Fiarrah

Story by Ennion3

The first thing that Fiarrah noticed as the Flying Cloud approached land after the sailing ship's three-week journey to Skyrim was the stink. Her nose had become accustomed to the clean ocean air, and now she was discovering what a city smelled like to someone who hadn't smelled one in a goodly while. Human and animal waste, chimney smoke, unwashed bodies... All those unpleasant smells were blended together and carried on the wind. Wrinkling her nose, she turned toward Jonas Abercrombie, the captain of the ship, and remarked, "Once I'm ashore, how long will it take me to get used to that stink, Captain?"

Jonas laughed. "If you grew up in the Isles, I'd say about a fortnight," he answered. "But you're not human, Miss Fiarrah. I don't know how you Altmer react to smells. Maybe you'll never get used to it."

Fiarrah wrinkled her nose again. She wondered if she should cast a simple Alteration spell to suppress her sense of smell, but decided against it. She didn't want to lose touch with reality, not even in this small way.

"When will the ship reach Solitude? Will you anchor outside the harbor? Or will you tie up at a pier?" the landlubber asked pleasantly, eager to reach the capital of Skyrim.

The captain looked at Fiarrah's hourglass figure and wondered if she could survive Skyrim's harsh winters, but he answered her question without hesitation. "We'll dock at the pier, Miss Fiarrah," he said. "We'll be there in about a six hours." He looked at the gray smudge on the horizon that was the port city of Solitude and sighed contentedly. He'd safely brought his vessel across the ocean one more time. His gorgeous young Skyrim wife, Sadie, was waiting for him there. He was looking forward to climbing between her parted legs once again...

Rousing himself from his reverie, he informed the ship's only passenger, "When I set the Sea and Anchor Detail, Miss, I want you either remain in your cabin, or come up here on the quarterdeck and stay near me. The crew will be be so busy fisting the sails and handling lines that they won't be looking out for your safety."

Fiarrah nodded her understanding and silently thanked Jonas for his concern. She looked down at her fashionable blouse and short skirt and realized that she'd have to change into something less revealing before she went ashore. She didn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. She knew that Skyrim's men were just as likely to be lechers as were the men of the Somerset Isles. She turned toward the ladder that led below decks and said, "I'll retire to my cabin for now, Captain. When we're about an hour out, I'd like to come back up here and watch our arrival."

Jonas nodded his agreement. "I'll have one of the crew knock on your stateroom door when we're close enough to see the city," he promised.

He watched as Fiarrah descended the ladder, her long legs flashing beneath her short skirt. He heaved a heavy sigh of longing. Damn, she was a beautiful woman! But she was also a passenger, and he was a professional. He turned his attention back to the horizon and the gray smudge that was Solitude. In his mind's eye he could see Sadie standing on the pier, waving her red silk scarf over her pale-blonde head and joyfully calling his name. She had no idea that she was just one of his wives. One of six, to be exact. She was his favorite, the only one of the women who hadn't let herself become fat.

Down below in her small cabin, Fiarrah changed into a knee-length, A-line dress that didn't reveal any cleavage. Never a fan of the bare leg look, she remained in her lingerie and stockings. But what shoes should she wear? She'd worn flats all during the ship's three-week transit, and was tired of them. As she packed her things in readiness for her departure, she put two pairs of high-heels on her bunk. She'd wear one of them, but which one? Both pair went nicely with her dark-wash, blue-denim dress. Giggling when she realized that she'd slid her tan-leather belt through the belt loops sewn around the waist of the dress, she put the black pair of pumps back into her trunk, then slipped off today's pair of brown-leather flats and tucked them into the trunk as well. When she stepped into the tan pair of pumps, their slender heels lifted her pretty blue eyes a fashionable four-inches.

Catching a glimpse of her face in the small mirror that was fastened to the cabin's bulkhead, she realized these earring didn't suit the style of the dress. Pulling her jewelry box from her trunk, she ran a long, pink-nailed finger through the jumble of earrings, looking for inspiration.

"Ah, yes, you'll do fine," she told the plain gold hoop, then went looking for its mate, the gold and silver earrings jingling musically as she stirred them about with her finger. "Here you are," she cooed happily when she turned up the other hoop.

Working by feel, she swapped her diamond-studs for the dangling hoops. Dropping the diamond earrings into the jewelry box, she shut and secured the lid, then returned the box to her trunk.

Packed up and ready to go ashore, she pulled her novel from her shoulder-bag purse and took it to her bunk. Propping the pillow against the headboard, she reclined against it and returned to the spicy tale of romance between impetuous young Arabella and Rhett, the dashing young cavalry officer.

She was reading a particularly steamy passage when a soft knock sounded on her cabin door. Looking up from her book, she answered, "Yes?"

"It's me, Miss Fiarrah," came the voice of the ship's boy, little Timmy, the orphan who'd stowed away and who was now a member of the ship's crew. "Cap'n says we're about an hour out from Solitude. He's invited you to join him on the quarterdeck, ma'am."

Fiarrah closed her novel, placing the bookmark between the pages. Rhett had just unbuttoned Arabella's blouse with agonizing slowness. Oh, well..., she'd pick up where she left off soon enough.

"Thank you, Timmy," she called as she swung her legs over the side of the bunk and came to her high-heeled feet, the ship moving beneath her like a living thing.

Smoothing her dress, she frowned when she discovered a badly-placed garter tab. There was nothing for it but to hike up her dress and make the adjustment. Working by feel, she unfastened the right-rear strap, and reattached it to the sturdy welt, just above the keyhole. Not having the benefit of a dressing mirror, she had to hope that her seams were straight.

Eager to see how a sailing ship was brought into port, she stuffed her novel into her purse, shouldered the bag, and left her cabin.

Timmy was still waiting outside her door, shifting nervously from foot to foot, his too-large shirt collar flopping against his skinny neck. "Cap'n says he'll show you the city through his spyglass, Miss," the boy chirped, his voice cracking mid-sentence. He blushed furiously, but Fiarrah pretended not to notice.

"Thank you, Timmy," she said, ruffling his hair as she passed.

The boy's grin was wide enough to split his face in half. He was just beginning to realize that girls weren't so bad after all. He stared at her retreating form, his enchanted eyes lingering on her gleaming legs. How did she get them to do that?

Up on the quarterdeck, Fiarrah found Jonas adjusting the focus of the spyglass with an expert twist-pull of a calloused hand. When he held it out to her, she noted the way his eyes flickered downward—just for a heartbeat—to the high-heeled pumps she now wore. Not the least offended, she gave him a white-toothed smile as she accepted the little, multi-sectioned telescope.

"Solitude," he announced, voice rough with salt and something else. "Built on a bloody great arch of rock, like the gods themselves wanted to show off."

Fiarrah pressed the spyglass to her eye, the cold brass biting into her skin. The city materialized in sharp detail: stone walls clawing at the sky, banners snapping like trapped birds, and far below, the harbor’s dark water churned by ships smaller than beetles from this distance. But what caught her breath wasn’t the architecture, it was the jagged silhouette of a dragon flying well above the city, its wings rarely beating as it made its slow circles.

"Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed, handing the spyglass back to the Captain so that he could take a look at what she'd just seen. "What is that thing? It has to be huge!"

Jonas took the spyglass from her and peered through it. "That's a dragon, Miss Fiarrah," he told her. "They've been coming back to Skyrim for the past couple of years. The locals say that Alduin, the World Eater, has returned to devour the world."

She heaved a deep sigh of disappointment. "Oh, great. I thought Skyrim was going to be a fine place to visit." After thinking about the dangerous beasts for a moment, she asked timidly, "Do dragons eat Altmer folk?"

Jonas chuckled softly. "Nope," he reassured her. "Dragons eat everything. Altmer, Nord, goat...it's all the same to them."

The dragon's wings stretched wide against the sky before banking lazily toward the distant mountains. Fiarrah watched its silent grace, her pulse quickening—not with fear, but with something else entirely. Its movements reminded her of the stalking panthers back home, fluid and deliberate, as though the air itself bent to accommodate its passage.

"Damn..." she whispered, suddenly homesick.

Timmy tugged at her sleeve, oblivious to her existential dread. "Miss Fiarrah, Cap’n says we gotta watch the rigging now. It gets proper mad when we come about." His eyes darted to her thighs when a gust of breeze lifted the hem of her dress, briefly exposing the tops of her stockings before she hammed the fabric back in place. The boy swallowed hard, suddenly fascinated by his own feet. Now he knew how she made her legs gleam. Cool...

Jonas pretended that he hadn't seen those fabulous gams and those honey-colored welts. He lowered the spyglass, his weathered fingers absentmindedly tracing the brass fittings.

"Don’t fret about the dragons, lass," he said, though his knuckles whitened around the instrument. "They mostly stick to the mountains, unless you go shouting in their bloody language." His attempt at levity fell flat when another winged shape joined the first, circling higher as if scenting prey.

Fiarrah’s fingers tightened around the ship’s rail, her long, pink-lacquered fingernails nearly biting crescents into the polished wood. Both dragons’ scales caught the late afternoon light like shattered obsidian, beautiful, lethal. She’d read accounts of such creatures in musty tomes back in Somerset, but parchment couldn’t convey the way their presence made her nerves jangle as her lizard brain reacted to their latent threats of violence.

Jonas cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably beside her. “They say the Dragonborn—some warrior blessed by Akatosh—can shout at ‘em, talk their language. Even kill 'em. But I’ll take my chances with rough seas over those winged bastards any day.”

Fiarrah’s hand strayed to the enchanted navel piercing beneath her dress, its familiar hum of magicka like a second pulse against her flat tummy. She wondered, briefly, if her Restoration spells could mend dragon-fire burns. Or if she’d even have time to scream before being reduced to charred bone.

"Do all dragons breathe fire?" she asked, vaguely recalling that some spewed frost instead.

Jonas adjusted his stance as the ship listed slightly, his boots gripping the deck with practiced ease. "Nay, some freeze your bones solid before shattering you like glass," he muttered, eyes never leaving the circling shapes. "But those two? See how their black scales catch the light? Fire-breathers, mark my words."

Fiarrah's abdominal muscles tightened—not from fear, but from the sudden, electric thrill of the unknown. The dragons' slow arcs across the sky reminded her of the first time she'd summoned a flame atronach. That was when she'd experienced a similar sense of vertigo, as if standing at the precipice of something vast and dangerous. Hopefully, she'd meet this Dragonborn during her travels. If so, she'd do her best to learn more about these dragons, and how to kill them.

Timmy tugged at her sleeve again, his fingers trembling slightly. "Miss, look!" He pointed toward the harbor's edge, where a lone figure stood silhouetted against the churning water. The Flying Cloud was much closer to land now, so she didn't need the spyglass to see that the man—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in leather and carrying a bow—had his head tilted upward and was watching the dragons with an unsettling stillness. Even from this distance, Fiarrah could sense the coiled tension in his stance, like a bowstring pulled taut.

Jonas grunted, squinting toward shore. "That’d be him, then. Dragonborn they call him. Seen him rip the soul from one of those winged bastards once. He shouted at it so hard the damn thing exploded." The Captain rubbed his stubbled chin, eyes flicking between the beautiful Altmer lass and the distant figure. "Odd, though. Normally he doesn’t linger near crowds. Something must’ve drawn him."

The dragons overhead banked sharply, their shadows slicing across the deck like black scythes. Fiarrah’s enchanted piercing flared suddenly, its magicka pulse synchronizing with the rhythm of distant wing-beats. The unfamiliar sensation made her gasp and clutch her flat tummy. Through watering eyes, she watched the Dragonborn finally move, his hand rising in what could’ve been greeting or warning. The gesture sent both dragons spiraling upward with unnatural speed until they vanished into low-hanging clouds.

"Where do you want me to take your trunk," Miss?" a Flying Cloud' crewman asked deferentially, his big hands resting on the handles of the two-wheeled dolly that held her large, round-topped travel trunk.

The Flying Cloud was tied to the pier. The two of them were standing on the busy, crowded dock, two virtual boulders causing the steady stream of people to flow around them, then come back together again.

"Is there an inn? A nice one? One suitable for a lady?" she asked, looking around in bewilderment. "All I see are ships and docks," she added, her expressive blue eyes telling the helpful seaman that she was a stranger in a strange land.

The crewman grinned and pointed toward the wide wooden staircase. "Up them steps, up a hill, turn right, and walk up another hill. Then we reach the city gate. You want the Winking Skeever, Miss," he patiently informed the gorgeous elf. "It's right inside the city gates, on the left. Can't miss it. Best place in Solitude for a lady like yourself," he added, his gaze lingering on her shapely legs, the afternoon sun glinting off her honey-colored stockings. What he didn't tell her was that it was the only inn, despite Solitude being Skyrim's capital city.

"You'll lug my trunk the whole way?" Fiarrah asked him, her facial expression one of big-eyed hope.

"Yes, ma'am. It's part of the service," he assured her, realizing as soon as he'd said it that it wasn't strictly true—usually passengers tipped extra for this—but he didn't have the heart to rescind the offer now. Besides, those legs of hers were worth the extra effort.

