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4E 201, 1st of Frostfall

Markarth, the Silver-Blood Inn

“Strange days, these,” Eltrys said, peering into his drink.

“Oh aye?” Kleppr asked, the barkeeper not looking up from cleaning a mug. “What makes you say that? The frequent murders?”

“Of course not, Da,” his daughter said, sweeping by the fire. “That’s just business as usual.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Eltrys said, as if they hadn’t spoken. “They say Helgen was destroyed by a dragon. And then, just weeks later, the Greybeards called the Dragonborn to their mountain.”

“Is that what that noise was?” Kleppr said, putting his dishrag aside. “I had wondered.”

“It’s a sign of big things to come,” a big Nord sitting in the corner spoke up. “Good, bad? No telling. But big things, certainly.”

“Care to clarify any of those big things, Vorstag?”

“Dragons, for one.” He tossed back a flask of mead. “But I’m sure it’s nothing the big man can’t handle. All Nords are warriors, and to be Dragonborn on top of that? The man must be unstoppable.”

“Actually,” Margret said, looking up from the fire. “I was buying from the caravan the other day. They told me the Dragonborn was a Khajiit.”

There was a silence as they digested that, broken only by the crackling flame.

“...Hah, I’m sure they did,” Kleppr said at last. “Probably were just trying to convince you to buy something.”

“A cat as a Dragonborn,” Vorstag snorted. “As if that could ever happen.”

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Dragon Bridge, Four Shields Tavern

“Here’s your ale, orc,” Faida said, handing him the mug. She looked towards the hearth and groaned. “Varnius, will you wipe that grin off your face already? We get it, you were right!”

“I wasn’t just right,” the Imperial said, finger raised. “If I hadn’t gone to the Blue Palace, who knows how long it would have taken before someone cleared out Wolfskull? I’m a hero!”

The orc, who’d just taken a sip of his drink, choked, spluttering and spilling some on his shirt.

“You alright, friend?” Varnius asked.

“Y-Yeah,” the orc assured him, smiling nervously. “It was just, uh, stronger than I expected.”

Faida gave him a sideways look. “Feh. Milk drinker. And no, Varn, you were just the messenger boy.”

An Imperial woman with bandages around her head walked in from another room.

“The real hero is that big guy that did the clearing,” Faida continued.

The Imperial woman’s eye twitched. “Oh right, that bastard.”

Both Faida and Varnius turned to stare at her, surprised.

“Sorry about her,” the orc said quickly. He stood to help her into a chair next to his. “She’s still recovering from that knock to the head. She keeps saying crazy things. Isn’t that right, Helena?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, sorry. That bastard is fine I guess.” Her eye twitched again, and she bent her head to stare at the fire. “I miss my flute. It belonged to my mother… my sister? Or did it just belong to me?”

Varnius stared at her for a moment longer, then smiled again, though slightly. “Well, at any rate, I can’t really argue with you, Faida. What was his name? Gadran?”

“That bastard…”

“Hush.”

“It was…” Faida snapped her fingers. “...Ganon…dorf, yes.” She smiled distantly as she moved back behind her counter. “I saw him in Solitude a few days ago when I went up to resupply. He’s something else.”

“Hey Lugrot,” Varnius said, talking to the orc. “You two came to town not long after I did. If I’ve got the right of it, you might’ve passed him on the road.”

Helena and Lugrot exchanged looks. “We might have,” the orc hedged. “What’s he look like?”

“Taller than two bears stacked atop each other,” Faida said. “Nearly as wide, too. Flaming red hair, more muscles in his neck than most men have in their entire bodies…” She trailed off with a dreamy sigh, leaning on the counter.

Varnius glanced at the others, noting Helena’s utterly disgusted look. “Er, Faida?”

“Hm, what? Oh!” She coughed, blushing. “Well, he’s pretty unmistakable. Glad to hear we have someone like him in the Legion protecting us.”

Lugrot rubbed his chin. “Hm… No, I can’t say we saw anyone like that.”

“You alright there, friend?” Varnius asked, concerned. “You’re sweating an awful lot.”

