TIRED, RETIRED - Splitting the Party (Patreon)

In his dreams, Link saw himself. He saw visions of himself as a powerful warrior, and when he woke, they were true. He saw himself sailing an endless ocean, fighting in the darkest depths, soaring in the open sky, and more and more and more. Always the past, and very rarely the future.

These memories of past lives crowded together in his head, mixing together into a confused but functional whole. There was so much of it, that it was hard to see where this life began and a past life ended. Because this Link never sailed on a talking boat, or transformed into a wolf. This Link was a merchant’s son set to inherit the family business before the whole saving the kingdom thing happened.

And it wasn’t fair that he tried to remember his grandmother’s lessons, and kept having to push aside visions of the kindly old woman from Outset.

This life’s grandmother could have passed for some versions of Impa with how stern she was. Shrunken by age she may have been, but she was tough as nails, always paid back favors, and had a fierce rivalry with Beedle that more than once had come to blows, and she always gave that bug-obsessed weirdo what for.

She taught him a lot about running a store, and supply chains, and supply and demand. Those were things he personally experienced. So it was frustrating that it was so much harder to remember than his dreams.

He could just imagine her seeing him now and bopping him on the head with her cane, as he struggled to make connections and network with the locals. Thankfully, he wasn’t completely hopeless. He’d had merchant friends before, like Ravio, and Malo, and Beedle (sorry, Gram-Gram). Combine all that with what he could recall from Granny’s lessons, and the starting capital from all the rupees he’d collected, and surely he could figure things out. No Link had ever backed down from a challenge before, and he wasn’t going to be an exception.

Of course, trying to talk with Nazeem was really pushing the limits of his endurance.

“...been meaning to talk the Jarl into expanding the Cloud District to encompass more than just the palace. I was thinking of a neighborhood of wealthier homes, to be purchased by anyone with the gold to do so. As Whiterun is such a major city with rich history, and Dragonsreach one of the most striking structures in the province, I’m sure he would find no shortage of people willing to move there. And I would finally have someone worth talking to in this city…”

Link stood with his arms folded, drumming his fingers against his bracers. A passerby gave him a sympathetic look that went unnoticed by Nazeem, caught as he was in his aggrandizing.

“...and served as the interim capital of Skyrim after the great collapse of Winterhold. Of course, if you ask me, Whiterun should have stayed the capital, but alas I wasn’t around back then to bring everyone to their senses. I suppose Solitude is fine too, but it astonishes me that they thought a great stone arch was the best place to move the High King’s throne to, when the last palace had just fallen into the sea. It’s only a matter of time before history repeats itself, if you ask me.”

“History repeats itself a lot,” Link said, in the moment where he paused to breathe. “Always making the same old mistakes.”

Nazeem nodded, pleased. “Yes, I’m sure you would know, wouldn’t you? How old are you, exactly?”

“Sixteen-ish. I’m not actually sure of my exact age.” Ha.

“Oh. Apologies, I assumed you were much older. You elves tend to look young for a long time, it can be hard to tell.”

“I am not an elf,” Link said. “I’m Hylian.”

“Hm.” Nazeem sniffed. “At any rate, you’ve yet to explain why you wished to speak with me.”

Oh, am I allowed to speak now? “I actually wanted to talk to you about a business venture.”

“Oh?” The Redguard took a half-step back, looking Link up and down. There wasn't much ‘up’ to look to. “Well, when your father gets here I’ll be sure to listen to his proposal.”

“I don’t have a father,” Link said blandly.

“Apologies,” Nazeem said insincerely. “But as pleasant a conversation partner as you’ve been, I don’t want to waste my time on a teenager’s half-cocked idea--” Link pulled a red rupee out of his pocket and held it out to him. Nazeem snatched it out of his hand and put it away in his coat, not missing a beat. “--so make your pitch quickly, if you would.”

Link pulled out a sprig of red safflina and a bottle of leftover soup. “Me and a couple of others come from very far away, and I brought with me many different plants and materials that I think would be a boon for the people of Skyrim. I could easily make a quick ru--septim selling my stock, but then I wouldn’t have anymore, and I can’t go back to get more. You own Chillfurrow Farm, so I want to work with you to see if we can get any of it to grow here in Skyrim.”

Nazeem took the flower, inspecting it. “Interesting. It’s warm to the touch.”

“That’s Red Safflina, or Warm Safflina depending on who you ask. There’s two other varieties, but I feel like that one would be the best to sell in Skyrim. It has magical properties that it can extend to any food seasoned with it.”

