Teineeva watched the Orc behind the counter, making bottles levitate in the air, flying towards the people who ordered them. Orc barkeep. Now here’s a first. More like a clown in my opinion. But who gives a shit?
The Argonian then twitched when he felt a scaled hand on his biceps. “Oh, so strong. Tell me, handsome, why have you never visited my Proudspire?” Seif-ij leaned closer to him, her scales touching his. “You would receive royal treatment, especially after what you did for little Seif.”
Teineeva looked to the other side of the table where Derkeethus was sitting, watching his lover clawing all over the Archivist. He didn’t seem to mind, and that was probably what scared Teineeva the most. He realised he got himself into one weird situation, and he had absolutely no idea how to get out of it.
Well, he could say ‘no’. But easier said than done.
“Too busy,” he murmured, his tongue twitching in his mouth.
“Ah, darling, you have no idea what busy is,” she hissed with amusement. “I would keep you busy,” she added, and Teineeva quickly averted his gaze, looking for some kind of salvation among the people who stayed at the table. His eyes drifted around the table, noticing the others, laughing, drinking, the beasts begging for food, Serana stealing away down the path leading away from the Homestead, silent, like a ghost of the night. Aye, the Dragonborn is gone far too long for a mere piss, maybe he fell and died, Teineeva smirked to himself. Luckily enough for Teineeva, Vilkas seemed to notice his unfortunate predicament and when Teineeva rolled his eyes, the Nord understood. He got up from his place and walked around the table towards them.
He cleared his throat, looking down on Teineeva. “I see the madame has you in her claws already,” Vilkas chuckled and Teineeva forced himself not to groan. So much for the hopes of help.
“Not yet,” Seif-ij winked at Vilkas. “But soon enough. I like strong, silent types. They are a challenge.” She then leaned closer to Teineeva, her breasts touching his arm now. “But they all weep in the end,” she added with a flirtatious giggle.
“Somehow, I have absolutely no doubt about that,” Vilkas shook his head with a smile and sat down next to Teineeva. “You deserve this, Archivist. You cost me ten septims, after all. Why didn’t you use the damn scroll? I know I would use it, much better than hauling my ass all the way from Fort Dawnguard up here. Just...blink and you’re somewhere else. Amazing stuff, this magic.” Vilkas raised his hand a bit, looked at it, his face focused in concentration and sure enough, a magical glow emanated from his palm. “Not very good at it yet, but I’m learning.”
Teineeva tried to pull himself away from Seif-ij a little bit, in desperate need of collecting his thoughts. He cleared his throat, focusing on Vilkas. “Ehm… Well, we have a saying in Argonia. ‘Don’t trust a sent scroll of Recall.’”
“Oh, we most certainly have a saying like that,” Seif-ij said sarcastically and laughed.
“We do, in my tribe,” Teineeva murmured. “Have any of you heard of Magister Llanhas Irarwen?” Vilkas shook his head and Teineeva noticed that the distraction worked, because Seif-ij tilted her head in curiosity, pulling a little away from him, which seemed like an indication for him to continue.
“Telvanni Magisters have never been very fond of walking or riding,” he began explaining. “Teleportation was always their preferred form of travel and most of their mushroom towers were connected by portals of some type. But when the Magisters had to travel somewhere else, they would send a slave to their destination and have the slave then use the scroll of Mark. That way they didn’t have to bother.”
“Great House Telvanni. The wizard-lords or how they are called, right?” Vilkas interrupted.
“Xhu. Llanhas Irarwen started as an apprentice, as most of the Telvanni wizard-lords do, and he had to fight for the favour of his master with other apprentices. And as it goes in House Telvanni, ‘fortune favours the cunning’. Llanhas Irarwen soon became the only apprentice after he eliminated all the other apprentices in a very clever way. He sent a letter to each of them, accompanied by a scroll of Recall, saying that he had information on the other apprentices. And when they used those scrolls… well, some of them ended up in an active foyada, some of them inside walls, or in a Kwama queen’s nest.”