The seaman's work wasn't a slow torture. Thanks to Fiarrah's magic, and her Levitation spell, he didn't even need the two-wheeled dolly. Wheeling it back aboard the ship, he was back in a flash.

Fiarrah's slender heels caught twice in the gaps between boards, nearly sending her sprawling before she learned to mind the gaps with each footstep. Ahead of her, the crewman tooled her trunk around as if it was weightless. Appreciative of his dedication, she made a mental note to give him a nice tip. Perhaps a septim?

At the top of the stairs, they paused for breath. The crewman wiped his brow with a forearm, leaving a smear of salt and grime across his forehead. Fiarrah's sharp Altmer sense of smell noticed the presence of many horses, somewhere nearby but unseen.

"Is that a stable I smell?" she asked, pointing with one long, pink-nailed finger to their left.

"Yes, ma'am," the seaman replied with a grin. "Solitude Stables. You can buy a horse there, if you've got the coin." He chinned up the hill and added, "The public carriage stops at the top of this hill. You can ride it to all the cities in Skyrim. If you have the price of the fare."

"Is anything free in Skyrim?" the bewildered young High Elf muttered, thinking out loud without realizing it.

"Yes, ma'am. The air we breathe and all the banditry you can handle," the young sailor replied, then laughed at his own witticism.

Fiarrah gave him a tight-lipped smile, though her fingers tightened around her purse strap. She'd heard enough jokes about how young Altmer and their coins were soon parted to last her several lifetimes. The scent of horses grew stronger as they climbed the hill toward the T-intersection of two cobbled roads, mingling with the sharp tang of male sweat now coming from the helpful sailor. A group of Stormcloak soldiers eyed her with open curiosity as they passed, their gazes lingering on her unusual height, and the way her dress clung to her hourglass figure. Leg-men, they admired the way its flowing hem swirled around her pretty knees with each step, and the way her sheer stockings gleamed in the sunlight.

When the came to the T-intersection, the crewman hesitated. Right led to Solitude's gates and her inn. Left led to the town of Dragon Bridge and beyond. Fiarrah's attention was drawn to the carriage parked near the soldier of the road. Its driver lounged on the seat, perfectly content to be doing nothing at the moment.

Nearby stood a raggamuffin, chewing on a blade of grass while watching her with lazy interest. Something in his stance—the way his weight shifted subtly forward—suggested he'd been waiting for someone.

Fiarrah frowned when her enchanted navel piercing suddenly warmed against her skin as her magicka inexplicably surged. The sensation was enough to make her fingers twitch toward the hidden dagger strapped to her inner thigh beneath the welt of her left stocking.

"Don't mind him, Miss," the sailor told her with a wink. "That's Billy One-Eye. He likes to beg on this corner."

Billy One-Eye's grubby fingers curled and uncurled, dirt-caked nails digging into his palms as he waited for Fiarrah to pass. His single eye flicked from her stocking-clad legs to the floating trunk, assessing, measuring. He glowered at her when she only put a silver coin in his begging bowl as she passed by.

The scent of roasting meat wafted over the city walls as Fiarrah and her sailor ascended the final slope, her slender heels rapping out an irregular rhythm against the cobblestones as she struggled to gain her land legs and her breath. The sailor's breath came in short, ragged bursts now. Unaccustomed to pulling hills, he was nearly exhausted.

"Not much further now, Miss," he panted as he pushed her levitated trunk uphill. "A pint or two wouldn't go amiss."

Fiarrah chuckled and then said, "Aye, you shall have a pint or two. On me. And a septim as well. You've been most kind, sailor."

"Harry," he told her when he'd caught his breath.

"Pardon?" Fiarrah asked, blinking at the sudden introduction.

"Harry," the sailor repeated, wiping his palm on his trousers before extending his hand toward her. "Name's Harry Tallow. Most folks just call me 'Tallow,' though." His hand hovered between them, rough-knuckled, sun-darkened, the nails cracked from years of hauling lines and scrubbing decks. The dragon-shaped tattoo curling around his forearm flexed as he waited, the ink slightly blurred from sun and time.

Fiarrah hesitated only a heartbeat before taking his hand and gave it a firm grip despite the delicate bones beneath her honey-colored skin. "Fiarrah of Summerset," she replied, the old Isles formality slipping out before she could stop it. His calluses scraped against her soft palm in a way that sent an unexpected shiver up her arm.

As they approached Solitude's towering gates, the sheer scale of the arch above them made Fiarrah's throat tighten. The stonework looked less built than grown, as if the mountain itself had yawned open to swallow the city whole. A gust of wind carried the scent of burning coal from the blacksmith's forge, mingling with something darker beneath. Old blood.

Unbeknownst to her, she was about to step into Execution Square.

The city's beheading block got regular use.

Harry adjusted his grip on the floating trunk, his forearms flexing beneath rolled-up sleeves. "Watch your step here, Miss," he muttered, nodding toward the uneven cobbles slick with something that wasn't rainwater. His sea boots thudded against the paving stones as they walked through the towering gate and entered the city, the sound of her clicking heels a delightfully feminine accompaniment. "And don't look to your right, if you have a squeamish stomach," he advised as he trundled the heavy trunk toward the inn's front door.

Too late—Fiarrah's gaze flickered toward the executioner's block, where a Nord woman knelt with bound wrists, her blonde braids dangling over the sides of the purpose-built wooden chopping block like twin bell-pulls. The curved blade of the headsman's axe caught the afternoon light in a cold flash before quickly descending with a wet thump that sent crimson droplets arcing through the air.

Fiarrah's stomach lurched when the bloody head thudded into the catch-basket, but what made her fingers dig into Harry's arm wasn't the violence, it was the crowd's reaction. Cheers erupted from gathered citizens, their faces flushed with a fervor that bordered on religious ecstasy.

The Winking Skeever's heavy oak door swung inward to Harry's push, revealing a dim interior thick with pipe smoke and perfumed by the yeasty scent of baking bread. A slender Imperial with forearms like smoked sausages stood framed in the doorway, his rust-red sideburns and mustache bristling as he took in Fiarrah's towering height and the way her denim dress clung to her feminine curves.

"Well now," he said, wiping wet hands on his stained apron, "either you're the prettiest Altmer ever to darken my doorstep, or my eyesight's gone bad."

"Are you the innkeeper? she asked, giving him an uncertain smile, her intelligent, blue-eyed gaze sweeping past him as she surveyed the common room's lunchtime crowd.

The Imperial leaned against the doorframe, his forearms crossing over his chest. "Aye, that I am. Corpulus Vinius at your service. ma'am,," he said, his gaze flicking to the trunk that Harry was pushing through the door, forcing him to step aside. "You'll be wanting a room then, I expect?" he asked as he headed toward the ersatz reception counter that did far more duty as the top of a bar.

Fiarrah followed him inside, the soles of her pumps sticking to something on the inn's well-worn floorboards. The scent of roasting meat and unwashed male bodies enveloped her, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to the air from the square outside. She forced herself to focus on the innkeeper's face rather than the way his eyes kept straying to the hem of her dress as it swayed around her knees.

"Yes, please. Something quiet if possible," she replied as she set her purse on the bar and fished out her wallet. As she pressed a gold coin into Harry's hand, she told him, "This isn't drinking money, Harry. I'm buying. Just as soon as my trunk is safely stowed away in my room. we'll come back here and find us a table."

"How many nights you plan on staying?" Corpulus asked, turning the guest register around and pushing it toward the blonde-haired elf.

Not really sure how to answer, Fiarrah played it safe. "Two, I think. Depends on what Solitude has to offer, besides beheading."

Shrugging off the near-daily occurrence, the innkeeper told her," Twenty septims. In advance. Meals are extra. No charge to use the loo."

Fiarrah dug through her purse and pulled out two septims, then hesitated, her pink-nailed fingers hovering over the register's yellowed page. "I've never seen a city's guest ledger that asked for Occupation," she murmured, tracing the column with one long finger. The entry below "Adventurer," "Merchant," and "Pilgrim," was "Dragon Fucker". She snorted derisively as she used the accompanying pen to write her name and the other required information. She wrote 'Priestess of Auri-El' under Occupation and 'Alinor, Summerset Isles' under Home Address. Handing over the coins as she spun the register back around, she held out her hand, palm-up and waited for the key.

"Room four, Sister Fiarrah," Corpulus informed her as he put the large brass key in her hand. "Top of the stairs, straight ahead. Fresh linens. Changed them myself, just the other day."

Harry snorted into his fist as he hoisted the trunk onto his shoulder—the sudden flex of his muscles pulled his sweaty, translucent cotton shirt tight against his back, revealing the mermaid tattoo in its entirety. Her scaled tail curved down his broad back and her face was so lifelike that she almost gave Fiarrah a wink. The sight of the bosomy torso made Fiarrah think of a women she knew, and that made her grin. The scent of sea salt and male sweat intensified as she followed Harry up the wooden stairs.

The door to Room Four creaked open on reluctant hinges, revealing a space barely larger than the one she'd had aboard the Flying Cloud, but with a bed wide enough for two, its quilt patterned in faded blue squares. The room was faintly scented with lavender, its source a small complementary bar of soap that sat in a pottery dish on the wash stand. The floral scent was mingled with something muskier beneath: traces of past guests lingering on the 'fresh' bed linens. Fiarrah's sharp ears caught the faint rustle of mice in the walls, their tiny claws skittering between the timbers like whispers of disapproval.

Heaving a heavy sigh, while Harry set her trunk against the wall, she used her Alteration magic to chase away the mice and bedbugs, and used a Restoration spell to clean the bed sheets and quilt.

"Thank you, Harry," she told him with a genuine smile. Settling her bag more securely on her shoulder, she told him, "Now let's go downstairs and hoist a pint or two."

After sending a refreshed Harry on his way several hours later, Fairrah decided that there was sufficient daylight remaining for her to make a quick exploration of the walled city. To her delight, she soon discovered the Temple of the Divines. Stepping inside, holding a silver coin in one of her manicured hands, she was immediately met by a priestess who politely accepted her donation and gave her a well-received blessing.

When she reached the apse, she was shocked to find that the Shrine of Talos was absent. As Talos was the Nord race's preferred Deity, she made a beeline back to the priestess.

"Is something bothering you, dear?" Sister Freir asked solicitously, reacting to the look of distress she saw on the elven woman's gorgeous face.

"Yes, there is, Sister," Fiarrah replied, whispering because she was in a holy place. "Where is the Shrine of Talos? He's the Nord's Deity, and I'm sure they wish to receive his Blessing."

Sister Freir's lovely face hardened as she glanced toward the apse, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her hands behind her back. "Talos worship is forbidden under Imperial decree," she hissed through clenched teeth, her breath smelling faintly of sacramental wine. Fear make her look over her shoulder for a lurking Thalmor Justiciar. "And I suggest you forget you ever asked—unless you'd like your pretty neck acquainted with that chopping block outside."

Fiarrah's enchanted navel piercing pulsed like a second heartbeat as her magicka surged in response to the priestess's words. She wasn't calling upon her piercing to boost the rate she could replenish magicka out of fear, but from the sudden realization that Skyrim's politics were far more dangerous than its dragons. The scent of burning incense clung thickly to the air between them, masking the aroma of burning beeswax candles.

Sister Freir knew one race of elf from another, and this beauty was definitely an Altmer. Fixing the golden-skinned High Elf with a penetrating gaze, she wondered aloud, "I know the Altmer worship Xarxes, but I suggest you venerate the Aldmeri god, Auri-El. The Snow Elves did, and they had a society that nearly rivaled the Altmer. If you seek spiritual enlightenment while you're here in Skyrim, I suggest you transfer your adoration to Auri-El."

Fiarrah blinked with surprise. Her maternal grandmother had been a Snow Elf, and she'd venerated Auri-El. Perhaps Sister Freir was correct. Perhaps she could find the spiritual peace she so desired if she worshiped this elven Deity.

"Is there a Shrine of Auri-El in Skyrim?" Fiarrah asked. "I see no such shrine here in your temple."

Sister Freir hesitated—her fingers worrying the silver pendant at her throat—before answering in a murmur barely louder than the candle flames flickering around them. "Not in any Imperial temple," she admitted, truthfully. "But there are whispers of a hidden chantry, tended by the last true Snow Elf priest. Deep in the Forgotten Vale, where the ice never melts and the winds carry voices from the dawn of time."

Fiarrah’s breath caught—not at the priestess’s words, but at the sudden, searing heat from her navel piercing that spread through her abdomen like liquid fire. The enchantment had never reacted this way before, as though something ancient and unseen had reached across the centuries to pluck at her soul. The scent of ozone prickled in her nostrils, sharp enough to drown out the temple’s incense.

The priestess shied away, her eyes wide with shocked recognition of the source of the acrid odor. This gorgeous blonde wore an enchanted something-or-other, one that was attuned to Auri-El. Oh, my! Recovering herself, she stepped into the tall elf's personal space and whispered, "I know what just happened. You have Snow Elf blood, my dear. Your enchanted whatever-it-is calls out to Auri-El. You simply must become a pilgrim. Seek the chantry, my dear. Seek the chantry."

Fiarrah's stomach flip-flopped—this was why she'd come to Skyrim! Auri-El had answered her prayers! Taking Sister Freir's hands in hers, she whispered, "Thank you, Sister. You've answered the question that brought me to Skyrim. Yes, I must find this Forgotten Vale and its hidden chantry."

