From Talos, with Love

"With great power comes great responsibility. A shame they never mentioned a nocked arrow or a dagger dipped in poison, because I'm not taking responsibility for any of that."

Chapter 1—Is it my fault?

8-8

Boring. My whole life, boiled down to a single word: boring. I don't know what my parents saw in this backwater hick of a village, but anywhere you find more cows than people isn't a place to grow up—it's a place to die.

I dip my quill in the well, carefully sliding the tip against the neck to even out the ink. I'm not sure where he found a blank book, but I'll not complain.

And that's exactly what my parents had in mind. Miners, the both of them. Built a homestead right up against the tallest mountain in Skyrim, hoping to start the town's 'new hope' in a mineral find. A shame all there is, is stone—not exactly the rarest of materials, now is it.

They were, at least, smart about one thing. They told us to steer well-clear of the pilgrims, heading up to High Hrothgar—coincidently the only thing worth of note in this festering wound of a village.

Of course, they never realized that the more you tell a child not to, the more they want to do the thing. So, of course, I did the thing.

I mean, what choice did I have? The only things to do in this village were help my parents swing a pickaxe, help those idiots farm, and go adventuring. Who wouldn't pick adventuring?

Don't get me wrong, I love reading. I loved reading Olaf and the Dragon growing up. I loved the books of riddles I would 'borrow' from the pilgrims—mostly creepy old men, so I never once felt guilt for

"Reyda!" Surprised by the sudden shouting, the ink spills all over my new book, ruining everything I'd so painstaking written. Typical. "Reyyyda!" I can't even have this one thing without that oaf ruining it.

I swear. One of these days…

Drying the quill on the cloth I had set aside for just that, I set it aside and leave the ink dry any which way it pleases. Ma ain't gonna be happy with it, but I'll care about that the second she remembers how to cook and clean—for reasons other than telling me off.

The door creaks open, too slow to be the wind, but too fast to be ma or da coming in for lunch. Food's almost ready, so I don't doubt the scent of vegetable soup and roasted rabbit haunches carried over to their supposed 'future mine' and they'll come barging in sooner or later to eat.

"Reyda? Why were you hiding? Narfi couldn't find you." I was in plain sight, you…No, Reyda. Stop it. He can't help it any more than you can. It isn't his fault you're stuck here. It isn't his fault talking to everyone from this hick-town is as mentally stimulating as growing carrots. Though, his being born slow certainly isn't helping any.

"I wasn't hiding. Just trying to write in that book you found for me," I say, keeping my tone as light and airy as possible.

His eyes roam up and down the room, obviously already having forgotten why he was looking for me in the first place. I've never figured out why. The room is the same way it's been since I was born, and likely even before that. The same bare wooden walls. The same curtains ma won't let me replace hanging over the three windows. The same closet filled with clothes ma taught me to make, and expects me to maintain for the family.

The same stone hearth da likes to stare at for hours after dinner, drinking his ale to drown his simpleton woes.

The same pot hanging by its hook over the fire.

The same oven beside it that da likes to tell me to use to bake him som'un sweet.

The same wooden bowls and plates and goblets.

The same two-pronged forks.

The same knives.

The same routine, day in, day out, for the last twenty years of my Divines-forsaken existence.

"I'm going out. Be good 'till ma and da get back, okay?"

8-8

The hem of my dress drags through the grass as I walk along the riverside. My basket is already full of empty bottles and the ingredients I need—charred skeever hide, mudcrab chitin, hawk feathers, butterfly wings, and blue dartwings. I should have enough to make some Cure Disease and Health Potions. Luckily, with a little wheat starch, they keep well for months—taste and smell like shit, though.

Figuring I have what I need, and I can pluck some blue mountain flowers on the way, I make my way towards Cylben's shack. The sloshing river sings her lullaby as I travel under gloomy mid-winter's afternoon sky. Kyne's beauty is splayed out before me, wrapping my senses in a calm Ivarstead will never match.

Maybe it's because I expect less from nature. Maybe it's because I don't expect bears and wolves to talk alchemy theory or act out scenes from Sixteen Accords of Madness. Maybe it's because I don't expect much of anything other than a serene sort of savagery out here.

All I know is that walking along to the song of the wind dancing along the leafless trees, the ache of the mundane eases.

To be fair, knowing a stimulating conversation awaits isn't hurting any, even if it means having to baby yet another adult that can't seem to function well enough on his own.