“And this is the reason you didn’t use the scroll? Afraid it was a trap?” Vilkas raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “So what happened to Llanhas Irarwen? Did he become Magister?”
“Yes, he climbed through the ranks, eventually eliminating his own master the same way he eliminated his rival apprentices. And his actions maybe became one of the reasons the Telvanni don’t trust each other so much that it borders paranoia. Magister Irarwen got many invitations with scrolls of Recall over the years, but he never ever used a single one of them. But he was still a Telvanni and walking was inappropriate, so if he travelled somewhere, he would send his faithful Argonian servant to cast a Mark at the destination.” Teineeva then paused, baring his teeth in a proper Argonian smile. “One day, he used the Recall... and no one saw him ever again.”
“Don’t trust a sent scroll of Recall,” Vilkas chuckled. “Don’t trust teleportation spells at all, that’s the point of this story, right?”
Erik stopped by the table just at that moment. “Recall?” he asked as if not sure if he heard correctly.
Ah crap, Teineeva thought.
“So Tein told you about the disguised Archein selling scrolls to the Argonian population, labeled as healing scrolls?” the young Nord continued and by the time he was finishing the sentence both Vilkas and Seif-ij were looking at Tein with raised eyebrows. Erik narrowed his eyes. “Why do you stare like that? He didn’t get to it yet? Well, when the Argonians used those scrolls, they found themselves in Dres’ cages-”
“He was telling us a story about Magister Llanhas Irarwen,” Vilkas interrupted Erik, his eyes boring into the Archivist.
“Well, both are true stories-” Teineeva started, but Vilkas stopped him with a raised hand and those piercing silver eyes bored now into Erik, making the Ginger Nord squirm.
“So you knew he was not going to use the scroll when we started betting. You cheated.”
Ah, and so the distraction has worked perfectly, Teineeva thought as he began slowly lifting himself from the bench, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder and let out a squeal when Seif-ij’s hand reached down to his crotch, effectively stopping him from getting up.
“Not so fast, handsome,” she narrowed her eyes. “I wish to hear more stories.” She then looked at Erik, clicking with her tongue. “Cheating. You have been spending too much time with Grulmar, dear.” The little Orc only betrayed a tiny smile at her words while he continued to serve drinks.
“Ehm,” the young Nord licked his lips and if Teineeva wasn’t currently being tortured by the horny Argonian next to him he would have laughed at Erik’s situation. But the ginger seemed to be quickly regaining his footing, because he smiled, looking at his tankard. “Cheating,” he murmured and then stepped on the bench, raising both the tankard and his voice. “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting and drinking!”
That certainly seemed to get everyone’s attention, even Seif-ij’s, and Teineeva was relieved to feel her hand sneak away for a moment.
“If you cheat, may you cheat death,” Erik continued with his toast or whatever it was supposed to be. “If you steal, may you steal a woman’s heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother.” He then looked down at Vilkas and grinned. “And if you drink, may you drink with me!”
Damn! That was a good save. Xuthing Nords! Teineeva groaned mentally.
And everyone answered Erik’s toast.
“Here, here!”
Nelecar and Fasendil were standing further away from the table, just at the edge of the pool of light cast by the fire and the torches, watching the animals chase each other over the tundra’s plains. They were mainly just shadows though, even with the moons and stars shining brightly.
The lighting in this case only betrayed their sight, everything on the plains being lit by a gloomy pale light casting shadows, fooling their eyes. It was difficult to differentiate which shadows were real and which were the animals.
