Cycle of the Serpent

It was a generous offer, but the cramped house on the river was already starting to balk at the extra visitors, and none of the three Mer wanted to be a bother to the family inside. Still, Sigrid insisted on them stopping by from time to time, and when the three assured her that they would, they headed off into town, warm air singing through the pines and caressing the river's rippling surface. A long path wound from one end of Riverwood to the other, businesses and a couple homes placed on either side, the sounds of a mill in operation filling the air. The winds blew in the sound of birds and their wings along the rustle of the high, imposing trees, only marred by the stench of smoke which clung to the Mer's clothes.

Athenath couldn't find words to break the silence. Normally, striking conversation wasn't this hard. Sure, it could be awkward, but the simple staples of where-are-you-from's and where-are-you-goings served him in their years on the roads of Cyrodiil. Still sore from the last few hours and the weight of his knapsack growing more and more tiresome, they silently prayed for someone else to start the conversation. They tried not to kick themself for not staying at Alvor and Sigrid's place. He didn't want to be a bother, and Hadvar probably needed the extra space even more than they did, and...

"Is that an inn?" Emeros broke the unsteady silence, pointing to the round sign that swung lightly from a post, its paint chipped and fading with age. Squinting, Wyndrelis read the carefully painted words, before nodding. Relief swept the Bosmer's features, barely-concealed weariness to his voice as he said, "good, we should get something to eat and sit down for a moment."

It was as though Emeros had said what was on all of their minds, his stride picking up pace as he bounded up the stairs, turning back to look at the other two elves. He motioned with his hand, the other gripping the door handle as he waved them slowly inside.

The Sleeping Giant, the name was, based on the sign Athenath barely glimpsed before he stepped into the inn, raised on a high foundation. The hall bore a long, stone hearth that stretched from one end of the room to the other, with food roasting on spits or stewing in large cauldrons. The sight of fire stopped Wyndrelis at the door, processing the sight before him before he stepped fully inside, skirting the wall. Athenath pretended not to notice, their own pulse spiked at the sight of the flames. The smell of smoke made his head hurt. Helgen was still fresh in their minds, soot smudged and staining along their clothes. Emeros looked around, and although he appeared to be making a conscious effort to relax in the warmth of the hall, the tension never quite melted off his shoulders, more apparent since he'd tucked his cowl away. The Bosmer retrieved a coinpurse from his pack carefully, peering inside to be sure everything was in order. If the guards had rifled through all of their belongings, then Athenath hoped they'd missed his own coinpurse.

The three turned their gazes in the direction of the man leaning his elbow on the counter, his relaxed demeanor furthered by the bored expression he carried. "Orgnar," came the voice of a woman emerging from an adjacent room, one hand rested on her hip. Her blonde hair, tied back so severely that her hair ribbon seemed to protest its position, rolled down her shoulders with streaks of white emerging along her temples. Her ears bore the slightest upward slant and sharpening at the tips. After no reply, she spoke up again authoritatively. "Orgnar! Are you listening?"

"Hard not to." Came the mans droning reply, dark hair mussed with strands poking out here and there from a long day, jaw unshaven. His voice said yes. His distant, glazed over eyes indicated his mind was floating away like the plumes of smoke from the hearth.

"The ale's going bad." Another pause. "Did you hear me?"

"Yep, ale's going bad."

The woman shifted her footing, arms crossed over her chest. "I guess you don't have potatoes stuck in your ears after all. Just make sure we get a new batch soon." With that, she set off in the direction of the inn's cellar. The moment he registered she'd left, Orgnar retrieved a worn, frayed cloth, dipped it in some water, and gently wiped down the counter, busying his hands as his mind continued to roam far from the room around him.

"Excuse me," Emeros chimed up, snapping Orgnar's attention to the three. The man looked each elf up and down, then with a dismissive shrug, settled on his usual sales pitch as he went back to the task at hand.

"We got food and drink. I cook. If you need a room, talk to Delphine. Ain't much more to tell."

"We're only passing through, what would a room here cost?" The Bosmer asked, the other two Mer keeping a curious distance.

Orgnar twisted in the direction of the open cellar. "Delphine, we got some guests looking to board for the night."

"That so?" Came a reply, surprise in her tone as she rose from the cellar, appearance into focus. Her eyes were a shocking, pale shade of blue, a single drop of dye in clear wax. Her dress was in the typical Nord fashion; the underdress made of a pale, thick cotton, with the woad blue outer garment nearly reaching the same length. The golden embroidery along the hem and sides of the outer garment twisted in shapes like some sort of snake, interlocking and weaving along. The hem of her sleeves, however, bore embroidery in the outer lines of an anvil, similar to the innkeeper's sleeves in Bruma, if the fuzzy memories of yesterday served the Altmer right. Something about Zenithar, if they remembered the vague comments they'd heard in their travels.

