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Chapter Text

17^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Today was not Solfrid's day. An adventurer by trade, she'd been exploring south of Ancient's Ascent and lost track of time out in the wilderness, accidentally wandering over the southern border into Cyrodiil. Luckily, she had a mind for maps and had easily found the path back home to Skyrim and a shop willing to buy her looted treasures. Unluckily, however, Solfrid had unwittingly stumbled into an Imperial ambush, apparently expecting to catch someone trying to free their already captured prisoners before they could reach the pass into Cyrodiil themselves. She had overheard the soldiers discussing plans to take their prisoners all the way to the Imperial City after they detained her, which both scared Solfrid, though, as an adventurer, also excited her, but the road ahead was now blocked by Imperial decree, so the general, begrudgingly, assented to returning to the nearest Imperial stronghold. So Solfrid now sat, bound at the wrists, in a wooden prison wagon headed back north, followed closely by another matching cartful of similarly-bound prisoners. She had to chuckle, at least she was still headed in the right direction to go home. The wagons pulled slowly down the wooded road and through the gates of Helgen, a small but heavily Imperial-controlled town. She had stayed here once, in an inn run by a woman named Vilod, famous for her home-made mead fermented with juniper berries. Solfrid could almost taste the drink's acrid tang as the carts rattled to a stop.

"Step toward the block when we call your name!" the captain ordered, "One at a time!"

Wait, an execution block? Who were these people Solfrid had been thrown in with?

One by one the prisoners' names were read off and they lined up before the blood-stained stone. From the group that had been on the second cart the name "Ulfric Stormcloak" was called. The Jarl of Windhelm? What had he been arrested for? I really should start paying more attention to current events instead of escaping into ruins and caves..., Solfrid chided herself.

"Solfrid High-Land!"

Solfrid startled, but stepped forward automatically, half-cursing herself for giving the arresting officer her real name as she found her place in line. She knew an adventurer's life was a dangerous one, but she had expected a much more dramatic death to be hers than wrongly executed for...she really wasn't sure what they had charged her with, or how they expected to explain this to her family.

"No! I'm not a rebel!" one of the other prisoners yelled, "You can't do this!"

Solfrid looked over her shoulder, and while she shared the man's sentiment, thought he was rather foolish for running away and not facing his death with a sabre cat's heart, as any true Nord should. She swallowed the tingle of fear telling her to try running for herself.

"Halt! Archers!" the captain cried.

ZING

Solfrid winced as the man fell dead to the cobblestone street. Harsh.

A man dressed in the uniform of a general now addressed Jarl Ulfric, snapping Solfrid's attention back to the, for now, still-living people around her.

Jarl Ulfric? He killed the High King? Using only his VOICE?!

Solfrid was shocked. She had heard tales of those who could use nothing but their voices to cause havoc and destruction, but thought, like many children of Skyrim, that it was just a way for their mothers to remind them of the power of their words and to keep their tongues in check. But this was something different, more powerful than just fighting with your brother over a sweetroll. She really must start keeping up with the news.

A strange, distant, echoing cry interrupted the general's admonition of Jarl Ulfric.

"What was that?" someone asked.

"Probably nothing," the general answered, shrugging the sound off, "Carry on!"

"Yes, General Tullius!" the captain answered him. Turning to a woman in priests' robes, she continued, "Give them their last rites."

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you!"

Solfrid's mind began to drift, as it often did at the mention of the Eight, or Nine, as she'd been raised to believe. So many gods. Why couldn't they pick just one?

"FOR THE LOVE OF TALOS!" a man on the other side of the courtyard exclaimed, "Shut up and let's get this over with!"

Solfrid couldn't agree more.

"I haven't got all morning!" he continued his rant as the captain pushed him to his knees and into position on the block. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials! Can you say the same?"

Taunting death in his final moments. Solfrid could respect that. The headsman raised his axe. Solfrid's sabre cat heart mewled and she squished her eyes shut, turning away. The wet thwack of the axe slicing through the man's neck churned her stomach and made her throat taste sour.

"You Imperial BASTARDS!" a woman shouted, so close to Solfrid it was almost directly in her ear. As the ringing receded, the captain called out.

"Next! The lizard!"

An Argonian woman, evidently also arrested with the Stormcloaks at Darkwater Crossing, stepped forward. Solfrid had meant to ask her name on their way to the Imperial City, but the Argonian had been asleep, or unconscious, and had been carted into Helgen in the other wagon anyway. Solfrid felt sorry for her, now really doubting that an Argonian would be on the side of the Stormcloaks. When Solfrid had first visited Windhelm as a fresh-faced girl she had been incensed at the treatment of the dockworkers. Surely no self-respecting Lizardfolk would have a soft spot for their own kind's oppressors. Suddenly, another eerie shriek, not unlike the one heard moments earlier, only louder, cut Solfrid's thoughts as it filled the warm Last Seed air.

"I SAID next prisoner!" the captain yelled impatiently.

