In Pursuit - Pt. 1

Creasing his nose and squinting slightly, Idolaf Battle-Born tosses his head jerkingly from side to side, as though he were a dog getting water out of his ears. And it did feel a lot like he was under water, when all those buzzing voice around him merged together in a steady hum, which pulsed through his temples like a swelling tide, while the dense air splashed about him, heady with the smell of those blasted purple flowers that were stuffed into vases in every corner.

He felt sick, too - yes, downright seasick - back there, in that stuffy palace, where he had to bend his stiff, awkward, soldier's body at impossible angles (with these so-called 'fine clothes' pinching mercilessly at his flesh in places he did not know he had), and to spout polite nonsense, and to plaster a forced, cringing smile on his lips, bracing himself for the same polite nonsense being tossed back at him, multiplied tenfold.

He swears, this is going to be the last time he drags himself across those damned polished floors, licking the boots of those milk-drinker Thanes! He still supports the cause of the Empire with all the fire in his heart (the part of it that has not yet been put out by the drool that starts streaming from that fool Erikur's lips at the mention of gold) - but he would much rather be proving it out in the field, by shoving a newly forged blade through the gut of some rebel, than by dancing around in the so-called 'high society', trying to steal back some of his family's lost reputation.

A reputation that he himself had no hand in ruining, by the way! It is all his parents' fault - it was they who got it into their mossy old heads that getting sellswords to deal with that snooping Dunmer would be a good idea. Well, it would have been, perhaps - if the elf were not the bleeding Thane of Whiterun! Not only did he crush three of the mercenaries like bedbugs, smearing them all over the ground outside the city - he also made a point of telling the Jarl that the Battle-Borns, the proud, respectable Battle-Borns, the pillar of the hold's community, had sent hired muscle to assault him. And the Jarl, in turn, made a point of expressing his displeasure - oh, that he did. One has to admire the finesse of his Steward for keeping Dragonsreach's tableware intact.

And yes, there is also this tiny detail of the Thane being also the Dragonborn - the hero of the people, the champion of peace, the slayer of mighty beasts of legend. Daring to raise a sword arm (no matter if it was not your own) against a bloody living legend - no that is not something that will stay within the boundaries of one hold. Soon enough, they got pelleted with more expressions of displeasure, now coming from the other Jarls and noble clans. Few of them are actually fond of the Dragonborn (it is rather hard to be, him being an arrogant Dark Elf with a nasty temper) - but Idolaf can certainly understand how tempting it is to pick the side of someone who can use his Voice to crack the skies open.

From then on, it has been going from bad to worse. Father, whose pride already suffered a terrible blow when that skeeverbrain Jon ran off with the Grey-Mane girl, turned to drink, never passing a night without making a laughing stock of himself at the Bannered Mare - while Mother hit rock bottom in her pessimism and can now be seen sweeping through town like a demented Hagraven, cawing grim prophecies about war without end and how they are all doomed to be eaten alive by dragons (one night, the guards even had to throw her in jail, on the charge of 'being worse than Heimskr').

And he, Idolaf, the last remaining member of the clan who still has his head on his shoulders (there is also his wife, of course, but she has always been more interested in cattle fodder than in family honour) is forced to clean up his parents' mess, taking these tedious, insufferable trips to Solitude, seeking out audience after pointless audience in the Royal Court, and grovelling like a flea-bitten stray dog, all for a chance to influence the nobles and win back some favour for his family.

No, he's said is once, and he'll say it again - this is the last time he does this. He does not care if his parents think this is important - he is done tossing and turning in the bed they made. He is going to walk out of the city gates, catch himself a carriage, and never look back. But first - first he needs a drink. A large one.

With a deep, despondent sigh, Idolaf stops in the middle of the street, and casts a swift glance at the gigantic metal skeever that is swinging on its rusty hinges over his head. This has to be the local tavern; he remembers raising an eyebrow while passing by this ridiculous sign, but he has never been inside. Well, it is high time to fix that. With another toss of his head, Idolaf strides towards the inn's threshold - but just as he is about to enter, something small and soft and irritatingly clumsy bumps into him, making him lose balance for a moment.

Once the sky, the pavement, and the tavern wall all slide back in their proper places, Idolaf is finally able to figure out who blocks his path. Of course. A child. He has little love for this lot; blundering little nuisances, one and all. Even his own son is hardly better than the rest of the bunch - a whimpering weakling with his head in the clouds, utterly unable to cope with real-world  problems. His brother, too, was a downright brat when growing up. How these critters manage to turn into proper men and women is beyond him.