Nazeem pulled a face, handing it back. “Magic, hm? I’m afraid you’ll find that a hard sell in these lands. Nords don’t respect much magic. Myself, I’m not fond of your elven spices--”

“I am not an elf.”

“--but I suppose you might find an alchemist or two willing to buy, if only for the novelty of it. Assuming they don’t think you’ve just bred oddly-colored lavender.”

Link huffed and handed Nazeem the bottle. “It’s a chilly day today. I think a cold wind is blowing down off the mountains. Try some of this.”

He looked at the bottle with visible distaste. “What is in this? I have a very sophisticated palate, you know.”

“Tomatoes. Some cheese. A few greens. And a light dusting of safflina, mostly for the flavor. Jo’kir liked it.”

“Not even any meat? You can’t expect me to--” Nazeem stopped, looking puzzled. “Wait. That name sounds familiar. Did I hear one of the guards mention it?”

“Probably.” Link looked to the side, considering, then sent a quiet apology the cat’s way. “He helped them defeat a dragon the other day.”

Nazeem’s eyes widened. “The Dragonborn?” He gave the bottle another look, then sighed and uncorked it. His nose wrinkled at the smell that wafted up, but he took a sip anyway. “Ugh. I suppose it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“It’s pretty good for something I made in ten minutes in the middle of a dungeon,” Link defended.

“What were you doing in a dungeon? Nevermind. I’m not the biggest fan of spicy foods, but I’m sure you could find an audience in Solitude. Most Nords prefer simple dishes, though, so--wait, whoa, hold on.”

It was hard to tell with his darker skin tone, but a red flush slowly spread across his face. Nazeem shuddered as the chills he’d long stopped noticing left his body; in fact, he almost felt too warm, and shrugged his coat off his shoulders, before he remembered himself and slipped it back on. This entire time he’d been standing out of the wind, but now he actually stepped into it to cool off.

He looked at the half-empty bottle with new eyes. “...Hm. I can see this being useful, yes.”

“I know recipes that can make you even warmer,” Link said. “I once trekked through a snowstorm for miles without even noticing the cold, thanks to these little guys,” he waved the flower around, “And the fact that it’s tasty helps a lot.”

Nazeem looked around, then gestured for Link to follow him. They walked off the main street, behind the shops to the road that hugged the outer walls, where only the guards ever went. “You said there were two other varieties, right? What do they do?”

Link produced the produce. “Blue Safflina does the same as red, but for the heat. It keeps you cool in the blazing sun. Tastes kind of like mint, but has an aftertaste I don’t really like. Pretty mild though, easy to hide under other flavors. Yellow Safflina has a tangy flavor, like dried lemon spices. It’s the only one I’d eat on its own without preparing it. It protects against electricity.”

Nazeem stared at him and the plants. “No, the red is definitely the most useful… the caravans might want to send some of the blue back home to Elsweyr though…” He muttered to himself for a moment. “What else do you have in your pocket?”

Link smiled. “Let’s start with the safflina, I think. If we can get them growing, then I’ll see about the rest.”

And more to the point, Link had no intention of putting all his eggs in one basket. He heard from someone in the Bannered Mare that a woman in the Rift had figured out how to farm Nirnroot. That didn’t mean anything to Link of course, but it was apparently something no one else had ever done. He was going to talk to her about the bomb flowers.

“Well,” Nazeem said carefully, “If I agreed to your little experiment, what will I be getting out of the deal?”

“I’ll obviously be paying you for the use of your farm,” Link said. “And I’m willing to offer you twenty percent of the first successful harvest for you to use or sell off on your own time, provided you don’t sell outside of Whiterun city itself.”

Nazeem drew himself up. “Twenty percent? It seems to me that I’ll be doing all of the work while you go gallivanting off and waiting for it to bear fruit. I’ll take fifty percent, thank you very much.”

Link’s lips twitched. “Fifty percent of the first successful harvest, plus fifteen of each subsequent harvest.” Nazeem opened his mouth again, and Link continued. “It’s worth noting that, as a magical herb, safflina grows fast once it’s set roots down, and the root structure can sprout a new set of flowers quickly once they’re plucked. Assuming no sudden blizzards cover the plains, you could see a new harvest once a month for nine months out of the year.”

Nazeem’s brows rose high. “Once a month?”

“At least.”

“...” The Redguard smiled. “We’ll work it out. Let me introduce you to Wilmuth.”

They shook on it, and Link spent the rest of the day touring Chillfurrow Farm.