She arched her brow. She looked from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, then back again as though trying to discern their reasons for being in Riverwood. Her eyes went to their ears, then to their clothes, and the scrapes and soot decorating their figures. "So, you three need a room?"

"Rooms," Emeros stressed.

"Well, we've got one available, if you're staying the night." She ignored the barely-concealed discomfort in all of their faces at the suggestion. The years worried at her features, an ever-present tiredness in her eyes. The lines at her mouth indicated plenty of stress, yet she moved with confidence, with purpose, like she'd seen her fair share of hells and come out the other side swinging. "It's one big bed, though. If that's alright, then that'll be ten gold."

Emeros grumbled inaudibly to himself and handed over the gold. As Delphine led the group to the open doorway to the left of the counter, she made small comments about the roads being hard to travel these days, and business in Riverwood dried up as a result. Still, a level of suspicion never left her. Athenath figured that was fair, three strangers appearing in a town that barely saw even one.

For such a small inn, the room was a decent size. It was close to the bar, and the age-worn bed against the right wall was just large enough for three people if they squeezed, with heavy, green blankets and what looked like bear fur draped over them. The sturdy chest at the end of the bed looked good enough to put their belongings in, and the table against the left wall bore two chairs. That was fine, Athenath didn't intend to spend much time sitting there.

"Well, this is it." She gestured with a flat palm to the space. "I'll leave you three to rest. Oh, and a word of advice, lose the armor. This town isn't exactly decided on the war, and getting in trouble is the last thing any of you want."

With that, the innkeeper left to complain of bad ale and needing Orgnar to fry up more potatoes.

Wyndrelis sat his pack on the bed and dug through it, scrutinizing all of the items within. The day's events must have jostled everyone's things. A couple items clinked together as he rooted around in his knapsack, quietly mouthing to himself as he took a mental inventory.

"She's right," Emeros stated as he tugged against the buckles and straps of the Imperial armor the three had donned in a hurry back in the Keep, "we're strangers here. No use causing any trouble."

Athenath had almost adjusted to the feel of the armor. The leather had settled fine over their regular clothes as far as it could despite the ill fit, but it dug into their shoulders and weighed them down and made them sore. He unbuckled slowly and tossed off the leather, Wyndrelis following suit until the three had taken the gear and set it into the wardrobe pressed to the wall nearest the door. If nothing else, maybe Imperial armor could be sold for gold.

Wyndrelis returned to digging through his pack, cloak, spell scrolls, soul gems all shoved aside until he found whatever he was looking for. Tugging it out from the depths, he brought a slightly battered paper into view. Upon unfolding it, the ink on it's surface revealed a well-made map of the province of Skyrim, with a singular quill mark on Winterhold. He stretched it out on the table in the small room, the other two staring at him, bewilderment plastered on both their faces.

"Good gods, you had a map this entire time?" Emeros breathed, mouth agape, shock laced tight to his voice.

"Yes." Wyndrelis replied plainly.

"And you didn't-"

"Frankly, I didn't think we'd make it out of there alive, and I much prefer the exposition we got from traveling with our friend. I think it was helpful, don't you?"

Emeros paused, then muttered some half-annoyed agreements and took a seat at the table. Athenath sat their knapsack against it, dropping into the chair across from Emeros. Wyndrelis pulled open the chest at the foot of the bed, the creak from the old hinges making him wince as he dropped his knapsack inside. He sat atop its surface with a long and shaky exhale while his pale grey fingers rubbed the sides of his face, hanging his head low. His elbows dug into his knees, and for a moment, he shook like a wraith in the wind, tremors he tried to hide. He removed his glasses and set them aside, raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair, and drew in a few slow, cautious breaths.

Athenath looked away, giving the Dunmer all the privacy he could in the small space. They pulled their knapsack into his lap, opening it, and brought out the single item he'd been so determined to get to once Hadvar told them about the evidence chest. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden frame, the tambourine a little worn from the years, the jingles silenced by a long piece of thick cotton, dyed the same garnet red as the knapsack he'd woven between the spaces. They unwound the fabric and pulled it loose, shaking the instrument in the air, the small, silvery noises catching Emeros off-guard.

"A tambourine?" The surprise in his face from moments prior only intensified. Hands on his hips, incredulous, he watched Athenath as the Altmer thumped the instrument idly. "You broke a chest open for a tambourine?"

Athenath rolled their eyes. "It's not just a tambourine, it's my tambourine, first of all. Secondly, I'm a bard, come on, I need my tools of the trade."

"You could've broken something." Emeros' lip curled into a one-cornered frown, arms folded over his chest.

"Yeah, but I got the chest open, didn't I?"

"Keys exist."