Curling his lips in an angry snarl, he veers around the foolish little thing; it is a round-faced, dark-haired Imperial girl, who is now crawling about on all fours, picking up the contents of her bag, which spilled across the pavement when she pushed against Idolaf. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of some of the things she is groping around for. A sliver of frayed rope, a sharpened stick, a few polished pebbles, and what looks like a kitchen knife. Idolaf does not give these knick-knacks much thought; in a few moments, he would have likely completely forgotten about them, and the girl too, passing inside and yelling for a drink like he intended to - if only fate did not rule differently.

He is already hovering in the doorway, an even flush spreading across his face as the warm, mead-scented air comes rushing out from the inside, mixing with the nippy breath of an autumn evening - when suddenly, somewhere behind his back, a voice speaks, slow, languid and velvety-deep; a voice that he only heard once or twice before but would recognize anywhere,

'Why hello there, Minette... Let me help you with these. Only kindly don't get in the way - if you fidget like this, you will only slow things down, and I am in a bit of a hurry'.

Idolaf freezes, his hand still resting on the half-open door, and slants his eyes to make out who is speaking. His suspicions are confirmed; it is the fourth mercenary that his parents hired on that ill-fated day. A Dark Elven woman, whose body was never found after the skirmish, and whose fate the Thane never deigned to reveal. Idolaf has always suspected that she fled the hold, never keeping up her end of the bargain with Father - and now he can see that while on the run, she has done quite well for herself.

Instead of the battered, weather-beaten leather armour he would always see her in when she lived in Whiterun, she is wearing a fur-adorned jerkin of the finest cut, which fits so tightly around her body, the chest especially, that it is quite a miracle how she can bend down, helping the girl gather her belongings. She has definitely grown more... corpulent since the last time Idolaf saw her; he thinks he can see the pouch of her stomach bulging slightly underneath her loose, Redguard-style trousers, which have a pair of finely crafted blades strapped to them - pure ebony, as far as he can tell. While back in Whiterun, she used to wield two iron swords - it must have cost her quite a lot of gold to have these new toys crafted for her... not to mention feed that gut of hers. The runaway elf has obviously been rolling in money; while his family, the ones that gave her this contract, have been losing their wealth, their standing, their...

Idolaf breathes in heavily through his nostrils, a vein pulsing in his neck - in the grasp of an invisible red-hot collar. Deep down, he knows that he can hardly blame this woman for what happened to his family; he knows that his mother and father brought this upon themselves with their ridiculous scheming - but he cannot help himself. Watching her, as she scoops up that odd pile of rubbish and hands it back to the girl, seemingly oblivious to his presence... Watching her talk and smile, with that bright, happy glow in her eyes... So fat and well-dressed and full of herself... Gods, it makes his blood boil! It makes him want to step out of the shadows, and grab her by the front of her fancy jacket, and keep tightening his grip till her stupid, smug face first grows red and then, in a rush of ebbing tide, turns ghastly white, her head drooping down listlessly onto the pillow of her impossibly oversized breasts... All right, he admits it: that last bit is utterly ludicrous - but the realization does nothing to make his anger scorch him any less.

In the meanwhile, the woman keeps talking to the child, straightening up with a small huff.

'That is quite an assortment of paraphernalia you have there, little one'.

'What's para-fee-neyla?' the girl asks eagerly, adjusting the bag's strap on her shoulder.

Knowing how pesky children are, this is going to be a long conversation.

Idolaf steps away from the door, lest someone suddenly opens it and he receives a bang on his head, and, concealing himself in the shadows behind a stack of empty spiced wine crates, prepares to listen. He is not quite certain why he is doing this, but there is something deep within him that makes him want to stay. To keep watching. To keep listening. To keep nurturing that bitter feeling inside his chest till it burns a hole through the front of his cuirass. To keep hating the elf - more and more with every word she says, no matter how innocent it may sound.

While he is brooding and seething in the darkness, the Dunmer and the girl go on talking. Jerking her shoulder in a vague shrug, the woman answers the little thing's question,

'Oh, you know, this and that, odds and ends...'

'Why is it called like that?' the child persists, cocking her head to the side and bobbing up and down on tiptoe.

Suddenly, Idolaf is reminded of just how annoying it is when a little squirt like this one keeps nagging at you with nonsensical whys and whats and whens. Fortunately, he has schooled his Lars well; a few nights without supper have proved wonderfully effective, and now the boy knows better than to speak unless he is spoken to.

The Dunmer, however, seems far less irritated than Idolaf would have been in her shoes (which, inexplicably, makes him loathe her even more). All she does is pat the girl gently in the top of the head and say, through a good-natured chuckle,

'Ah, I would love to try and explain, but... I really, really can't stay. I must get away from town before... certain people catch up with me'.

But, being the bothersome little thing that she is, the girl does not let her go. Instead, she grabs the adult by the hands and looks up into her face, her eyes bulging with excitement.