The Argonian woman hesitantly approached the block, and was, like the Stormcloak before her, pushed harshly into beheading position. A fiery roar cut through the apprehension. Solfrid looked up to the sky, and to her horror and amazement, a dragon appeared over the mountaintop, coming to rest upon the closest keeptower, knocking the headsman from his feet before he could even begin to raise his axe to kill the Argonian. The dragon roared again, flames and chaos springing up everywhere around the startled execution party. Solfrid, too terrified to scream, took her opportunity in the confusion and dashed through the inner gate, back the way she had come, stumbling with her tied hands, and didn't stop until the dragon's roars had become muffled by her heaving breaths and the distance between her and the burning town.

Sad to lose her confiscated belongings, but happy to be alive, Solfrid rubbed her bindings on a roughened tree until they frayed enough to snap. She looked behind to see the dragon still circling the inferno that had recently been Helgen, then took off running through the forest toward Falkreath.

Chapter Text

18^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Solfrid was exhausted by the time she tumbled into Falkreath, dragging herself to the local inn. Sheer luck, or perhaps Divine interference, was all that had gotten her this far. Night had fallen, and Falkreath Hold was not a pleasant, or safe, place to be, even in broad daylight. She had, for the first time in her life, robbed a living person instead of the long dead on her way across the Hold from Helgen, using a crack to the head with a heavy rock as her intimidation of choice. The poor farmer she accosted gave up his money willingly when presented with what he must have assumed to be a madwoman dressed only in burlap rags screaming about dragons, waving around a rock, asking for just 10 of his gold coins. Now safely inside the Dead Man's Drink, Solfrid dropped those precious coins into the bewildered innkeeper's palm and flopped into the first bed she saw.

The sun was already high in the sky when Solfrid awoke. Her body ached everywhere and she was painfully aware of a burn where the dragonfire had clipped her right shoulder. She pulled the torn roughspun footwraps off of her feet and examined her new, equally rough scrapes, scabbed-over cuts, and seeping blisters. Groaning as she stood, missing her nice fur-lined boots the Imperial soldiers had confiscated at the border-crossing, she gingerly emerged into the inn's common room. All eyes turned to behold the mysterious newcomer who had arrived late the night before, dressed like an escaped convict, bloody and smudged with dirt, barely able to stand, a wild look in her eyes.

“Good morning...,” Solfrid squeaked, feeling self-conscious and awkward. Only now did she fully realize the soldiers had taken her purse and she had robbed someone yesterday, only taking enough gold for a night's bed and had nothing to pay for breakfast.

“What are you all looking at? Never seen a woman before?” a loud feminine voice cut the uncomfortable silence, followed by the sounds of shuffling as the rest of the inn sheepishly looked away. The owner of the voice laughed.

“You're going to have them wrapped around your finger in no time. Sit down.” The woman, dressed in the rather revealing outfit of a tavern waitress, gestured Solfrid to a table, and with a pointed look to the innkeeper, added “I'll take care of anything you need. So, what can I get you?”

Solfrid, not used to kindness in Skyrim, was taken aback, but still ordered the largest, coldest flagon of water the waitress could offer and two boiled creme treats, her favorite splurge. The waitress watched Solfrid with wide eyes as the stranger gulped down the water like a drowning slaughterfish, chugging the whole thing in one unbroken, very wet, go. Solfrid set down the flagon with a thud, panting after such a refreshing drink.

“Why?” she coughed, still catching her breath, “Why are you helping me?”

The waitress shook to clear her head before answering sincerely and blushing a little.

“I don't think you're mad. I can smell adventure on you. I'm Narri.”

The waitress smiled at Solfrid, who, after a moment of suspicion, smiled back and shook Narri's hand.

“Solfrid. I'll pay you back for this someday, Narri,” she promised, biting into a creme treat, “Speaking of which, I need to get myself some coin before I can head for home. Any ideas?”

The innkeeper, apparently eavesdropping, answered “You could talk to Mathies, over at Corpselight Farm. He'd appreciate some help, especially after what happened to little Lavinia.”

Solfrid, intrigued, stood and winced, being sharply reminded of the damage to her feet.

“Not dressed like that you won't!” Narri exclaimed. She disappeared into a back room, appearing moments later with a bundle of clothes that she shoved into Solfrid's hands. “Here, take this. I can always save up for another.”

Solfrid caught the innkeeper glaring at Narri, but ignored her and held up the dress, almost an exact copy of the skimpy thing Narri herself wore. Solfrid usually wouldn't be caught dead in anything this revealing, but desperate times call for desperate outfits. She retreated to her room and changed into the dress, impressed that Narri was able to keep herself inside it, there was so little fabric to keep everything in place. She returned a moment later and, with her feet bandaged with the remains of her footwraps, stepped outside into the dank Falkreath air.

Chapter Text

18^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

It was only now, standing in the street and feeling rather silly, that Solfrid realized she had no idea who Mathies was or where Corpselight Farm stood and she probably should have asked someone before stepping out shoeless into the dim daylight dressed like a tavern girl. She considered stepping back inside and asking for directions, but ultimately decided her best option would be to head into town and see if she could figure it out from there rather than further indebt herself to the generous Narri. Solfrid kept on the main track through Falkreath, hoping to find some clue to where she was going, until she noticed a dirt path leading out toward a little hill, on which she could just make out the shapes of gravestones mostly hidden among the trees. Her morbid sense of curiosity got the better of her, as it often did, and she sidestepped between two buildings onto the pathway. As she wended her way down the path, the sound of funeral rites being performed got louder and louder until she could see three people standing amid the gravestones. Solfrid, not wanting to interrupt such a solemn occasion as a funeral, stopped behind a tree and waited, listening to the Priest of Arkay's, honestly beautiful, dedication to the deceased:

“May the spirit of Lavinia, and all who have left this world and its suffering, know the Serenity of Aetherius. And may we join them someday in eternity.”

