Cold as Atmora

[Ashdown]

The scratching of the leather boots at his feet on the cobblestone was the only sound he could hear that night, the majestic full moon silhouetted in the clear sky shimmering its rays on his raven head. His lips quivered for a second, then parted in a gaping yawn that he swiftly covered with a gloved hand. The journey from Markarth to Whiterun had been uneventful, much to the surprise and relief of the carriage driver. They had arrived an hour after sunset, just when the guards were closing the gate for the coming night. A fellow Breton on the carriage had suggested the Bannered Mare, an inn located in the market area of the city. Not knowing where else he could have spent the night, he had accepted the advice and proceeded to follow what appeared to be Whiterun's main street leading up to the market stalls.


He moved with a purpose, his gait confident and elegant in unison, the scabbard dangling from his left hip clanking softly against the leather pants part of the light armor he was donning. The inviting fragrance of roasted meat permeated his nose and he couldn't help but close his icy-blue eyes for a second. He visualized himself sitting at a sturdy tavern table, wine and delicious food ready to be enjoyed. The laughter and jovial chatter of the patrons crowding the inn became louder and louder as he advanced across the market plaza, sidestepping around the Nords who were already stumbling like fools in a drunken stupor. It was at least three hours before midnight and yet some had already enjoyed too much mead. Then again, he was in Skyrim and he knew enough about the Children of the Sky not to be surprised by their behavior.


Nobody that he could see paid him any kind of attention as he stepped past the threshold and made his appearance inside the Bannered Mare. The place was as it had been advertised: homely, warm and mostly clean, with a firepit in the middle of the main room where the patrons gathered around. Past the bright flames of the pit, a Nord bard with golden hair was singing Ragnar the Red, a tune he had heard way too much ever since he had arrived in Skyrim. He slithered through the crowd like water sliding down on an irregular surface, his left hand firmly gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the blade at a moment's notice. The fellow Breton from the carriage had warned him about pickpockets at night, and the last thing he wanted was to be fleeced like an idiot. Thankfully, he reached the counter without losing his coins.


"Come in, come in!" the female Nord manning the counter invited. She was dressed in simple clothes and her chestnut hair was gathered in a bun. "There's a free stool over there. Sit and I'll get right to you!"  The stool in question was right next to the one where a Nord with a single knot beard was sitting.



He nodded ever so slightly at the woman as he did what she had suggested, one of his elbows planted on the wooden surface of the counter. He used the other hand to unlace the bag of coins fastened to his belt and took what he believed would have been enough Septims to pay for the services he was about to request. "A bowl of hot soup, a bottle of whatever wine you have and a room for the night, please," he said in a cold monotone as he placed the coins on the counter.


Hulda, that was the name of the innkeeper, gathered the coins in her rough hand and pocketed them right away. "Saadia, go fetch soup and wine from the kitchen!" she shouted at a Red Guard maid who was making the rounds at the tables. "What's your name, stranger? I don't recall seeing you before."


He continued staring into space as he provided an answer, his visage frozen in an emotionless state that was almost frightful to see. "Giraud Lezar. I'm just a traveler."


"You look like a mercenary, more than a traveler," Hulda rebuked.


The Breton didn't answer, hands coming together as he intertwined his fingers resting on the counter. The woman finally decided to leave him alone and he sighed silently in appreciation. He wasn't there to enjoy a pleasant conversation. All he wanted was some food and a place to rest for the night.

 

[Kismet]

Auroras flickered across the sky like torches. They painted the moon and mountains iridescent green. Below the veil of color, on the road to Whiterun, a Nord paused to admire the view. Winter wind lashed at her skin and hunger clawed at her guts, but the scenery was worth a bit of discomfort. Nights like this made the frozen wastes of Skyrim tolerable.


Perturbed bleating brought Elsie's attention back to the ground.



“Bleeeh.” Her ram – Jörg – was getting impatient.

“We've been on the road for weeks.” She admonished. “Another minute won't kill you.”


“Bleeeeh.” It whined.


Elsie rolled her big brown eyes. A fresh facial gash made the gesture painful. Her face had been doe-like and lovey before that damn bandit got to it. His dagger carved a path from her lips to her eyebrows, so she retaliated by carving a path from his naval to his neck.


“Bleh.” Jörg gently headbutted her knee. His way of reminding her to move.

“Yeah, yeah.” She grumbled. “Food and shelter. I'm on it.” Elsie begrudgingly trudged forward.


When Whiterun crested the horizon she wasn't prepared for the size of it. Walls, dripping with yellow banners and heraldry, encircled the city. A khajiit camp hugged the fortress exterior and the ramparts were crawling with guards. This place was so alive. And so massive!


The hunter and her goat trotted up to the stables. They watched, mildly curious, as a carriage unloaded its passengers at the front gate. The old goat lost interest quickly. He claimed an empty stall while Elsie unpacked his feed bags. The Nord wasn't thrilled about leaving Jörg to fend for himself, but the old goat was tough as a horker when he wanted to be. Part of her wanted to stay in the stables and keep an eye on him. 


But the rest of her refused to spend another night in the dirt.

 
​

Whiterun's interior flooded her senses. Her eyes, comfortably adjusted to the darkness outside, squinted against the torchlights. The scent of forgefire stung her sensitive nose. The soft sound of her boots on stone followed her into the heart of the city. “'Scuse me.” She flagged down a young woman. The local lady was lovely; cropped red hair, strong Nordic features, a blue dress. Too bad Elsie was in no shape to flirt. Maybe tomorrow. “Where's the inn?”


“You probably want the Bannered Mare.” Ysolda replied sleepily. “Right over there.”


The little Nord found herself gawking outside a sturdy wood building. Drunkards of all sizes and species shuffled through its massive doors. They howled their favorite ballads and stumbled home, liquor and laughter on their lips. Having a place to stumble back to must be nice.


A cold breeze followed Elsie into the tavern. She lingered in the doorway long enough to disrupt the cozy atmosphere. A few patrons noticed the dirt and blood smeared across her face but, by the grace of the Nine, they were too deep into their cups to give a damn. The way she squinted against the firelight made her look friendly as an orc with a toothache. She didn't close the door until she noticed a surly man shivering by the fire.


Elsie shook off a layer of armor and approached the bar. She dropped a thick elk skin coat next to an open seat. Heavy leather hit the floor with a disruptive thwump. Then, she carefully placed a deer horn bow on top of the leather pile. Her rusty old axe, however, stayed strapped to her belt. A matronly woman behind the bar waited for Elsie to take a seat. The innkeeper – eyes glued to Elsie's half healed face – asked for her order.


“Goat roast and a cheap drink.” Elsie ordered curtly. “And a better bard if you have one.”


Hulda's frown suggested they were fresh out of better bards. 


The inkeep passed Elsie's order to Saadia. The drinks arrived immediately but the roast would take time. Elsie hadn't seen a decent meal in weeks... but a few more minutes wouldn't kill her. She took a swig of mead and stared absently across the bar. Her eyes settled on Breton with dark hair and a darker expression. Didn't she see him slip out of a carriage with one of his kinsmen? She leaned in to get a better look.


Looks frigid. She thought, taking another swig from the bottle. I wonder what his problem is?