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The Adoring Fan

Once upon a time, in the land of Cyrodiil, a young Bosmer was born. He was raised on the mean streets of the Imperial City, as his parents tried to teach him what it meant to survive in the rough world of Tamriel. Unfortunately, they could not have known that their child happened to be slightly touched by Sheogorath, just enough to give him a tendency to become obsessive. In fact, make that very obsessive. For instance: the first time he ever saw a torchbug, he captured it in a glass jar, placed it on a table in his home, and constructed a shrine around it. Quite simply, it seemed to him that it was the most wonderful, magical creature in the world, and it demanded his fervent worship. Eventually, some time after his family had grown tired of his antics and kicked him out of the house, he took a liking to watching fights in the Arena. As he was a bit of a coward himself, nothing awed him as much as watching bold men and women battle to the death with nothing but their weapons and wits. This was his hobby for a while, and he grew quite settled into his new solo life in the City.

But then it happened. One day, as he settled into his seat (particularly the edge of it) to spectate the day's events, he saw the one. The one he knew would beat them all. It was love at first sight. But would it be in vain? For the Gray Prince, the relentless Grand Champion of the Arena, stood in the way of our Wood Elf's true love. Dared he hope that the fearless half-Orc would be upset in the fight? He could only pray it would be so. Then the fight began, and sure enough, at the end of the day a new Grand Champion had been decided. As the object of his affections headed back through the Bloodworks to exit the Arena, our infatuated Bosmer knew it was now or never for him to strike. He rushed outside the Arena and stood waiting outside the doors. His heart began to pump as they opened. A figure stepped through... and - by Azura! - there appeared the glorious Grand Champion, larger than life, greater than anything else in the universe that the starstruck Bosmer could imagine. He couldn't contain himself any more. He approached the Champion, began to speak...

And the rest is history.

Balgruuf saw her many times when he was sneaking around Whiterun.

The Dunmer are a hardy and proud people, but she stood out above the rest not because she tried to, but because of her bearing. He remembered how she stood up without hesitation and calmly walked up to three inebriated Nords as they tried to force a Nord wench outside the tavern. Most people, even Nords and Dark Eleves, would've glanced furtively before returning to their quiet conversations or ignored the situation entirely. The Jarl's son recalled her name was Irelith. At least that's what the three Nords called her after she drove them off without drawing her sword or taking a scratch. Her voice, especially, was more distinct and memorable than her crimson eyes. "Leave and never come back," she told them before receding back to her seat in the shadows.

But tonight, the three Nords were now eight, and they converged on her like a pack of wolves. Irelith was far enough from the gates of Whiterun that if she called for help, it wouldn't come. They formed a half-circle as she stood her ground a few meters from a large boulder. But still, she remained calm and drew her sword. Before the gang of Nords could react, Bulgruff threw off his cloak then drew his own sword. He used its pommel to knock out one of the wolves and joined the Dunmer by her side. Keeping his eyes on their enraged assailants, Balgruff swore, "I would be less than a man if I stood idly by."

The duo were more than a match for rowdy Nords. Inflicting superficial wounds that wouldn't faze a true warrior, they were soon alone under the pale moon. "Well, now I see you didn't need my help. I presume your name is Irelith. You fight well. If my eyes were not fooled, I think I saw you wield a bit of magic as well."

"You're not so bad yourself, future Jarl of Whiterun." Balgruffs eyes widened when she revealed his identity. "Oh, don't look so surprised. Those men may not have recognized the crest on your band, but you can't fool everyone. I thank you for your aid."

He relaxed, then started walking back to Whiterun. "It appears my 'secret' is safe. But just to be sure, can I buy you a drink?"

"The Bannered Mare or the Drunken Huntsman?" grinned Irelith.

Balgruff stared incredulously, "Does it matter?"

"The Bannered Mare has larger tankards."