Animals, Nelecar thought, mulling it over in his head. Can we really call the Riekling that? Since it is capable of speech it is clearly more than an animal… but aren’t we all animals, either this or that way? Alright, animals doesn’t work. Beasts then. Two dogs and a Riekling - who are considered Gobli-ken and that isn’t too far from a beast. There are those who call Ronnie a beast -
Nelecar twitched when an elbow poked his ribs, nearly sending him on the ground. Instinct told him to first look at his pack, which was safe for the moment, but he had thought about moving it at least a dozen times over the course of the celebrations. Because you’re thinking about it, the gift, he shrugged. He then looked at Fasendil standing next to him, grinning. “You were thinking again, Lecar,” the big Altmer chuckled and offered Nelecar his tankard. He smelled it and frowned, wrinkling his nose. If it had been Lucky Moons, he may have taken it, but it was just a common ale. “Tonight’s not about thinking. So don’t think. Drink instead!”
Nelecar pushed away the offered tankard, looking back at the shadows. “No, thank you. I believe you will accomplish that for the both of us.”
“Pole up your arse, Lecar,” Fasendil grumbled and then he gave a naughty chuckle. “Almost as bad as Ronnie’s is, though I suspect he’s busy gettin’ his pole fixed right now, well, it’s more than likely definitely up something, whether it’s an arse or not, I canna say, depends on what the lass likes…”
Nelecar raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought against that creeping smile. He wouldn’t give Fasendil any satisfaction in that regard tonight. Yes, I will be serious and not let that Mer make me laugh. He’s done that one too many times and there are important matters that need to be discussed, important gifts to be given… He then tilted his head and looked at Fasendil. “Not on your… watch.”
“Watch?” Fasendil frowned and then his eyebrows shot up when he got it. He snorted, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake. What’s with that bloody name? Why ‘Watch’? I don’t get it. Fucking Orc…”
“You are still angry because of that story. Tonight is not about thinking, didn’t you just say that a moment ago? So, do not think,” Nelecar shot back.
“Ha-ha, funny, using my own words against me. But you’re still thinking, Lecar, so think me this: Why ‘Watch’?”
How am I supposed to know? Nelecar thought, but he forced himself not to say that out loud. “How long have you been in Skyrim, Sendil?”
“What’s that have to do with that stupid nickname?” the bigger Dusken frowned. Nelecar raised an eyebrow and Fasendil sighed, taking a sip from his tankard. “Dunno, four years? Maybe?”
“And you have been stationed in the Rift since… two-hundred-one? And what exactly do you do there?” Nelecar looked Fasendil right in the eye. “‘Watch’ the pass?”
“Crap,” the Legate sneered. “Well, beside watching, we were also mostly freezing and starving since we weren’t getting much food. But aye, that’s gotten better since Riften was handed to Maven, though she’s barely better than a thief herself. At least my men have proper food and maybe a dragon will up and eat her. But crap, that’s quite clever.”
Is it now? And if it means you’re here to watch, as a shield against the Thalmor? Doubt the Orc could know that, but that is you, my friend. You stand watch for all of us. “The Orc can be...ingenious,” he shrugged.
“What’s your nickname?”
Nelecar grimaced at that.
“Ha! Come on, Lecar, now you must tell me!”
“Blast.”
“What?” Fasendil blinked and then he pointed with his finger at Nelecar. “Ha! Hahahahahaha!”
“Stop pointing with your finger, you look like a damn fool!” Nelecar hissed, waving his arm to block Fasendil’s finger while looking around to see if anyone was watching them.
“Well, this is a... blast!” Fasendil roared in laughter and the Altmer mage groaned, rubbing his eyes.
There is no doubt this is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, he thought and sighed. “Just… watch,” he pointed at the plains.
“Not so funny anymore, Lecar,” Fasendil rumbled after Nelecar’s pun.
Nelecar was pointing at the two dogs and a Riekling now running towards them. First Olaf, a giant furball with saliva flying from its mouth left and right. After him ran the Riekling, its wild hair and eyebrows flying in the air nearly as much as its flailing arms were and Nelecar wondered how fast that thing was if it was more or less capable of keeping pace with the dogs. Last ran Koor, barking and howling the entire time, though Nelecar knew the husky was holding back his speed.