It's almost a half hour before I arrive at the simple shack. Knowing Cylben, he's either in the back concocting some new potion or poultice or salve he'll be bragging about, or he's out hunting down new ingredients he can't seem to fathom a way to grow in his meager garden.

The firewood stacked beside the front door looks nearly depleted, again. He hasn't bothered to gather. Again. Shaking my head as I swing the rickety door open, I enter to find the usual muttering coming from the rear door at the other end of this rickety and tiny shack. I can't make out a word, but he's no doubt talking to himself about some ingredient's effect or other.

Closing the door behind me, I walk over to the single bed and plop my bow atop it, quickly setting my basket beside her. I'll never understand how he can live without a proper desk to set his things on, but I figure that's either his nomadic lifestyle at work, or some weird Dunmer thing I'm not meant to understand.

Either way, I open the back door, finding him hunched over his alchemy lab. From the way his elbows dance about, I assume he's grinding something. He knows I'm here. I know he knows. He knows I know. And yet, nothing is said.

He's probably smiling, already trying to predict what I'm going to say.

"You're almost out of firewood," I say. His shoulders shiver, but he doesn't speak. Not sure what that's about, but I figure he has a thing—as usual. Does he come up with those weird things just to tease me?

"You know," he begins just as the soft tapping of wood against wood mixes with the mélange of birds chirping. The sleeves of his earthen brown robe sway rhythmically, as if a prop in a dance. "If you aren't careful, I'll start fantasizing about taking you for my bride."

I snort, shaking my head.

"I'll tell you what. If you gather some firewood for me, I'll have a present waiting for you when you get back."

"You don't even have an axe here," I complain, sighing for good measure. Thinking back, I didn't see much to eat either. "How about this. I'll bring it tomorrow, along with some baked goods. You've gotten too accustomed to eating what you hunt."

"Obviously I need an amulet." His shoulders and voice quiver, so I know he's just teasing me. "You needed more health and cure disease potions?" He turns to me, his red eyes dancing with amusement as he crosses his arms and leans against his little lab.

How does he even know that? "Stalker."

"Is it my fault I pay attention?" I roll my eyes, heading back into the shack—mostly to hide the blush I'm sure my pale complexion does nothing to mask. The crunching of loose dirt follows behind me, stopping at the first tap against wood. I feel his eyes on me, drinking me in. A soft creak of wood comes from higher than the last tap. He leans against the doorframe.

I grab the flower basket, filled with the fruits of my labor. Turning to the back door, I see him. Not the humble shack he calls home. Not the sparse furnishings. Not the wobbly door.

Just the heavy eyelids, just the little smile. Just him.

"Come. Let me show you how to brew the potions."

8-8

The fire crackles and pops in the hearth da made. He gazes into the dancing tongues of flame, bringing his favored bottle of mead to his lips, and downing the last of it—if the angle of the bottle is any indication. Part of me wants to cuddle up to him, to feel his arm around me, like he used to when I was a little girl.

Back when he'd let me lay my head against his chest while he drank. Back when he seemed like the smartest man that ever lived. Simpler times—or perhaps the sheen of nostalgia covers those memories like fresh snow, and bear shit barely hidden beneath it.

Either way, I know better. I stand, walking over to him and jerk the bottle right out of his hand.

"Hey!"

I don't even answer him, walking over to the mead barrel and refilling the damnable bottle. The air flutes out at an ever heightening pitch, until I'm certain there's more idiocy in the bottle than is healthy. With that, I storm back over to him and slap the thing against his palm.

He skins up his nose, not even bothering to thank me and probably thinking something snide while he's at it.

"Reyda?" Ma sits to the table. She waggles her wooden goblet, no doubt empty as well. I smile as best I can, mostly to show I don't mind helping her, and walk over. Her salt and pepper hair dances from side to side as I refill for her—as if she's annoyed with me, for some reason.

When I return with her now full goblet, she pats the empty bench beside her. She no doubt wants to talk—it's not as if da or Narfi will be much use to her in that regard.

Planting my ass on the hard, unforgiving wood beside her, I bite back a sigh. I know where this is going. It isn't hard to figure out, given how often this has taken place. It's either 'when are you getting married', 'I want grandchildren', or 'dinner was delicious'. Though, sometimes it's a combination of all three.

"Wilhelm was askin' 'bout you." I sigh and look towards the door, not wanting to talk about that man. "Said 'e needs an extra barmaid."

"Lynly handles it just fine," I say.

