'Well, here we are. Impressive, isn't it?'

The carriage driver had asked the local stable master to take care of his horse while he was seeing the healers at the temple. The big, bearded Nord had readily agreed, squinting in slight alarm at the Redguard-turban-like construst that adorned his kinsman's head. These makeshift bandages had been provided by me... Or rather, my mother back home in Falkreath: she, for some reason, had thought that it would be a brilliant idea for me to take along an entire trove of handkerchiefs on my travels (not that I had particularly minded: all the more packing material to conceal my secret stash of leather scraps).

Beturbaned thusly (my story may not be quite in the same league  with Delacourt's heroic tales of yore, but I shall still keep trying to do my best), the driver had just finished giving the good beast another portion of reassuring pats on the neck, as a sort of a promise that he would not be gone long. And, with the horse and carriage having been seen to, we set out up the broad paved road that wound along the rocky slopes of a tall hill, crossing a couple of sparkling little creeks along the way, and eventually leading up to an unbelievably massive wooden construct. The Whiterun city gate.

My fellow traveller was more than right to call it impressive. It was completely unlike anything I had ever seen before in my life. Falkreath barely had any defenses to speak of - just a rickety old watchtower, which was leisurely patrolled by yawning guards, whose greatest concern was the sighting of some wild dog near the city. But this - this bulk of reinforced wood, with wrought iron hinges as big as my head... It almost gave me vertigo (that's the right word, isn't it?) just to look over the thing top to bottom! And the thought of what this gate might conceal beyond it - oh, it made my head spin with giddy excitement! I could hardly contain myself, and even did a little dance on the spot while the city guardsmen were opening the gates for us. After a few moments - which, in my impatience, seemed to me like an excruciating eternity - the enormous gate swung open, and I caught my first glimpse of the legendary home of the Companions.

It was already dusk, and to ward off the evening gloom that was creeping up on the city, huge braziers had been lit up on either side of the broad cobbled street that spread out before me. The bright golden glow of these crackling fires, combined with the soft glimmer of the houses' windows, created a wondrous, magical feeling, and the flickers of rich, warm colour contrasted with the deep, impossibly clear (at least, in the eyes of someone who was used to the perpetual fog of Falkreath) blue of the sky, painting a precious picture that took my breath away.

The carriage driver seemed to know where we were supposed to be heading, as he gave me a small nudge and pointed somewhere towards the horizon, where, rising tall over the ornately carved wooden roofs of the houses, there stood a mighty tree. Its branches were barren, despite the harvest season being just around the corner - but even so, they remained enchantingly beautiful, for their dark outlines traced an intricate, lace-like pattern against the pale pink and silver faces of the rising moons.

'See that thing over there?' my travelling companion commented, while I hastened to swallow the drool that my mouth had rapidly started to fill up with at the sight of the surrounding splendour. 'That would be the Gildergreen. And where's the Gildergreen, there's the Temple of Kyne... Or Kynareth, as them Imperial types call it -'

He cut himself short and cleared his throat uncomfortably. I tried my beat to ease his anxiety with a genial smile. I had done my homework for Delacourt well enough to know that the Nords had more than enough reasons to dislike my people, especially now - but at the same time, I knew that soon enough, thanks to my epic deeds in the ranks of the Companions, the locals would realize that we Imperials could be so much more than 'sleazy politician milk-drinkers'.

'I know you did not mean it,' I said, in a quiet, polite tone. Then, I paused, suddenly hit by an awkward realization, which also made me clear my throat, with an even louder grating noise than the driver.

Too absorbed by my life-changing journey - from the fateful departure to besting a wild beast in thrilling combat and then entering the city of my dreams for the first time - I had never thought to ask the carriage driver's name. And I was not quite certain if the Companions would approve of this sort of behaviour: after all, I had stood side by side with him while dealing with that bear, and even dressed his wounds... such as they were. This sort of battlefield bonding definitely demanded respect! But I had been too busy gushing over my own amazing skills to think of that! Way to go, I declared sarcastically inside my mind - further proving the stereotype of a disdainful, arrogant Imperial!

Thankfully, if there was some sort of code governing situations like this, the driver promptly saved me from breaking it any further, by finally introducing himself,

'Gunjar. The name is Gunjar, lass'.

I eagerly shook the hand he had extended, and said in return,

'Ria! Let's go get you to that temple, then!'

Walking along the streets of Whiterun was like crossing a heaving, boundless sea of sounds and smells, some of which were completely new to me, while others, though familiar, seemed different somehow, more intense, more... exhilarating! From the hum of voices that filled the market square, to the punctuated melody of a blacksmith's hammer striking against the heated metal; from the tempting lure of roasting meat to the fresh smell of grass that was planted alongside the road; from the mooing and bleating of a herd coming home somewhere in the farmlands beyond the city walls, to the hoarse cries of what sounded like a very agitated street preacher; from the dry, sneeze-inducing cloud of dust that rose around the children that were rushing by one after the other like little whirlwinds, to the poignant whiff of tanned leather; from the jingling of coins and pretty baubles that changed hands at the stall of an old woman in a neat white cap, to slurred snatches of a drunken song coming from the tavern - it was all exciting beyond measure, all worth being soaked up and then savoured, as though the sights of this glorious city were a jar of honey that I was picking clean with a slice of bread. If Delacourt had decided to come along and cut my hair here in Whiterun, even that monotonous clicking of his scissors would have mesmerized me like finest music.