Tears pricked Solfrid's eyes, and she wiped them on the back of her hand. So the Lavinia mentioned by the innkeeper had died. Poor thing. Mathies must be the man now walking toward her. Thinking fast and playing stupid, Solfrid approached him.

“Who died?” she asked, trying to sound sympathetic but coming across more chipper than she'd intended, but Mathies didn't seem to notice.

“Our daughter. Our little girl.” he almost sobbed, “She hadn't even seen her tenth winter....”

“Who did this?” Solfrid surprised herself, assuming murder, most death in Skyrim these days was caused by illness, but then again, this was Falkreath after all.

Mathies' voice was hard when he answered “Sinding. He came through as a laborer, seemed like a decent man.... He's down stewing in the pit while we figure out what to do with him...if you have the stomach to look at him....”

Solfrid, not meaning to be rude by prying, but fueled by her adventurer's curiosity and the implied question at the end of Mathies' last statement, asked the grieving father “How did she die?”

“She was...he ripped her apart! Like a sabre cat tears a deer! We barely found enough of her to bury....”

“I'm so sorry....” Solfrid apologized, feeling honest sympathy for this poor man. To lose his child.... “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“All I want is for Sinding to pay for what he did to my Lavinia.... I don't understand what kind of man does that....” Mathies, somewhat dazed, walked away.

That's well and good, thought Solfrid, but that doesn't help me get home! She chased after the farmer.

“Is there anything I can do for you now? Help with chores or anything?”

“Actually, it would be nice to have some time to mourn with my wife. My farm is that house there.” He pointed to the house Solfrid had turned past to make her way to the cemetery. “I'll give you some coins if you harvest the crops for me.”

“Oh, thank you!” Solfrid, smiling earnestly, clapped her hands, then, embarrassed, dropped them and assumed a serious tone, “And I'm so sorry for your loss.”

Mathies thanked Solfrid and went inside his house, leaving the woman to his chores. The back garden had a dozen-or-so cabbage and potato plants and a handful of gourds growing in neat rows in the fertile earth. Solfrid set herself to work harvesting the produce, hard work, but growing up on her parents' farm in the grassland around Whiterun had made her appreciate the fruits of honest labor. Before the sun had begun to set Solfrid picked the last of the ripe gourds and approached the door of the farmhouse, carrying the vegetables in her skirt. Passing a cart filled with cabbages, she couldn't ignore the opportunity to make a few more coins, and added the half-dozen cabbages to her skirtload, feeling only a twinge of shame at taking advantage of an obviously distraught man.

Mathies was pleased with Solfrid's work and paid her fairly. She promised to come by later and help with planting, but Mathies only smiled and assured her she'd done enough for now. 35 gold coins clinked in Solfrid's pocket as she returned to the Dead Man's Drink. Narri brought her a basin of water to wash up in and a supper of cabbage soup. Solfrid, with her meager earnings burning a hole in her pocket, offered to pay, but Narri refused.

“This will all be coming out of your month's wages!” the innkeeper, whose name still eluded Solfrid as she hadn't overheard or found time to ask, yelled from behind the counter. Narri only laughed and winked at Solfrid.

Chapter Text

19^th-20^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Narri paid for Solfrid to stay at the inn again that night, a welcome kindness, since Solfrid needed to save as much coin as she could for the trip home. As Solfrid drifted to sleep, she could hear the innkeeper chiding her employee.

“I don't know why you're being so nice to her, Narri. At the rate you're going, you won't be getting paid until Saturalia!”

“Aw, don't be jealous, Valga. You know you're the only one for me!” Narri's pleasant laugh was the last thing Solfrid heard before falling asleep to dream of digging potatoes in her own back garden in Whiterun.

Solfrid rose early the next morning, eager to begin her journey home, bare feet sore as they were. She approached the counter and, in an attempt to close the obvious gap between herself and Valga the Innkeeper, casually asked her favorite question for Skyrim's gossipy tavernmasters.

“Heard any good rumors lately?”

Valga looked up at Solfrid over the tankard she was washing, an obvious air of dislike in her stern amber eyes, but she answered despite herself.

“Yeah. Heard someone up in Windhelm was trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood. Can't tell you who or why.”

Solfrid's ears pricked up. She'd read about the Dark Brotherhood once, a rather biased account against them, but an intriguing one.

“Really? The Dark Brotherhood? Why?”

Valga gave Solfrid a withering glance. “Look, if I don't know it, it's not worth knowing.”

“Alright, then,” Solfrid smiled, shifting Valga's curtness aside, “Do you know when the next carriage from Whiterun is due?”

Valga finally relaxed, apparently glad to hear Solfrid was leaving soon. “Tomorrow afternoon, actually. Bjorlam tends to drop by this time every two weeks or so.”