Olaf then stopped at the edge of the light and turned around, sitting down with a heavy plop of his hindquarters and watched his two companions in crime running towards him. The Riekling stopped few steps away from Olaf and turned around, extending his arm as if he was trying to stop Koor.
The husky stopped and hung his head low, his nose almost touching the ground but the eyes were still set on the Riekling.
“Leeeve aloooone,” the blue creature said with a serious expression on its face. “Myyy pupeeee.”
Koor laid down, trying to look as small as possible, a weak yowl escaping his mouth, like he was verily saying ‘no’.
“Whooof!” the Riekling replied and Koor titlted his head a little. “Whoof whoof!” the blue Gobli-ken added.
Koor barked twice and then another yowl.
“Whoof whoof whoof!”
Koor barked thrice, repeating after the Riekling.
Olaf was watching all that on his haunches, his tongue hanging from his mouth, a cloud of steam puffing away as he breathed. Koor then darted forward and at that moment, Olaf bolted away. The Riekling tried to stop Koor by stepping in his way, but the husky was too fast and managed to slip past the blue creature - who wasn’t ready to give up and grabbed Koor’s tail.
Before Fasendil and Nelecar could react, Olaf sped past them and then they had to dodge Koor and the Riekling flailing behind him in the dust. The blue creature’s grasp then slipped and it rolled in the dust few steps behind Nelecar and Fasendil.
The Riekling rolled on his knees and stared after the dogs. “Mothrrrtuskrrrr!” it cursed and that made Fasendil roar in laughter. It looked at the big Altmer in fright and then it frowned.
“No Frooo?” it asked and then it nodded, as if it answered its own answer. “Prrruzzaaaa!” it squealed, raising its arms above its head.
Fasendil gave Nelecar his tankard and walked over to the Riekling, shaking his head. “No idea what that means, little guy.”
“I think it was perhaps Dovahzul,” Nelecar observed.
“Bollocks,” Fasendil snorted.
“Booollocksss!” it repeated and the big Dusken chuckled.
“Alright, maybe it was Dovahzul, if he’s been around Ronnie lately. Come here, little guy, let me help you up,” Fasendil grabbed the Riekling under his arms and put him on his feet. It looked almost like a blue and very ugly baby in comparison to the huge Altmer. “Don’t let those two furballs bully you, you hear me? If Olaf tries something, bite him in the ear. That’s what I had to do to earn his respect.”
“Biiite?” the Riekling frowned and then bared his teeth, clicking with them few times.
“Yup, bite. In the ear,” Fasendil said and Nelecar could see the confused look on the creature’s face. “Ear,” the big Dusken repeated, pointing at his own ear and then reaching for the Riekling’s ear.
“Woocha!” it suddenly screamed with panic and it kicked Fasendil in his shin bone.
“Damn it!” the Legate cursed, jumping on one leg just as the Riekling darted away.
And Nelecar laughed. Laughed like an idiot. Damn it! He made me laugh again! And he still laughed.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that ginger Nord climbing on a bench and saying something. He forced himself to stop laughing and he could finally hear what the Nord was saying.
“And if you drink, may you drink with me!”
“Here, here!” people shouted and raised their tankards.
Nelecar looked at Fasendil, still cursing, and then he looked at Fasendil’s tankard in his own hand, then back at Fasendil. With a chuckle he raised the tankard in his direction. If I drink, may I drink with you, friend.
Here, here!
Grulmar poured another drink, this time Sujamma, into Irileth’s tankard. “Here ya go,” he said, forcing a smile on his face. The Dunmer always scared him, she was like a guard-dog who could not only bark, but bite.
She glared at him, her red eyes piercing right through him and he squirmed under that gaze. “And a mead. For the Jarl.”
“Sure,” he murmured and turned around to the kegs behind him, grabbing an empty tankard and began filling it. And all the while she stared at him, no doubt watching if he wasn’t slipping poison into the drink or something. A damn paranoid guard-dog. He then suddenly smiled, finally figuring out the housecarl’s true name. He put the tankard on the counter right in front of her, grinning. “Here ya go, Nix.”
