Nobody Expects...

Ho-ho, hee-hee,
Break the lute across my kneeeeeeeeee!

The short, red-haired Imperial man in a jester's motley - which had obviously seen better days - whirled round on one spot, dancing to a tune only he could hear, the gilded tips of his boots drawing wild patterns on the dusty floor.

His right-hand neighbour, a rather pale, scarred Bosmer with sharp, angular features and a dark-purple line running across his lips, let out an exasperated sigh.

'Cicero, please,' he muttered wearily, rubbing his temples, 'If you insist on tagging along, can you at least be quiet?!'

The jester stopped his dancing and stuck his thumbs under his belt, his lower lip pushed forward in an offended grimace. 'That was Cicero being quiet!'

The woman standing in front of the two, an Imperial with dark-brown hair in a loose ponytail and curious markings on her face, turned back and gave the Bosmer a sympathetic smile.

'I can feel your pain!' she said with a meaningful nod. 'Last time I went to one of these inspection things, they said I had to bring my horse - and the beast just wouldn't stop singing! I had to stuff its mouth full of apples to make it shut up!'

The Bosmer's eyes lit up with a bright yellow flame; he let the corners of his lips slide up, exposing the tips of very sharp teeth, and whispered dreamily, 'Apples... Of course...'

Standing on tiptoe, he glanced up and down the endless line of waiting people, somewhere in the middle of which he, the jester and the owner of the singing horse stood, tiny grains among mounds of sand... It did not take him long to locate the person he had been looking for - a dark-scaled Argonian in a hooded robe... The fellow rather stood out among all the others, after all - mostly because there was a ghostly man in a robe very similar to his (barring the fact that it was blue and glowing) floating a few inches above ground right next to him, something rather resembling a red and fluffy piece of string protruding out of his mouth. Having caught the Argonian's eye, the Bosmer waved his hand energetically and called out,

'Hey KaNack! Can I borrow Apple for a moment?'

'Well, I don't know...' the Argonian replied in a deliberately slow voice, thoughtfully scratching the spikes over his left eye.

The ghost did not let him finish. Thrusting his hand into his mouth, he tugged violently at the strange red-and-fluffy-string-like something; it turned out to be the tail of a tiny kitten, which the ghost proceeded to toss over to the Bosmer without giving it a second glance. The kitten landed safely in the Bosmer's outstretched hands and looked up at its new surroundings with a small questioning meow; it appeared unharmed, save for a few smears of ectoplasm on its furry coat.

'There!' the ghost cried, wiping his mouth with the back of his see-through hand. 'You can keep it! I am so tired of being forced into this ludicrous comic relief role!'

KaNack eyed his ethereal companion in alarm.

'Sup, buddy?' he asked, his fingers twitching slightly as if he had intended to pat the ghost on the shoulder but then thought better of it. 'You aren't yourself; haven't been ever since we joined this stupid queue'.

The ghost hovered for a while - in both senses - and then, burying his face in his hands, said shakily,

'My son... I mean, one of my hypothetical fan-created sons... He is Dragonborn, so he has to be here somewhere... I am... I am afraid they might do something to him... You know...' he looked up at KaNack, his bluish face twisted with anxiety, 'He mother is a Dunmer. He has taken after me instead of her...And before you make any smart remarks, no, I don't mean he is transparent. I mean he looks human... while... he should...'

The Argonian made a small grimace.

'This is gonna hurt'.

After those words sank in, even Cicero fell silent... at least for a while.




It was a dreary place, that hall. Grey walls lined with identical-looking bookcases. Thick, oppressive concrete ceiling. And dust, dust everywhere, covering the floor in a thick, soft carpet, coating the countless tomes on the bookshelves, hanging, veil-like, in the air... At the farthest end of the hall stood several massive, imposing desks of dark wood, powdered with dust like everything else and buried under reams and reams of paper folders, which formed tall, toppling towers. From among those towers, like the inhabitants of some ancient, half-abandoned fortress, peered robed, hooded, faceless figures... the great and powerful inquisitors entrusted with interviewing all of those who stood lined up in front their desks, under the watchful eyes of a couple of dozen other inquisitors, who glared at them from their guard posts between the bookcases. And just like the furniture in the hall, all of them looked absolutely the same. Same grey robes concealing every inch of their body. Same height, same stature, same voices... low, raspy voices that made one assume that the inquisitors were male... but one could never be sure.