"She does. But this ain't 'bout tha'." I sigh again. Cue the I ain't getting any younger rant. "You ain't getting' any younger, ya know."

I could remind her that I'm twenty, but she won't care. I could say Cylben would take care of me, but I'm not in the mood to hear whether she's accepting of Dunmer—she probably isn't. I could even say that I can take care of myself, but she'll just disagree with me, per the norm. No, I'm a woman, therefore I need a man to take care of me. I need children so I can pester them to get married as soon as they learn how to walk—just like ma taught me.

"He even sent this for ya," she says, shuffling a little satchel towards me. I open it, finding a dainty silver necklace, and some random-looking alchemical ingredients. As sweet as that is, it's undesired.

I need to get out of this village. I'll never find any peace here.

8-8

I set the bread, butter, goat cheese, and apple pie in the flower basket. Grabbing three empty mead bottles, I carefully fill them and stopper them, gently setting them in the basket as well. The room is still plenty warm from baking all morning, not that anyone will even notice. Ma and da left early to the hole in the wall, no doubt intent on carving out yet more stone to sell. Narfi's been helping Wilhelm around the tavern—no doubt that man is trying to worm his way into my family's good graces, to blackmail me that way.

Checking the stew and the time, I figure it's cooked long enough. I grab a thick towel, and take the pot from the its hanging perch near the fire, setting it on the table to cool. Three wooden bowls are set beside it, each with a grooved rim and a cover set beside them I can screw on. Each is carefully filled, and the top is screwed on to keep them from spilling, before joining the rest in the basket.

The only thing missing is the knives. So I walk over to my bed, moving the pillow and grabbing the wrapped bundle I find there.

The wolves come closer, running towards us to make a meal of us, but Cylben isn't worried. He takes out a strange-looking knife, before I even have the chance to grab my bow. And he pelts it right at them, burying the blade into the wolf's eye.

I shouldn't have been impressed, and yet I pestered him until he taught me how to do that. Even now, as I take the rolled leather pouch and cradle it, I find myself smiling. It was a gift, of course, though he never once told me where he got it.

The strap goes around my waist and I tie it off on one side, resting it against my hip. With everything done I can think of, I don my leather gloves and dagger and quiver—I only have fifteen steel arrows left, I'll need to be stingy until I restock. I grab the basket and my hunting bow on the way out the door.

8-8

The early morning sky is overcast, per the norm. It looks like it might snow. My dark amber dress and soft leather boots stick out all the more in pale midwinter. Part of me wonders if Cylben will like the outfit I so painstakingly sewed, while another fears he'll not notice, let alone care.

Instead of walking through the village, I trek around it, staying well out of sight. The last thing I need is everyone and their dog asking me where I'm going or what's in my basket. So I'm careful to avoid their ever curious and gossiping gazes.

"Morning." I snap to the sound, already recognizing Temba's voice. The brunette stands with a woodcutter's axe in hand, the back of its head leaning on her shoulder. Shit. I forgot the axe. "You plan on spoiling the Alchemist again?"

Feeling drains from my face.

"No need to be coy. I've known about you two since he first arrived." I turn from her, unwilling to see her reaction. "You know they won't approve." I sigh, quickly hearing it turn to an annoyed groan.

"What do you want?"

"He ain't been by in months to buy firewood. You wouldn't happen to have something to do with that?" So it's coin you want, huh.

"How much?"

"Huh?"

"Your silence. How much?"

She chuckles, the sound as throaty as it is amused. "Meet me in the Vilemyr tonight. We'll talk."

"No." There's no way I'm agreeing to meeting in Wilhelm's place of business. That'll send him all the wrong signals, and that's the last thing I want. "We'll talk now."

"So you know." I turn to her, her face a pained grimace. "That he's in love with you."

"I asked for your price, Wide-Arm, not your commentary."

"I ain't askin' you to marry the man. I just wanna know." Her free hand grabs her hip, as if to make herself seem steadier in her boots.

"Know what?"

"Why you turn down a husband."

"If you want him, marry him." Hopefully that leaves nothing to the imagination.

"Yeah, I got that. It's the why you're not tellin' me." Her tone sours, her eyes narrow and her lips form a thin line. "I mean, think about it. The Dunmer has a shack. Wilhelm has a tavern. Simple calculation."

"I see." I turn from her, no longer interested in the conversation. It's obvious what this is about. "If I hear anyone talking about this. I'm going to tell everyone about you and Lynly's little tryst."