She rolled her upper lip, her face turning into a threatening grimace as she growled at him. He quickly lifted his arms and stepped away from the counter, trying to put more distance between him and her. “Alright, alright. Enjoy,” he blurted out.
It was only when she turned around did he allow himself a sigh. That Dunmer is worse than an Orc female-
“No more hiding, little warrior!” a dangerous growl interrupted his thoughts and he jumped up in fright, even releasing a yelp like a little dog. He looked to his right and saw Borgakh standing there, with the baby in her arms. No longer swaddled to be protected while he traveled, but free to move within the confines of Borgakh’s orichalcum hold. Dressed in what looked like a night shirt to Grulmar, he guessed so that the female could change him easier. Little green legs dangling and swinging, a chubby hand grabbing at his mother’s pauldron.
“Ehm…” he cleared his throat, his eyes already looking for a way out. He could jump over the counter maybe, that would certainly be theatrical. Or maybe he could just cast the Recall spell, the only problem was he had no idea where he cast his last Mark. It would tremendously ruin his day if he left the Mark spell back in Tel Mithryn. Showing up in the middle of one of Neloth’s experiments wasn’t his idea of a nice evening. “I’m pourin’ drinks here,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “That can be hardly called hidin’-”
“Try to run and I’ll break your legs,” she barked and Grulmar twitched.
“Arkay’s marble balls, female!” he groaned, his eyes constantly darting towards the baby in her arms - now playing with her chest plating - as the baby was the scariest thing in the world. “Just… Ease off, yeah? Nobody’s runnin’.” He then averted his gaze, not confident enough to look her in the eye with the words he wanted to say. “Just before ya start breakin’ my bones, I want to say that I’m sorry. For what I did. I’m a mess of an Orc and ya deserve-”
“Bullshit,” she growled, yet again not letting him finish. “If I didn’t think you were deserving of me, I wouldn’t have broken the tusking bed riding you in the Bannered Mare.” She then paused, her tongue touching the tip of her tusk, while Grulmar was just trying to digest the typical Orcish bluntness. Images of the creaking bed and Borgakh sitting on him were literally flooding his mind.
“You were different than all the Orcs I had ever met. Still are. And you are stronger than you think, little warrior. I don’t hold a grudge, even though Malacath knows I should - but he can go tusk himself,” she added with a snort. “The past is in the past, little warrior, and I am happy now. With Urag. He is different too.”
Grulmar sneered at the last sentence. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear right now.” His voice was dripping with so much sarcasm that even the biggest idiot in Skyrim could recognize it. “I tusked up, ya don’t have to rub it in my face with Broody this and Broody that.”
“I know you two talked,” Borgakh narrowed her eyes, shifting the baby’s position in her arms, opting to support it with her hip. “Like true Orcs.”
Grulmar grimaced at her comparing him to a true Orc. He always hated that. “Yeah? He told ya we were comparin’ who has bigger tusk and he won?”
She smacked his shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground. “No. I saw his jaw. He might not show the pain, but there are prints of knuckles. You hit him, like a true Orc would.”
“Didn’t seem like it,” he muttered, rubbing his hand. He nearly broke it against Urag’s jaw back there. “So what? Am I supposed to be best friends with him now?”
“That’s between you two,” she shrugged. “What I want is your acknowledgment.”
“Tuskin’ what?” Grulmar gasped, his eyes nearly popping out of his eye sockets. This can’t be happenin’, he thought.
“Acknowledgment of your son.”
Just that sentence felt like a dagger repeatedly stabbing his stomach. My son… “I-I can’t…” he took a step back, leaning against the counter as his knees were about to betray him. “Ya ask too much…”
“You are his father!” she snarled, anger flashing in her eyes. “Do you want to deny him his roots, his blood-ties? Do you want him to walk this world severed from his heritage? Don’t you dare lay this curse on him, on my child, your own son! He is a proof you don’t have to repeat your own father’s mistakes for tusk’s sake!”