Solfrid thanked Valga and set out to kill some time. If it hadn't been for her injured feet and lack of gear, she would have enjoyed the walk back to Whiterun. Skyrim was beautiful in late summer. She spent most of the morning sitting on the inn's porch, reading a borrowed book about some ancient political intrigue. Solfrid wished she could have read the previous five books in the series first so that she might know who this Liodes Jurus was and why he was so important, though she did admire his concept of “benevolent indifference” when dealing with matters of diplomacy. Solfrid finished the book, had a meager luncheon of bread and cheese, then took a nap, still exhausted by her weekend in Helgen. Reawakening as the sun began to set, Solfrid recalled yesterday's conversation with Mathies about Sinding, the man who killed little Lavinia, so Solfrid decided to check out the jail. Knowing jails in small towns were usually kept in the guards' barracks, but not knowing which building that may be, she asked a passing guard who directed her across town, past the Jarl's Longhouse and the apothecary, to the guardhouse, “lucky bastards.”

Solfrid thanked him and made her way to the door, finding it unlocked, thankfully, as she had no lockpicks. Inside the barracks wasn't much brighter than outside, even with torches lit, but she still took a moment to let her eyes adjust, blinking rapidly against the change in lighting. When she could see again, the whole room full of men was staring at her, eyes popping.

“Here on business or just looking for a good time?” the off-duty guard nearest leered at Solfrid, who was again suddenly aware of how little she was wearing.

“As a matter of fact, I am, but not with you. Where's your star prisoner?” she retorted, hand on her hip.

“Sorry, boys,” he announced jovially, pointing Solfrid downstairs, “She's got a taste for danger!”

The whole guardhouse erupted in uproarious laughter as Solfrid disappeared down the stairs. The basement was even darker than upstairs and smelled horrible, like stagnant water, unwashed bodies, and Gods forbid what else. She easily found the cell holding who she assumed to be Sinding, the accused murderer, and approached it cautiously. The man inside stood ankle-deep in dirty water, leaning against the wall of his well-like prison, lit up an eerie blue by the slit of moonlight from the opening above. He must have sensed Solfrid's presence, for, without looking up, he spoke.

“Come to gawk at the monster?”

“No. Why are you in here?” Solfrid asked, trying to be impartial.

“That little girl is dead because of me.... Believe me, I didn't intend to.... I just...lost control.... I tried to tell them upstairs, but none of them believe me!” Sinding's voice was low, that of a man with nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing at all. “It's all on account of this blasted ring!”

Sinding kicked the puddle at his feet, and when he moved, the moonlight caught on a metallic band around his finger glinting in the darkness.

“That ring?” Solfrid asked, pointing.

Sinding splashed through the water, closer for Solfrid to see, and held up his left hand, where he wore a pewter-colored ring, delicately carved into the shape of a wolf's head. Quite the striking fashion statement indeed.

“This is the Ring of Hircine,” Sinding explained, his voice growing stronger as he indicated the jewelry to Solfrid. “I was told it would help me control my...transformations. Maybe it could have, but I'll never know. Hircine didn't care for my taking it and cursed it. I put it on and the...changes...just came to me! I never knew when I would change... I never could guess. It seemed to always be at the worst times, like with the little girl....”

Sinding trailed off, leaving the jail silent except for the drip-drip-drip of water falling into his cell from above. After some thought, Solfrid broke the silence.

“What...what kind of transformations?” she asked, though she had some idea given the shape of the ring. The legends of wolf-men were famous around Whiterun, told to Solfrid by her grandfather as a little girl.

“I don't suppose there's any point keeping it a secret now. I'm going to die here anyway.” Sinding's shoulders drooped. “I'm sure you've heard of men who shift to beasts under the influence of the moons.”

“I have,” Solfrid agreed, thinking about when her cousin had explained to her his theory about Khajiit really being were-cats in disguise, which is why they always follow the moons.

“Well, I'm one of them,” Sinding continued, “A werewolf. It's my secret...and my shame. That's why I wanted this ring. It was supposed to give men like me control. I may look like a man, but I feel the animal inside of me as strong as ever.”

“What will you do now?” Solfrid asked quietly.

“I've been looking for a way to appease Hircine. There's a Beast in these woods, large, majestic. It's been said that Hircine will commune with whoever slays it. I want to beg forgiveness, give him back this damned ring, but....”

Solfrid felt just as sorry for Sinding, afflicted with such a curse, as she did for poor Mathies the farmer.

“I could get rid of that ring for you,” she offered. A true adventurer never wasted an opportunity, and she might be able to get some gold out of it.

“You would do that for me?” Sinding was touched by Solfrid's kind thought. He pulled the ring from his finger and, sticking his hand between the bars, dropped it into Solfrid's grasp. “Bring him down and the Lord of the Hunt should smile upon you. I wish you luck, but I should leave while I still have my skin. If our paths should cross again, I will remember your kindness to me. Farewell, good lady.”