Now, their victims, on the other hand, all those silently scrutinized, meticulously interrogated people - they were all as different as can be, almost literally of every shape and size. All of them (with the exception of a few tag-alongs, like Cicero and the ghost) were player characters from the Elder Scrolls games, and the inquisitors were to check their case files, probing, weighing, judging, determining how much in their biographies contradicted the established gameplay strategies and the arcane lore locked within the ever so many bookcases. The inspection was compulsory, the penalties were severe, and the inquisitors were ever-vigilant. Very few emerged unscathed.

So, of course, it was no wonder that very few conversations started in those endless queues were light-hearted and carefree, and that very few faces were lit up with a smile. Most of the characters looked worried, like the ghost, or worn-out, like Cicero's Bosmeri jester-sitter, who was mentally cursing the day when he had first come up with the idea to pilfer the Signs of Talos Worship right from under good old Heimskr's nose... Or nervous, like the jester-sitter's kinsman, a feisty-looking fellow with a messy mane of hair, what looked like about a dozen rows of teeth, and an uncannily long tongue, which he had stuck out in an effort of leafing through the unwieldy volume on the Aldmeri Dominion that he was balancing on his knee; he was very particular when it came to acting according to lore, and now he was frantically checking for any trivia he might have missed... Or downright hysterical, like one summoner in the traditional Oblivion mage robes, who was clinging on tightly to her Xivilai, a giant of a creature whose lips seemed to have their corners perpetually stuck in a downward position, and wailing mournfully,

'Oh Mister Fluffy, Mister Fluffy! I am so sorry! I shouldn't have given you that necklace, or that plushie! Now they'll think you're not lore-friendly, and they'll take you away from me!'

Some were kissing whatever amulets they had on and praying to whatever number of gods they thought proper, like a fair-haired Nord girl in the traditional Companions armour; her patron Divine was Kynareth, and as she told her, over and over again, she had never, not once, worn the traditional Dovahkiin horned helmet - something that was sure to invoke the wrath of the inquisitors... Some, on the other hand, were trying to put on a look of forced bravado, like two Altmer warriors standing side by side or an Orcish thief rocking back and forth on her heels a little way behind them, all three bracing themselves for the whip lashings they were sure to get for going against their races' class preferences... And some were behaving in quite a different, most astounding fashion.

Two queues to the left of the anxious ghost, right in front of a Khajiit rogue rehearsing a monologue on how her Imperial-sounding name was perfectly justified, with another Khajiit in green-and-blue robes listening to her intently, stood a small group of women of every race imaginable; amongst them, there was a voluptuous Bosmer with flowing mahogany hair, a slender almond-eyed Dunmer, and a young beauty with finely chiseled features who looked as if she had a share of Nord blood in her. They were all wearing identical white short-sleeved shirts with bold, vivid writing stamped right across their bosoms,

'WIFE OF CICERO'

The apparent leader of this strange little circle was an Imperial with a thick braid of sleek black hair, which she tossed aside impatiently every now and then while giving the rest a pep talk.

'They will say he is not romanceable! They will say he is crazy! They will say he only cares about the Night Mother! Well, let them say it! Let them accuse us of breaking the lore! Let them drag us off to the pillory! We shall stay true to ourselves! We shall stand by our beloved homicidal maniac of a jester! Am I right or am I right?!'

'You are right, Hecate!' the other women bellowed in reply, shaking their fists in the air. 'The wives of Cicero stand firm!'

Their cries rang loud and clear, making quite a few waiting characters turn their heads in bewilderment. The jester himself puffed out his chest and strode a few paces back and forth along his queue, his hands on his hips, waggling his eyebrows. Meanwhile, somewhere far ahead, a kindly-looking, round-faced Bosmer woman gave a quiet Breton girl next to her an encouraging prod in the ribs.

'Hear that, sweetheart?' she asked, her green eyes twinkling. 'You shouldn't be afraid of some silly lore inquisitors! I've heard your life's story - you should be proud of yourself! And that pride will make you strong! Remember that fellow they locked away because he didn't become Sheogorath after the Oblivion crisis was over? How he walked with his head up high, because Akatosh had given him a gift of eternal life so he could come and aid the people of Tamriel two hundred years later? Nothing those inquisitors could do would scare him into submission! Now, you can be just like that if you want to!'