The orc stood abruptly. “The fire might be getting to me. Come on, Helena, I think we could both use some fresh air.”

“Hmm?” The Imperial woman stared blankly at him for a few seconds before apparently realizing what he meant. “Oh, yes. Let’s get some air, far away from here, yes.”

They watched the odd pair leave, almost tripping over a bench in their haste.

“Strange folks, them,” Faida drawled.

“Nice enough, though.”

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Dawnstar, Windpeak Inn

“Do things seem grim to you recently?”

“Hm?”

“I said, do things seem--”

“Yeah.”

A confused silence fell over the inn before Vereth turned to look at his speaking partner. “Yeah, what?”

“Hm?” Irgnir said again. She let out a jaw-cracking yawn before finally turning to the Altmer. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Gods, woman,” Vereth said. He sounded annoyed but his voice was tinged with concern. “You’re usually more attentive than that.”

“I’m fine, it’s--” she yawned again, “--it’s just that I’ve been having trouble sleeping at night. Can’t have got more than eight hours in the past three days. Between that and the mining…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “I’m paying attention now. What did you say?”

“I said it’s been feeling grim recently. I’ve got a real sense of… foreboding, I suppose.”

“Hm. Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure.” Vereth pondered. “All this talk of dragons, and giants, and the mountain shouting… it’s enough to set anyone on edge.”

“And then there was that jester.” Irgnir fumbled for her mug on the table, and swore as she only succeeded in knocking it over. Though she might have been cursing at the fact that it was empty instead.

Vereth frowned. “Jester?”

“Yeah, you remember--actually I think you were off somewhere that day,” she corrected herself. “He showed up to town, dancing like it wasn’t freezing out, bought some supplies, and then vanished some time around the evening. No one saw him leave and Thoring said he never booked a room.”

“I didn’t pass anyone on my walk out of town, either,” a priest said, sitting down to join them. The Dunmer gave them a strained smile. “Afternoon, friends.”

“Oy, priest.” Irgnir raised her mug for a refill and frowned when Thoring just rolled his eyes at her. “What’s the good word?”

“Oh, not much of that at the moment, I’m afraid.” Erandur’s face darkened. “I don’t want to worry you too much, so I’ll keep my suspicions to myself.”

Vereth snorted. “I assume you know that only makes me worry more?”

Erandur raised a finger. “I have heard that there’s a bit of a stir going on at Whiterun right now,” he informed them. “Apparently some merchant or other brought in some undiscovered plant from far away and is growing it at one of those farms.”

“Oh aye?” Irgnir said, with the disinterested voice of someone who rarely saw plants in her day-to-day life.

“I don’t know much more than that. Just that it’s getting very popular.” Thoring finally arrived, handing each of them a small bottle of mead. The conversation lulled as they drank.

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Whiterun, the Drunken Huntsman

Whiterun was, without question, the best place to live in all Skyrim. Nazeem was certain of this.

Solitude came close. They were both wealthy cities with many citizens, hubs of trade, centers for power, cities with long and respected histories. What gave Whiterun the edge, if he was honest with himself, was the central location that drew everyone in the province in like a vortex, one way or another. Anyone who traveled through Skyrim ended up in Whiterun, one way or another.

Well, now it had a second edge over the capital, and it was called safflina.

The boy (Lind? Lunk? No, Link, right) had not lied; the first crop of the red flower had already come through. Nazeem had wasted no time in harvesting his share, setting Link’s aside for whenever he came to collect it.

He was almost tempted to try and set up a new field for even more of the stuff, but it had been well past the planting season even before he’d been convinced to take a risk with these wonderful heat-making flowers.

Something to think about come spring, then.

Near his table, one of the owners of the tavern drank his soup, made with the Red Safflina, not caring at the mess he made.

Nazeem scooted out of the splash zone, disgusted. “Enjoying your meal, Anoriath?”

“That I am,” the Wood Elf agreed, slamming the empty bowl down. “I have to thank you for making a deal with us, I really do. With these warming spices, we might actually manage to poach some customers from Hulda for once.” He hiccuped, a dark flush entering his cheeks. “Oh wow. Yes, and it’ll be helpful when I’m hunting over the winter.”

