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"If you think I am going to let you treat me the same way you treat your mother, you have another thing coming! I'd sooner be with Embry, at least he's a drunk who has the decency not to be pretentious!"

Faendal had to raise the tankard in front of his face and pretend to take a sip, for fear that his irrepressible grin would give the game away. Sven simply sat there, looking stunned, and with nothing to say. I may have helped the Wood Elf pen the letter, but it was Faendal who knew Sven well enough to wait until the third hour after sunset before I presented Camilla with the letter. It was precisely an hour and a half after his performances finished, when he was most likely to be drunk, and therefore least able to offer any form of reasonable explanation for Camilla's wholly unjustified attack. She stormed out of the Sleeping Giant Inn, with Sven in his drunken confusion only able to utter a command to go to Oblivion as a parting shot.

Andaryn took a sip of his own drink, spiced wine.The Green Pact made wine difficult to get a hold of in Valenwood. The first time he had enjoyed it was when his company he used axes to break into the barricaded cellars of the Count of Bravil. For his part in undermining the defences, Andaryn had been granted his pick of the Count's private stores. The last wine he had tasted was when he was presented to the Council in Alinor after the Great War. They had been convinced at the time that he was enough of an Altmer as could pass through any town in Firsthold or Shimmerene without looking too distinct. They took note of how his skin was more amber than the pale gold hue typical of an Altmer from the Isles, though Andaryn had been crafty enough to mention how his years of covert operations in southern Cyrodiil had given him something of a suntan. What better proof that he had actively served the interests of the Dominion? They had seemed to like that answer.

The wine in Alinor was exquisite. The local taverns he visited upon arrival served a libation like nothing that existed in Valenwood. What was served on the tables of the Thalmor council was otherworldly. Savant growers, vintners, alchemists and magicians had all poured their talent into the final product. Everything else was cheap swill by comparison. What surprised him is that none of the council members reach for the enamelled pitcher for a second goblet of the fine drink after they had drained their first. Dedicated, each and every one of them. Unflinching in their commitment to advancing the Dominion, and unwilling to let themselves go. Still, Andaryn wondered what the senior members were like when no one was looking...

"So when can we expect Imperial babies with an especial talent for shooting the bow?" Andaryn cheerily prodded Faendal. "I expect you will leave her be for an hour or so, let her cry into her pillow for a bit, before heading over to kindly let her know that she deserves better treatment and you will be there to tell Sven to keep his distance."

"That's where I will start. But getting Sven out of the way was just the beginning. I work two jobs for a reason. When I was younger I had an enthusiasm for playing cards which far exceeded my talent for it. I'm in debt up to the tips of my pointy ears to a usurer in Solitude". For the first time since Camilla had vented her fury at Sven, the corners of Faendal's mouth had stopped pointing to the ceiling.

Andaryn thought back to Helgen. She had seen him clearly, he knew that. And it was her for certain, few had features as gaunt and severe as hers. As they passed through Helgen gate, First Emissary Elenwen had stared at Andaryn over the Imperial general's shoulder. She was roughly 200, though looked older. But it was almost as though she was staring through him rather than at him. She didn't want to be seen noticing him, but instead merely inspecting the dishevelled Nordic rabble that was being carted off to their end. It didn't make sense. You would think she would have at least asked why a High Elf was being carted off with an entirely Nord gang, or that she might have come to inspect him. But she made no move, and continued talking with the general impassively as the cart rounded a corner to the place where the beheading was prepared.

"Come with me, you'll earn more in one year than you will in 50 in Riverwood. Someone as skilled with a bow as you is wasting their time chopping wood. Join me and in a year you will be able to treat an Imperial girl to all the best things she deserves. Say your goodbyes to her tonight and ask her to wait for you. Sven is out of the picture now, so the only other single men in the village are her brother and Embry."

"Where will we go first?" Faendal had raised his eyebrows, which Andaryn knew to always read as a sign that someone was interested in what you had to say.

"Whiterun. My first assignment is in Whiterun".