'B-but...' the Breton muttered, staring down at her fingernails, 'I am a necromancer... The player character is not supposed to be a necromancer...'

'Fiddlesticks!' the Bosmer grinned at her. 'Don't you talk about yourself this way! Do you know why we are all lore-breakers? Because we have the most fascinating stories! Just think about that when they give you a thrashing, or stuff you inside a barrelful of slop, or make you stand there and say some ridiculous apology over and over... will you hon?'

The girl shuddered. 'That doesn't sound very tempting'.

This prompted yet another prod in the ribs.

'Just try and think positive, is all! That's what I always taught my girl!'

'Your girl?' the Breton inquired politely; the Bosmer's manner was a bit too vivacious for her liking, but she needed someone to keep her distracted from mental images of slop.

'Well, she is not my girl as in my girl; I adopted her when she was a toddler... She has to be in one of these queues...' the Bosmer glanced around, craning her neck in an effort to catch sight of a familiar face. 'Give a holler if you see her; she's a Redguard with blue eyes and white war paint. Ooh, those inquisitor chappies will sure cringe when it's her turn; she'll do me proud!'




The Bosmer's prediction turned out to be not quite accurate.

The Redguard girl she was so sure she'd be proud of stood waiting for her turn in the shadow of a broad-shouldered, shirtless Dunmer, who was contemptuously observing the inquisitor in front of him, arms folded on his rather bushy-haired chest, as the faceless figure rummaged through his case file. At length, the inquisitor looked up and asked icily,

'Are you aware that it is not allowed to be both the Dragonborn and the Nerevarine?'

'I don't see any problem,' the Dunmer answered with a small yawn, flexing his muscles idly.

The inquisitor persisted, 'The Nerevarine is supposed to have disappeared during an expedition to Akavir. Besides, it would have been unrealistic to be both a reincarnation of an ancient hero and a half-blood dragon. One of those at a time, yes; two at once, out of the question. The Dragonborn has to be a completely different person. Therefore, I declare you, Eol, to be not lore-friendly, and sentence you to...'

The Dunmer cut him short.

'And I declare you a filthy n'wah,' he said pleasantly, bending forward and closing his fingers in round the inquisitor's throat.

It took several other inquisitors to tear Eol away from their fellow and snap shackles onto him; the stunned characters in the queues looked on with baited breath; a few reached instinctively towards their weapons... but then remembered, to their frustration, that you had to enter the inquisition hall unarmed, and that the place magicka-draining runes branded into every inch of it... At length, they somehow managed to subdue him and drag him off through the door behind the desks, which led outside to where sentences were carried out - 'twas a lifeless, barren place, beneath an ever-clouded, lead-coloured sky, where the unfortunate lore-breakers sat slumped inside rusty cages or hung on chains from tall pillars, or splashed mirthlessly in barrels filled with the fabled slop, with obligatory vultures observing them indifferently (not that anyone died there; the birds of prey were just present for the atmosphere's sake). As he was pushed forcefully through the door into the embrace of the dreary greyness, Eol looked back one last time and called out playfully,

'I'm up for a date after this is over! Any ladies welcome!'

Which was too much not to provoke a dreamy sigh from almost every female present... even from the Wives of Cicero. The fact that Eol would, likely as not, be covered in slop when the hooded crew was done with him did not seem much of a hindrance...


Even after being ruffled up like he had been, the inquisitor still had it in him to openly gloat when the Redguard girl appeared before him next.

'Ah, you...' he said slowly, joining the tips of his fingers together. 'I do not even need to find a case file to know who you are. We have been following your progress with eager interest, young Kiara. Now, we've had to deal with outrageous repeat offences before. Singing demon horses. Playing on Novice level. Loveable Daedra. Unauthorized matchmaking among NPCs. The Thalmor selling bakery underwater as merpeople... Or was it the Thalmor feeding bakery to fish? In any case, whatever the sins of your fellow characters, your behaviour is crossing all the possible boundaries'.

The girl curtseyed mockingly, apparently barely able to contain a burst of laughter. The inquisitor ignored her.

'It has come to our attention that you do not only borrow some of your idiosyncrasies from a My Little Pony character... do not only try to achieve a completely peaceful resolution of the Civil War... do not only use your status as Thane to improve life in the respective holds instead of just cancelling fines... do not only cook produce that does not exist in-game... do not only neglect levelling strategies... do not only enter caves to 'check out the new scenery' instead of looking for loot... but you are also romancing a Thalmor'.