Solfrid stepped away from the jailbars. Sinding growled, jumping back into the center of the puddle and into the moonbeam. Solfrid rushed forward, grabbing the bars in her hands, wide eyed, watching as Sinding's body contorted in a way that was definitely painful, coarse fur sprouting from his skin and a tail appearing from his back. His bones cracked and popped as they lengthened and his skull changed shape. Solfrid gasped as Sinding roared, a blood-curdling, inhuman cry that sent shivers down her spine before he leapt up the side of the well, finding footholds in the stone wall and crashing through the wooden boards out into the night.

Thoroughly unsettled by her brief time in Falkreath, Solfrid hurried back up the stairs, ignoring the bawdy cheers and whistles as she rushed through the barracks and burst into the moonlit street.

Not until she was back in her room did Solfrid remember the ring still gripped tightly in her fist to examine it in the lamplight. It was well-made, beautiful, haunting even. She could almost hear the metallic howl as she turned it over in her fingers, stroking its hardened fur and touching its cold gray nose. Not wanting to lose the ring before she had a chance to fulfill her promise to Sinding, Solfrid slipped it onto a piece of thread pulled from her roughspun prisonwear and tied it around her neck, intending to restring it on a chain once she arrived at home.

After a night plagued by nightmares of werewolves and fat Bosmer, Solfrid awoke, stiff and sore from her adventures in Falkreath Hold, excited to catch a ride home with Bjorlam. He arrived just as Valga had said he would, and with genuine gratitude to Narri and another promise to return to pay her debt, Solfrid gave up the 20 coins for a ride to Whiterun and climbed aboard the carriage, at last heading home for real, where a warm bath, clean clothes, and, most importantly, her family awaited her.

Chapter Text

3^rd of Heartfire, 4E 201

“Confound, confusticate, consarn, and curse this damned wheel!” Cicero swore, kicking the detached wagon wheel in aggravation, which hurt and caused him to yell out another oath.

The wheel's hub had cracked, given out from the rough travel all the way from Dawnstar, breaking the spindle and throwing the wheel askew, snapping the wooden traces, which in turn caused the horse to buck and Cicero to nearly fall from the wagon. It was all the poor man could do to hang on as the horse thundered him wildly down the road to Whiterun! Finally the wheel flew off and the animal halted, the jolt of a sudden stop nearly chucking Cicero into the back end of his horse. His Mother's crate, carried in the back of the wagon, had been jostled, but nothing seemed badly out of place, thank the Void. He unhitched the antsy, stamping horse, half expecting it to bolt and leave him stranded, but once it was free of the broken traces it seemed to calm down considerably and now stood idle, watching the clouds go by in dumb, horsey ignorance.

To Cicero's relief, a farmhouse stood atop the hill where his wagon had come to a rest, and Cicero had attempted to convince the owner, a man named Loreius, to assist him with the busted wheel, but the farmer was suspicious of the strange man in jester's motley carting a large box from the direction of Windhelm, let alone the...eccentric...personality said stranger expressed, and he flat-out refused to lend his hands in help.

Defeated, Cicero dropped cross-legged into the dirt beside the wagon to throw a pity party for himself. He had been excited about coming to Skyrim last winter, finding motivation to finally leave Cheydinhal was no small thing, but the seven months he had stayed in Dawnstar, plagued by worsening nightmares and alone in the silence, save for the mean old frost troll Uderfrykte constantly stalking the halls, had slowly eaten at him and he had finally resolved to move to Falkreath, despite his distaste for their Speaker's disregard for the Night Mother's catechism. And then to break a wheel, nearly die in the resulting commotion, and be refused help by the locals! It was almost funny, in an ironic way, Cicero thought, sadly laughing away the disheartened tears stinging his eyes. One way or the other, he was stuck here for now in frustrated predicament, alone again. At least he was outside in the sunlight instead of locked up in a dark Sanctuary. His mother would be proud.

Chapter Text

3^rd of Heartfire, 4E 201

Two weeks had passed since Solfrid High-Land barely escaped a dragon attack by the skin of her teeth, ran for hours through unforgiving woodlands, and accidentally let a bloodthirsty werewolf escape from prison. She had finally made it safely back to Whiterun, sleeping most of the way from Falkreath in the back of Bjorlam's carriage. Uncomfortable, yes, but the relief of going home was enough to allow her to relax. She had planned on stopping Bjorlam before they made it all the way to the stables at Whiterun, since the road to her house was on the way, but she didn't wake up until the carriage came to a stop in front of the city gates.

“Hey, you're finally awake!” Bjorlam said, teasingly “Welcome to Whiterun!”

Solfrid, exasperated with herself and still trying to get her bearings, had nearly tumbled out of the carriage in her just-awakened weakness, and if Bjorlam hadn't been so chivalrous as to catch her, she would have fallen face-first into the stony street. She thanked Bjorlam for the ride and for catching her, then, to the carriage driver's honest confusion, headed back the way they had come.

Falconstone Farm was a welcome sight, small and plain as it was. Hanna High-Land, Solfrid's mother, had been sweeping the porch when she saw her daughter approaching. Calling out her daughter's name, the older woman hopped down the steps and ran to embrace Solfrid as Haraldr and Vilhjelmr, Solfrid's father and brother, joined them from the fields behind the house, a happy reunion. As she'd hoped, Solfrid's mother drew her a warm bath while Vilhjelmr cooked a celebratory meal, after which the adventurer laid down in her own bed to begin her recuperation.