"You wouldn't!"

"And you're going to start delivering firewood to that shack. Once a week. On Fridas. In the afternoon. Screw up, and you'll find out just how much I know about your fetishes. Do I make myself clear?"

I walk off before she even has the chance to answer.

8-8

Freedom, that's what this feels like; walking around this tiny little shack, wearing naught but my undergarments, feeling Cylben's stuff leaking out of me. To be fair, I'm sore and it still hurts a bit—the one thing ma never warned me about, losing my maidenhood. But feeling his eyes on me as I start cutting the bread and buttering it and cutting slices of cheese and rabbit haunch to go with it?

His gaze feels hungry, though not for the food I prepare. I like that most of all.

In the corner, nearest the door, the faded leather knapsack lies filled with whatever Cylben got for me. I don't know, I haven't looked as yet. All I know, is that I fully intend to entice him another few times before I even bother with that.

"So who found out about us?" I stab the butter, spreading it onto the bread. "Someone you don't like very much. Is there going to be a problem, Lady Bear-Slayer?"

I shake my head, standing and walking over to him. I straddle his waist, feeling his calloused hands on my thighs, exploring me just as carefully as before. With a teasing finger-waggle, I invite him to come have a bite.

"I've never seen you this upset about something." His gaze never leaves mine, even though he knows I mean to spoil him a little.

"What makes you think I'm upset?"

"Is it my fault for paying attention?" I snort, trying to hide a smile that peeks out a little more with each of his teasing touches. "Talk to me?"

I sigh, my shoulders sagging. "It's Temba Wide-Arm. She says she's known since you arrived."

"I see." He grins, his bright red eyes quite pleased with the news. He sits up, taking a bite from the sandwich I offer. "So you've been in love all this time?"

Heat steals across my face. "Will you be serious."

"A man can't feel pride for stealing your heart?" Even through the food in his mouth, I hear the shiver of laughter. He swallows, taking another bite. His hands roam up and down my back, his touch gentle and oh so warm. "Then again. Your feeding me is as telling as your state of dress."

He leans in, so close our noses touch. His eyes light up with a thousand different emotions—all vying to steal the air from my lungs. He looks like he wants to kiss me, to start me up once again.

"Someone's ego seems a bit inflated." Something taps against my bum, and a sudden warmth will not recede. "That's not what I meant."

He laughs, taking another bite.

8-8

Night rolls in. The shack is so cold that we either have to get dressed or go outside to get more firewood. We haven't gotten out from under the pelts, so I assume he's perfectly okay with staying under here just a little longer.

"It's a spellbook," he says, a bit out of the blue. "What I got you. Well, a few spellbooks, actually." He knows spells?

"Oh?"

"What? Did you think alchemy was my only thing?"

"I never said that."

"You were thinking it."

"Stalker."

"Is it my fault for paying attention?"

I swat him. How does he even know what I'm thinking?

"Do you want to know what spells?" I nod. "Well. Go have a look."

"It's cold out there." I snuggle up to him, refusing to not feel his warmth.

"Careful, Reyda. You'll inflate my ego."

"You're not getting another round. I'm so sore I'll be amazed if I can walk tonight." His chest quakes, taking my world with it. "So what are you into?"

"Oh, the usual. Missionary, doggy sty—"

I swat him, harder this time. He only laughs.

"My father taught me Conjuration and Destruction. My mother taught me Alchemy and Enchanting."

"Must be nice," I murmur, a pang of jealousy washing over me. "My parents are so obstinate when it comes to magicka and spells and the like. So even Alchemy is a bridge too far."

"Most Nords would agree with them."

I snort, moving my head over to get comfortable—his shoulder seems to like poking my cheek. When I hear his heart beating, I know I'm exactly where I need to be. "So what spells?"

"You know. For some reason I just can't remember."

"You want to see me bending over to look." The thoughtful noise tells me all I need to know.

"I even have a necklace in there."

"That's low."

"Well, I put it on the ground for a reason." It was like that when I got here.

Waaaaaaait a minute! "You planned on seducing me?"

"I've been seducing you for months. The only difference is my success."

Laughter jumps up from nowhere. I shouldn't, it'll only encourage him further.

8-8

I hold the spellbook, finding an odd tooth-shaped symbol taking up most of the center of faded purple leather. Tilting the book, I read the title from the spine.

Conjuration—Novice—Bound Dagger

"A dagger spell?"