“Yamarz,” Grulmar murmured, something in that name stirring a pot of buried emotions in him. Anger, hate, desperation.
“Yes. Yamarz,” she nodded and looked at the baby boy, a smile spreading on her face. “My Yamarz. His teeth are growing, he eats well. He knows the great white hands of Bloodkin, who brought him into this world. He knows when Urag touches his head. He knows when I’m near, his mother. And, he knows you are near, his father.” She then looked up and offered the baby to Grulmar. “Acknowledge him.”
“Just… I’ve never held a tuskin’ baby before!” he lifted his arms to his shoulders. “What if hurt him? Or drop him?”
“You won’t,” she assured him. “I’ll break your arms if you do though,” she added with a flash of her tusks.
She handed him the baby, showing him how to hold him, and Grulmar fought with himself to force his body to stop shaking. He never ever in his life held something so fragile in his hands, something so precious. A tiny living thing…
The tiny Orc had ceased his fidgeting and lay still, which on its own was a small miracle considering all the ruckus around, his red eyes studying Grulmar, it seemed. Grulmar could see the bone protrusions on his brow but also on the forehead, with small tusks in his mouth, and more teeth it seemed were beginning to grow. He was drooling, it was a lot of drool.
“He’s teething. Will be ready for fresh meat soon. I have given him some already.” Borgakh explained. He glanced at her and then at the baby. “But I have to still chew first and then I give it to him. It is the Orc way.”
“Hey, little fellow,” he murmured with watering eyes.
“We’re still not set on the whole name,” Borgakh leaned closer, stroking the baby’s smooth cheek. “Whether he should be named after his father or his place of birth.”
“He was born in Sun’s Dusk, no?” Grulmar looked at Borgakh and she nodded, narrowing her eyes. She probably guessed by now that Grulmar was already thinking the name through.
When Grulmar closed his eyes, he could see images, trying to picture little Yamarz grown, what would he be like. He could see a solidly built Orc, standing in the snow, the sun setting behind his back.
“Little Ronnie was born in Sun’s Dawn,” he mumbled to himself, referring to Farkas’ son. He smiled to himself, imagining a grown-up Yamarz with a ginger Nord, walking side by side, dawn in the east, dusk in the west and Shiny had brought both of them into the world. “Y’are goin’ to be great friends one day, ya and Ronnie. He’ll be a dawn for ya and yer friends, and ya will set dusk on yer and his foes. Dawn and Dusk, moon and star.” And Shiny’s name for both of them. He opened his eyes and looked at Borgakh and then at the baby. “Yamarz of Dusk,” he smiled and the little Orc then narrowed his clear red eyes, an innocent smile playing on his face as he focused on Grulmar’s green face above him. “I see ya,” he whispered, his finger tapping the child’s forehead. Before he could pull it away, little Yamarz grabbed the finger and bit it. Every bit an Orc. “I acknowledge ya, Yamarz of Dusk,” Grulmar said seriously, sighing.
“Thank you,” he heard Borgakh murmur, but he didn’t answer because he was completely fascinated by the little person in his arms. The tiny Orc pushed Grulmar’s finger out of his mouth and simpered. He then pulled the finger back into his mouth and sucked on it, but soon his expression changed and he began crying, his little legs beginning to kick. Hard.
“Here, give him to me. He wants his mother’s teat,” she took Yamarz from him and he smirked.
“I wouldn’t mind one either - Ow!” he gasped when Borgakh slapped the back of his head. “Damn it, female, I was just jokin’!”
“Then it was a bad joke,” she grimaced as she began detaching a plate of her orichalcum quicker than Grulmar imagined she could, with the baby propped on her hip. The piece of armor was thrown to the floor and she pulled a breast out of her loose shirt and guided Yamarz to her breast, right in front of everyone. Grulmar nervously twitched, looking around but everyone seemed to completely ignore that. “Will you come visit us sometime? At Winterhold?” she then asked and that question caught him completely unaware.