She flashed a pearly smile at him. 'You bet I am! It's great fun; you should try it some time. Seriously: you guys look like Elenwen's type... You'll have a blast together! And besides...' she winked slyly, 'You can help the lore by saving her from a ship, say, with Ulfric'.

The inquisitor (unlike the shirtless Dunmer perpetrator) did not seem in the mood for a blind date. Straightening himself up in his seat, he unchained his fingers and, pointing majestically at Kiara, declared in a loud, dramatic voice,

'For your crimes against the lore, you are hereby sentenced to... being burned at the stake'.

The young Redguard's eyebrows shot so high up that they almost merged with her hairline.

'Wait till my mom hears it! You guys have a sense of humour!'

The inquisitor shook his head.

'This erroneous assumption has just added up to your list of felonies. I am being serious. For lore crimes as grave as yours, this is the only appropriate penalty'.


Kiara froze, biting into her lower lip. True, the penalties were severe, but no one could have expected this... No one. Even the inquisitor at the neighbouring desk, who had been busy interrogating some Nord warrior about why he had no beard, leaned over and asked in a surprised half-whisper,

'Can we do that? Sentence people to death?'

'We can and we will,' was the reply, spoken, once again, in a very deliberate manner so that everyone would hear. 'This girl is to be burned at the stake'.


Burned at the stake. Burned at the stake.The whisper rustled through the crowd like a dead leaf carried by the wind; when it reached Kiara's adoptive mother, the scene erupted into pandemonium. With a wild, incoherent shriek, the Bosmer matron threw her arms up into the air in shock and anger, and then charged forward towards the desks, elbowing her way through the crowd, the Breton girl following her apprehensively. In the meanwhile, Kiara herself writhed and kicked, locked within the arms of two inquisitors, who were towing her relentlessly towards the fateful door.

The jester's Bosmer companion looked on, stroking the little red kitten absent-mindedly. Presently, Kiara's mother finally caught up with the inquisitors and lurched at them, aiming to pull off their hoods and scratch out whatever they had instead of eyes... but before she could do that, they pushed her aside with brute force, making her tumble down to the ground, to the dismay of the young Breton - and it was then that the good woman's pallid kinsman drew a deep breath and declared, placing the kitten on his shoulder and clenching his fists, 'That does it. It is time we stood up to them'.

'You are darn right!' the Imperial woman (the one renowned for her singing demon horse) exclaimed. 'Who needs these inspections anyway?!'

And without further ado, she proceeded to trot up to the nearest inquisitor at hand and kick him in the strategic place.

He did not as much as stir, still statue-like, still silently judgmental... Until he made a step forward, bowing his head forward in a very menacing way; although she could not see whatever face there was below that hood, she could sense his eyes burning into her flesh...

Whatever the inquisitor had intended to do with her, it is to remain a mystery for centuries to come. For just as she started frantically thinking of a strategy - which might or might have not involved grabbing Cicero and using him as a diversion - he bent in two, making as strange hissing sound, three greyish claw tips protruding out of his chest... The owner of those claws was standing behind the inquisitor's back - a terrifying winged creature, with a vaguely human-like figure and a face like that of a gigantic bat... and with a red kitten curled up cozily on its shoulder. As its eyes met the Imperial's, it said apologetically, its voice still recognizable,

'Well, it was the only thing I could think of! We can't use magic here, but Powers still work. A bit of an oversight, if you ask me... Wait a second... What is that?!'

As the two player characters looked on in astonishment, the inquisitor's robes slowly sagged down, and drooped lower and lower, till they finally folded themselves on the floor, as if there was nothing inside them. The Imperial cautiously poked them with the tip of her boot - and coughed loudly, for this movement made grey, powder-like dust whirl up out of the empty hood and sleeves.

'Dust...' the creature whispered slowly. 'They are made of dust...'

'Well then', the Imperial said, grinning (in an ever so slightly insane way). 'Let's kick some dusty butt!'