The scent of rain-wet stone seeped through the temple windows as a sudden downpour hammered the roof, the sound like a thousand impatient fingers drumming against the shingles. Fiarrah's enchanted piercing stopped pulsing and resumed it normal warming presence. That sent a shiver up her spine that had nothing to do with the temple's chilly interior.

"May the Eight bless you and keep you," Sister Freir intoned automatically, raising her right hand in benediction.

Outside the temple, Fiarrah cast an Alteration spell on herself, shielding herself from the rain and warming herself against the sudden chill that the cold front had brought with it as it swept in from the western sea and raced east over Skyrim. As she walked back to the inn and the privacy of her room, she racked her brain to recall the few things that Grandmother Elvira had taught about Auri-El, the Deity that all true Snow Elves worshiped.

Auri-El or Auriel was the elven variant of Akatosh, the chief god of the Nine Divines. Auri-El is the soul of Anui-El, who in turn is the soul of Anu, the Everything. Anu is often seen as chief of the Aldmeri Pantheon by his followers.

So little of this made sense to Fiarrah that she realized that she really needed to seek the council of this 'last true Snow Elf priest' that the gentle priestess had just told her about.

Later that day, as she sat in the common room and ate a delicious supper meal, Fiarrah used her sharp elven hearing to dip into the swirl of conversations that made the common room buzz with lifelong friendships and alcohol-infused conviviality. She was delighted to learn that the fashionable women purchased their chic outfits from Radiant Raiment, the ladies shop that was located directly across the street from the inn. In need of something to wear that didn't scream SUMMERSET ISLES, she decided to pay the shop a visit, first thing in the morning.

She slept in the next morning, not leaving the sheets until shortly before noon. Wearing just an OBG, seamed stockings, and her tan-leather pumps, she stood before the little mirror that hung on the wall over a small dresser. Using it to see what she was doing, she applied her makeup and fixed her hair. When she was satisfied with her appearance, she pulled a chic, cotton-print wrap dress from her travel trunk. Holding it at arm's length, she used her Alteration magic to remove its wrinkles and to give it a sun-dried scent. Confident in her choice of dress, she shrugged ito its long sleeves and belted it around her small waist. Its twenty-one-inch hemline coincidentally matched Skyrim's current fashion trend, another interesting Skyrim fact she'd gleaned while she'd eaten supper.

Downstairs, she claimed an empty two-top table that gave her a view of the door.

Fiarrah traced a fingertip along the grain of the wooden tabletop—each groove and whorl telling stories of spilled mead and whispered confessions—while she waited for the young waitress to come to her table.

The moonlighting college girl’s mincing footsteps made Fiarrah grin. The stunning raven-haired Imperial lass was working hard to master the runway model's foot-slinging gait.

"Hello. Welcome to the Winking Skeever," the cheerful teenager said as she pulled her order pad from the pocket of her apron and pulled a pencil from behind a thrice-pierced ear. "What may I bring you to drink?"

"Breakfast tea, if you have it. Black coffee if you don't" Fiariah answered, her smile audible in her alto voice. "Then bring me two eggs, scrambled, and two pieces of crisp bacon. Toast, no butter. Any kind of jam will be fine."

"Cream and sugar?"

"Just sugar, please. For my tea. I drink my coffee black."

"You got it. Be right back with your tea."

The waitress's hips swayed like a pendulum as she retreated toward the kitchen, her ankle-length skirt swirling around the vamps of her remarkably-tall pair of black-leather pumps—an odd choice for a waitress to wear. The scent of frying bacon and brewing coffee drifted through the swinging kitchen doors, mingling with the sharper tang of spilled ale from last night's revelry still clinging to the floorboards.

Fiarrah's stomach growled softly, the sound drowned out by the sudden scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor behind her. She resisted the urge to turn and look—Altmer etiquette demanded she wait for an introduction—but her intuition told her that she really didn't want to know the fellow.

The waitress returned with a chipped porcelain teapot balanced precariously on a tray, its spout steaming aggressively. "Here's your—oh!" She nearly fumbled the tray when a thickly-muscled arm reached over and its huge hand caressed her shapely ass. As it was a hazard of her trade, she merely wriggled away and went about her business.

The arm belonged to a hulking Nord. "You're tall for a milk-drinker," he told Fiarrah with a leering grin.

"Thank you," she replied sweetly, her eyes twinkling with false merriment. "And you have a blessed day."

The man snorted derisively and left the table. As he walked away, he casting a backward glance at Fiarrah's legs. Their sheer perfection was highlighted by the morning sunlight streaming through the inn's windows' diamond-shaped panes. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he continued toward the door, the scent of sweat-soaked leather and sour denim fabric trailing behind him like a specter.

The waitress returned with her breakfast, the plate clattering slightly as she set it down with fingers still clumsy from youth. “Your eggs,” she announced unnecessarily, then hesitated. "Um..., may I ask you something, ma'am?" she asked quietly.

"Certainly," Fiarrah replied as she used the side of her fork to cut a slice of egg.

The coed dimpled a smile and then whispered, "It your skin really golden? Or do you use a body lotion that gives you that fabulous look?"

Fiarrah chuckled and gave the teen a tight-lipped grin. "Haven't met an Altmer before, I guess?"

"No, ma'am," the Sweet Young Thing told her in all honesty. "I'm a country girl. I'd never met an elf until I came to Solitude. I'm a student at the college. Voice major."

Fiarrah raised a brow—the girl's voice was pleasant enough, but nothing extraordinary—and stirred sugar into her tea. The spoon clinked softly against the porcelain, a sound that seemed to hang in the air between them.

"No, its not from not lotion. Its just Altmer coloring," she told the youngster. "Just like Imperials have olive complections, and Nords have white skin, and Breton have light-tan complexions, High Elves have golden complexions." She paused and made eye contact, then asked, "Where did you get those marvelous shoes? You look so comfortable in them." She added in a teasing tone of voice, "Are they enchanted?"

"They are!" the coed answered with a giggle. "They're Drake McCall shoes. His wife enchants each pair for all-day comfort." She lifted a foot and spun a trim ankle. "They're made to order to fit your foot. Master McCall's shoe shop has an entire wall of lasts."

"Drake McCall... is his shop here in Solitude?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. His shop is in Windhelm. You thinking about paying him a visit? Bring plenty of money, if you do."

"Windhelm? Hmm... I'll have to look it up on my map. Thank you for telling me about your shoes."

"You're most welcome. Well, I have to get back to work. A waitress's job is never done."

It was a little past noon when Fiarrah entered Radiant Raiment.

"Come in. And shut the door," the lovely High Elf woman standing behind the sales counter called to her.

Fiarrah made sure to give the door an extra-good yank. As walked down the ramp that led to the sales floor, she drew a deep breath. The mingled aromas of expensive cloth and exptic perfumes was heavenly. Bolts of fabric leaned against the walls like drowsing courtiers, their colors muted in the filtered light from lace-curtained windows. She made a beeline for the hosiery section, drawn by the leg-models that displayed seamless stockings. Seamless!

"Oh, I do hope you have my size!" she gushed as she began to sort through the packets, reading the labels.

"And what might that be?" Endarie asked in her haughty tone of voice.

"Eleven, Full, Long," the mesmerized High Elf replied, her eyes glued to the packets as she ran a long, pink fingernail along their sizing information.

Endarie reached under the counter and pulled out a box of the asked-for sizes. "My sister and I keep the larger sizes behind the counter," she informed the surprised customer. "We High Elf ladies have to stick together." She pulled several packets from the box. "Now, tell me, my dear. What shades do you prefer? I'm partial to Town Taupe."

"A Little Color, Barely There, Barely Black, and Town Taupe," Fiarrah replied, recalling the names that she'd read about in a recent fashion magazine.

"And how may in each shade?"

"Six, please."

Endarie arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. The number was excessive, but she'd seen stranger requests from noblewomen with more gold than sense. She began counting out the stocking packets, her manicured, long-nailed fingers lingering on each packet as though assessing their quality anew.

The shop's front door creaked open, letting in a gust of wind that sent the lace curtains fluttering like startled doves. A war-painted Nord woman strode in, her stiletto-heeled boots tracking mud onto the pristine marble floor.

Endarie's lip curled, but she kept her voice sweet as honeyed venom. "Madam, the doormat exists for a reason."

Fiarrah's fingers stilled mid-reach into her purse as the newcomer's scent hit her—musky and earthy, with an undercurrent of something wilder, gamey, like the scent of a wolf. The woman's storm-gray eyes locked onto Fiarrah's with unsettling intensity, her lips parting to reveal slightly elongated canines. Was she a vampire? No, she didn't have their red eyes. A werewolf then? That idea made her shudder from dread. She masked her nervous reaction with a charming smile.

"You're new," the newcomer observed, her contralto voice raising the fine hairs on Fiarrah's arms. "And you smell like wet decks and saltwater. Strange, for Skyrim."

Endarie's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as she slid the neatly wrapped parcel of stockings across the counter. She tapped a burgundy-polished nail against the receipt, silently indicating to her fellow elf the sum total of her purchase.

"Our newest shipment from Alinor has arrived, Aela," the veteran shopkeeper said smoothly, though her gaze flickered toward the door as if calculating how quickly the Nord could be ejected. "These stockings the lady is purchasing came from it. They are knit from moonstone threads; accordingly, they are impervious to snag, so no runs."

Fiarrah pulled the required number of septims from her purse and placed them on the counter beside her parcel.

The Nord woman leaned against a display case with casual arrogance, her posture too relaxed to be accidental. She tilted her head slightly, not enough to be impolite, just enough to make the lamplight catch the silver streaks in her dark-blonde braid.

"Moonstone threads," Aela mused, rolling the words around her tongue like a connoisseur sampling wine. "Practical. But tell me, Altmer. Do they hold enchantments well? Or are they too sheer to be enchanted?"

Fiarrah’s fingers twitched against the parcel’s snug wrapping string as she lifted her purchase in preparation for making her departure. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

Endarie’s answering smile was the slow unfurling of a rose laced with thorns. "A discerning question," she purred. "Though I wonder why a Shield-Sister of Jorrvaskr would need enchanted stockings when she carries the beast’s blood in her veins."

The Nord woman’s chuckle was like a bowstring vibrating against leather. "A female Companion can appreciate beauty and utility," she countered, her storm-gray eyes never leaving Fiarrah’s face as she reached past her to pluck a single stocking from an open packet. She stretched the sheer material between her calloused fingers with surprising delicacy, testing its breaking strength.

Fiarrah inhaled sharply—the woman’s presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to a forge—but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she caught the subtle scent of snow berries clinging to the Nord’s single braid, an unexpectedly floral counterpoint to her otherwise ferocious aura.

Endarie’s fingers drummed against the counter-top in a silent rebuke, her nails clicking like impatient claws. "Twelve septims if you damage that stocking," she warned, her red eyes gleaming with something akin to grudging amusement. "Double the price of the pair. As a fine for your boldness."

The Nord woman grinned—sharp, wolfish—and released the stocking with deliberate slowness, letting it return to its unworn shape with a whisper of displaced air. "Probably worth every coin," she conceded, then turned her unsettling gaze fully onto Fiarrah. "You wear your height well, elf. Most of your kind look like saplings in a storm. All knees and elbows." Her nostrils flared as she leaned in slightly, inhaling Fiarrah’s scent like a connoisseur sampling rare wine. "You... you're built well. Like a man's fantasy. You're perfectly proportioned." She pointed rudely at Fiarrah's jutting bosom and asked, "Are those your own? Or are you augmented?"

"What...?" Fiarrah replied, utterly flabbergasted.

She'd never heard of the term. What did this Nord goddess mean? Augmented?

Endarie’s chuckle was low and knowing. "Aela the Huntress asks indelicate questions," she murmured, her crimson gaze flickering toward the Nord’s heavily-scarred hands. "But then, wolves have no use for manners, do they?" She looked at Fiarrah and explained. "She wants to know if a surgeon implanted bags of saline in your breasts, dear. Augmented you. Boosted your Girls a couple of cup sizes. It's all the rage in Riften, more's the pity."

Shocked indignation written all over her face, Fiarrah hissed, "They're mine. The women in my family are blessed with perfect figures. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Aela the Huntress, I'll be on my way."

With that, she turned on her heel and left the sales floor, her tall heels clicking a staccato rhythm as she walked up the ramp, heading for the exit.

The biting wind outside hit her face like a slap, making her wish she'd worn a cloak when she'd left the inn. No matter, she was just feet away from the 'Skeever and the sanctuary of her upstairs room.

She was still seething with righteous indignation as she made her way through the inn's common room. While she was walking up the staircase, she really felt like a stranger in a strange land.

---

Three days later found her kneeling by the edge of a quiet pond and refilling her canteens. She'd left the inn the morning after her visit to the exclusive ladies shop, having had her fill of 'civilized' Skyrim. Walking west from the city for no other reason that it was a cardinal compass point, she'd slept rough the last two nights. And had enjoyed the experience. Fortunately, that earlier cold front had ushered in some good weather. The Mid Year temperatures were mild enough that all she'd needed was her sweater and her rubberized cotton poncho to be comfortable during the nighttime hours.