It wasn’t because he didn’t know the answer, but because… he didn’t want to say it. It was too difficult for him and so he averted his gaze. He grabbed his tankard with sujamma, raising it to his lips. “Sure,” he murmured, masking his lie by taking a sip.
Balgruuf the Greater stood by the large block of wood, studying the carving on it. Whoever carved it must have quite an imagination. To him, it looked like one of the Imgas he heard about a long time ago. Or at least something similar to that, with its fur and big ears, it was difficult to pinpoint.
“Admiring Decimus’ Mamma?” a woman’s soft voice sounded from behind him and the Jarl turned around, smiling at Greir, Farkas’ wife. A comely lass with a mass of barely restrained red curls and a splash of freckles on her wide cheeks, just below probably the warmest brown eyes in all of Skyrim.
“As a matter of fact I am. This is supposed to be the mother of the Imperial Goldpact Knight? Well… She’s a beauty,” he said, trying to sound polite. Speaking about mothers with ill will was a rude thing, after all.
“That she is. Grulmar drew it, telling us how he played it with Decimus all the time. That it always made the Imperial laugh.” Those brown eyes showed a flicker of sadness before they resumed their cheer. “He was a very kind man. He is missed.”
“So what are the rules then?” Balgruuf smiled
“Well, you throw knives at it,” she responded matter-a-factly, the smile having far too much mischief behind it. Farkas is definitely a lucky one, Balgruuf thought.
“At Decimus’ Mamma? The Orc has a twisted sense of humor indeed.”
“Indeed,” she nodded, lifting three throwing knives from the nearby stool that was set there. “The Imperial would throw knives when he would visit the ‘stead on occasion, when the vampires were causing such trouble.” She handed Balgruuf a knife. “So you want to play, my Jarl?”
Balgruuf grimaced because of the title. No one could never really escape his station, not even among friends, not truly. “Please, Greir. No Jarl, not here. Just Balgruuf.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she blushed, looking away. “It’s just...it feels unnatural for me to call you by your name. I’m just a common Nord and you are the Jarl. Though the Master doesn’t like it when I call him ‘Master’ either, but I cannot help it. He was a grand knight where he came from. A Paladin.”
Balgruuf rubbed his beard and then he smiled, pointing at her. “Well, if not by my true name, then what about the one the Orc gave me?” He bowed to Greir then, a chuckle escaping his lips. “I am Grand, at your service.”
Greir giggled, covering her mouth, until her expression became as serious as she could muster. “Pleasure to meet you, Grand. I am Rose.” He immediately understood. Farkas had picked a woman with the beauty of the flower, but not without a certain sharpness to her personality.
“So what are the rules of this game then, Rose?” Balgruuf took one knife from her hand, weighing it in his palm. The knife was in the shape of spear’s point, but lacking a handle, instead having a metal ring.
“I remember that the nose is for most points and ears for the least points, I was listening with only half an ear when Grulmar was explaining it. Little Ronnie was asking for some snowberry juice, so I was trying to make out the words.”
“Talking? Already?”
She beamed with pride. “Trying to. Already walks like he’s got Oblivion behind him, making mischief as he goes.”
“And where is your son now?”
“Oh, I put him to bed, he was tired and when he’s tired he gets just like his father, grumpy.” Balgruuf couldn’t help but smile when the Nord woman’s head went down in a nod at the word ‘grumpy’. “Later, I will have to go check on him and probably help Borgakh put little Yamarz to sleep too. When he is here, usually the Master will tell Ronnie a story or sing him a song.”
“A song?”
“Oh yes!” Her eyes warmed further. “He sings such pretty things, Grand. I think they are lullabies. In the old tongue of his homeland. Seems they have songs for everything there. I didn’t know the High Elves sang, the way you see them as the Thalmor, but you should see the Younger light up when the old Master sings them. There may be a bard’s spirit in the boy.” She nodded. “Many are born during the Lover.”