“Better than your elven spices, I’m sure,” Nazeem said, satisfied.

The elf rolled his eyes, not bothered. “Did that kid have any more like this?”

“A bit,” he nodded. “Different cultivars of the same flower. I actually have a few yellow ones he left behind, but I haven’t planted them yet.”

“Why not?” Ahlam asked shortly, coming downstairs.

Nazeem suppressed a groan. He and his wife were not the happiest of marriages, and for reasons indiscernible to him she’d been even more unreasonable lately. “Dearest--”

“Arcadia’s work with the samples I gave her--”

“The sample we gave her.”

“--have already been working wonders. They make the healing potions she mixes them into more effective at dealing with frostbite, based on how the soldiers in the temple are recovering now. She wants to buy more, by the way.”

“Ahlam, I’m an honest businessman--”

“HA!”

“--and I reached an agreement with Link to only plant the safflina to see how it adapts to Skyrim’s soil. I don’t want to go ahead without his permission, or I might lose the trust of an already invaluable partner.”

Ahlam scowled, but didn’t argue the point further.

Anoriath breathed a sigh of relief, having not been looking forward to another one of their rows. Crisis averted, he stood to take his bowl back to the kitchens.

He paused in the doorway. “Ah, have you two heard about Jo’kir?”

“Who?” Nazeem asked, not recognizing the name.

“You know, the Dragonborn.”

Nazeem stared blankly at him. “The what now?”

The Bosmer stared back, growing incredulous. “Are you joking?”

“Nazeem doesn’t pay attention to anything that isn’t making him money,” Ahlam said testily. “What about the Dragonborn?”

“Just that the guards were mentioning he’d been seen all through the Rift, doing good deeds between here and Ivarstead,” Anoriath finished, feeling like he’d wasted his breath.

Nazeem shrugged, utterly disinterested.

---------

Whiterun, the Bannered Mare

“THREE CHEERS FOR THE DRAGONBORN! HIP HIP--

“HOORAY!”

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

Solitude, the Winking Skeever

“--and then he comes in, shirt all ripped up and carrying a huge boulder, and he says ‘can you direct me to the blacksmith?’”

“Yes, Minette,” Sorex Vinius said indulgently. “I remember. I was there.”

“He looked so cool!” the young girl said excitedly. “I can’t wait to join the Legion when I grow up!”

Their father jerked further down the bar, almost dropping a glass cup. “What? I thought you wanted to run the Skeever when you grew up?”

Sorex smirked.

“It’s okay Papa,” Minette assured him, ignorant of his worry. “I know you don’t want me in charge of the place. So I’m going to be a soldier instead and fight big monsters and bad guys, just like Mr. Dragmire!”

Corpulus’s mouth flapped, trying to find the words to respond, while his son laughed and clapped him on the back. “Yeah, old man. You don’t have to worry about sister any longer, she has it all planned out.”

“I wasn’t worried, I--” The old Imperial floundered. “Look, Minette, when I said you couldn’t run the bar, it’s because drunk customers can get rowdy, and angry, and I don’t want you to get hurt--”

“That’s okay! Legionnaires get swords, and they make it a lot easier to deal with jerks!”

Sorex had to lean on the bar to keep from falling over, he was laughing so hard. A few of the Nord patrons listening in looked like they were about to join him.

While Corpulus tried to figure out how to respond to that, the door to the tavern swung open and he leapt gratefully at the distraction. “Ah, good afternoon! Welcome to the Winking Skeever, what can I--”

He cut himself off with a choke, as the subject of their conversation had to bend down to walk through the doors.

Ganondorf, in his red tunic and wearing a blacksmith’s frock, strode in, took a look at the wooden barstool, and elected to keep standing. Corpulus was grateful; seeing the man up close, he wasn’t sure the stool could have held him.