The whirlpool of impressions sucked me in even deeper when Gunjar and I entered the Temple of Kynareth. While the priestess - a stern middle-aged woman in a bright orange robe - was examining the good carriage driver's bald head and weaving the tingling threads of healing magic over his scratches, I stumbled about, my jaw dangling somewhere far below my reach, and marvelled at the beauty of the spacious building. Just like the city outside, the temple captivated me - with everything that I could possibly lay my eyes on. With its tiled floor, which shimmered slightly through the thin layer of (perhaps magic-infused) water; with the twisting, knot-like patterns adorning the thick oaken columns that supported its fall ceiling; and with the soothing blue light that filled it from within.

Once again, I began to neglect my fellow traveller (whom I myself had insisted on accompanying!). He seemed to be talking about something to the priestess: at first, she had tried to refuse to treat him.

'I have injured soldiers coming in from the battlefronts by the hour,' she had groused, strutting back and forth around the temple and going about whatever priestessy business she was up to (apparently, it involved distributing phials with potions among the sickly-looking people that were lying on narrow beds along the temple's walls).

'I don't have time for some random lumberjack that has scratched his head!'

Then, Gunjar had taken to explaining to her that he was not, in fact, a lumberjack, and that he had been scratched by a bear infected with Bonebreak Fever. After that, the priestess had changed her tone, and pulled off the handkerchief turban to examine the claw marks... And then, I completely lost track of their conversation, distracted by the magnificent play of light and shadow in the corner where I stood. Even the other patients of the priestess seemed beautiful to me, their silhouettes outlined in velvety black, soft, pearly grey, and bright blue... Which, in hindsight, does not seem like a very compassionate, or rational, thought to have; but on that day, I was easily fascinated by everything.

My reverie did not last too long, though. I was in the middle of gazing at the slow, entrancing dance of the dust speck in a light beam that travelled down to one of the beds, washing over the face of a woman that lay there, making her lips part in a fluttering smile that inexplicably warmed my heart. And then, the temple door suddenly creaked open and then slammed loudly, making me start and blink rapidly, as though I had just been woken up from deep slumber. The priestess, too, stopped casting her healing spell and stepped away from Gunjar, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows.

'You again,' she said through her teeth, folding her arms on her chest and looking like she could, at any moment, easily forsake the peaceful teachings of her goddess and switch from the Restoration school of magic to Destruction - just to burn off the face of the man who had just come in.

This stranger, at first glance, did not strike me as a very likeable person. And it was not just his sizeable beer belly, which rippled slightly underneath the yellow guardsman's tunic; or the fact that his hair grew in about the same pattern as patches of mildew and moss on a rock: I certainly knew better than to judge him solely by that, having read more than a fair share stories of heroes with unattractive looks and a heart of a gold. No, it was something about his expression and the way he carried himself... I could not quite put my finger on it, but somehow it did not seem too surprising to me that the priestess was unwelcoming towards her new guests.

This unpleasant first impression only grew stronger when the man began to speak, his eyes darting back and forth around the room, as though he was estimating how much the temple would be worth if auctioned off. And when one of the patients suddenly broke into a dry, quiet, almost sob-like cough, the stranger curled his lips in distaste, as if he had just stepped into something smelly.

'Still no pilgrims, I see?' he remarked, with a disapproving click of his tongue. 'You are beginning to fail at your job, Danica! You know that pilgrims are good for the city's coffers! Unlike these... wretches you have dragged in here'.

'And what's good for the city's coffers is good for your fat old coinpurse,' the priestess concluded his reasoning for him, her voice dripping with so much venom that I shuddered slightly.

Buy even though her tone unsettled me, I still felt more sympathetic towards her than the pot-bellied stranger - because the man did not make any effort to deny what the priestess had just said.

On the contrary, his lips spread out in an... oily sort of smile. Yes, oily would be the right word for it. Or greasy. I had seen this sort of smile in the faces of people who were seated at the dinner table, staring at a plump stuffed rabbit with potatoes and greens... Or in the faces of slightly (or more than slightly) tipsy men who attempted to waggle their eyebrows at my mother, only to get shoved out of the inn by a broom-wielding Delacourt.

In the meanwhile, the owner of that oily smile talked on, with an air of utmost importance about him.

'It is only right for a man who has done so much for this city to have his needs seen to,' he intoned,  'I more than deserve a little quid pro quo... Especially if it involves the various comforts money can buy!'