It was around noon now, and so warm that she was comfortable in a cropped, short-sleeved cotton t-shirt and her favorite pair of wash-faded blue jeans. Hungry, she shrugged off her backpack and set it on the grass beside a fallen log. After pulling a small bag of jerked meat from one of the pack's side pockets, she sat on the log and ate her noon meal. Curious about the name of this charming park-like place, she reached into the pack's top pocket and pulled out her map.

"Hunnh..., Candlepine Pond..." she murmured when she finally located the pond on the map.

She suddenly stopped looking at the map and immediately returned her attention her surroundings. What was that? she mentally asked herself as she made a slow visual sweep of the area, her sensitive ears straining to hear the noise again. She pulled an arrow from her belt quiver and knocked it to the string of her brand-new recurve bow. Holding the bow at the ready, she slowly came to her booted feet and mentally prepared herself for the worst.

"Hello, the camp!" a pleasant baritone voice called from the near-distance.

Spinning about to face the man who'd hailed her, she lifted the bow and aimed the arrow in the direction of his voice.

"I'm friendly," a nice-looking man called to her as he stepped from behind a large tree with his hands in the air. "I left my bow and my sword behind me," he added, standing still and giving her a white-toothed smile. "And my backpack."

Getting a good vibe from him, she called out,"Approach!"

She lowered her bow and pointed the arrow at the ground in front of her, but she kept her fingers on the bowstring.

The stranger stepped forward carefully, his boots whispering through the tall grass as he moved with the cautious grace of someone who knew how to move silently in the woods. A hunter, perhaps? Sunlight made his dark-auburn hair show its red highlights. As he came closer, what she next noticed were his hands—broad palms, long fingers, and the unmistakable callouses of someone who'd spent years gripping sword hilts and pulling bowstrings.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she asked, pitching her feminine voice in as low a register as she could in an effort to sound threatening.

The man stopped a safe distance away and gave her a disarmingly charming grin. "My parents named me Jon," he answered, thumbs hooked casually into his belt. "Jon Hicks. Most people call me Dragonborn. Some call me Dovahkiin. I answer to all three. As to what I want... that's a bit more complicated." His green-hazel eyes flickered over her bow with professional appreciation before settling back on her face—not leering, not sizing her up—just seeing her in a way that made her skin prickle deliciously.

Fiarrah kept her arrow half-drawn, watching how the wind ruffled his hair, how his posture remained loose but ready. His scent hit her then—pine resin and wood smoke, with a hint of male sweat.

"Complicated... how?" she asked, shifting her stance just enough to let a sunbeam catch the razor edge of her steel arrowhead. It was a silent reminder that she wasn't some helpless milk-drinker.

Jon's grin softened at the edges as he told her honesty, "I've been tracking you since I learned that you'd left Solitude. Captain Abercrombie and Sister Freir and I are great friends. The Captain of the Flying Cloud told me he'd brought you to Solitude as a passenger. The priestess told me about your pilgrimage. I need your help, Fiarrah of Summerset. Please follow me. I have no doubt that somewhere along our journey, we'll have cause to find the Hidden Vale."

She blinked once—slowly—like a cat considering whether to pounce or play. The arrow remained half-drawn, its steel tip continuing to catch sunlight in deliberate warning. "And why would I trust a stranger who admits to stalking me?" Her voice held the crisp precision of a rapier being drawn from its scabbard.

Jon didn't flinch. Instead, he reached into the left-rear pocket of his jeans with deliberate slowness—giving her ample time to put an arrow through his throat—and withdrew a folded square of parchment. Though she couldn't see it, the blob of red wax bore the seal of a full-rigged sailing ship. "Captain Abercrombie wrote this," he said, letting it dangle between two fingers. "He thought you might need convincing."

Fiarrah's nostrils flared when she caught the faintest whiff of incense clinging to the parchment, and it made her heart ache with recognition. Captain Abercrombie burned this particular incense in his cabin, said it made it easier for him to concentrate when he was writing in his ship's log. Keeping her bowstring taut, she jerked her chin toward a flat-topped boulder beside the log. "Put it there. Then step back."

Jon moved like water—no wasted motion, no sudden gestures—placing the letter on the sun-warmed stone before retreating exactly five paces. While she made a cautious approach to the stone, he reached—slowly—into the front-right pocket of his jeans and pulled out a single earring. "Captain Abercrombie also gave me this," he explained as he let the sunlight play upon the five half-carat diamonds that were strung in a row.

It was hers! The one she'd lost aboard the ship and hadn't been able to find!

Fiarrah lowered her bow, the string going slack as recognition flashed across her face. That set of earrings had been a gift from her mother, each stone representing a different Isle, unlikely replicated. Jon's fingers held it with surprising delicacy, his calloused hands incongruously gentle.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pond water and pine needles, and something else—something earthen and ancient that made the tiny hairs on her arms stand upright.

"Spriggans," Jon told her conversationally as he pocketed the earring for safety. "They protect these natural places, and are willing to give their lives in the process. If you'll permit me, Miss Fiarrah, I can mark them for death with a Shout. Just one of your arrows in each of the spriggans will kill it."

She nodded her agreement, trusting his judgment. He spun around to face the spriggans, drew a deep breath, and Shouted, "Kri Lun Aus!"

The air shuddered around them, distorting like heat waves over a desert. The spriggans burst into sudden, unnatural visibility. Not just one, but three, their bark-like skins glowing with an eerie green aura. They buzzed like swarms of flies, their branch-like fingers twisting into claws as they charged toward them. Fiarrah drew, aimed, and fired the arrow. It flew with a whisper, embedding itself in the lead spriggan’s chest. It staggered, its glowing veins darkening to black as it collapsed into a heap of brittle twigs. So did the second and third spriggan.

"Nicely done," Jon told her as he walked over to the dead spriggans and retrieved her arrows.

Fiarrah studied the Dragonborn's movements, noting the economical way he knelt beside each corpse, the precise twist of his wrist as he worked the arrowheads free from the brittle wood. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, yet there was something unexpectedly graceful about the motion, like a scribe turning pages of an illuminated manuscript rather than a warrior retrieving spent ammunition. When he stood and turned back toward her, she caught the way his eyes flickered over her stance. He wasn't assessing her as a threat now, but as something else entirely.

"Your form's impeccable," he remarked, handing the arrows back with a nod toward her recurve bow. "But you telegraph your shots just before release. You blinked your eyes." His demonstration was casual, almost offhand, as he mimicked the error with a pantomimed bow. "Might give a really good warrior the warning needed to dodge out of the way." The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something warmer than professional critique. "Your movements are fluid and your aim was perfect. You're not just a pretty face."

Fiarrah felt the compliment settle between her ribs like sunlight on cold stone, his compliment unexpectedly warming. She rolled one shoulder in deliberate nonchalance, the motion sending her long hair sliding over the curve of her breast. "I was taught by a Bosmer who'd hunted Valenwood's canopy for two centuries," she said, watching how his gaze tracked the sway of her earrings rather than the wobbling of her braless breasts. "He told me the same thing. Never been able to break the habit." She tilted her chin up just enough to make the sunlight catch the red in her blue irises. "Maybe you'll be the one who helps me correct that flaw."

Jon's grin deepened the creases around his eyes, weathering marks from years of squinting into dazzling sunlit snow and dazzling summer sunlight. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the earring. "I hope you have its mate in your pack,” he said as he placed the sparklers in her outstretched hand.

She swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close he stood, close enough that she could count the individual lashes framing his green-brown eyes.

“No, I don't. It's in my jewelry box, back in Solitude,” she informed him as she walked over to her backpack and placed her returned earring into a side pocket.

Reaching into her left-front pants pocket, she impulsively pulled out an elastic scrunchie, the one that she'd removed from her ponytail when she'd reached the pond.

When the stranger returned after retrieving his backpack and weapons, she placed the little cloth ring in his hand. Her eyes twinkling with high good humor, she explained the gift. "Where I come from, schoolgirls gives scrunchies to boys they like. While we're not friends, I do like you. So, here."

Jon studied the black scrunchie as if it were some arcane artifact. The soft fabric still held the faint scent of her hair, something floral and sharp, like a jasmine blossoms dipped in citrus. He looped it around his wrist with deliberate care, the elastic snapping against his skin with a quiet thwack that made her lips quirk in amusement.

"Thank you," he told her simply, his eyes also twinking.

"You're welcome," she answered as she returned to her log and her little sack of jerky. Offering him the bag after she'd taken a seat, she asked, "Have you eaten today? It's only jerked meat, but it tastes good."

Jon took a couple of pieces of jerky and sat beside her, the scrunchie flashing black against his wrist as he lifted the jerky to his mouth and chewed it slowly. He looked around the pond's edge, nodding approvingly at the dead spriggans. "Nice shot placement," he told her between bites. "You didn't miss any of them." He chewed in silence for a while, hoping that Fiarrah would tell him that she'd join him in his travels.

Suddenly remembering that she hadn't read the Captain's note, Fiarrah reached over and picked it up. The faint scent of incense made her shut her eyes and offer up a silent prayer of thanks to...not Talos! Auri-El was her Deity now. Mentally apologizing to Talos, she briefly communed with Auri-El. Unfolding the note she read the Captain's message:

Miss Fiarrah, the letter began in Jonas Abercrombie's looping old-fashioned script, if you're reading this, Dragonborn found you—which means you're either dead or about to have the strangest conversation of your life. I'd wager my ship on the latter. The ink blurred slightly where he'd smudged the page, but the next lines struck clear as a blade: He's hunting something worse than dragons. Needs a mage who can keep up. Say yes. You'll see things no Altmer has seen in five thousand years.

It was signed with an inky thumbprint beside his name—the sailor's mark of absolute truth.

PS - I gave him your lost earring. If that doesn't convince you that he knows me, then I'm fresh out of ideas. Say yes, when he asks you to go with him. JA

Fiarrah looked up from the note and smiled at Jon who was watching her with the concentration of a cat staring at a mouse hole. Suddenly she had the oddest feeling. It was as if she'd always known this man. Teasing him a little, she folded the note and stuck it in her backpack, then took a piece of jerky from the sack and nibbled on it as she looked at the little island in the pond.

"Yes," she said finally, her lips quirking upward, her eyes twinkling as she turned her head and looked at him. "I will accompany you."

Jon nodded his head and patted her on the knee. "Thank you," he told her, then sighed deeply, a sigh of contentment.

"I suppose I should tell you a little about myself," she offered, patting his knee in return.

"Yes, I suppose you should. And I should do the same," Jon replied with a grin, maintaining eye contact and marveling at seeing an elf with blue eyes, then marveling over that bit of red that added an extra bit of spice to them.

"I'm a Healer," she began, holding his gaze and mentally mapping the contours of his handsome face. "I can group-heal, something my mother and her mother taught me. I'm attuned to Ice magic, can cast two Ward spells, and I can turn Undead, briefly. As you saw, I'm good with a bow. I'm handy with a mace. I like Light Armor, and Drake McCall shoes. Though I haven't purchased a pair of his enchanted stilettos, I intend to. Just as soon as I can find my way to Windhelm and his shop."

"Whew" was Jon's respectful answer to her litany of abilities. "I'm really glad you're a Healer. I have a feeling that's going make you a busy lady during a fight. I tend to be bit rash, when my dander is up."

"So, what about you?" she prompted,with a grin, then returned to nibbling on her slice of jerky.

Jon leaned back against the log, stretching his legs out in front of him. The afternoon sun caught the stubble along his jawline, turning it into a reddish halo that complemented the red highlights in his auburn hair.

"Well," he began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "As you saw, I can Shout. I know a few and I'm always on the lookout for new Word Walls. I'm good with a bow, self-taught. My father trained me for board-and-sword combat. I also prefer Light Armor, but I'm not into Drake McCall shoes. I don't look good in four-inch heels." He shot her a wink, then added, "I bet they look great on you though."

Fiarrah chuckled softly, shifting her long legs slightly to let him see her sturdy hiking boots. "They do," she admitted with a smirk. The admission felt strangely intimate—not the sort of thing she'd share with just any male, but Jon's easy humor seemed to invite confidences. "Maybe I'll retire these boots and wear a pair of pumps," she said as she shot him a wink. Then she dashed his hopes when she added, "Unfortunately, I didn't put a pair in my backpack. All my fancy clothes are in my travel trunk. I'm storing it at the Winking Skeever. For a fee, of course."

Jon's grin widened at the mention of Solitude's most famous inn. "Vinius keeps a good house," he said, nodding approvingly. "He'll guard your trunk with his life." His fingers absently traced the scrunchie around his wrist, the motion slow and deliberate, as if he were committing its texture to memory. "But I'm curious—why bring a trunk full of fancy clothes to Skyrim? Most travelers pack practical things—wool cloaks, fur-lined boots, that sort of thing."

Fiarrah arched one pale eyebrow, the gesture as elegant as a Bacetrica portrait. "Because," she said, stretching the word like taffy, "I'm a girly-girl. I loathe looking frumpy." She plucked at her cropped tee and gave him a wicked grin. "This is my concession to wilderness survival. But trust me—once we reach civilization, I'll be back in proper stockings and 'heels." Her lips curved in a wicked little smile. "And you'll definitely notice."