“Something cold, if you would,” the behemoth asked, putting a few coins on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Y-Yes, of course.” Corpulus turned to fetch a bottle from the cellar, saw his daughter’s starry eyes, and decided to stay where he was. “Boy, get this man a drink!”

“Yes, father. Mead or wine, sir?”

“Whichever has a bigger bottle.” Ganondorf took a position against the wall while he waited, grabbing a stray rag off the counter and wiping his forehead with it.

That was irksome, but Corpulus wasn’t going to complain to someone who could break him in half with one hand. Instead, he asked, “What’s with the getup, there? Soldier not working out?”

“This?” The other man chuckled. “No, the Legion’s been quite fun so far. I just thought it was high time to start forging my sword. Beirand is keeping an eye on it for me.”

Corpulus nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re here to cool down, then?”

Ganondorf shrugged. “I was good to keep going, but Beirand insisted and I didn’t feel like arguing.”

Sorex returned, holding a bottle of Alto Wine. “Fresh from the icebox, sir!” He set the bottle on the counter and shook the chill out of his fingers.

“Excellent.”

While Ganondorf popped the cork off and took a swig, Sorex leaned forward over the bar. “While you’re here, Mr. Dragmire--”

He twitched, carefully swallowing his current mouthful. “Sir, will do, boy. How do you even know that name?”

“The soldiers talk, sir. And, speaking of that…” Sorex looked over at the dining room, where their other customers were making little effort to hide their eavesdropping, and lowered his voice. “Is it true the Legion swore in a pair of skeletons?”

Corpulus choked. “What?”

Ganondorf smirked. “I can say with total honesty that General Tullius would never allow the undead to join his Legion in an official capacity.” He leaned forward. “Unofficially, I am very persuasive.”

“Wow…” Minette breathed.

“Or annoying,” he amended thoughtfully. “One or the other, I can’t remember what Hadvar said.” He winked, then downed the rest of the bottle. “Thanks for the drink. I should get back to the forge.”

“Come again!” Corpulus’ daughter shouted with a wave.

“...he wasn’t serious, was he?” he asked his son after the man had left. “There aren’t really…”

“It’s a great wide world out there, father,” Sorex said with a happy smirk.

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Riften, South Gate

Jon was a simple man, well-suited for guard duty. It was boring, dull work, and it needed a dull mind to keep from going completely mad at the sheer lack of anything happening.

Riften’s south gate was much less busy than the north one, and so Jon had to be duller than most. He could stare at a fixed point with such intense lack of thought that he often forgot to blink. Once, his relief had taken the day off without telling anyone, and Jon stood there the entire night, next morning and afternoon until his shift that day ended, without noticing anything amiss. When the captain asked why he never reported in, Jon had merely replied that that had been a weirdly long day.

At least the view was nice. Jon spent most of his day staring out over Lake Honrich. He watched dragonflies, fish leaping out of the water, those odd lizard people going swimming--they were oddly graceful in the water--the fishing boats, giants making their way to the orc stronghold, bees wandering farther than usual from Goldenglow, a wounded werewolf walking along the path, butterflies drifting on the breeze--

Jon stopped and blinked. One of the things was wrong. But which one?

“Hello.”

His eyes refocused on the pair in front of him. One of them wore strange steel armor decorated in wolf heads, that after a moment’s agonized thought he remembered belonged to the Companions. The other was a short werewolf with swords sticking out of its back.

“Can you give us directions?” the werewolf asked.

Jon blinked. “You are a werewolf.”

The werewolf paused, and then pulled its head off to reveal a young man’s face. Jon didn’t know they could do that. “No, I’m just a traveling tradesman. See?”

A werewolf merchant? What would they think of next?

“First time visitors have to go in through the north gate,” Jon said. He’d been told there was a toll now, and Jon didn’t question it.

“That’s okay, I’m not looking to enter the city, yet,” the boy-headed wolf assured him. “We’re looking for a place called… was it Broken Helm Hollow?” he asked the Companion, who nodded.

“Where’s that?” Jon asked.

They stared at him. “I don’t know exactly, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Oh.”

Silence stretched between them. After thirty seconds, the Companion opened his mouth.