Danica pursed her lips.

'Well, I can't help you there, Caius,' she said dryly. 'As you can see, my current job is to heal the ailing, not line your pockets with more gold. And we won't be getting more of those coffer-filling pilgrims any time soon, either, as long as the Gildergreen is withered. If you actually cared about this city, you would have dispatched a couple of your useless guards to search for the sapling of the Gildergreen's mother tree!'

At least, I think that this was how the dialogue went. For as soon as that little old Cyrodiilic phrase, 'quid pro quo', crept in, followed by the mention of the name 'Caius', I felt a stifling wave of heat push its way up my throat, my cheeks flushing.

So this - this cocky, self-centered, and apparently pretty callous interloper, who had barged in at the temple to bother the priestess and sneer at her charges because he wanted pilgrims to bring him more gold... Was my father? This was the man who was supposed to take me in, welcome me to the city, perhaps (as I had naïvely thought to myself) even help me get started as one of the Companions? Dear gods, he had turned out to be nothing like the person I had wanted to see!

Even if he was a former mercenary that had earned money 'slicing up people', and I was an aspiring heir of the great Ysgramor (more or less), I had still expected to find a kindred spirit in Caius, someone who would sing praise to me for deciding to live out the dream of being a great warrior. But instead, I could only see a portly, preening rooster, who was interested in coffers and comforts rather than glorious quests; and I was not even certain how to go about introducing myself to him any longer! Did I even have to? Was it even worth it? Why did he even invite me and my mother here - so he could parade around in front of us, chest puffed up?

'Commander Caius! Commander Caius! I was hoping I would find you in here!'

The door of the temple made a huge bang again, making a few of the priestess' patients struggle to lift their heads to see what was going on. Another unexpected visitor had just burst in.

Unlike the perfectly content, puffed-up Caius, who strolled about at a relaxed pace that kind of reminded me of the guards back home (maybe laziness was a common disease in their ranks?), this man, dressed in a lopsided brown tunic, looked like he had run the whole way here to say something urgent. His tanned, weather-worn face was flooded with burning colour, perspiration streaming down his temples, and his mouth was twisted into a wobbly, loopy shape, as he attempted to inhale huge gulps of air and speak at the same time.

'My farm!' he spluttered, staggering forward and attempting to grab Caius by the hand for support (naturally, the other man recoiled in distaste, evading the grasp of the shaking, clammy fingers).

'There's a giant... Trampling up my farm! My ca-cabbages! I tried to get the guards to do something... But they all just ra-ran away! I - I remembered you doing in-inspections of the Temple - and I ran... To you! Please... Can you make them... Go out there and kill the thing?! Lead them... to battle... or something...'

With this desperate, wheezing plea, he finally managed to close his grip round the ornate straps that attached Caius' sheathed sword to his belt. With the man's entire weight pulling them down, the straps ripped in two, and the weapon thunked down the temple's floor.

Caius did not seem to notice this, however, as he was too busy shaking the sweating petitioner off.

'Severio, my good man!' he said loudly, with a little nervous laugh breaking through, as he was backtracking from the hapless farmer. 'I know that you like our little evening card games at the Bannered Mare - which I am only too happy to take part in, as the presence of such an outstanding individual as myself gives moral support to you, and Arcadia, and other Imperials living amongst Nord barbarians...' (I did not even have to turn my head to imagine the way Danica must have glared at the man).

'... But pray do not take advantage of our friendship to make me do the impossible! If my boys choose to run from the giant of yours, they have good reason to, and...'

He blabbered on and on, but I could not bring myself to listen to him any longer. Especially since, during the scuffle with Severio, Caius had inadvertantly kicked the sword even further away from himself - and, sliding across the tiled floor, it had knocked softly against my feet.

Blinking a few times, I slowly leaned down to pick up the sheathed blade, while my heart was fluttering inside my chest like an enormous cloud of butterflies. According to every single legend that I had read, a true warrior would never let his weapon slip away so easily; Caius obviously did not care a whit about his own sword... Perhaps it would fare better if wielded by someone else?

I tentatively closed the fingers of one hand around the sword's hilt, while stroking the leather of the sheath with another. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I was committing my very first petty crime (if you did not count sneaking into the sweetmeats cupboard to loot some honey but treats). But I quickly dismissed all my doubts.

I was not really stealing the sword, I told myself as I plastered myself against the wall and made my way stealthily towards the door. As far as I could tell, the only person who noticed my sneaky antics was the sickly woman - and my over-the-top Morag-Tong-like moves brought another faltering smile to her lips.

I was not stealing the sword, I repeated, having finally slipped outside. I was borrowing it. From someone who was not even aware of it being gone. And unlike Caius, I was actually going to put that weapon to good use! I was going to get out there, find that farm, and slay the giant! I was going to be the perfect young heroine, wielding my father's blade into battle!

In a manner of speaking.