"You're just starting out. So this is a good a place as any. I have a few others as well, but you can't learn them until you've improved."

I noise thoughtfully. Well, that makes sense. I mean, daggers are comparatively small.

"What I want to teach you first, is how to monitor your progress."

"Huh?"

"Just trust me." He pats the ground between his thighs, obviously asking me to sit there.

"So I get between your thighs for a change." He smirks, his coal eyebrow cocked a smidge.

"Come on. Sit cross-legged."

"I'm serious. Not tonight."

"Ye of little faith," he teases, patting the ground again. I roll my eyes, but set the book back into the bag and make my way over to him. I'm at least glad I got dressed and put some wood in the fire—it's still chilly, but I'm no longer breathing smoke.

Once I'm seated, and I cross my legs, his arms snake around my middle. I smile, snuggling up to him.

"No no. Now we focus." I nod, leaning my head into the crook of his neck. "Reyda." He flicks my nose—stupid habit of his.

I groan, but sit upright all the same. He pulls me back just a little, tempting me to cuddle once again. Still, whatever it is he means to show me seems important to him.

"Close your eyes."

The world goes dark but for the flickering flames.

"Take a deep breath."

The mute whistle of air being sucked into my lungs.

"Be at peace."

My shoulders relax, lowering as I take another deep breath.

"Picture the night sky. Dark, with specks of light."

I imagine lying outside, in the snow, looking up at the sky with him. The stars twinkle. The clouds slowly fade from view. Slowly the aurora borealis lights up, both blocking the stars, and at the same time not.

"Do you see the northern lights?"

I nod.

"Do they block the stars?"

I shake my head.

"Good. Let the clouds roll out of the way."

That already happened, but I nod all the same.

"Peer up at those stars. See into them."

I try to, but there's a sinking feeling in my tummy that seems to be making me dizzy somehow.

"Calm. Be at peace."

I take a deep breath.

"Calm. Be at rest."

I take another deep breath.

"Good. The stars."

Feeling weightless, somehow, feeling of cold recedes. The stars grow bright, bright as the sun, but still but specks in the inky black. The lights seem to glow behind the stars. I can almost make out a mage holding out a staff.

"Do you see the mage?"

I nod.

"Good. Reach out. And touch a star."

I raise my hand, only to feel it jerked back down and set on my thigh.

"Not like that. With your mind. Reach out and touch a star."

I focus on the southernmost star, but I have no idea how to touch it.

A swirling of energy within me draws my attention.

"You're so close. Breathe. Calm. Be at peace."

What's this got to do with the funny energy?

"Focus, Reyda."

How do you even know I'm not focusing?

"You're thinking. Don't think. Do."

I take a deep breath, trying to coral my thoughts.

The energy shoots up my spine, cold and hot at the same time, like a flash of lightning during a storm.

A blip of light. The star glows brighter, grows larger. As if I'm coming closer to it. Weird symbols splay out before me, almost as if words written on a page. Though in no language I've ever seen.

Except that one. It looks like the symbol on the spellbook.

"Do you see the texts?"

I shrug, but nod all the same.

"Can you read it?"

I shake my head, no.

"What does it look like?"

"Funny scribbles. One of them looks like the symbol on the book."

"That…?"

I open my eyes, turning to him only to find him slack-faced and wide-eyed.

"It. No, that. That can't be…"He jumps to his feet, for some reason. I fall back a little, not having expected that.

He runs over to his knapsack, rummaging through it for something. He comes back with a sole book, opening it and showing me a page.

"Oh, good. I thought I was imagining things," I say, recognizing the funny symbols. "So what was that about?"

"You…" He can't seem to form too many words just now. What's that about? "This is written in Daedric script."

I blink. "And that's…got what to do with me?"

He stares, his jaw hangs low, though I doubt he notices. "Do you even know who the Daedra are?"

"Raised in a house where all things magickal in nature were taboo," I remind him.

Laughter. Soft at first, as if it jumped up and surprised even him. Slowly it becomes more and more incredulous, as if he was told the best joke in the world, only to realize in the most morbid and depressing way, it isn't a joke, that none of this is a joke. Or even funny.

His laughter devolves to the point I can't tell if he's laughing or crying.

I blink.

"Still lost here."

8-8

As I lay on the roof of ma and da's home and gaze up at the sea of stars, I find myself lost. Utterly blindsided by what little of this I understand. Cylben didn't explain much, only that I need to learn to read that script, and that he had to travel up north to talk to an old friend of his about whatever this is.