“First time visitors have to go in through the main gate.”

Oh, they were looking annoyed now. Jon knew that look, he saw it a lot. Wonder what annoyed them?

The sword on the wolf’s hip flashed and made a strange sound Jon had never heard before, and the boy-faced creature pulled it out and looked at it. It jerked in his grip, pulling him towards the hill to the south.

“What is it? You sense somethin--Really? Okay, Farkas, let’s go this way then.”

The Companion raised an eyebrow. “Your sword is doing something strange.”

“Is it supposed to do that?” Jon asked. He was ignored.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” the wolf promised. They left, following the point of the sword around the hill and behind the Keep. Jon watched them raptly until they were gone.

What interesting people, Jon thought. They were probably the third most-interesting thing he’d seen that day, after the red dragonfly. Of course, nothing could compare to that giant with the sabre cat-head codpiece…

A bee flew by his helmet, and Jon promptly forgot about his visitors completely.

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

Winterhold, the Frozen Hearth

No one in the Hearth spoke to each other. Not if they could avoid it. There wasn’t anything to talk about that they hadn’t said already. Each patron instead simply sat at their own tables and tried to pretend that the world outside their mug didn’t exist.

There wasn’t much to talk about in Winterhold, but there was an awful lot to drink over.

Dagur, the owner, stood at the counter, talking quietly with his wife Haran. Their daughter, Eirid, sat nearby, reading a book.

Ranmir, the town drunk, was miserably drinking away, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Three guards were strewn about the room, helmets off. They sat at their own tables, but close by to each other. Each of them would occasionally look up from their drinks to glare at Nelacar, a mage living full-time in the inn, as he sat across the room, fiddling with a red staff. Also watching him was a dark elf, hidden in the shadows in the corner. Whenever Nelacar looked away from his work, his watchers would suddenly find something else to pay attention to.

Despite the inn’s name, the hearth blazed away, piled high with slow-burning wood. At Dagur’s request, Nelacar had enchanted it to burn as hot as possible while consuming its fuel as slow as possible, letting it heat the inn more efficiently. The Frozen Hearth was where everyone went to get warm, which meant it was full most of the time. And yet, because everyone knew it was magic, no one wanted to sit too near it.

Dagur thought it was ridiculous, but he valued his customers(’ money) too much to say it out loud.

The door opened, letting a chill in, and every eye turned to see an unfamiliar woman walk in, slamming the door behind her. Strangers were rare in Winterhold, so no one made any attempt to hide their staring. She was blonde, with dark tanned skin. She wore no furs, opting instead for multiple layers of long coats with tattered edges. A bright red scarf wrapped around her neck, and an odd curved sword hung at her hip.

The woman sat heavily in a chair by the fire, sending it rocking back on its back legs, and then propped her feet up on the brick hearth, heedless of the heat and flame. She folded her hands behind her head and closed her eyes.

After a few minutes, she seemed to sense the eyes on her and twisted to glare at the nearest guard. “What’re you looking at?”

Everyone went back to minding their own business, and Haran approached. “Can I get you a drink, miss?”

The stranger snorted. “Miss, ha. Whatcha got?”

“Just beer, I’m afraid. But it’ll warm your belly and help you forget your troubles.”

She grunted, which Haran took as acceptance. The drink was delivered with a mumbled thanks, and silence fell upon the inn once more.

One of the guards glanced at the woman again. He leaned over to his neighbor. “Tork, what do you think of that one?”

“Hmf?” The older guard looked up, a little worse for drink, and stared at her. “...No, Itman, I know that type. Try t’flirt an’ she’ll shank ye.”

Itman shrugged. “Might be worth it. Not like there’s any placid women in Winterhold untaken.”

“Bah, what good’s a placid woman?” Tork said, rolling his eyes. “You want a proper Nord woman, son, one that can swing a hammer hard enough to fell trees. My Kjo could kick my ass any day of the week, ‘fore the ataxia got her…” His expression darkened, and he raised his mug for a refill.

Itman absorbed this. “So should I talk to her or not?”