But two weeks was nearly too long for Solfrid's wanderlust to wait to return into the wide world, and the minute she could put on her extra pair of boots without pain from the healing cuts and blisters on her feet and lift a sword without more than a twinge of pain in her burned shoulder, she was ready to go out adventuring again. Knowing their daughter well, her parents made little effort to keep Solfrid home to recover just a bit longer. With a pack filled with homemade cheese, fresh-baked bread, and a few sweetrolls made special by her mother, Solfrid headed out, bound for Windhelm in the east. Vilhjelmr had been talking about getting a new set of firetongs from the blacksmith there and Solfrid eagerly volunteered to fetch them for him, besides the rumor about a Black Sacrament she'd been mulling in her mind during her convalescence intrigued her.

Solfrid set out early in the morning, excited about getting back out into the world after being confined to her home, the sedentary vapidity had very nearly driven her mad, even if it only lasted not even a full fortnight. When she came to the crossroads past Whiterun, on a whim Solfrid decided to take the northern road to Windhelm, even if the southern way was faster and more direct. She wasn't in any particular hurry, and the bandits at Valtheim were always a pain to deal with anyway. She went along, stopping now and again to catch a butterfly or pick a mountain flower, sticking a particularly striking purple specimen behind her ear.

“Argh! Bother and befuddle!” an annoyed voice cried out from further up the road, getting louder as Solfrid approached, “Stuck here! STUCK! And Mother, my poor Mother! Unmoving, yes, at rest, but TOO STILL!”

Solfrid came upon the source of the exasperated exclamations, a little man in jester's clothes gesturing angrily at a broken wagon, either addressing no-one in particular, himself, or the uninterested horse standing in the wreckage. Solfrid came up behind him, and with a cheeky smile in her voice asked “Problem?”

“Oh, can't you see poor Cicero is stuck?” The little man rounded on Solfrid as if to chide her, but his face softened when he saw she wasn't a guard, starting as a growl and ending as a...giggle? “I was transporting my dear, sweet mother...well, not her. Her corpse. She's quite dead.”

Solfrid nodded sympathetically.

“I'm taking Mother to a new home! A new crypt! But...AAARGH! THE WAGON WHEEL, DAMNEDEST WAGON WHEEL!” The jester's voice raised in frustration again and he stamped his foot like a toddler refusing a nap and Solfrid tried hard not to giggle herself. It was a little silly for a full-grown man to be in such a dither, but she did feel bad for the poor man. He was only trying to lay his mother to rest.

“I could help you,” Solfrid offered, wishing she had her own tools handy.

“Oh, oh yes! Yes!” The little jester clapped his hands merrily and broke into a dance. “The pretty stranger can certainly help! See the farm up there? Loreius' farm? Talk to Loreius! He can help me, but he refuses! Convince him to help and Cicero will reward you, yes! With coin, gleamy shiny coin!”

Of course, thought Solfrid, Loreius. He wouldn't help his own grandmother out of a well. Her family, fellow farmowners, had often dealt with Loreius and found him generally uninterested in anything besides his own narrow concerns. But Solfrid never broke a promise and the poor little jester had looked so happy and relieved when she'd offered to help. She approached the farmhouse, easily spotting Vantus Loreius leisurely leaning against his porch railing.

“For the love of Mara, what is it now?” he grumbled as Solfrid approached.

Put off by his rudeness, even if she'd expected it, Solfrid stumbled over her words.

“The...little man...the jester...he needs your help...with his wagon. The wheel broke....”

“Ugh,” Loreius cut her off, “That...Cicero fellow? Tell me something I don't know! That crazy fool's already asked me FIVE times! Seems he's not 'satisfied with my answer'! Can't he just leave me alone?”

“Come on, Loreius, I'm sure he'll pay you for your trouble.”

“Hah! You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head! Insane! A jester? There hasn't been one of those in Skyrim for a hundred years or more! And that box of his...suspicious. Said it's a coffin, to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there! I'll bet you he's got weapons for the Stormcloaks. Contraband. Skooma.”

Solfrid didn't appreciate Loreius' tone and was admittedly a bit harsh in her reply.

“Look, Loreius. He's a stranger and he needs our help! Do the right thing for once in your life.”

“And who in Mara's name are you to come here and tell me my business!” Loreius exclaimed, “Why should I? For what? Just to help that...fool?”

Solfrid could feel herself getting annoyed, trying to find the right words is hard when your cheeks get hot, but she managed pretty well with “You know you should help him, Loreius. It's what Mara would want you to do.”

Loreius looked honestly stunned, pushing back from the porch rail.

“I-I hadn't thought of that.... You're right. He might be nuts, but he does need help. I'm sorry for being so unneighborly. Tell him I'll be down to help him soon.”

Solfrid climbed back down the steep hill to find Cicero waiting for her, talking to himself.

“Poor mother.... Her new home seems so very far....”

“I talked to Loreius,” Solfrid interrupted the man, “He's agreed to help you and should be down soon. If you'd broken down just the other side of Whiterun, I'd have offered to fix it myself!”