“I do hope we won’t wake him up,” Balgruuf smiled and raised his hand with the knife. He measured the distance, aiming for the nose. It couldn’t be that difficult, he saw plenty of people throwing daggers which were not meant for throwing and still hit their targets. And these knives were clearly designed for throwing, so how hard could it be? He swung his arm, letting the knife fly from his fingers.
Not only did he miss the carving, but the knife also hit the wood with its ring-like handle, rebounding and flying off somewhere into the night.
“Magnificent aim, my Jarl,” Irileth suddenly said dryly behind him. “May the ground quake where you walk.”
“Just don’t get overly supportive, Irileth,” he muttered when he turned around, noticing the Dunmer with two tankards in her hands. She handed him the one in her left hand, smirking.
“Doing my best. And enjoy the mead, I made sure it’s not poisoned.”
“Shor’s bones, Irileth! Why would anyone poison me here of all places?”
“I don’t trust the Orc,” she shrugged. “How can we know this feast is not just some elaborate plan to kill you? From what I’ve heard around here, his uncle was the Orc that killed the Emperor.”
“Irileth! That is enough of your paranoia for now! This is Ronnie’s house!”
“With all due respect, my Jarl, it is my job to be paranoid. And this celebration doesn’t change that. Sometimes I still don’t understand you Nords, even after all these years. We’re facing the end of the world and you’re… feasting.”
Balgruuf was about to reply, but Greir beat him to it. He saw her raise her chin in a challenge of pride, and he knew he didn’t have to say anything.
“This night, housecarl,” Greir started in a low voice. “This night is a light of hope shining through the darkness of despair. The old Mast--no, the Dragonborn is preparing himself to make a stand against the End of All-Times, and there is nothing we can do, because it is his destiny to face the World-Eater alone.” She then shook her head, narrowing her eyes at Irlileth. “Do you have any idea how difficult this is for us Nords? To do nothing? It is the waiting, that’s the worst thing about all this. Waiting, knowing that our friend is going to fight alone, that he might be gone forever from us, and we can do nothing. This night is not only for him, but also for us. To live and to let him live too.”
Irileth blinked a few times and Balgruuf knew that Greir’s words reached right into the Dunmer’s heart, because he understood why Irileth was so jumpy. She hated the waiting too. She had been with the Mer in the Watchtower, fought by his side. If she had a choice, she would raise an army and bring the fight to Alduin himself. She had. Not Alduin, but she was in the forefront of the city’s defenses after Snow-Throat, when the dragons began their rampage. Some said under the command of a new beast. A great red beast. The one the Dragonborn later called Odahviing. The one they were going to trap. Balgruuf shook his head, it was better not to think on such things now.
“I am sorry for my words, Greir,” the Dunmer lowered her head. “I think the Orc just got under my skin with his ridiculous names,” she grumbled.
“Oh, so you too, eh?” Balgruuf raised his eyebrows, smiling. “And?”
“Nix,” she grimaced.
“I don’t understand,” Greir frowned. “Is that an abbreviation for something?”
“I think he is referring to the Nix-Hound, from my homeland,” Irileth sighed.
“And what is that if I may ask?” Balgruuf tilted his head. “Some kind of dog?”
“Often tamed as a you would tame a dog, yes, but it is an insectoid creature slightly bigger than a dog, but mentally more like a cat. More independent than a dog but capable of a similar loyalty, however, it often fights with its own handler if he does something the Nix-Hound considers stupid.”
Balgruuf grinned from one ear to the other, understanding completely. “So the Orc nailed it once again. Now, I suppose you wouldn’t be a good Nix-Hound and go fetch that knife that flew into the night, would you?”
Irileth glared at him. “Have I mentioned that the Nix-Hound doesn’t eat flesh but instead, it drains its victim of all body fluids, leaving only a dry husk behind?”
Balgruuf’s grin waned and he looked into the night. “I’ll go fetch it myself I suppose,” he mumbled.
Comments
And hehe, Irileth the Nix-hound.