Next step: obtain an excessively-large backpack for products to stick out of so everyone knows what he’s selling ahead of time. Hmm, Beedle gave his a horn like a rhinoceros beetle, maybe Link could do something similar? Not a bug, obviously. His gut said dragon, but they didn’t like dragons much at the moment around here. Wolf? Heh, or he could do a rabbit. Dress in purple, find a long scarf…

Actually, speaking of dragons, Link wondered how Jo’kir was getting on…

---------------------------------

Jo’kir, Road to Ivarstead

Lydia was the most average Nord woman Jo’kir had ever met. Taller than him by a fair few inches, dull brown shoulder-length hair, well-muscled, and covered in steel armor. The only way she could possibly be more stereotypical was if she was also blonde.

To her credit, though, she was level-headed and seemed reasonably intelligent. Jo’kir felt that the two of them would be able to work together well, and she had shown no apprehension towards traveling with a Khajiit. She hadn’t called him a sneak-thief even once!

In fact, she hadn’t spoken much at all since they left Whiterun. The only time they had spoken was when they called out to each other while dealing with the bandits in that riverside tower.

She kept her eyes locked firmly ahead as they traveled, not even looking at him when he glanced over his shoulder at her.

…This was extremely awkward.

“You know,” he stared, clearing his throat, “While this one appreciates your help, you don’t need to be here, if you don’t want to be.”

Lydia’s next step took a second longer to hit the ground. “Why wouldn’t I want to be here?”

“Well--I am sure that this trek is not how you expected to be spending your time.”

She shook her head. “I would only be training in the barracks of Whiterun. I’m glad to be traveling. And of course, it is an honor to serve a Thane of Whiterun.”

“Ah, right. That.” Jo’kir huffed. “Khajiit is not sure how to feel about that. He never expected anything like that.”

Lydia looked at him now, looking surprised. “You slew a dragon, my Thane! Did you not think you would be rewarded?”

“Not with a title, I didn’t.” He swiped a hand down his face. “What does a Thane even do? What are my responsibilities?”

She smiled slightly. “A Thane is not expected to attend to matters of state, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s a gift, not a responsibility. You were recognized for your service to Whiterun and her people. The only thing a Thane is expected to do is to lend a hand around the hold and to defend them if the Jarl calls for it. Which you were already doing, from what I hear.”

Jo’kir shrugged, feeling mollified. “I suppose that’s alright then. It still feels strange. It is not something I ever expected to happen to me. I’m…” He waved a hand at himself. “...me.”

Lydia frowned, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Hey, you two!”

They were passing by a stone arch, over a path off the main road, when a man approached them from that direction, waving.

“You look like adventurers. Do you think you can give me a hand?” He came up to them, panting slightly. “My name is Golldir, and that’s my family tomb back there. There’s been some trouble; can you help me?”

Jo’kir’s ear twitched, and he looked at Lydia. She shrugged, a neutral look on her face.

He sighed. “Let’s hear what the issue is, first…”

------------------------------------

Zelda, North of Whiterun

It had been quite some time since Zelda traveled alone. Generally speaking, if she was completely alone, it meant something had gone horribly wrong. As the Princess, she always had a guard. Knights accompanied her everywhere. She had to sneak away just to get some privacy.

It hadn’t bothered her after Falkreath, because she had fully intended to meet up with Link again in Riverwood; that they met before that was just lucky. Now, with the prospect of a long, lonely journey ahead of her, she wondered if maybe she should have hired a guard in Whiterun.

…She missed Impa. Zelda wondered how she was getting along, after her disappearance. If Zelda regretted anything about this entire adventure, it's that they didn’t take the time to say goodbye. Impa was probably blaming herself for not being able to find her, with no possible way to find her.

Although if anyone could find them, Impa would be it.

Zelda frowned. Did Purah exist this cycle? She was absolutely certain Impa had mentioned a sister a few times, but surely if Purah existed as she remembered her, Zelda would have met her in this life. A mind like that wasn’t one that could be missed. If Purah was around, it might only be a matter of time until they found them…

…gods, what would she say to them if they ever met again? What could she say?

Zelda shook her head. She didn’t want to think about that. She missed the Sheikah, but she couldn’t dwell on something out of her grasp now. Unless and until she happened across a way back home, Zelda wasn’t going to worry about it.

…She needed a distraction.

“Agh! Bother and befuddle!”

Ah, there it was.

A small farm sat just ahead on the road, a windmill lazily turning in the breeze. Out front of it, on the road, was a cart carrying a large coffin. Next to it, a jester. Dancing to no music with a miserable look on his face. Another man was standing on the farmhouse porch, looking equally unhappy.