Very soon, the great grey hall turned into one vast battlefield. All the vampires and werewolves present followed the fine example of the scarred Bosmer and took on their bestial forms; the rest had to make do with their own fists and teeth (which was perfectly fine, as far as some of them were concerned) and with an occasional chair leg. The inquisitors were refusing to give in; more of them seemed to be pouring in out of nowhere; and the two living waves - the dreary grey one and the vivid, many-coloured one - clashed together like in a wildest tempest; every now and then, some debris was tossed out of the great writhing whirlpool - an empty robe with dust trickling out of its sleeves. But there were times, too, when the waves tossed out a player character, bruised and exhausted but determined to stand up, legs wobbling slightly, and to dive in again. Once one of the castaways turned out to be the jester; his hat was missing, and his motley was completely askew; moaning quietly, he rubbed his hands against his ribs and shook his head.

'All this biting and kicking is fine by Cicero,' he said to himself, 'But Cicero needs to go stabbity-stabbity-stab!'

'Looking for this?' a voice asked, completely out of the blue; and with a faint clank - ah, such music to poor sweet Cicero's ears! - a small dagger dropped down right at the jester's feet.

Cicero looked up in silent wonder. The dagger had been tossed down by a tall, grey-robed figure... another one of those accursed inquisitors... and yet... somehow different from the rest of the bunch; Cicero remembered him, he had asked that question after the Redguard girl had been sentenced. Before the jester could speak, the inquisitor raised his hand to his hood and shifted it slightly, allowing him to see his face.

'I am not doing this out of kindness,' he said curtly, 'We still have a score to settle over those detestable billboards you hit me with. But that can wait. I need someone with your... talents to make way for me. I have to get outside, but I keep getting pulled into that battle cloud. So go ahead and do some stabbing... Just try to limit yourself to the inquisitors... We don't want any problems with the players... Which there will be if you carve through their characters...'

But Cicero was long gone, a happy little hurricane with the powers of a meat-grinder gone haywire.


Thankfully, he did manage to limit himself to the inquisitors, cutting holes in them as if they were sacks of flour... which they basically were. The trusty dagger, whizzing around like a flash of lightning moulded into metal, thinned their ranks, and the stranger who had given the jester this great, invaluable gift was finally able to make his way towards the door.




They heard the noises coming from the hall, but they did not abandon their posts. The condemned lore breakers had to be guarded, the executions had to be carried out. The inquisitors stationed outside stayed true to their duties - including the two who were responsible for gathering extra dead wood (which there was in abundance, to maintain the dreary atmosphere) to add up to Kiara's pyre - for moments after she was led onto it, her head forced down and her arms twisted behind her back, and tied to a wooden stake, they had decided it was not enough. They did their work with great zeal, eager to unleash the righteous wrath of justice on the insolent character that had dared to break one of the fundamental game laws; the pyre rose taller and taller, the unfortunate Redguard gazing at it in blank disbelief and the other convicts peering sympathetically into her stunned face. It took the inquisitors quite a while before they were finally satisfied with the fruits of their labour. At long last, one of them took a step back and announced, with a small nod,

'There. Now to start the fire'.

'I personally never liked fire,' said a third inquisitor that had suddenly appeared behind them, 'I prefer shock'.

It is unknown if the inquisitors possess a mental capacity to be startled; but even if they did possess it, they simply had no time to use it, for the next moment they crumbled away into dust, stung in the chest by a blast of chain lightning. The tall, fierce-looking Dunmer in a nearby cage (where he had been thrown for borrowing some of his personality traits from a certain arachnid alien from a sci-fi universe) stirred and asked eagerly,

'You can use magic outdoors?'

The double-crossing inquisitor nodded. Then, bending down and plunging his hand into the ashes, he fished out a small key ring - one of the standard ones that every inquisitor was supposed to have - and tossed it over to the Dunmer so he could unlock his cage... Which he did just in time to blow up the rest of the inquisitors with a well-aimed fire ball. Leaving him to free the rest of the convicts, the strange traitor climbed up pyre, tore the ropes off Kiara's wrists and locked his arms tightly round her, pressing her head against his chest. Half-suffocated, gasping for breath, she reached forward and pulled down his hood... He turned out to be of flesh and blood - flesh and blood of a most superior kind.

'You!' This short word came out of Kiara's mouth as a faint half-sob, half-chortle. 'What are you doing here?'

'Initially it was an undercover operation to... borrow the inquisitors' trade secrets,' he explained, running his fingers through her hair. 'But what they do turned out to be too much even for a Thalmor...'