“You would? He has?” Cicero looked almost like he would throw his arms around to hug Solfrid, his dark brown eyes sparkling. “Oh, stranger! You've made Cicero so happy! Jubilant! Ecstatic! And more! Even more! My mother and I thank you!”

Solfrid tried to say “no problem,” but Cicero cut her off, stuffing a little pouch full of coins into her hand, folding her fingers over to clutch it.

“Here, here, for your troubles! Shiny, clinky gold for you! A few coins for your kind deed!”

“Oh, no, um, thank you.” Solfrid awkwardly accepted the pouch. “I have to get going, errands to run. Hope to see you around!”

The last part was true, but she strongly doubted she would. Skyrim was a big place.

“And I you!” the jester, Cicero, smiled broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “And thank you, thank you again!”

He continued to shout his thanks after Solfrid as she walked away waving goodbye to him. Even with the little jester far behind her, Solfrid glowed inside, happy to have been able to help. It always felt good to aid someone, especially in such an unkindly place as Skyrim. And as an extra bonus, now that she thought about it, he was rather cute, too.

Cicero examined the broken traces that lay snapped and bent, dangling from both sides of the harness. He had sat feeling sorry for his sad state of affairs for long enough, even begging Mother for help, though she lay silent in her crate, and finally he decided to see if perhaps he could try fixing the wagon on his own, but lacking the tools, or the knowledge, he was unable to do anything and cried out to the open air.

“ARGH! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! STUCK!”

He ended his annoyed rant with a huff and was about to take a deep sigh to refresh his empty lungs but he was interrupted by a woman's cheeky voice.

“Problem?”

Of course he had a problem! Or was she blind? He swung around, snapping to chide her, expecting a guard from the city. Instead, he found a rather good-looking girl in adventuring armor, a Nord, by the looks of her, hazel-eyed and freckled, with a purple mountain flower delicately set over her ear. She was smiling at him pleasantly, not nearly as cocky as she'd sounded, waiting for his answer. His voice softened as he explained, only half-lying, that he was taking his mother's corpse to a new eternal resting place. He amused himself with his use of clever wordplay and giggled, but as he continued, the frustration of the situation rebuilt and again he cursed the damned wagon wheel, stamping his foot as he growled. The woman, apparently unfazed by this eccentric flow of emotion, spoke sympathetically, a rare treat for poor Cicero.

“I could help you.”

The Father had answered at last! Mother had heard his roadside prayers and sent this blessing to him! Perhaps his long years of service to her weren't going thankless after all....

“Oh, oh yes! Yes!” he couldn't contain his exuberance and clapped his hands as he kicked up his feet in an excited jig. “The pretty stranger can certainly help!”

Pretty? Cicero felt himself blush. He had meant to say 'kindly', but it was too late now and his tongue had already moved on to pointing out the farmhouse up the hill and promising a reward of shiny gold coins to the girl for her help.

He watched her disappear over the hillcrest, and waited patiently for the girl to return, speaking his thoughts out loud to Mother as he did. Falkreath seemed so close, yet so far....

Before long the tall blonde lady returned, bouncing down the hill to meet him.

“I talked to Loreius,” she announced casually, “He's agreed to help you and should be down soon. If you'd broken down just the other side of Whiterun, I'd have offered to fix it myself!”

“You would?” Just that told Cicero more about this girl than he ever would have had time to ask, but then her answer from Loreius clicked in his head. “He has?”

Cicero felt like he could hug her, kiss her even, but he used the little restraint he possessed to hold back. For propriety's sake.

“Oh, stranger! You've made Cicero so happy! Jubilant! Ecstatic! And more! Even more! My mother and I thank you!”

As the kind stranger stumbled over a reply, Cicero dug a little coin purse out of his pocket. He didn't mind how much it contained, she deserved everything he had, but he would need to stop for food eventually, and stealing it, while not something he was above, felt like a bad idea today. Best not to tempt fate twice.

“Here, here! For your troubles!” He stuffed the pouch into the woman's hands, folding her fingers over it, smiling sincerely up at her.

“Oh, no, um, thank you.”

Thank you? That wasn't something Cicero usually heard, even if it was mumbled and embarrassed. He again felt like he could hug her, afraid that if he did he'd burst into sloppy tears and ruin her armor.

“I have to get going,” the woman explained, much to Cicero's relief, “Errands to run. Hope to see you around!”

“And I you!” It was true, he did, though it would be incredibly unlikely he ever would. They were headed in opposite directions, only the favor of the Dread Father had caused their paths to cross when they had.

The woman had already begun to walk away, Cicero continued to yell his thanks to her until she disappeared down the road beyond his view, hoping he would still remember this happy encounter even when he was old and gray. It wasn't every day he met someone so lovely, so kind, and didn't end up having to kill her. Yet.