"And so do Stormcloaks. Hadvar said more were coming our way right when I got it open, right?" Athenath offered with a smirk and a gleam in their round, dark eyes. Emeros watched him carefully with a cold expression, before relenting with a heaved sigh.

"Fine, fine." He put his hands up, in a relenting gesture, then set his elbow on the table and peered down at the map. He looked to be busying himself with studying it's geography, so Athenath turned in their chair, pressing the tips of their fingers to their collarbone, elbows spread out high and wide, an exaggerated posture.

"Well! Now that that's out of the way," he shot a smug, fleeting grin to Emeros, "as you already know, my name is Athenath Aelsinore! I'm from Cyrodiil, and one fun fact about me is I love the color red," they announced as they held up the fabric they'd unwound from their tambourine as some sort of evidence, then gestured to their garnet-dyed vest, and matching trousers. "You guys?"

Wyndrelis appeared to be nursing a headache with small rubs at his temples, so Emeros spoke. "Emeros Nightlock, of Valenwood. One fact about me, I suppose, is that I am an alchemist."

"I already figured," Athenath chided with a smirk, "what's something else about you?"

"Do you truly need to know?"

"Well, if we're going to Whiterun together, might as well get to know one another."

Emeros squeezed his eyes tight, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine. I suppose another fact about myself, is that I'm here in Skyrim to speak to an alchemist named Nurelion. He owns a shop in Windhelm, and I brought some experiments to show him," then, with a sigh, "but I doubt they'll last the journey, if it takes much longer."

Wyndrelis, finally, turned his full attention to the pair. Athenath studied his slumped posture as it gradually straightened out, the way his face always appeared half-tinted with gloom, and the ornate, silver, star-shaped buckle of his belt. The Dunmer shifted his gaze from Athenath to Emeros, gaze drifting between the other two. He appeared to have recovered from whatever had shaken through him, and now the other Mer had their eyes on him in anticipation. He caught the meaning, and spoke to clear the uncomfortable silence. "I am Wyndrelis Femer, also of Cyrodiil, and one, er... fact, about myself is that I worship Julianos."

"I thought that the Dunmer were opposed to the Aedra?" Emeros leaned his head, resting his chin now on a fist, posture relaxed.

Wyndrelis replied, "being raised in Cyrodiil, you take on different traditions. Besides, I've had many mentors who worshiped Julianos, taking him on as patron seemed fitting." The others seemed satisfied with this answer. Wyndrelis turned his eyes to Athenath, who was now fumbling with the chain of what appeared to be a necklace. They tugged it out from under their tunic, and in the day and torchlight, revealed an amulet of Mara. The Altmer turned it over, small indents on the back of the amulet catching the light, but nothing distinct. Emeros chuckled, raising his brow.

"Ah, you're one of those hopeless romantic bards, then?" He teased. Athenath rolled their eyes.

"Why yes, I am." Indignant, they pressed a hand to the amulet. Then, dropping the dramatics, laughed and ran fingers through their long, dark hair. "Well, no luck yet, but we'll see if Skyrim fairs well."

"I don't see why not," Wyndrelis shrugged, leaning back, hands pressed to the chest's cold wooden surface, "I think Skyrim could work out well for a young..."

"Man." Athenath interjected, Wyndrelis nodding.

"For a young man such as yourself." He then turned to Emeros, who appeared be thinking something over, his chin clutched in the crux of his thumb. The Bosmer pressed the tip of his index finger to the quill mark on the map, tapping it gingerly.

"Winterhold? Are you heading to the College, then?" He asked. Wyndrelis nodded.

"That was my plan, before all of... This," he gestured to the room around them, "I intend to take up my studies with the mages there."

Athenath's face brightened, smile plastering wide on their lips. "I'm heading to Solitude for the same thing! Well, not the magic part, but y'know. The studying. I'm uh, not actually that good with magic," they gave a tiny, nervous chuckle, setting their tambourine back into his pack. Emeros clicked his tongue, a mischievous grin slinking across his lips.

"Quite strange for an Altmer, then?" He joked. Athenath groaned, placing their head in their hands. Wyndrelis stifled his own laugh, palm over his mouth.

"Just about as strange as a tall Bosmer," Athenath retorted as they leaned back in their chair, toe of his boot pressed to the hard floor, slowly rocking an inch back and forth. Emeros rolled his eyes, chin raising high, arms folding over his chest.

"And what of you, then? You're terribly short."

Athenath huffed, raking fingers through the ends of his hair. Being the shortest member of their family wasn't something they enjoyed, but it hadn't bothered them too harshly. Still, the memories of their grandmother and grandfather fretting that Athenath was unwell when they were growing up nagged their mind. No, not unwell, just vertically challenged, as their old friends used to joke. At least their father came in second place at just two inches taller. It made him glad that they didn't grow up in their mom's home town in Alinor.