Jon chuckled low in his throat, a sound like distant thunder. "Oh, I don't doubt that," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the way her hair caught the sunlight—liquid gold spun through with threads of copper. He cleared his throat abruptly, suddenly fascinated by the toes of his boots. "So...when you're not in a town, is it difficult to wear high-heeled shoes? I mean, like where we are now... would you wear them?"

"Oh, sure... I'd wear them," the beauty answered truthfully, a tingle racing down her spine at the prospect of getting out of these clunky boots. She'd let the saleslady at Bits and Pieces talk her into buying them. "Slender heels aren't great on soft ground, but on roads, trails and paths, I get along just fine. According to what I've learned about Drake McCall shoes, wearing a pair is all-day comfy. I'm eager to own a pair. Several pair, really."

Out of the blue, Jon asked, "Can you Fast Travel?"

"Err..., sure I can. Just not many places in Skyrim," his new companion answered, blinking in confusion.

Delighted by her answer, Jon slapped his thigh and hooted joyfully. "Great. So, what say we Fast Travel back to the 'Skeever, and you dig into your trunk and get back to looking like a girly-girl? While you're doing that, I'll hop over to Sayma's shop and get myself some much better clothes. If we're going to be a team, I don't want to look like I'm your vartlet."

Fiarrah's pink-nailed toes curled inside her boots—partly at the thought of subsequently Fast Traveling while wearing 'heels (she'd loved doing it), partly at his inadvertent revelation that he was already picturing them as a team. She tilted her head, studying him through lowered lashes. "You'd... change for me?" she asked softly, her voice blending amusement with something deeper.

"In a Riften minute," he answered, his eyes telling her that he wasn't hitting on her.

Fiarrah studied the Dragonborn's face, noting the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the way his lower lip quirked slightly when he was amused, the tiny flecks of brown in his otherwise green eyes. She'd seen that look before, on men who were deeply in love with someone else, yet still enjoyed flirting.

"You're married," she stated flatly, nervously fiddling with her navel's little gold barbell.

"Nope. Never have been," he told her truthfully, tilting his head in silent query. "Never found the right girl." Until now. The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. Being with her was like being with someone he'd always known.

Fiarrah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. It wasn't embarrassment, but something far more dangerous. Thankfully, her foundation makeup masked her blush.

She'd misread him entirely.

"Good," she said, far too quickly, then mentally cursed herself for sounding like a giddy schoolgirl. She busied herself with the jerky sack, pretending to search for a particularly choice piece. "Because I'd hate to think I was stepping on anyone's toes. Literally or figuratively." Her attempt at levity fell flat.

Jon watched her fingers fumble with the sack’s drawstring; those same fingers that had drawn a bowstring with such lethal precision moments ago. The incongruity made him smile.

"You’ve got jerky sauce all over your nails," he observed, reaching out to brush a crumb from her pink-polished thumbnail. The contact lasted less than a second, but the warmth lingered like brandy in the belly.

Fiarrah flexed her fingers, studying the little smudge left on the bright-pink nail polish—three coats applied meticulously during the voyage. "My manicurist back home would weep," she sighed, but her lips curved in a way that suggested she didn’t care at all as she licked away the tasty smudges.

Jon’s gaze caught on the brief flash of tongue—pink, and unexpectedly playful—before flicking back up to her eyes. "So...," he said, acutely conscious of the scrunchie around his wrist, "shall we Fast Travel, then? Or would you rather walk? Take the scenic route?"

Stuffing the small sack into her backpack, Fiarrah answered, "I'll Fast Travel. Meet me outside the inn?" Standing up, she lifted the backpack from the ground, but didn't slide an arm through a shoulder strap. Testing their new partnership, she said, "Help me get into this thing?"

Jon rolled smoothly to his feet, his movements economical as a wolf rising from sleep. Without hesitation, he stepped behind her, close enough that she caught his scent: pine resin and wood smoke. His took the pack from her hand and held it up at her shoulder height.

The brief touch of his hand on hers made Fiarrah shiver. She masked it by sweeping her hair over her shoulders with the backs of her hands.

"This is a really nice backpack," he murmured as she shrugged into the straps. "You chose well."

Fiarrah adjusted the weight across her shoulders—balanced, comfortable—then buckled the waist belt, transferring much of the weight to her strong thigh muscles. "I had help," she admitted. "The saleslady at Bits and Pieces took one look at me and said, 'You'll want something with a waist belt and padded shoulder straps, and lightweight enough that you won't feel like you're hauling a dead mammoth, even before you fill it with seventy pounds of lightweight camping gear.'"

Jon grinned. "She is good," he said, his fingers brushing against hers as he adjusted the shoulder straps—an excuse to touch her again, maybe. "Sayma sells a bit of everything. I always find something useful when I shop at her store." He moved to his backpack and slung it into his shoulders in one fluid move. As he fasted the waist belt he remarked, "Your pack isn't all that heavy. You're an experienced backpacker, aren't you? You're only toting the essentials."

Fiarrah tucked her thumbs behind the shoulder straps and gave him a smile that put an extra twinkle in her eyes. "Oh, I've read stories about people who humped too-heavy packs," she said, shifting her weight subtly to shift the straps to more comfortable spots. "I took their advice to heart: If you're not using it at least twice a day, leave it behind. I've only been backpacking for three days, so I'm still learning what to keep and what to leave at home." She shot him a sideways glance. "Unless it's Drake McCall shoes. Then the rule is different."

Jon's laugh was a deep, rich sound that made the sparrows in the nearby pines take flight. "Noted," he said, adjusting his pack with a practiced shrug. "Though I have to say, I'm curious—how many pairs will you bring next time?"

Fiarrah tilted her chin up, her gaze drifting past him to where the dragon's silhouette had vanished behind the mountains. "Enough to match my moods," she said lightly. "And trust me, darling, I have many moods." The word darling just slipped out—too familiar, too soon—but she wouldn't take it back.

Jon's fingers paused on the buckle of his waist belt. The way she said it—like a challenge wrapped in silk—made his pulse hitch. He opened his mouth to reply when a distant crack echoed across the pond, sharp as a whip. Both turned toward the sound just in time to see a decent-size limb fall to the ground beneath a mature pine tree.

"Pines shed limbs all the time," he informed the surprised elven lass. "Don't know why. Tough on a homeowner who has a pine too close to her house."

Fiarrah's laughter was like wind chimes—delicate, but carrying surprising weight. "And here I thought Skyrim's trees had better manners than to drop limbs unannounced," she teased as she picked up her bow. The scent of freshly split pine resin tickled her nostrils, sharp against the heavier aroma of damp earth.

Jon watched her fingers dance along the bow—an absent-minded caress—and wondered what else those hands could do with such effortless precision. "Most things here announce themselves eventually," he said, stepping closer to examine the fallen branch. "Just rarely politely."

"I'm ready. See you in Solitude," the gorgeous blonde told him, then disappeared without a sound.

Jon blinked at the empty space where she'd stood just a second ago. "Damn," he muttered, scratching his stubble, "she's fast." He took one last look at the peaceful pond, where dragonflies skimmed the surface and the reflection of the pines stretched like green fingers across the water. Then he Fast Traveled, too.

The familiar disorientation hit him—that dizzying moment where his atoms scattered like startled birds before reforming—and suddenly he was standing outside the Winking Skeever, breathing in the scent of roasting meat and wood-smoke-tinged city air. He hadn't even fully regained his balance when he caught sight of Fiarrah reaching for the inn's door handle.

"That was quick," he called, but she didn't turn, just flicked one hand in acknowledgment before vanishing inside.

Jon exhaled sharply, equal parts frustration and admiration. When he entered the inn, he found Fiarrah sitting at the bar with a frosty mug of ale in her hand and a second frosty mug sitting on the bar in front of the empty bar stool on her right.

"What took you?" she asked with a half-smile, chinning toward the mug of ale that she'd purchased for him.

"Uh..." he began, but was suddenly interrupted by a gaggle of big-eyed sorority girls who'd broken off their weekly 'business meeting' and were clamoring for his attention.

"Wow!" one of them squealed, elbowing her way to the front of the pack. "You're the Dragonborn!" Her voice carried the same breathless reverence usually reserved for rock stars and famous runway models. Her giggling girlfriends crowded closer, the blended aromas of their different perfumes—a cloying mix of vanilla and gardenia and patchouli—wafting over him like a poorly-constructed enchantment spell.

"Sign my bra!" a fetching young redhead demanded as she pulled the tails of her blouse from the waist of her short skirt with one hand and thrust a marking pen toward him with the other.

Jon blinked. Not at the silly college girl, but at the sudden scent of pineapple, birch, and oakmoss that curled around him as Fiarrah exhaled sharply through her nose. Ho-lee cow! She was wearing perfume now, and it had bite—like the first crisp snap of winter air laced with something warmer, deeper, more dangerous. He liked dangerous... her kind of dangerous.

The redhead's pen jabbed toward Jon's chest again, but Fiarrah's fingers curled around his forearm—just below the elbow—with the quiet precision of a master fencer gripping a rapier. "Darling," she murmured, her voice honeyed steel, "if you sign hers, you'll have to sign mine." She gave his arm a forceful squeeze before letting go, leaving red marks behind on his skin.

That made him stare at her like a lovesick calf. She wasn't wearing one! Her cropped t-shirt made that abundantly clear.

He was rescued from his Hobson's Choice by a petite strawberry blonde who pushed between him and the redhead and squealed, "My name is Melissa and these are mine!" as she stuffed a body-warm thong down the open collar of his hiking shirt.

Jumping to his feet, Jon growled, "Get away from me!" He snatched the abbreviated panties from his shirt and slapped it back into the startled little blonde's small, long-nailed hand. "All of you! Get out of here before I do something you're not going to like."

The squealing teens scattered like startled hens. Heading for the exit, they moved like a single, many-legged organism, some of the coeds shooting him walleyed looks over their shoulders.

"Sweet Sheogorath!" Jon gasped as he grabbed his mug from the bar. He gulped down half its contents, then muttered angrily, "Damn it! That's never happened before."

Fiarrah chuckled darkly, before taking a slow sip of ale. "Oh please," she told him as she touched her mug to his, "you're the Dragonborn. You practically wear a sign on that broad chest of yours that says 'tempting forbidden fruit'." Her smiling blue eyes flicked over to the retreating blonde, then came back to Jon's stormy expression. "So, tell me..., if I retrieve my trunk, then what?"

"What?" Jon said, still a bit overwhelmed.

"When we're off adventuring, I'm not lugging my trunk all over Skyrim," she replied, enjoying his befuddlement a bit too much.

Recovering his aplomb, the Dovahkiin gave her a wink and a grin. "Oh, that. Yeah, no problem. I've got you covered. You can keep it at my place. I've got a nice home outside Whiterun. Has a river view. You're going to love it."

Fiarrah arched an eyebrow, an elegant, practiced movement that made Jon suddenly aware of just how expressive her face could be. "Your place?" she repeated, her voice lilting with amusement. "And here I thought I'd be roughing it in one drafty inn after the next. Tell me, Dragonborn. Do all your female traveling companions get the 'has a river view' treatment, or am I special?" She took another sip of ale, watching him over the rim of the mug, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Jon blushed like an embarrassed schoolboy. "Yeah, you are special," he admitted, caught between honesty and self-preservation. "You'll be my first female guest," he quickly added, avoiding her gaze by polishing off the last of his ale.

Fiarrah's lips curved slowly—the kind of smile that suggested she knew exactly how much that admission had cost him. She leaned in slightly, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume again—warm amber—and to give him a better view of her decolletage.

"How wonderfully improper," she murmured, her breath stirring the hairs at his temple. "An Altmer mage and Skyrim's hero sharing a river-view bedroom." Her fingers toyed with the condensation on her mug, idly drawing the shape of a heart.

"House," he croaked, correcting her mistake, his throat suddenly gone dry.

Fiarrah blinked once—slowly—before responding, "Oh?"

She teased him by languidly licking the condensation from the pad of her finger. Not since she'd been a debutante had she had so much fun playing the hot chick.

Jon cleared his throat and shifted on his stool—the wood suddenly feeling harder beneath him.

"Yeah, house," he repeated, his voice deeper now, roughened by more than just the ale. "Separate bedrooms." He paused, then added without thinking, "Unless you'd prefer otherwise."

The words hung between them, weighted with possibilities neither had dared voice until now.

Hoist on her own petard, Fiarrah had to chuckle. "Touche, friend. I'll occupy the guest room, if you please."

But I'd really like to share his bed, she thought, surprising herself.

To deflect her disquieting mental admission, she asked, "How are we going to get my trunk to your house? I can't Fast Travel to it, having never been there before. Isn't Whiterun at least a long day's carriage ride from here?"

Jon rubbed a finger under his nose as he considered his two options: Walk there, then Fast Travel back here and collect her trunk, then Fast Travel back to the house while one of them held onto the trunk. Or... Ask her to cover the cost of going by public carriage. He didn't have enough money for one fare, let alone two, and a trunk.

