Chapter Three

Inigo stretched, kicking the blankets off as he woke. The smell of fresh bread filled the Dead Man’s Drink, causing his stomach to rumble. The khajiit sprung to his feet. As he entered the main room, he waved to the innkeeper. “Good Morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, “bread’s almost ready if you’re hungry.”

“I’d rather wait until after I check on my friend.” He nodded his thanks, heading into Gaeolin’s room. The elf was lying on his back, eyes closed as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. He stepped in, mischief on the mind. Perhaps some fire-salts on his lips? Wake him up with a burning sensation… Or maybe he could finally ‘expand’ on that tattoo on his cheek. Just two steps closer, and the elf picked up his head. A single blue eye starred at him from behind a curtain of hair.

“You never knock, do you?”

Inigo turned one ear back, betraying his mild guilt. “But… What would I knock on? There’s no door…”

“There’s always the door jam.” Gaeolin sat up, testing his leg. He stood when he felt no pain. “I’m going to get some air. Something smells… foul…”

Inigo grimaced. “Sorry, that may be my boots. I must have learned to tune them out.” 

“We’ll ask about some before we leave town. Maybe something that doesn’t do so badly with water.” Inigo had had those shoes since Gaeolin had found him in Riften. They had waded through many soggy places after that point, and the odor was beginning to become unbearable. He grabbed his sword, groaning at the weathered scabbard. You could actually see the steel shining through the leather about two hands up the blade. “I think I’ll also swing by the smithy. This old thing’s got to go.” Slinging his quiver and bow behind him, he pushed past to the dining room. The barkeep smiled at him as he passed. He nodded politely, trying his best to avoid the hungry gaze she sent him. Even more reason to get moving soon.

It wasn’t that he was opposed to relationships… He just didn’t like the whimsical Nord approach to marriage. Elves lived too long for anything so brief. He swung the door out, squinting as the midday sun scolded his eyes. The air was clean and cool. The bosmer leaned against the banister, listening to the chickens clucking away in the street. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes as he thought of his close call again. “Maybe it’s time to invest in some armor…”

“Honestly,” Runil spoke to him, having come to stand beside him. “If you had been wearing anymore than your clothes, I might have been unable to pull you through. Armor adds just another layer I have to work through. Keep it light, and just stay more alert next time, archer.”

Gaeolin stared across the street. “Again, I thank you. I still wish you’d let me pay you.” He smirked. “My list of life debts is getting uncomfortably long.”

Runil returned the expression. “You’ll find very few folk around here will hold that debt above you. Just help out, be kind, do your part in the divine plan, and your debts are as good as repaid.”

The wood elf shifted a little, turning to talk about the rumors Runil may have heard when a courier approached the notice board that hung from the post on the steps. He watched as the messenger dug in his bag drawing out a few rolled up bits of parchment. He hammered them onto the board sending the two men a wave before he walked into the tavern. Gaeolin abandoned the railing, reading the board with a keen eye. Injury or no, he needed the gold. One letter in particular caught his eye.

Investigation Request

By order of Jarl Igmund of Markarth:

To all able-bodied men and women of the Reach. Two beloved Citizens have disappeared from our hold.

A reward will be offered to anyone who investigates and discovers what has become of them.

—Raerek

He tore the letter down, folding it before placing it in his bag. He made his way to the blacksmith across the town thoroughfare. The smith was hammering away at what could only be intended as a future claymore. He quenched the glowing blade, turning to greet his customer.

“Well met, traveler.” He looked down at the decrepit sheath. “I’m… Guessing I know why you’re here.”

Gaeolin unbuckled his belt, handing the weapon to the forge master. “I don’t suppose you could repair this?”

The man drew the blade, cringing at all the dents and scratches in it. “Um… At the risk of being rude, why?” He looked down the sword, tapping the pommel as he continued. “I haven’t seen a weapon in this poor shape since I was an apprentice in Solitude. The best I could do is try and grind it sharp again, but that wont help the cracks in the heart. What have you been doing with this sword?”

“Fighting to survive.” Gaeolin quipped. “Gaeolin of Woodhearth.” He offered his hand. The blacksmith sheathed the weapon, accepting the gesture. 

“Lod. Born and raised here in Falkreath, trained in Solitude. Long way from home, huh?”

Gaeolin shrugged. “It’s been a long time since Valenwood was my home. I’ve been wandering for years.” He looked at the racks of weapons hanging near the forge. There were maces, war axes, war hammers, everything but what he needed. “You wouldn’t happen to have something this size, maybe a hand-and-a-half blade?”

Lod shook his head. “Sorry, there’s not many swordsmen around here. I mainly keep broad swords and axes made up.” He scratched his chin. “I could forge something simple as a temporary solution, but I’d rather refer you to someone like Eorlund Gray-Mane. The man makes exquisite equipment for Jorrvaskr.”

The elf rubbed his temple. Whiterun was not on route to Markarth… “You’re sure there’s nothing here like this?”

“Yes…” he looked slightly annoyed, “I forged everything I have.”

Gaeolin sighed. “Fine, do what you can for me. I’ll return in a few hours to check on your progress. How much should I expect?”

“I’d say… Thirty Septims, even.”

“Are you… ?!” He stopped himself. “Very well, I’ll come back later.”