — send mercenaries or guards on anyone who crosses her. Couple months back someone took out that horrible woman at the orphanage — good riddance, if you ask me, but apparently whoever did it left a trail. Maven raved about the murder for weeks, infuriated with the guards that they couldn’t even catch one sloppy assassin.”
“Hey!” Lula wraps one of her arms across Jack’s shoulders, using him as leverage to sling herself close enough to Henley to point at her. “Not my fault that old hag tried to grab for one of the kids. It was all I could do to keep them from seeing — I wasn’t exactly concerned with the cleanup, but at least I wasn’t sloppy.”
Jack feels his jaw go slack, and he spins Lula to face her properly. “You killed Grelod the Kind?”
“She was a contract,” Lula says, an edge of defensiveness in her voice, “one of her kids ran away and performed the Black Sacrament — long enough that all of Skyrim heard about it. Someone had to do it — Astrid just gave it to me. Besides, if anyone had it coming, it was Grelod — she was a miserable bitch.”
“I know,” Jack agrees instantly, trying to dislodge her death grip from around his shoulders and shaking his head. “I was at the orphanage for a little while — I ran because of her. She was worse than Katla.”
“You were at Honorhall?” Henley squints at him, something uncomfortably knowing in her gaze. “No wonder you left. Most of us know to leave the kids alone when we find them stealing at the market — even the guards. If they’re gonna be stuck in Riften with that wretched woman, they might as well have some sweetrolls while they’re at it.”
“Yeah,” Jack finds himself saying, a foreign honesty sticking to his words, “I ran into one of the Thieves’ Guild years back. Brynjolf, his name was — I don’t know if he’s still with you? He’s taught me to be a better pickpocket.”
Henley’s face softens at that, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Brynjolf’s always been soft on the kids — and with good reason. At least with Grelod gone, the place is a lot cheerier. Constance Michel is a good person.”
Grelod had been alone in running the orphanage back when he’d been there, but the insults she’d shouted at all hours of the day and the threats of extra beatings still ring out in his head clear as day. She’d been terrible — almost worse than his father, whenever he’d come home, and the moment he’d left is the moment he’d tried to forget about her.
There’s no satisfaction in knowing that she’s dead, though — all he feels is an odd sort of disappointment. She should have been removed from there years ago, should never have been there to begin with — and he shrugs when Henley blinks at him. “That sounds nice,” he says, in lieu of anything better to say, and Lula finally releases her stranglehold on his armour and hops up on a fallen log by the side of a tree instead, teetering over the unsteady surface with an unconcerned air.
“Anyway,” she says, “That’s not the most interesting contract I’ve taken. Did I ever tell you about the time I got sent out to kill an Orcish bard?”
No, Jack doesn’t say, because they only met two days ago and she hasn’t mentioned details of her contracts before — but he lets her talk at him nonetheless, delving into a story about a bard who sang so off-key there were several people clamouring for the Dark Brotherhood to end him.
There’s a comfortable atmosphere as they head north, steadily making their way out of the Rift and cross over the border into Eastmarch. It feels familiar, as though they’ve known each other for months, as though working together comes as naturally as breathing. Henley fits in smoothly, chipping in here and there with sharp-edged commentary and anecdotes of her own, regaling them with tales of her most spectacular jail-breaks and greatest adventures.
Before she’d joined up with the Thieves’ Guild, she was a traveller, later turned adventurer-for-hire — she tells them of searching up and down to find enough fire salts for Riften’s blacksmith, Balimund, ending up in the middle of a witch coven for her trouble — and setting out to find Shalidor’s Insights, a series of books scattered across the country that the librarian at the Mage’s College paid a pretty price for. She’d run into a College mage during her search for them, and they’d travelled together for a while until she’d wanted something different.
She’s not a fighter, or so she claims — though her stance is perfectly balanced and rooted firmly whenever they pass other travellers, caution high in all their bloods — and prefers to sweet-talk her way out of whatever situation she’s in. She’s good at it, Jack finds — she dodges and weaves the conversation around topics she doesn’t want to talk about, and she’s charming and kind — a refreshing contrast to Lula’s suggestive jokes and playful energy.
Dylan sighs, whenever their arguments get particularly loud, though he ends up joining himself more than half the time, and even though the skies turn grey, clouds gathering thickly in the skies above them and the world around them disappearing under thick layers of crispy, white snow — the road is kind to them, their travels comfortable.
None of them are quite sure exactly what they’ll do, once they have found all their people — Dylan isn’t particularly forthcoming with information, claiming that he’d like to only have to explain himself once — but it doesn’t matter as much as he’d thought it did, that first moment outside the cave when the decision between his family and this adventure seemed so grand, so impossible.
He misses the jovial warmth of Aela’s stories around the hearthfire, and Vilkas’ grumblings that he’s too fast for their sparring, that he needs to charge in straight and dodge less — but something has settled, somehow, and he knows that no matter what happens — he’s right where he needs to be.