Sensing his discomfort, Fiarrah pursed her lips and drew a deep breath. She'd been out with enough financially strapped boyfriends to recognize the signs.

"Let me guess... you can't afford a carriage. And you don't want to walk to your place, then Fast Travel back here for my stuff."

His shaggy eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Damn! You really are more than a pretty face," he blurted, his alligator mouth overloading his hummingbird ass.

Fiarrah rolled her eyes—the red in her blue eyes suddenly becoming more prominent—and tapped her fingernails against the bar in a four-beat rhythm. The sounds echoed like tiny hammers striking bone.

"Yes, yes, you're shocked that a woman can think. Let's move past the revelation and solve our transportation problem. How much will it cost for the two if us to take the carriage to Whiterun?"

"One-hundred-and-twenty Gold," Jon answered quietly. "I've got fifteen Gold on me. Five-hundred-thousand Gold at the house. Locked in a safe." For her personal fund of knowledge, he told her, "One Septim equals one Gold."

Fiarrah arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, higher this time, her face morphing into an expression of practiced incredulity.

"Five-hundred-thousand?" she echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. "That's quite the... discrepancy." She studied his well-hiking shirt, wash-faded blue jeans, and well-worn hiking boots, then tapped a finger against her chin in a staccato rhythm that punctuated her next words. "Tell me, Dragonborn. Do you always dress like a vagrant when you've got five-hundred-thousand Gold?"

"Yep. Nobody looks twice at a guy in jeans and a hiking shirt," he replied matter-of-factually. "It's the elegantly-dressed swells who get held up by road agents. It's always the fashionably dressed women who get kidnapped on the road and sold into slavery."

Fiarrah's fingers tightened around her mug—turning her knuckles white beneath the golden tan of her skin. The mention of women being kidnapped and sold into slavery had struck a chord. She'd lost a pair of girl cousins that way. Cynthia had come to Skyrim when she'd been a teenager, traveling with Janice, a teenage cousin. Janice had also been taken and sold.

"How... pragmatic," she murmured, her voice suddenly brittle. She took another sip of ale, swallowing slowly, deliberately, before adding, "And how fortunate that I've got two-hundred Gold on me."

Jon’s eyebrows shot up. Not at the sum, but at the sudden chill in her tone. He recognized that shift, the way her shoulders squared slightly, the way her fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the mug. It was the same tension his mother carried whenever someone mentioned the Silver-Blood mines.

"Then let’s take a carriage," he said, shrugging off his pack and rummaging for the battered coin purse tucked between a roll of bandages and a small sack of dry tinder. The scent of cedar and old leather wafted up as he dumped fifteen gold pieces onto the bar, one rolling in a wobbly circle before Fiarrah’s manicured hand stopped it dead.

The afternoon sun slanted through the 'Skeever’s diamond pane windows, casting elongated shadows of tankards across the bar top's well-oiled slates. Fiarrah watched Jon’s fingers—broad-tipped, scarred—as they arranged the coins into three stacks, methodical as a general deploying troops. A man who planned ahead, then. Interesting.

"Ever the strategist," she observed, swirling the dregs of her ale before finishing it. The bitterness of the hops lingered pleasantly, much like the awareness of their friendship that was growing between them. When she slid off the bar stool and came to her feet, her naked breasts wobbled alluringly behind her abbreviated t-shirt. "Shall we collect my trunk before Mr. Vinius decides to charge me for another week's storage?"

"No, not yet," Jon replied as he swept his coins back into the drawstring pouch. "I need to go shopping for some nicer duds. I'm hoping that you're going to slip into a dress, hose, and 'heels while I'm gone." He gave her a meaningful look, then continued,."I'm dead-certain that the two of us can defeat thieving road agents and would-be kidnappers."

He looked over at Corpulus, who'd been eavesdropping on them ever since he'd sat down beside Fiarrah, and said in a friendly way, "Hey, buddy. Will you look after my backpack for a little while? I need to sip over to Sayma's shop and buy some new clothes." He paused before he asked, "And will you give my companion here a private place to change her clothes? And I do mean give, ole buddy."

Corpulus raised his hand to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully as he pretended to consider Jon's request. "You're asking me to give her privacy, Jon?" he inquired as he eyeballed the gold barbell that adorned Fiarrah's exposed navel.

Fiarrah rolled her eyes—she'd seen men like Corpulus before—men who thought that blatant ogling constituted a social grace. She stretched languidly, her toned abdomen flexing beneath the short hem of the raggedly-cropped tee.

Smiling sweetly, she acidly said, "Don't trouble yourself, Mister Innkeeper. I'm sure I can get along fine in the Ladies."

Jon snorted—he'd heard that tone before—that particular lilt Altmer women used when they were about to verbally eviscerate someone.

He leaned in close to Corpulus—close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath—and whispered, "You might want to put yourself between her and the mirror behind the bar, friend. She's about to demonstrate why one doesn't piss off a well-bred Altmer female."

Corpulus blinked—once—before turning his head just in time to see Fiarrah casually snap her fingers. The mirror behind the bar cracked diagonally—a jagged line that split the innkeeper's reflection cleanly down the middle—without so much as a whisper of expended magicka. His jaw went slack; his tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth. His eyes really bugged out when she snapped her fingers a second time and removed the crack.

"Which is it to be, Mister Innkeeper?" she inquired pleasantly, then blew on her fingertip as if blowing away a tendril of smoke.

Jon coughed into his fist—half-amused, half-impressed—as Corpulus scrambled to clear his throat and regain his composure. The innkeeper's hands fluttered uselessly for a moment before he gestured toward the back room with a jerky motion that suggested he'd rather be pointing at the nearest exit.

"Th-the storage closet," he stammered. "It locks from the inside. Plenty of privacy." His gaze flicked to Jon, then back to Fiarrah's impassive expression. "Free of charge, of course."

Fiarrah rewarded him with a slow blink—the kind a satisfied cat might give a particularly clever mouse—before turning toward Jon.

"I'll need twenty minutes," she said, pulling the key to the trunk from the left-front pocket of her skin-tight jeans. "Unless you'd prefer to watch?" The question wasn't a bluff, her eyes told him.

"Hold that thought!" Jon called to her as he scooted for the exit, heading for Bits and Pieces, leaving his backpack on the floor beside 'his' bar stool.

The crisp air outside Solitude's marketplace hit Jon like a slap—pine resin and roasting meat spiced by the city's fug. His boots scuffed against the cobblestones as he wove through the strolling citizens. Sayma's shop was just up the street from the inn, on the right.

The little bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside. He knew what he wanted. He hadn't come to browse. Over the years, he'd bought a bunch of stuff from Sayma, so he knew where she put the men's clothing and shoes.

Sayma emerged from the back room carrying two nice-looking pairs of used stiletto-heeled shoes. She glanced at the bum's faded shirt and jeans, then sniffed dismissively. She changed her mind when she got a better look at his face.

"Why, if it isn't Jon Hicks!"she gushed. "I haven't seen you since Roggvir's unfortunate execution. So..., what brings you to my shop, old friend?"

"I've come for new clothes, lady-friend," Jon happily told her, cutting to the chase. "I need to spruce up a bit. Do you have these in 32-36?" he asked, holding up a pair of khaki-poplin trousers.

"Ooo... there's a woman behind this, I do believe," the married woman said with a giggle as she pulled open a drawer under the display table and flipped through the khaki trousers, looking for the asked-for size.

Jon chuckled softly as he ran a hand through his unruly hair—the gesture of a man caught between pride and sheepishness. "Sharp as ever, Sayma," he admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's just say my usual attire doesn't exactly complement her... aesthetic."

"Coat and tie?" the experienced merchant asked as she pulled a pair of trousers in his size from the stack, hoping to up-sell.

Jon snorted—he'd heard that tone before—the mercantile lilt merchants used when they smelled easy coin. He held up the trousers to his waist, nodding at the fit.

"No, ma'am. But I need everything else," he said, then added, "a button-down shirt. Something that says 'respectable gentleman' without screaming 'I'm trying too hard.'" His fingered a pale blue Oxford cloth shirt hanging nearby, the exact shade that would make Fiarrah's eyes look like glacial ice in sunlight. "Two of the khakis and two of that blue shirt, please, ma'am. Oh... And a belt, several pairs of socks and two pair of shoes. Nice shoes, but not too elegant. I'll be doing a lot of walking in them."

"Skivvies?" the practical wife asked, grinning at his oversight.

Jon scowled—a fleeting expression—before nodding tersely. He'd forgotten the damned underwear. Again.

"Three sets," he muttered, counting out the extra coins onto the counter-top. The coins gleamed against the worn wood, their faces catching the late afternoon light filtering through the shop's leaded windows.

Sayma's fingers moved with the precision of a banker's, stacking the coins into neat little towers as she tallied his total.

"You're two septims short, Jon," she informed him with a concerned look on her face. "What can you do without?"

"Skivvies," he replied, pushing aside the pile of undershorts and undershirts. He heaved a sigh. "I've gone commando before."

Sayma pressed her lips together—the way his mother used to when he'd tracked mud across her clean floor—and slid the two stacks back where she'd put them. "Take the underthings, sugar" she said, her voice softening. "Consider it a gift for saving my nephew from that cave bear last winter."

"Thank you," Jon said, blushing furiously as he watched Sayma place his purchases into a logo-imprinted shopping bag. "May I ask another favor, ma'am?" he murmured, his throat suddenly tight. The gratitude settled between them like dust motes in the slanting sunlight, thicker than the shopkeeper's usual barter-and-banter.

Sayma paused mid-fold—one of the button-down shirts suspended in her hands like a ghost of Jon’s former self—and raised one eyebrow.

"Out with it, Dragonborn," she said, her voice equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Before you burst."

"May I use your back room to change clothes?" he asked, blushing again. "I sort-of promised my traveling companion I'd return looking like a gentleman."

Sayma grinned—slow and knowing—as she tossed him a key attached to a braided leather thong.

"You'll find a mirror inside the wardrobe. Left door," she said, nodding toward the curtained alcove. "And don't dawdle. Your lady-friend's been pacing outside my shop window for the past five minutes."

"What!?"

"Yep. Tall blonde, nice figure, wearing a wrap dress, stockings, and 'heels.”

"Please invite her in. I'd like the two of you to meet," Jon called from behind the curtain. "Her name is Fiarrah. Fiarrah of Summerset."

Responding to Sayma's smile and beckoning hand, Fiarrah entered the shop like summer slipping into autumn—graceful, inevitable, with a hint of storms beneath the surface. The hunter-green, cotton-poplin wrap dress whispered against her stocking-clad thighs as she moved, the scent of her signature perfume trailing in her wake. Her gaze lingered on the curtained alcove where she could hear Jon muttering, then flicked to Sayma with a slow blink that conveyed both acknowledgment and assessment.

"Hello, I'm Fiarrah," she said pleasantly, extending a manicured, pink-nailed hand in greeting.

"Sayma," replied the attractive merchant, shaking the Altmer woman's hand while frankly admiring the expensive cut of her dress. "Jon hasn't told me a thing about you. Just your name and that you're traveling companions." She paused and made no bones about running her brown-eyed gaze along the splendid specimen of High Elf beauty, going from head to toe, and back again. "He's a lucky man."

Fiarrah's answering smile was warm, but with a sharp edge underneath, like sunlight glancing off polished steel.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," she murmured, adjusting the drape of her dress where it made a V-shape over her golden-skinned bosom. The gesture was both casual and deliberate, drawing attention to the elegance of her ensemble while simultaneously demonstrating the perfection of her braless breasts. "Auri-El has brought us together."

Behind the curtain, Jon's muffled cursing was punctuated by the rustle of brand-new, as-yet-unwashed fabric and the distinct clatter of a belt buckle hitting the wooden floorboards. "Damn it!" came his voice, thick with frustration, the sound of a man who was changing clothes in too much of a hurry.

Sayma's lips quirked at the corners, her amusement barely concealed as she glanced toward the alcove before returning her attention to Fiarrah.

"I suppose it's been a while since he's worn anything other than jeans and a shirt with bellows pockets and epaulets," Sayma remarked, leaning casually against the counter-top, a pose that belied the keen assessment in her dark eyes. Her fingers absently traced the embroidered edge of a silk scarf displayed nearby, though her focus never wavered from the young Altmer woman's poised stillness. "You must be quite the influence."

Fiarrah's laugh was soft—a sound like crystal bells wrapped in velvet—as she trailed her fingertips along a bolt of sapphire-blue fabric.

"It was his idea, actually," she replied, tilting her head toward the muffled swearing behind the curtain. "Seemed to think the rugged look was no longer appropriate." So do I, she thought, smiling inwardly.

Sayma arched a brow—slow, deliberate—as she watched Fiarrah's pink-nailed fingers linger on the silk.

"He's never cared before," she mused, leaning closer. "Not even for court appearances. Always said comfort trumped fashion."

The curtain jerked aside with a rattle of wooden rings, revealing Jon, his damp hair slicked back, the blue shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, the starched collar stiff under his stubbled chin. The transformation was startling. Less a man dressed up than a wolf wearing borrowed finery, his usual predatory grace constrained by unfamiliar fabrics.