“What seems to be the issue?” Zelda asked, coming to a stop beside the cart.

The jester pivoted on his heel, turning a full circle and a half to face her. “Poor Cicero is stuck. Can’t you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well, not her. Her corpse! She’s quite dead.” He shook his head, jingling despondently. “I’m taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But… agh, wagon wheel! It broke, don’t you see?” He punctuated his cry with a lively jig.

Zelda’s eyes narrowed. As he’d been talking, she had felt herself growing more and more tense, and her body responded accordingly. To the average eye, she might have appeared to just be shifting in place, but someone who knew to look would be able to tell that she was ready to move at a moment’s notice. If she was attacked, she could jump to either side and either take off running or defend herself in less than a second.

This Cicero knew to look. And now he shifted into a similar stance as his dance ended, loose and ready. One hand hid behind his back, no doubt grabbing a hidden weapon.

This man was dangerous. And there was something dark in the coffin. And what kind of colors were black and red for a jester, anyway?

Cicero stood on his toes, looking over the coffin towards the farmer, then ducked back down. “Oh, pretty lady, will you tell me, what is the music of life?” he asked, voice light and airy. The easy grin on his face might have been disarming if it hadn’t been for the deadly look in his eyes.

Zelda looked him up and down, lessons from Impa in both this and past lives rising to the surface. It was a loaded question, she could tell, and if she answered incorrectly who knew how this man would react? She wasn’t interested in a fight right now.

Cicero glared daggers at her, almost daring her to speak. Zelda’s eyes darted to the coffin.

“...What does it matter?” she said carefully. “The music of life is lost in the silence of death.”

The jester squinted, then relaxed minutely. “My, oh, my, I’ve not heard that answer before!” he said. “Kindly sister, mother cannot reach her new home in this state! Cicero asked Loreius at his farm for help, but he refused! He won’t! Without his tools, we are stranded here! Kindly sister, will you help a brother and convince him to fix my wheel?”

“Of course, of course,” Zelda said, smiling brightly.

The farmer scowled as she walked up the path to the porch. “Oh for the love of Mara, what now? What do you want?”

Zelda was slightly taken aback by the hostility, but under the circumstances she couldn’t blame him. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you need to help the jester with his wagon.”

Loreius laughed harshly. “I suppose he didn’t tell you I’ve already said no five times? You’re not going to change my mind either, lady.”

Zelda looked back at the cart. Cicero had resumed his strange dance, clapping his hands every third time he hit the ground. “Why are you so vehemently against helping him? It will get him off your property faster.”

“Look at him,” Loreius said, flinging a hand in his direction. “He’s a lunatic! A jester, in Skyrim? There hasn’t been a merryman here in hundreds of years. And he says that box is a coffin, but I don’t buy it. It could be anything in there; weapons. Skooma. War contraband! I don’t want to get involved in this blasted war one way or another. What if I help him out and the other side wins? What’ll I do when they come knocking at my door? No, I want him gone and away from me.”

Zelda nodded, absorbing that. She looked over her shoulder at the fields, where his wife was tilling. She leaned forward. “I think you should avoid antagonizing that jester if at all possible,” she said, voice low.

Loreius blinked. “Come again?”

“He might not look it, but Cicero is dangerous,” Zelda whispered. “And he’s either unstable or very good at acting like it. He might decide to do something petty if you keep refusing him.”

They both looked back again. Cicero was standing on his hands now. He wasn’t doing a handstand, he had placed his hands under his feet and was bouncing from one to the other, a furious look on his face.

“...Trust me,” Zelda said. “Something is off about him.”

“I could have told you that,” he grunted. “I did tell you that. But you think that little freak is a murderer? Not very threatening, if you ask me.”

Zelda changed tracks. “I don’t think you’re in danger from him personally,” she lied, “But I could sense something very bad in his box.”

The farmer gave her a sharp look. “So it’s not a body?”

“It might be,” Zelda hedged. “But it didn’t feel dead.”

Loreius paled. “You think he’s a necromancer? And you want me to help him?!”

“I want you to help him get away from here,” she emphasized.

Thankfully he could see the logic in that at least. Loreius still didn’t want to go near the clown, but they were able to compromise.

“Oh, hello! Hello!” Cicero greeted her on her return. “Well? Well? Well? What did he say? Will he help mother find her home?”

Zelda smiled. “Not as such. It turns out he wasn’t helping because he doesn’t actually know how.”

Cicero gasped, surprised. “No?”