They both looked back at the woman, who was glaring at them with hateful eyes, and they swiftly turned to face the wall again. “No, best not.”

“Agreed.”

The door opened again, and a much more familiar face walked in. Kraldar, Winterhold’s sole remaining Thane, came in and closed the door quickly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the entrance. “Good morning, all.”

There was a general muttering as his greeting was returned with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and the mood of the inn raised imperceptibly.

“Dagur, Haran!” Kraldar greeted, walking over. “How are you today? Eirid, what are you reading today?”

The girl smiled, looking up. “Cats of Skyrim!”

“Ah, I see!”

“Good to see you again, Kraldar,” Dagur said warmly. “How was your trip to Windhelm?”

“Better than I expected, worse than I hoped,” Kraldar admitted. “Ulfric wouldn’t see me. Or couldn’t, according to Stone-Fist, but I don’t know if I believe him. Stone-Fist was most disinterested in what I had to say, honestly.”

He shook his head despairingly, but his voice was still mostly chipper when he continued. “I don’t blame Jarl Ulfric for putting his own city first, but I was hoping I could get him to send more food for the winter.”

Haran clicked her teeth. “Well, I’m not surprised. We don’t have anything to contribute to the alliance, so why would he give anything first?”

The third guard, sitting on the other side of Tork, stood up quickly enough to send his chair skidding back and slammed a handful of coins on his table. He stormed outside, not bothering to close the door behind him.

“Haran,” Kraldar admonished gently, moving to close the door himself. “That’s no way to think. Ulfric is fighting a war, after all.”

“An army’s only as strong as the people supporting it,” the dark elf in the corner muttered. He was louder than he probably meant to be, and was startled when the room looked his way. “Look, all I’m saying is, if Ulfric puts too much focus on the battlefield, he’s not gonna have much kingdom left to rule when it’s all said and done.”

“With respect, I just got back from Windhelm, and I’m quite pleased to put the civil war to the back of my mind for now.” Kraldar clapped his hands together and sat down by the hearth, next to the stranger. “Anything new in Winterhold?”

Nelacar looked up from his work and pointed his staff at the wall. A green mist built up on the tip, then popped like a firecracker as the spell fizzled.

“Oy!” Dagur barked. “Nelacar, I told you, keep the experiments in your room!”

“It’s fine, Dagur, really. It’s a fear spell, even if it goes wrong it shouldn’t cause any harm.”

“That’s what you said about the ‘healing’ spell, elf,” Itman spat. “Gjogni is still walking with a limp.”

“Well he shouldn’t have moved so much while I was working.”

“So no news, then,” Kraldar surmised. He turned to his neighbor, eyebrows raised. “And who might you be, friend? I’ve not seen you around Winterhold before.”

The woman cracked one eye open. She looked him up and down, then grunted. “...Tetra. Just passing through.”

“Well, welcome to our lovely city, then.” He clapped an arm on her back, and Tetra flailed somewhat as she lost her balance and her chair fell back onto all four feet. “Oh, sorry.”

She brushed his arm off with a scowl. “Lovely city, you say?”

“Yes, I know, it’s not what it used to be. But it can get there again.”

Tork groaned. “Not this again…”

“If we just work with the College, we can--”

“It’s never going to happen, Kraldar,” Itman said harshly. “Even if they didn’t cause the Collapse, the College doesn’t care about us and never did.”

Kraldar frowned. “I’m sure that’s not true. After all, I have a close relationship with the Arch-Mage, and--”

“Talk to him recently, have you?” the dark elf drolled.

“Not recently, Malur, but he’s very busy.”

“Hn.” Malur stood and stretched. “You keep believing, then. I gotta get back before the Jarl wonders where I am.”

Tork and Itman stood as well. “Our patrol starts soon. We should head out as well.”

“Oh. Well, watch yourselves out there,” Kraldar called.

As they left, Nelacar looked up. “I appreciate your optimism, Thane, I do. But--” He stopped and shook his head. “Nevermind. Welcome home, I suppose.” And he went and returned to his room.