Fiarrah's breath caught—just once—and her eyes widened. She was quite taken by the sharp lines of his jaw, newly emphasized by the crisp collar, and the way his new belt accented his narrow waist.

Sayma's grin was positively feline as she plucked a stray thread from Jon's shoulder, her fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.

"Well now," she murmured, stepping back to survey her handiwork, "I do believe you clean up rather nicely, Dragonborn."

Seeing the fold-creases in his shirt and trousers, Fiarrah used her magic to whisk them away.

Jon blinked—once—then looked down at his suddenly pristine clothing, feeling the unfamiliar crispness of the fabric against his skin.

"That's...convenient," he murmured, running a hand down his chest, his palms bumping over the buttons.

The scent of a steam iron clung to the air between them—damp and clean—before dissipating into the shop's warm air.

Sayma snorted, nudging Fiarrah's elbow with hers. "You'll have to teach me that trick," she said, nodding toward Jon's freshly pressed shirt, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Imagine the time I'd save."

"It's an Alteration spell the women in my family have passed down for ages," the gorgeous blonde Altmer told her with a wink. "Are you at all magical, madam?"

Jon cleared his throat, the sound of a man acutely aware he'd become incidental to the conversation. He adjusted his collar, fingers fumbling against the unfamiliar stiffness, then caught Fiarrah's gaze lingering on where the tails of his shirt disappeared into the wasit of his trousers.

Sayma chuckled—a low, knowing sound—as she plucked a blue-silk cravat from a nearby display and draped it around Jon's neck, folded it, and tucked it into his open collar with exaggerated care. "Almost perfect," she murmured, stepping back to survey her work. The color of the cravat was nearly a match for Fiarrah's unusual elven eyes.

Jon shifted uncomfortably, the silk against his throat felt like a spider's web, delicate and strangling all at once. He caught Fiarrah's amused gaze and grimaced, the expression fleeting, more boyish than he'd intended. "I feel like a prize stallion at auction," he muttered, tugging at the loose knot under his chin.

Fiarrah reached out—one deliberate movement—and adjusted the cravat with nimble fingers, her pink nails catching the light as she tucked the fabric a bit deeper into his shirt.

"Better," she murmured, her breath warm against his cheek.

To Jon, the scent of her exotic perfume was unforgettable.

It clung to Fiarrah’s skin, something floral but not sweet, something dark and elusive like moonlit gardens back home, something that made his pulse quicken in a way no woman's scent ever had. He inhaled sharply, catching hints of oakmoss and a spice he couldn’t name. something warm and dangerous, like her. The scent wrapped around him, pulling him closer before he realized he’d leaned into her. He caught himself just before their foreheads touched, his breath hitching audibly.

Fiarrah smiled like a contented cat and let him decide if he wanted to the one who stepped back.

Sayma's knowing grin was both motherly and jealous. She remembered how it had been between her and her young man, back when they'd been courting. He hadn't been able to keep his hand off her. And she hadn't wanted him to stop petting her. And more...

Jon noticed that the shadows had grown long, indicating that evening was rapidly approaching. He didn't want to ride to Whiterun in the dark. He—they—needed a place to spend the night. Did the 'Skeever have two rooms available? Would Fiarrah pay for them? And what about meals? Damn, he hated being broke, especially when he had a crap-ton of Gold sitting in that safe.

"Sayma," he began hesitantly, then cleared his throat. "Would you accept a promissory note against my account here at Bits and Pieces?"

Sayma's grin turned sly as she leaned back against the counter, her fingers tapping out a slow rhythm against the mahogany.

"Depends," she said, glancing at the hand-spans of Fiarrah's stocking-clad thighs that weren't covered by her chic dress. "How much do you need?"

Jon exhaled through his nose—a controlled, measured breath—as he weighed the humiliation of admitting his poverty against the necessity of securing lodgings. Before he could speak, Fiarrah's fingers brushed against his sleeve, as light as a butterfly's wing, yet charged with an unspoken promise.

"Allow me," she murmured, already reaching into the concealed pocket sewn into the lining of her wrap dress. The leather pouch she produced was small but heavy, its contents clinking as she pressed it into Sayma's palm. "For the clothing, the cravat, and your discretion," she said, her voice low, her gaze flicking meaningfully toward Jon.

"For room and board and incidentals," Sayma told Jon as she handed him the pouch. Looking at the surprised elf, she said. "He paid for his purchases, sweetie. He was fretting over how he was going to keep you safe, warm, and fed. I'm sure of it."

Jon pocketed the pouch without checking its contents, trusting the Altmer woman's generosity more than his own pride would allow him to admit. The weight of it settled against his thigh, warm through the fabric of his new trousers. It was a tangible reminder of debts he' soon repay. His fingers twitched toward Fiarrah's wrist before he caught himself, the familiar gesture quickly aborted.

"Thank you, both," he murmured, the words rough-edged with unspoken complexities.

---

The sun was setting as the carriage pulled into the Whiterun stop, its leather-padded brake-blocks squealing as the driver pressed heavily upon the brake lever with his left foot while he pulled back on the leather lines and called, "Whoa, Dobbin!' to his weary draft horse.

Jon and Fiarrah weren't the only passengers on this run. Both bench seats were filled with tired people. Jon was especially weary because he'd ridden the entire way while sitting on Fiarrah's travel trunk. It had been his choice, for that had been the only 'seat' available at the time; he hadn't wanted to spend another night at the 'Skeever. He was the last one to exit the wagon that called itself a carriage, for he'd had to wait for a clear center section to slide the heavy iron-bound wooden chest toward the tailgate. A kind fellow-passenger helped him lift it out of the wagon and to set it on the ground, both the Dovahkiin and the muscular lad grunting under the strain.

"How are you going to get this thing to you place?" the lad asked Jon as they both flexed their fingers to remove the temporary cramping. He was doing his best to keep his gaze from dipping into the gracious, golden-skinned elven woman's impressive display of decollete. "I sure hope you don't live too far away, ma'am."

"Magic," Fiarrah answered with an enigmatic smile, her pretty blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

She hooted with delight when the young fellow gasped in reaction to her use of a Levitation spell to lift the trunk two feet off the ground. Even Jon was surprised when all it took for her to move the trunk was a one-finger push.

"Boy! I sure wish I was magical,” the lad remarked as he shook hands with Jon. "If I could do that, I'd make a small fortune moving furniture for folks."

"Where to, sirrah?" Fiarrah asked Jon. "I can hear a river. Is your place nearby?"

"That way, about a half-mile," the man she was beginning to do more than like replied, pointing to his left as he faced the T-intersection. "Down the high road, past Fabi's Foundations, and nearly opposite Honningbrew Meadery. Over a small stone bridge, then up some wooden steps, and—hey, presto—we're home."

"Fabi's Foundations!" Fiarrah squealed excitedly as she looked around, hoping to see the exclusive lingerie boutique.

She'd heard about the boutique while eavesdropping on conversations at the inn.

"Yep. But they're closing in a few minutes," Jon fibbed, not because he needed her to levitate the trunk, but because he knew darned well that once she got inside the boutique, he'd be cooling his heels until the place really did close for the day. At eight in the evening. "I'll take you there tomorrow morning, right after breakfast."

"Promise?"

He held up the three-finger Scout sign and truthfully told her, "Scout's Honor."

While that meant nothing to the Summerset Islander, she supposed it was important to Jon, so she graced him with a radiant smile, and then gave her trunk a starting push.

Ten minutes later, Fiarrah was boosting the strength of her Levitation spell to make it easier for Jon to horse the travel trunk up the wooden steps and through the front door of his house.

"You call this a house?" she asked, big-eyed as she stood in the entry hall and turned a slow circle, surveying what she could see from here. There was plenty that she couldn't see. "This is a mansion, Ho-lee socks!"

"Welcome to Skyfall Estate, milady," a glamorous dark-brunette said as she dropped the gorgeous young elven woman a graceful curtsy. "My name is Ann Morgan. I'm the housekeeper and cook."

"You have a housekeeper?" the astonished High Elf said, not asking a question.

"Obviously, milady," Morgan replied with a cheeky grin, her amber eyes sparking with high good humor.

"Uh... yeah. And a butler and a footman." Jon admitted, red-faced with embarrassment.

Just then two men in black business suites, white shirts, and conservative silk ties walked into the entry hall, one man coming up a flight of stairs, the other man coming down the connecting flight.

"Umm..., meet Zeus and Apollo?" Jon lamely said, pointing at the bearded man first, then at the clean-shaven man. "Morgan, Zeus, and Apollo came with the house," he explained.

"Charmed, milady," Zeus told Fiarrah as he took her proffered hand and kissed her knuckles, bowing over her hand.

"Enchanted," Apollo murmured as he bowed and kissed her hand.

"Her name is Fiarrah," Jon told the trio, coming at it ass-backward. "She'll be living here. In the room across from mine."

He turned to Morgan and said, "Please make sure the linens are fresh, the lavender sachets are new. Order a wardrobe and have the delivery men put it in her room. She needs at least two wardrobes. Oh, and flowers on the dresser. Replace them with fresh arrangements before they become wilted."

"Yes, sir," Morgan replied with a charming smile. "If that's all for me, I'll get straight to it."

"Yes, that's all, Morgan."

Jon turned to Zeus, the butler, and said, "Please hire a ladies maid for Miss Fiarrah. Consult with her before you invite anyone here for an interview. Advertise for a middle-aged woman with experience. Naturally, Miss Fiarrah will decide who gets the job. Offer the ladies maid ten-percent more than the standard salary for an experience person. She'll receive the same medical and dental benefits that the three of you rare receiving. She'll live here with us, in her own room."

"Yes, sir, right away," the bearded older man replied with a respectful nod of his head.

Jon turned to to Apollo, the footman, and said, "Inspect the silver and polish what needs it. I want to set an elegant table from now on. No more steel eating utensils, earthenware serving dishes, and second-best china. Break out the best we have for each meal of the day. I want to return those two silver candelabras to the dining table. Fresh flowers as a centerpiece, please. Put spermaceti candles in the chandeliers, not beeswax. Fill each socket, not every-other one, like I asked you to do when I first arrived here."

The younger man bowed at the waist as he replied, "Yes, sir. I'll start with the candles, sir."

Throughout all this, Fiarrah's mouth hung open as she listened to Jon's orders and observed the change in his demeanor. When speaking to his servants, he'd been respectful and firm. He was the boss, no question about it. She liked that. A lot...

When they were alone in the entry hall once again, Jon slipped an arm through Fiarrah's and said, "Let me show you to your room. I'm sure you'll like it."

"You're giving me a ladies maid?" she asked, bewildered. "Why? I can take care of myself."

Jon hugged her hand against his side. "Yeah, I am," he told her as led her toward the staircase that rose to the second floor. "I want you to have the luxury of time. Let your maid take care of your clothes and jewelry, run your errands, do your hair, maybe apply your makeup. It can't be easy buttoning those little buttons that run up the back of a woman's dress, all by yourself. So, I thought you'd like someone to help you with that." He want quiet, gave her time to think about what he'd just said. Then he added, "Morgan is the only female in a house of men. I figured that both of you would like to have another female around, someone the two of you could chat with about girl stuff, you know?"

"Why do you call her Morgan? Not Ann or Miss Morgan?" Fiarrah asked as they negotiated the wide staircase together.

"Because that's the proper form of address for a servant," Jon answered.

"So, is Zeus his last name? Apollo, as well?"

"Nope. The men only have one name. At least that's all they ever gave me when I bought the place and continued their employment."

He led her to the bedroom directly across from his. Standing outside the open door, he told her, "This will be yours for as long as you want it. Feel free to decorate it however you wish. Furniture, rugs, pictures, objects d'art. Anything. Whatever you've purchases when you went shopping for decor items, just let Zeus know what you bought and where you found it. He'll arrange to have it placed in your room, wherever you want it put."

"And Morgan will keep my room tidy?"

"Yes. And wash your clothes. With your ladies maid's help, of course."

"Of course."

All this was a bit overwhelming for an Altmer woman whose family had never had servants. She wasn't sure she like the idea of having a personal servant, but she liked Jon and was willing to give it a try.

"Who helps you with your clothes? Helps you get dressed?" she asked as she took a seat on the side of the bed and looked around the nicely furnished and decorated room.

"No one," he replied, briefly frowning in confusion. "I don't need help with buttons, hairdos, and makeup."

"I see..." she murmured, working hard to suppress the urge to 'accidentally' let him see the welts of her stockings as she crossed her legs.

The susurration of her ultra-sheer hosiery was a pleasantly feminine sound that they both pretended not to hear. She knew perfectly well that Jon had heard it, and that he liked the sound. A lot.

Dandling a pump, she pursed her lips and pondered the bathroom arrangements. Her bedroom didn't have one connected to it.

"Where is the bathroom?" she asked as she placed her hands behind her on the firm mattress and leaned back, bracing herself with her arms.

Jon turned in the doorway and pointed toward the bathroom. "Across the hall. We'll have to share it. I'm an early riser, so I'll probably be in and out before you want it in the morning. When we're dressing for supper, we'll have to negotiate who uses it first."

That made Fiarrah's eyebrows lift. "What? You're saying we're going to get gussied up each afternoon, before we have our evening meal?"