When they turned their attention back to the room, Emeros again resting his chin in the crux of his hand. He looked to the other two Mer, and cocked a brow. "Do either of you have any supplies? If we're going all the way to Whiterun, then we'll need to be prepared. Who knows how long the journey could take." The other two turned their attentions to him, silent.

The group realized in one single moment that they were entirely out of luck.

Athenath dug through their knapsack, pulling it into his lap, cream-colored hands pushing items away until they finally looked up, grimacing. "I think whatever I had was confiscated. And, y'know, probably eaten."

"Mine, as well," Wyndrelis noted, "perhaps we should look for a shop?"

"Well, one of us has to do something!"

"I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

The Riverwood Trader was a decently stocked shop, from the look of it, but the sound of an argument halted the trio in the doorway. An exasperated woman sat by the fire, looking up from notes she'd been jotting down. A disgruntled man stood behind the counter, hard hands resting on it's surface. Pushing the words against the air like an overloaded minecart, the exasperated woman replied, "well what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!"

"We are done talking about this!" The man pressed his hands harder to the surface of the counter. When the woman relented with a loud, dramatic exhale, he turned to the door and startled, clearing his throat. "Oh, customers," he hesitated, embarrassment hot at the tips of his ears as he murmured, "sorry you had to hear that."

Emeros waved his hand absently, as if to say it was alright, nothing to worry about. Athenath looked between the man behind the counter at the woman seated near the fire, the rouge on her cheeks blending with the flush of anger. She wrote something down with harsh quill strokes, the ink flicking onto her other hand. She didn't seem to notice. Meanwhile, the man behind the counter sorted inventory along the shelves, his hands moving in hurried motions, organizing, turning, sorting...

"Did something happen?" Emeros asked. His confident, easy stride to the counter and the curious lilt of his voice caught the Imperial off-guard, who turned to face the elf. Slowly, the man's shoulders lowered, and he stepped back to the counter, resting an elbow against it and carding his other hand through his dark hair. In the dim light of the store's hearth, the circles under his eyes drew more severe.

"Yes, we did have a bit of a... break-in. But we still have plenty to sell!" He tried to perk up, but the three Mer only stared at him.

"They stole Lucan's ornament," the woman shifted in her chair, folding her arms across her middle, "and now he's insisting he doesn't want me to go get it for him."

"Damn it, Camilla, not in front of customers-" Lucan murmured through tight-clenched teeth.

"No, I think it's high time you ask for help. You're upset about it, I'm upset about it, and if you don't ask for help, then I will go get it myself."

"Ornament?" Athenath repeated, looking up from a shelf stocked with potions.

Lucan sighed, pressing his face into his hands, elbows on the counter. After a moment of getting his breath, he nodded. "Solid gold. In the shape of a dragon's claw."

Wyndrelis, curiosity piqued, turned over an apple in his palm as he repeated, "a claw?"

"Yes. Anyways, I don't know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open, feel free to shop." He insisted. This did little to deter the strange group from the idea of the claw, but they needed supplies, and this seemed the best place to get them, all things considered. It was a long road to Whiterun, and if they were to go warn about a dragon, it would be wise to prepare. The three stood at the counter, asking about local goods, Athenath gleaning small bits of information on the town as they paid for slices of cheese and bread and wrapped the food tightly in cloth.

"So, was the claw anything important?" Athenath asked as he approached Camilla, who now silently sat, reading over some papers that she'd retrieved from behind the counter. She shook her head, occasionally giving a glance upwards as she spoke.

"No, nothing that important," she let out a slow, wistful breath, "but the shop feels kind of... Empty, without it. I'll admit," she hushed her voice, Athenath lucky to have caught the admittance, "I thought it was garish. Obvious thief-bait, but... Well, without it, the shop feels incomplete."

The bard shrugged. "We could help you get the claw back." Athenath ignored the surprise on the faces of their companions, Emeros in the process of trying to find a specific potion, his hands hovering over one that shimmered with green. Wyndrelis stood beside the bard, wincing at the idea. All the same, Lucan's face brightened at the suggestion, as though all those sleepless nights had fallen away.

"You could?" He exclaimed.

"We could?" Emeros murmured in bitter disbelief.

Lucan rested his palms to the counter's surface, continuing with a smile that crept higher up his cheeks, "I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you bring my claw back. If you're going after those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town." Then, turning his attention to his sister, he gave a satisfied, semi-mocking smirk. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"

Camilla rose from the table, returning the smirk. "Oh really? Well, I think your new helpers here need a guide. They're strangers in town, surely they won't be able to find the path up to Bleak Falls Barrow on their own."

Lucan rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up. "Oh, by the Eight, fine! But only to the edge of town."