Ranmir slumped over, snoring, and Haran rolled her eyes. “He’s passed out again, Dagur.”

“I see that.” The couple hoisted Ranmir up, supporting him between them. “Kraldar, can you watch the place while we get him back to Birna?”

“Oh, of course.”

“We won’t be gone long,” Haran promised. “And don’t worry, Kraldar. Things will get better.”

“Good to have you back.”

“Right.” Kraldar gave them a friendly nod as they left.

The Frozen Hearth was quiet once again, only the crackling of the flames filling the air.

Kraldar frowned, staring into the fire. Eventually, he sighed. “Sometimes it seems like not even hope can survive in this frozen north.”

“Rupee for your thoughts?”

He startled, then turned to his neighbor. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I went and forgot you were even here.”

Tetra winked. “I’ve been told I can be too quiet. Now, what seems to be bothering you?”

Kraldar hesitated. “Well.”

“You can talk to me,” Tetra promised. “After all, there’s no one else here and I’ll have moved on before too long. If there’s something you’re not keen on others knowing, now’s the time to share it.” At his look, she added, “Sharing our thoughts can help us put them in order.”

“...” Kraldar shook his head. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person who actually wants Winterhold to get better.”

Tetra leaned back to get comfortable, displaying nothing but attentiveness.

“The Great Collapse ruined everything. Winterhold was once the equal of any of the great cities. We were even Skyrim’s capital, once upon a time, but now we’re not even a shadow. The only thing that keeps Winterhold on the map is the College, and even they aren’t as prestigious as they used to be. The only way--and I believe this--for Winterhold to recover is for us to embrace the mages like in the old days. But no one wants to accept it.”

Tetra nodded. “I’ve not been in Skyrim long, but I’ve noticed that most don’t have much love for mages.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” Kraldar said wistfully. “Once, Nords had a strong magic tradition. The Clever Men and their Clever Craft, they were called. The practice is all but extinct these days, but they’re still spoken of in song and legend. And yet modern Nords still look upon magic with suspicion.”

“Any particular reasons why?”

“I blame the Oblivion Crisis,” he said, not noticing the way Tetra’s expression flickered in confusion. “There was dark magic that caused that, and it scared people more than you or I can imagine. It turned many off magic in general. There’s no Nord alive today who went through the Crisis personally, but that fear lingers.”

Tetra offered him her largely untouched drink, and he accepted it readily. “I suppose I can understand that,” she mused while he drank. “Back home, we’ve had bad luck with dark sorcerers. Hardly anyone farms pigs these days.”

Kraldar stopped drinking, brow furrowed, then shrugged and accepted the statement at face value. “As you say.” He leaned back. “And truth be told, the College doesn’t make it easy to work with them. If we could just work together, I’m sure it would all work out… but Jarl Korir will never extend the hand first, and the mages so rarely leave the College.”

Tetra hummed, thinking. Then she smiled. “Well, chin up,” she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Things might pick up sooner than you think.”

He smiled. “I sure hope so.” As she stood up, he turned to look at her. “Are you staying in town long?”

“I think not,” Tetra said regretfully. “I’m a wanderer by nature. I’ll probably end up following the coast to Dawnstar next, do some fishing.”

“Really? Be careful then. The horkers get territorial this time of year.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement and gave him one last pat on the back before making her way out the door.

Kraldar watched her go, then turned back to the fire. Then he blinked when he saw Eirid standing on the other side of the hearth, looking concerned.

“Are you going to be okay, Kraldar?” the girl asked.

“Oh, lass.” He rubbed his neck, chastised. “Did you hear all of that? I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Eirid took Tetra’s vacant seat and set her book in her lap, closed. “Can you tell me more about the Clever Men?”

He looked at her in surprise, then smiled broadly. “Well, I think I might recall some stories. Perhaps you'd like to hear about Alabar the Oddly-Colored?” When she nodded, rapt, he went on. “He was one of Ysgramor’s own, and did amazing things with conjuring. Legends say he shaped a Storm Atronach into the shape of a bear to serve as Ysgramor’s steed…”