Jon gave her a grin. "Yep. Please wear a cocktail dress. I'll be wearing a suit. Drinks at five, supper at eight. Morgan is a marvelous cook. A chef, really." Suddenly inspired, he asked, "Would you like to help her plan the weekly menus? You're welcome to, if you like. You could add some of your favorite dishes to the menu. I'd like that."

Fiarrah's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but with the slow-dawning realization that this wasn’t some Nord’s idea of hospitality. This was culture. The kind her mother had whispered about in hushed tones: softly-lit dining rooms where silver clinked against porcelain, where conversations covered art, literature, fashions, the news of the day. Her pulse quickened at the thought of sipping aged whisky while wearing a Little Black Dress, candlelight flickering against Jon’s freshly-shaved jawline.

"You," she murmured happily, "are full of surprises." She drew her pump back onto her heel and slid off the bed. As she came to her feet, she continued, "I accept the offer of helping plan the menus. I'm looking forward to adding some Island recipes to Morgan's culinary repertoire. I hope you like spicy food. Hot peppers feature prominently in Island cuisine."

Jon blinked and chuckled. "I guess its true, what my Mama often says: No good deed goes unpunished. No, I'm not a fan of hot peppers. I'll ask Morgan to make two versions of your Island dishes. One for you and one for me."

"Maybe you'll come to enjoy spicy-hot," the curvaceous blonde told him, pleased that she'd just slipped in a double entente. "Now, give me the ten-septim tour of this place. Begin with the bathroom, then show me your room. We'll play it by ear from there."

---

As the weeks turned into months and the seasons came and went, Fiarrah feelings toward Jon blossomed into love, passing through the friendship stage rather quickly. They'd trekked hither and yon across Skyrim, righting wrongs and killing dragons and having the best time of their young lives. Just as Captain Abercrombie had predicted, Fiarrah was seeing things no Altmer had ever seen, and doing things that she'd only read about in novels. She was more than Jon's traveling companion. She was his partner, in every sense of the word, but marital. And she intended to change that. All Jon had to do was say those magic words...

They were lounging by the mansion's subterranean hot-spring-fed pool in bathing suits, holding hands and soaking in the damp heat,

Out of the blue, Fiarrah asked dreamily, "Do you remember the first time we kissed?"

Jon's chuckle put an extra twinkle in her eyes. "You mean when you 'accidentally' backed into me after 'dropping' your towel when you were walking back to your room?" His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, the same thumb that had brushed snowflakes from her cheeks that winter morning in Windhelm, when she'd excitedly shown him her first-ever pair of Drake McCall shoes.

Fiarrah sighed and wiggled her pink-nailed toes in the delightfully-hot water. "You know what I mean," she murmured, watching steam curl around her calves. "That real kiss. The one where I couldn't breathe for a whole minute afterward. The one where my knees went weak. And I'm never weak-kneed."

Jon turned her hand over, examining her palm as though it held secrets. "You were wearing that green wool coat dress" he said quietly. "The one with these two shiny buttons that just happened to sit right where your nipples..."

Giggling musically, she stopped him from finishing his provocative sentence by leaning over and planting her lipstick-fragrant lips upon his smiling lips.

The kiss was sweet and lingering, their lips moving together as though they'd been practicing this kiss for years. Looking into Jon's eyes as they kissed, Fiarrah saw their courtship as it had unfolded.

At first, it had been stolen glances across campfires, the brush of fingers when passing a tankard of ale. A little while later it had been in the way she'd always found an excuse to adjust the collar of his shirt with slow, deliberate fingers, or to run her fingers through his hair as she gazed into his eyes.

Much later, during the depths of a howling Skyrim blizzard, they'd lain before the mansion's stone fireplace—the servants dismissed to their quarters—and shared languid kisses, their hands and gently exploring each other's special places.

Only recently had she moved out of her bedroom and into Jon's. She was sleeping with him, but not having sex with him. Yet...

The lingering scent of her herbal shampoo and Jon’s aftershave mingled with the mineral tang of the hot spring water lapping at their legs. Somewhere above them, a lone chandelier cast multiple elongated shadows that danced across the cavern’s walls like silent spectators.

Fiarrah’s fingers traced idle patterns along Jon’s forearm as she murmured, “Do you remember that Forsworn dagger you gave me? The one with the moonstone hilt?” When she felt him stiffen slightly, not from tension, but from recognition. she knew he understood what she was really asking.

Jon exhaled through his nose, the steam from the pool curling around his lips like ghostly punctuation. “You kept it under your pillow for a fortnight,” he said, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse jumped. “I thought you were afraid of assassins.”

Fiarrah arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow, her damp, mascara-enhanced lashes clumping together in dark spikes. “And here I thought you’d recognized the tradition,” she said, letting her voice drop into the register she used when explaining magic to apprentices, slow, deliberate, weighted with implication.

Jon’s fingers stilled against her hand. Around them, the pool’s mineral-laden water lapped at the stone edges in irregular rhythms, the sound echoing oddly in the cavernous space.

“What tradition?” he asked.

She saw the moment realization dawned—the slight widening of his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips—and she knew that he was suddenly recalling the passage from Altmer Courtship Customs that she’d conspicuously left open on his bedside table a few days ago.

Fiarrah stretched her legs out further, the water distorting the shape of her toes into something faintly amphibious. “The dagger,” she murmured, watching a droplet slide down the curve of her calf, “wasn’t just a weapon. It was an invitation.” The words hung between them, weighted with centuries of elven nuance—the kind of subtlety that usually sailed right over human heads like a scudding cloud.

Jon’s chuckle was low and tender. “So when I handed it to you hilt-first...”

“You were proposing,” Fiarrah finished, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingertips trailing along the edge of his collarbone where droplets of mineral water glistened like scattered stars. She watched his throat move as he swallowed—a quick, reflexive motion—and the way his eyes darkened from green-hazel to black as his irises dilated in reaction to his sincere appreciation of her beauty.

Jon turned his palm upward, fingers curling slightly as though still remembering the weight of that moonstone hilt. “And you accepted,” he murmured, “when you used it to cut apples for our lunch the next day.” The realization unfurled between them, slow and inevitable as dawn, how she’d deliberately sliced the fruit into crescents, how he’d eaten them from her fingers without understanding the significance. Until now.

Fiarrah exhaled through her nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—and watched the steam twist away from her lips. “Typical Nord,” she teased, drawing lazy circles in the water with her toes. “You blunder through centuries of tradition like a mammoth in a porcelain shop.” But her eyes softened as she said it, her amusement undercut by something warmer, something that made Jon’s pulse stutter against her fingertips when she gently placed a hand over his heart.

Jon caught her wrist, his calloused thumb brushing the delicate bones beneath her skin. “And yet,” he murmured, his voice roughened by the steam and something else entirely, “here you are. Loving me. And hoping I'll eventually figure it out, this Altmer courtship custom.” His gaze dropped to her mouth—to the pink lipstick that glistened invitingly upon her smiling lips.

Fiarrah felt the familiar, delicious tension coil low in her belly.

He leaned over and gave her a tender kiss, one that he broke sooner than she desired. His lips touching her, he whispered, "Well, we Nords have our own courtship customs. Hold that pucker, I'll be right back."

He heaved himself to his feet and padded barefoot over to the glass-topped patio table. Reaching into a small, bronze, jewel-casket, he withdrew a necklace. Carrying it in one hand, he returned to where he'd been sitting and eased himself down beside the woman he loved. He let her see it, but wouldn't let her take it from his hand.

"This is an Amulet of Mara," he explained with the light of love in his eyes. As he draped it around his neck, he told her, "Wearing it signifies that one is available for marriage."

Fiarrah gasped with delighted understanding, the light of love appearing in her eyes as well.

Jon continued with the explanation. "The person wearing this amulet approaches a suitable marriage partner and asks if they are interested in becoming a spouse."

"And then what happens?" Fiarrah whispered, her eyes riveted upon the amulet.

Jon placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head until they made eye contact. "If the person happens to be interested in becoming that person's spouse, he or she tells the amulet-wearer that he or she is interested." He kissed the tip of her nose, then finished the explanation. "A marriage ceremony soon follows. In the Temple of Mara. It's in Riften."

So, gentle reader... if you are interested in asking Fiarrah to follow you, then seek her out at Clearpine Pond, southwest of Solitude.

Perhaps you will be the one who brings her to the chanrty of Auri-El.

Personality design by Ennion3

Fiarrah is a self-assured, fashion-forward Altmer who embraces her femininity without apology—she calls herself a "girly-girl" and means it. But beneath the designer dresses and perfectly manicured nails lies a capable warrior-priestess who can drop a spriggan at forty paces and group-heal an entire party mid-combat. She carries herself with the effortless elegance of Summerset nobility, yet adapts to rough travel without complaint. Flirtatious and warm, she uses wit and charm as naturally as she casts restoration spells, though she's nobody's fool—cross her, and she'll remind you why High Elves ruled an empire.
She arrived in Skyrim on a spiritual pilgrimage, drawn by her Snow Elf ancestry to seek the hidden Chantry of Auri-El. Her enchanted navel piercing—a family heirloom—pulses with magicka when she nears things connected to her deity, marking her as chosen for this path. Though she left behind the comforts of Alinor, she brought her standards with her: she'd rather fight dragons in four-inch heels than be caught looking "frumpy."

Vocal Quality: Warm alto with a hint of honeyed sophistication. Think refined but approachable—she sounds like she belongs at a cocktail party, but she's genuinely interested in talking to you, not looking past you for someone more important.
Tone: Confident without arrogance, flirtatious without being coy, intelligent without being condescending. She speaks to people, not at them. Even her teasing has warmth underneath.
Accent: Neutral/General American with a touch of elevated diction. She doesn't have a thick fantasy accent, but her word choices and phrasing mark her as educated and well-traveled. Occasional modern-feeling expressions ("freakin'," "girly-girl," "the bomb") should feel natural, not anachronistic—she's adaptable.
Emotional Range:

Playful/Flirty: Her default mode with people she likes. Light, teasing, with a smile you can hear.
Competent/Assured: When discussing magic, combat, or her skills. Matter-of-fact confidence.
Warm/Affectionate: With close companions. Genuine tenderness beneath the sophistication.
Sharp/Assertive: When crossed or threatened. The steel beneath the silk emerges—she doesn't raise her voice, she lowers it.
Wonder/Delight: When encountering new experiences in Skyrim. Genuine excitement that breaks through her composed exterior.
Spiritual/Reverent: When discussing Auri-El or her pilgrimage. Quieter, more introspective.

Voice Inspirations:

Claudia Black (Morrigan from Dragon Age) — for the sophisticated wit
Emma Watson — for the warmth and competence blend
Emily Blunt — for the flirtatious playfulness

Overall Approach:

Fiarrah should sound like someone who genuinely enjoys being alive. She's not world-weary, bitter, or guarded—she's open, curious, and engaged with the world around her. Even her combat lines should have a certain energy to them, like she finds the challenge exhilarating rather than grim.
Pacing:

Conversational lines: Measured but not slow. She thinks before she speaks, but she doesn't hesitate.
Combat lines: Quicker, more clipped, but never panicked. Controlled urgency.
Romantic lines: Slower, more deliberate. Let the words breathe.
Idle observations: Relaxed, almost musing aloud.

Pronunciation Guide:

Auri-El: OW-ree-EL (emphasis on final syllable)
Alinor: AL-ih-nor
Altmer: ALT-mer
Summerset: Standard English pronunciation
Septim: SEP-tim

Emotional Beats by Section

Follower System Lines:

Stranger level: Polite, professional, subtly assessing. She's friendly but hasn't committed yet.
Friend level: Relaxed, teasing, genuinely warm. She's decided you're worth her time.
Lover level: Tender, intimate, occasionally vulnerable. The sophisticated mask slips to show real feeling.

Combat Lines:

Attack/Taunts: Controlled aggression with a touch of dark humor. She's good at this and she knows it.
Hurt: Brief, sharp—she doesn't dwell on pain.
Bleedout: Frustrated more than afraid. Being incapacitated offends her competence.
Victory: Satisfied but not boastful. A job well done.

Idle/Ambient Lines:

Location comments: Genuine curiosity about Skyrim. She's a newcomer seeing everything fresh.
Personal observations: Thoughtful, occasionally philosophical, sometimes wryly humorous.
Fashion/appearance comments: Delivered with self-aware humor. She knows she's high-maintenance and she's fine with that.

Romantic Progression

Early romance: Flirtatious but testing. She's interested but wants to see what you're made of.
Mid romance: More open, sharing personal details, showing vulnerability.
Deep romance: Genuine tenderness. The teasing continues but there's real emotion underneath.

Technical Notes:

Avoid breathy delivery—Fiarrah is confident, not uncertain
Don't over-perform the flirtation—it should feel natural, not forced
Combat lines should be quick and decisive—under 3 seconds each
Romantic lines can take their time—let emotion build
Her "sharp" moments should feel controlled, not angry—cold steel, not hot rage

Session Structure Suggestion:

Start with neutral follower system lines to establish baseline voice Move to combat (gets energy up) Idles and observations (brings energy back to conversational) Romance progression (requires most emotional range) End with warm/positive lines to finish on a good note