There was a short pause, after which Kiara asked playfully,

'Are you going to let me go or not?'

He rested his chin on the top of her head and knitted his eyebrows thoughtfully.

'No,' he replied at length, his lips parting in what was so close to a smile that the inquisitors would have thrown him into boiling tar.

She giggled,

'Oh you are so precious when you want to! But I really, really need to get back in there. I have a plan'.




'All right, Cicero, go!'

Upon Hecate's signal, the jester plunged forward towards the barely conscious inquisitor held tightly by the arms by the Dunmer and the Bosmer ladies from the Wives of Cicero society - and let his dagger dart back and forth, back and forth, until the front of the captive's robes resembled a kitchen doily. As soon as the inquisitor turned into dust, the two even women tossed the empty robe onto the top of a neat pile next to them, and reached out for the next captive. But just as Cicero was getting ready for yet another round, Hecate raised her hand in the air.

'Hold it gang! Do you hear that?'

They heard it. As did the rest of the player characters, who were busy chasing down and cornering the inquisitors - who were finally beginning to surrender -  and showering them with blows.

It was a voice, loud and a little hoarse with the effort of speaking up. It belonged to the greatest lore breaker among all of them, the Redguard girl, who had stepped back through the door out of the execution grounds at the head of a small group of rescued convicts, holding hands with a green-eyed Altmer in an inquisitor's robe.

'Guys! Hey guys!' she called out, waving her free hand in the air. 'Listen up! I can see you are this close to showing these meanies what for...'

'All thanks to Cicero!' the jester called out triumphantly.

'All thanks to me,' the Altmer muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Kiara winked at him and went on, 'But we - all of us! - can do better than that! We can destroy this place altogether! And we can do it without as much as touching a single speck of dust! You see…'

She raised her voice to its highest, half-closing her eyes; her cheeks were flushed, her hair was streaming down her shoulders... and as the Altmer looked at her, he might or might have not whispered, 'By the Nine, you are beautiful...'

'…You see, we have all been created with the force of imagination - imagination of wonderful, artistic, creative people who breathed life and colour into our stories... And this force still lives within us - it makes us stronger than all the inquisitors combined! And if we use this force now...'

'Please don't tell me you are dragging in that little funny-talking green thing you'd picked up on one of your cross-over journeys...' the Altmer groaned faintly.

'If we use the power of imagination that is our lifeblood - ooh, metaphoreee! - we can make this place disappear, dust and inquisitors and all! Come on! Just close your eyes - and imagine! Imagine that this place is gone... gone forever!'


And so they did. Every single player character, male and female, mage and warrior, man and mer and beast, straightened up and stood firm, and closed their eyes, and imagined. Imagined the grey walls crumbling, and the thick carpets of dust swept away by the fresh breath of cleansing wind, and the dead trees on the execution grounds breaking into blossom. And as they imagined, so it came to be. For so great was the power flowing through their veins.





'Mother might be offended, but life is good. Cicero likes life,' the jester declared, laying back on Hecate's knees while the fair half-Nord plucked off a grape and lowered it into his mouth.

Where the great inquisition hall had once been, a lush meadow now spread out, as far as the eye could see, underneath a clear sky, slightly tinted with gentle, rose-petal pink in the west. There were a few old, majestic trees proudly wearing their leafy crowns, a laden picnic blanket spread out under each of them, their dappled shade welcoming the characters to linger a little before leaving home to their respective games. Under one of those trees, lay Kiara and her precious Thalmor; she had nestled her head on his chest and was letting him hold up her hand and kiss each of her fingers, while lazily watching the scarred Bosmer and the dark-scaled Argonian play with the red kitten.

'You know...' she said through a languid yawn, 'I really need to get going. A friend of mine from another game universe - the dwarf I told you about - has just killed a great mean dragon, and her boyfriend is going to become king - and I'm invited to host the party! Because that's what I do best! You might wanna come along - not to have fun, oh no, I remember my oath never to drag you into having fun again... But you might want to give the evil eye to one elf that's been hitting on me...'

He let go of her hand, eyebrows raised incredulously.

'You are impossible!'

'I know,' she laughed, 'That's what makes me so awesome'.

Still laughing, she pulled him to his feet - and off they went together, while somewhere in the background the Argonian's ghost friend glided through the grass, in a hurry to be reunited with his family.