Scar-Eye woke up in a familiar bed, in a familiar inn. He stayed at the Sleeping Giant so much, it was practically his home. Rubbing his right eye, avoiding his scarred left, he walked sleepily over to the next room and threw a steel plate helmet at Vorstag, his long time companion and friend. "C'mon, get up," he said, "We're moving out. Got that Thalmor party to crash today. Get your armor on." Vorstag mumbled something about a sweetroll and rolled onto the floor. Scar-Eye tossed a gold septim to Orgnar and opened the door to Riverwood, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air. It was sunrise, with the sun just beginning to cast its rays onto the mountains west of Riverwood. After waiting for Vorstag to get his armor on, the two began to walk out of the town. Just before leaving the town, Scar-Eye suddenly stopped walking. "Huh? Why have we stopped already?" asked Vorstag.
"Shhh...." Scar-Eye quieted him, "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Scar-Eye was silent for a moment. "That."
"I'm not hearing anything..." said Vorstag.
Then after another moment of silence, the noise Scar-Eye was hearing repeated itself, but louder.
Vorstag thought out loud, "Sounds like...Wind..... but like... More... I don't know..."
Then a hair-raising roar told Vorstag what Scar-Eye already knew.
"Dragon..." Scar-Eye whispered, "No. Not here. Not Riverwood."
Moments later a frost dragon flew through the sky directly above them. The dragon circled the town a few times, then caught sight of Scar-Eye. "Dovahkiin!" It bellowed, "Aus Krah Dinok!" then dived toward Scar-Eye. Knowing that the beast was only interested in him, Scar-Eye ran over to the mill, away from the towns populace. Taking cover behind the many trees and logs, Scar-Eye and Vorstag pulled out their bows and began a ranged battle with the dragon. The beast, knowing that Scar-Eye would have the advantage on the ground, stuck to the air or roofs. Eventually, Scar-Eye had himself in a tight situation. He was nearly frozen to the ground, out in the open, with the dragon staring down its nose at him. Right when it opened its maw to send Scar-Eye to his death, Vorstag let fly an arrow into its gullet. The dragon roared in pain, and landed. Scar-Eye downed a stamina potion, and sprinted over to the beast, vaulting up onto its skull. While it unsuccessfully tried to shake him off, he gouged out its brain with his two daggers. The dragon fell to the ground, dead.
Scar-Eye breathed a sigh of relief, then looked over at Vorstag.
"C'mon. We got a party to crash." He then started down road, never looking back.

Guillame the Grape pointed with his wineskin towards the western horizon. "Once you get me to Markarth, I'll consider your debts cleared."
The weary elf's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You said that we'd be square once we got to Whiterun!"
"There's no need to get upset. Look, I'll sweeten the deal; Once we get there, I'll give you half the proceeds from any goods I sell in the Reach. Then you can buy passage on a wagon back here, and it's just a quick stroll-"
"…Through wolf-infested wilderness!"
"Through idyllic, rural woodlands up the hill back home to Riverglen-"
"Riverwood!"
"-Riverwood, I mean. And job done! Easiest money you'll ever make."
The elf grimaced as he looked away towards the west, then shouldered his bow and walked out from under the parapets into the sunlight. "We'd best be off then. Come on, you scheming Breton [&@%!]."

The two had been trudging along for half an hour, the sun still low in the east, when the road passed under the walls of an old fort falling into ruin. With a thuck! an iron-tipped arrow suddenly embedded itself in the earth at Faendal's feet. "Gods!" the elf swore, and drew his bow, ducking behind a nearby bit of tumbled stone wall.

Guillame hid behind Faendal and readied his spells. With a gesture and a muttered word of power, Guillame cast a spell, and Faendal was bathed in a glowing green light. The old elf's chest swelled visibly, and he took a knee and drew his bow, proclaiming "I feel like I could take on the world!" A flurry of arrows flew from his bow, and in the distance came a cry of pain. Faendal stood and leapt clear over the stone wall, firing as he advanced on the bandits now swarming out of the fort.

Guillame slumped back against the stone wall, content to cower while the gullible elf fought off their attackers. Just as he was about to unstopper his wineskin for the second time that morning, an explosion rocked the wall at his back, and a clamour of warcries rang out.

Glancing over the ledge, Guillame saw a trio of golden-armoured mer joining Faendal in assaulting the fort. Guillame cast his "Courage" spell on the elves and readied a healing spell in his other hand. One of the newcomers went down with a scream, a thick-shafted arrow protruding from his left eye cavity. Guillame prepared another spell, and crept up towards the stricken elf. Guillame cursed, seeing that the elf was beyond healing, and instead cast "Raise Zombie". The elf rose up, groaning sickeningly, and drew a sword, and continued the fight against the bandits.

After a few moments of frantic bloodshed, the two remaining gold-clad mer sheathed their swords and stalked off, leaving the blood-soaked Faendal standing amidst a pile of scorched bodies. Guillame got out from behind the ruined wall he'd taken cover behind and drew his mace, trying to look as though he'd done his fair share of fighting. "Good dust-up, eh, Faendal?"
The elf shot Guillame a dark look and started plucking arrows from the bodies on the ground. "Let's just hurry to Markarth, shall we?"

Just realised I deleted my save by accident. I might start another character in the future. I may also just make Jiub again.