He left his books with me, saying I should start learning all I can and demanding that I practice my conjuration. He seemed adamant that I will need 'allies' sooner than I suspect—whatever that means. I mean, I can understand he feels things are going to get weird for some reason or other. But in Ivarstead? What are the odds of anything important happening here?

Unless, of course, I'm not meant to stay in this place. But where would I go? Just anywhere? I'd love to, but who'll take care of Narfi? Ma and da barely know what to do with him now, let alone if I weren't here to deal with him.

I used to fear I'd never leave this village. But really, I've never been anywhere. I've heard of High Hrothgar, of the holds, of their capitals, and of Riverwood and Helgen—mostly because they're so close. But that's it. Well, I know a lot of history, but what good would royal politics do me? I mean, me! Daughter to piss poor miners in the middle of nowhere.

Cylben's shack is the furthest from the village I've ever gone. And the worst I've ever had to face was a bear that thought me a snack. There was that one time I thought bandits were after me, but that turned out to be Wide-Arm in a drunken fit cursing about bears.

What was I even thinking about?

Cylben. What is it about you? Why do you take the simplicity of my world and make it so impossible to understand? You said you'd be gone no more than a week, but why? What are you out there hoping to find? And why? Why were you so adamant that I shouldn't leave ma and da's home until you come for me? Does this have to do with those stories you'd tell me about your family's traditions?

What is going on?

8-8

The spoon lifts, filled with stew. It comes to my lips, tilting slightly to offer me easier access. It's thick, almost chowder—considering the potatoes in there, I can't say I'm surprised. The venison chops are just about ready, too. It's quite the meal, but I do have some making up to do—seeing as ma was furious I left without a word, and stayed away all night, to boot.

The door swings open. Curious, I turn to find ma and da entering, with Narfi a step behind them. Narfi's eyes are wide, and he seems to be biting his lip. But ma and da are just as stoic as ever. Figuring Narfi and da had another heart-to-heart, I order everyone to the table.

While they're settling in, I grab the bowls and plates they'll need, setting the table for them. It wouldn't kill them to help, but that's a dead horse I don't much feel like beating again.

Once they have their spoons and goblets and food, everything really, I sit beside ma and join them in eating—would it have killed them to wait until I was seated?

Not a word is said, per the norm. They dip their spoons in the stew, they slurp, they stab the meat with their blunt fork, they bite. The only sounds are the clatter of cutlery and da's open-mouthed chewing. Ew.

"Are you trying to catch flies?" I ask. Da glares, but closes his mouth, chewing every bit as loud—it just lacks the smacking sound.

"Hey, Reyda? Can you bake bread tomorrow? You never bake any bread anymore."

"What are you talking about? I bake bread every day." And no one seems to notice.

"Nuh uh! I didn't see you bake nothing!"

"Please don't shout," I chastise him. He looks away, grumbling something under his breath. "And if you don't think I bake, then you should give me a hand tomorrow."

"No way," he complains, pouting. "Cookin's for girls!"

Sigh. If I didn't think you believing that would stop you from burning the house down, I would slap your father for saying that to you.

Sigh. What's worse, is knowing that his is all my life would ever be if I stay. And yet, no one would take care of you if I leave. Sigh. What a stupid situation.

"Then I guess you'll just have to trust me."

8-8

Days pass. Almost a week. No sign of Cylben.

I focus my magicka, watching in awe as the light coalesces into a dagger before I grab it out of thin air. It's annoying to only be able to practice this on the roof, seeing as everyone would have a fit that I'm learning spells. But at least this gets me away from the usual crap I go through after dinner.

I just don't understand. What's with the ever-increasing fascination with making me stay home? Can't I have some adventure in my life? Can't I do something new and interesting?

You know what? Damn that!

I get up, moving down the roof and jumping down onto the hay bale. I move into the house, keeping as quiet as I can, and grab Cylben's knapsack along with my bow and quiver. No idea where I'm going, but anything's better than staying cooped up here until the end of time.

As I close the door, the island in Lake Geir comes to mind. Or, more specifically, that cave I've never dared to explore before. I should be able to handle a few skeevers and spiders, right?

8-8

End Chapter 1

8-8

A/N: Someone needs to talk to my muse, and tell her t focus damn it! Seriously. I've been sitting on this story for months now, but I have like a dozen others already in the works.

FML.