“No, and he was too embarrassed to admit it. But I got him to let me borrow his tools. I’ll help you, here.”

“Oh! Oh, wonderful new friend! You have my mother’s gratitude, but oh!” Cicero spun to the left. “Are you certain? You have already spent so much time here! Cicero would hate to keep you from your… business.”

Zelda didn’t react to the way he said the word. “There’s no hurry, I promise. I’m not on a schedule at the moment. Let’s get this done, shall we?”

“Oh yes. Yes! Thank you, again!”

--------------------------------------------

Ganondorf, in Solitude

The moment Ganondorf stepped through the Solitude gates, he thought he’d stepped back into Castle Town.

He’d seen a lot of different Castle Towns in his time. He’d destroyed most of them, too, and they never rebuilt it the same way for some reason. Sometimes it surrounded the Castle, sometimes it was laid out all in front. There was always a Castle, a town, and a wall that went around it all. It was usually a sleepy town made of stone, but with a sense of solidity to it, like a sleeping beast that could be stirred to waking if given enough cause. Or like an anthill, scattering the moment he stepped on it.

Solitude wasn’t so sleepy. The ants were mobilizing for war.

Ganondorf could appreciate the city’s layout. The walls created chokepoints throughout the city, with the Blue Palace at the far end. The surrounding walls had ample space for archers to shoot both within and without, the entire city was built with steep cliffs down on one side and steep cliffs up on the other, and the main garrison of Castle Dour was a fort within a fort, situated on a higher level from the main square.

It was a well-defended place. Ganondorf could see why the Legion had set up here.

“Here,” Hadvar told him, handing him a few coins. “Set yourself up in a room at the Winking Skeever.”

Ganondorf raised a brow. “The winking what?”

“The inn, right there,” he said. “I need to check in right away, and that’ll take some time. I need to write my report, make an accounting of all the equipment I lost and reacquired, tally up the lives taken by the dragon…”

Ganondorf nodded. “Is that likely to take long?”

“All day, most likely.” Hadvar grimaced. “Possibly two. I have a lot of writing to do. In the meantime, just stay at the inn and don’t get into trouble.”

“Trouble? Me?” Ganondorf put a hand to his chest in faux-offense.

Hadvar looked pained. “Please do not go picking a fight with anyone. Or anything.”

“We’re in the middle of the nation’s capital. What’s there to fight?”

They, and several of the other walking citizens, suddenly looked up as a sound like strong wind echoed down the mountain. In the distance, a dragon could be seen cresting over the peak of Mount Kilkreath. It swooped back out of sight quickly, but it set the crowd abuzz with worried murmuring.

Ganon raised a finger. “Alright, but if that thing does come down here, do you really want me to not attack it?”

“Just stay in the inn,” Hadvar pleaded. “And wait for me to introduce you to General Tullius. The last time he saw you, you were a prisoner. A very notable prisoner, which is the opposite of what a prisoner should want to be.”

The Gerudo raised one hand placatingly. “Fine, fine. I promise I won’t wander off.” He kept one hand behind his back.

Hadvar stared at him, then nodded warily. “Alright then. Welcome to Solitude.”

He turned and, giving Ganon one last look, made his way towards the stairs up to the garrison.

Ganondorf waited exactly fifteen seconds before uncrossing his fingers. He promised he wouldn’t wander… because he knew exactly where he was going. The exact moment Hadvar left his line of sight, Ganondorf followed after him.

The guards at the door to the fort made no attempt to stop him from entering, which was just pitiful. And disappointing.

General Tullius was leaned over a map with a younger Nord woman while Hadvar faced them, away from the door.

“...Tullius, sir. I’m reporting for duty.”

“It’s good to see you, Soldier. We were worried after it took you so long to get back here,” Tullius said.

“Yes, well,” Hadvar began, sounding sheepish. “I kept running into things that slowed me down. Giants, wolves, trolls… You’ll see it once I write it up, though you might now believe it.”

Ganondorf smirked.

“Yes, it seems like all of Skyrim’s gone mad, doesn’t it?” the woman said. “Get some rest, before making your report, Hadvar, there’s no rush.”

“There might be a little rush--” Hadvar began, which Ganondorf decided was his cue to step into the light of the room with him.

General Tullius shot up at the sight of him. “Oh gods, it’s you again.”

The woman drew a sword and moved between him and Tullius, while Ganondorf just grinned.

Hadvar didn’t even bother turning around. He just sighed and said, “I have a recruit here for you, General, Rikke.”

Ganon waved cheerfully. “Saa’vaq! I would like to be paid to fight things, please.”