'Oooh, oooh!' she breathes. 'You can come with me! I was going on an adventure! To battle the Twinkling Lady!'

The Dunmer's angular eyebrows glide upwards.

'The Twinkling Lady?' she echoes, her voice both amused and curious. 'That sounds quite harmless. Not someone to take battle to, I am sure'.

The girl shakes her head with such deliberate force that it soon becomes a large blonde blur.

'Na-uh! My Papa warns everyone who comes to his inn not to cross her, ever since a poor, poor kitty came in one night, and told him all about how she attacked him on his way here! She is really dangerous!'

Here, the child lowers her voice dramatically.

'Papa says the kitty said she is all white and glowy and ghostly - and...'

The girl rolls up her eyes, evidently trying to remember her father's exact words, and blurts out,

'She lurks in the dusk at the roadside, and lures travellers to their deaths! The Jarl even put a booty on her!'

The Dunmer snorts into her fist; even Idolaf, quite in spite of his seething rage, has to muster all his strength in order not to laugh out loud and draw attention to himself.

'It's pronounced "bounty", Minette,' the woman says, after a short while, 'You spend far too much time around that brother of yours. But - '  

Her eyes light up even brighter than before, looking as though someone has sprinkled a handful of ground glass dust over them; Idolaf smirks maliciously at his own mental comparison, imagining how it must hurt.

'But... a bounty hunt does sound like an adventure'.

'Yay! You are coming with me!' the child sings, sweeping down the path to the city gate in a joyful dance.

The woman trots in her wake, her gait oddly awkward; when she catches up with the girl, she says, barely visible gusts of vapour gushing out of her mouth,

'Actually... I think it would be best if I looked into this alone. Look at your bag - do you really think a couple of rocks and sticks can finish off that... Twinkling Lady?'

'I am pretty good at throwing rocks, you know,' the girl replies, pushing her lower lip forward in an offended pout. 'And besides, that's not fair! I was the one who told you about the Twinkling Lady! This was supposed to be my adventure!'

'No offence, little one,' the woman cuts her short. 'But I am a true master of my craft; and a master is most comfortable when he or she works with no-one getting in the way and casting their shadow on the canvas. I have to thank you for pointing me to this opportunity - and ask you to kindly let me hunt for the Lady on my own. But - ' she adds, with a flicker of a smile suddenly touching her lips, as she sees that the girl is about to object, 'But if you want an adventure, how about this one: like I said, there are some people after me. A man and a mer; you will recognize them when you see them. If they ask you where I went, can you spin a story that would put them off my trail, at least for a while?'

The girl clasps her hands on her chest, instantly forgetting all about her failed ghost hunt. Gods, children have the attention span of a squirrel, don't they?..

'Like in a book about cloaks and daggers and things?' she chirps excitedly. 'I can do this! I can make sure they never, ever find you!'

'Good lass,' the Dunmer nods. 'And when I get back, I will tell you all about my encounter with the Twinkling Lady... Maybe even teach you some swordplay, too'.

With that, they part ways; the Dunmer walks on towards the gates, while the little human waltzes off in the opposite direction, the bag with 'para-fee-neyla' thudding against her hip as she skips high into the air at every step she makes.

And Idolaf remains standing in the shadows, unsure what to do next. Hissing like two serpents, two equally dark, malevolent thoughts slither against the back of his skull, each struggling to ensnare his mind completely. One is to follow the woman out into the wilds and confront her without any witnesses, somewhere where her cries for help will not be heard. Another is to seek out those mysterious 'man and mer' before the little girl does, and point them to their quarry; for he is pretty certain that whatever they plan to do with the Dunmer, it is going to be something very unpleasant - rising from rags to riches as she did, she was bound to have made some enemies.

In the end, the first serpent wins, succeeding in plunging its fangs deep into Idolaf's brain, its venom completely drowning out the last whimpering cries of the voice of reason, which has been making faltering attempts to talk him into forgetting about this blasted elf and heading home.

Yes. Oh yes. He shall tail her, and when they are alone, make her pay for what happened to his family. Unlike that annoying child, he has no idea what the woman's pursuers look like - not to mention he is not too keen on letting others settle their score before he settles his. This is a far, far better plan - even though he risks running into that 'Twinkling Lady'...

But then, who knows - maybe that story was just pointless blabber of a milk-drinking little brat. The Twinkling Lady may not even be real - but the bloody Dark Elf is. And so is the wrong she did to his clan (for, without even noticing it, the young Nord has already promoted the Dunmer to arch-villain in the tale of his parents' downfall). And that wrong shall be avenged.

Squaring his shoulders and passing his tongue over his parted, leering lips, Idolaf steps out of his hiding place and marches off into the dusk.