Chapter Text

3rd of Heartfire, 4E 201

Solfrid continued down the northern road to Windhelm. Although she was still unsure as to exactly why she'd taken this path, since it wended up and around Shearpoint Mountain so she'd have to backtrack a little to get to her destination, Solfrid did enjoy the brisk air of The Pale on a fine Heartfire day. She planned to walk until she reached Nightgate Inn to spend the night before going on to Windhelm the next morning. Getting hungry, she sat down on the side of the road and made herself a little sandwich from the cheese her brother had sent with her. Delicious as always, the cheese was made from the milk of her own family cow, Honeybell. Vilhjelmr knew how much Solfrid missed Honeybell's cheese when she was out adventuring and sent extra along this time. Solfrid silently sent her thanks to her brother for his foresighted gift.

Solfrid finished her lunch and moved on toward Windhelm. It was only the early afternoon, and Nightgate Inn wasn't very far, but Silverdrift lay just ahead, and she had always wanted to see what was inside, so instead of slinking past on the far side of the road as usual, Solfrid approached the old ruin, startling the two bandits guarding the door.

“You never should have come here!” one of them yelled, rushing at Solfrid with her axe drawn.

Solfrid drew her sword and met the bandit's attack with a quick slash. Raising her left hand, Solfrid shot burning flames, her favorite spell, at the bandit, who keeled over with a crash. The other bandit had been shooting at Solfrid, and apparently wasn't a very skilled archer as he missed with every shot. Solfrid charged him with fire and steel, and he too fell at her feet. Solfrid, always an opportunist, dug through the dead bandits' pockets, collecting some gold and arrows, and even a health potion, before pushing open the heavy stone door to Silverdrift Lair.

Real nice, Solfrid thought as she entered, noticing the bodies of two more already-dead bandits laying near a cooking fire, raiding their pockets anyway. She moved on through the next doorway only to find the body of another dead bandit in a dried-up pool of blood. Solfrid was just wondering what exactly she had stumbled into this time when a musty creak echoed through the dank halls. Poking her head around a corner, Solfrid could clearly see a draugr standing in the candlelight. She considered getting out her bow, but decided against it, rushing the zombie and returning it to rest with a swift slice of her sword.

The air in Silverdrift was thick and heavy, smelling like dust, wet stone, and the long (and not-so-long) dead. As she wended her way along the narrow pathway, she came across more draugr, dispatching them with her sword and flames. She re-killed two of them almost simultaneously, nearly slipping from the precarious and damp raised stone pathway she stood on. Two spike doors were ahead of her, but, not being completely stupid, she nimbly hopped over the triggers. The way ahead was blocked by spiked spears, and Solfrid kicked at them, frustrated, peeling her eyes in the dim light to find the mechanism to remove the spears, finding it hidden in a decorative obelisk. She went ahead, pushing through another stone door, beyond which lay a blessedly unlocked chest and yet another dead bandit, guarded by one of the undead. This zombie proved to be rather a challenge, and once it lay at Solfrid's feet she drank one of the health potions she'd found, then raided the chest.

She fought her way up the stairs and through a blood-stained dining room, the stench of death and decay strong enough to taste it in the air. This ruin was positively littered with dead bandits and overrun with draugr. Maybe I should have gone on to the Inn after all! Solfrid laughed as she kicked open a gate, sucking down another health potion.

Another stone door lay in front of her. Taking a deep breath, poising herself for whatever lay beyond, she pushed it open. The draugr inside hadn't noticed her, so she took the opportunity to switch weapons, pulling her bow from her shoulder and nocking an arrow, aiming, and ZING, let fly. The arrow found it's mark, but did little other than make the draugr mad. He turned and yelled something she couldn't make out with his awful, echoing, undead voice. A shockwave hit Solfrid in the chest and her bow flew from her hands, clattering somewhere off to her right. Solfrid tried not to panic as she drew her meager steel sword and readied her trusty flame spell, rushing past a newly-awakened draugr into the room, killing it easily from behind, but the draugr who had disarmed her gave a much stronger fight. Solfrid crouched behind a rock and swallowed another potion, leaving only one in her pouch. The draugr shouted at her again when she stood up, her sword flying out of her hand, disappearing into the shadowy room. Fully panicked and now unarmed, Solfrid desperately searched for her weapon, unable to find it. Without any other ideas, she grabbed the war axe the dead draugr had dropped and rushed the powerful zombie before it had a chance to shout again, smashing the blade deep into its ugly, mummified face, simultaneously blasting it with fire as the bluish light faded from its eyesockets.

Blood, both Solfrid's and that of an unfortunate bandit still lying in it, speckled the floor before an ancient tombstone. She wished she could read the inscription on the tomb, but it was written in an ancient, unfamiliar language. With shaking breaths, Solfrid searched the room until she found her sword in a dim corner and her bow up a flight of stairs in an open sarcophagus. She did not particularly enjoy rooting through dusty bones to retrieve it, but it had been a birthday present from her aunt. Two more doors and a pullchain were all that stood between her and escaping back into the cold, safe, outside air. She moved quickly as she backtracked, almost falling from the raised path again in her haste, finally bursting out into the Pale, breathing fast and deep. The chilly, clean air stung, but also felt very refreshing as she inhaled. The sun had set and Solfrid was exhausted, but exhilarated. She lived for this kind of adventure and looked forward to selling the few trinkets she'd picked up when she arrived in Windhelm tomorrow. Checking herself over for any major wounds and finding none, Solfrid munched on one of her loaves of bread as she continued on to Nightgate Inn.