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Solitude: Proudspire Manor

Jordis the Sword Maiden quietly hummed to herself as she idly turned the pages of the fifth volume of Magnus’s set of Wolf Queen. It was terribly late, and both of the other women in the mansion had long since turned in. She could hear Legate Rikke snoring right through the thick stone walls, as befitting a soldier. On that topic though, the snoring was in all likelihood why she couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. With an irritated flick of her finger she closed the book, letting out a slight sigh. Being awake this long made her hungry, and the low rumbling from her gullet mirrored that thought.

Her gaze drifted downwards across her reclining form, lingering for a short time on the twin mounds of attention demanding cleavage that partially obstructed her line of sight on the rest of her body. Not that the rest of her hadn’t swollen, as she could feel the insides of her naked thighs rubbing against each other ever so slightly, but her breasts were certainly the most impressive. Even with as plush as the rest of her body was getting she was quite aware that whenever she went outside that the men, particularly the Stormcloak guards and soldiers, would stare at her. She liked the attention, even if she wasn’t perfectly sure that said attention was positive.

Her stomach let out another loud rumble, protesting the fact that it wasn’t being fed, a rumble that would sound more appropriate coming from a troll or bear. She looked down at the pale, flabby orb of flesh. “Oh fine, if you must insist so strongly.”

Straining herself to the absolute minimum she slid herself off her bed to her feet and started shuffling towards the larder, sure that there was something left that she could have for a late night snack. Perhaps one of Muiri’s delectable pies, apple, with cinnamon and wild berries mixed into the very crust. Or maybe something more substantial, a loaf of horker meat or two, with a large bottle of honey mead to wash it all down. She salivated as her pudgy fingers closed around the pantry, anticipating satiation. Well, actually if she were honest with herself she usually went so far beyond “satiated” that it hurt, but that seemed to be the peril of living in a house full-time with someone who cooked just to pass the time. She’d curse Muiri if she cared to, or missed a life on the road, but she didn’t or couldn’t on either count. Really, who could miss sleeping on hard ground with an inevitable root or rock sticking you in the back? Who could miss the rough, simple and tasteless trail food? Who could miss the constant threat of death at the hands of bandits, wild animals, undead, vampires, dragons, or Thalmor assassins? Ooh, speaking of the Thalmor…

A voice popped out of the darkness, right behind her. “Boo.”

Against her will she let out a short shriek and tumbled forward away from the voice, crashing against the door of the pantry and hitting the floor in short order. Once the initial shock wore off her mind recovered enough composure to recognize the source, that of Magnus himself. And that was confirmed as a small witch-light ignited and illuminated the face of her thane, smiling like a damnable Daedra.

The Dragonborn offered her one ebony-armored hand. “A midnight raid on the larder is it Jordis? I wasn’t aware you were missing any meals.” Magnus’s amber eyes roved her nearly naked body once before settling back on her face. “Nope, definitely not missing any meals.”

A small wave of anxiety washed over her. She wasn’t uncomfortable with her body, she wasn’t that fat yet, but she knew she was quite noticeably larger than she was only a week ago when Magnus set out for Riften. As her thane she wanted his approval, even if it was to just do nothing. That was her Nordic heritage talking, and if he were somehow disappointed in her…

The Stormblade threw up his hands. “I give up, I don’t care anymore.” Haltingly, she asked for clarification, and Magnus was all too happy to provide it. “You want to be fat, fine. That’s your call to make. It’s out of my hands and I take no responsibility for it.”

Still not quite convinced she asked another question. “Um, you’re sure you’re ok with me not, um, fully protecting your mansion?”

The male Nord simply laughed once. “Jordis, if a whole legion of Stormcloak guards can’t protect this house then I don’t very much like your chances of doing so by yourself, out of shape or not. So go ahead, stuff your face, just keep it down, I don’t want to wake Muiri at this hour.” Given express permission she started to turn to do just that when Magnus grabbed her left arm, his armored fingers sinking deep into her flabby limb. “Just one thing, this ‘emergency’ that Muiri penned me about, what is it?”

Eager to satisfy the gnawing ache of her stomach she answered almost without real thought. “It’s the Thalmor, they’ve been dropping by at odd hours and insisting that they deliver a message to you personally. I’d tell you more but, well, like I said they insisted on speaking to you personally.”

Assuming she was done she turned again for the pantry, but Magnus seized her shoulder and spun her around to face him again. “One last thing, and I mean the last one, how’s the Legate holding up? I mean, I’d feel like a poor host if I didn’t at least inquire---“

She snapped back, a little bit of bitchiness seeping into her words. “How do you think she’s doing? Rikke’s stuffed silly half the time and sleeping it off the other half. She’s puffing up like a loaf of bread with too much yeast in it.”

Magnus seemed unfazed by her outburst. “A little hypocritical of you, don’t you think? Ah hell, forget I said that. You do your thing; I’m going to go catch up on some sleep.”

The thane of Haafingar might have said more, but her mind was already preoccupied with the original question she’d been thinking of when Magnus snuck up on her to begin with, the question of what to eat. Confronted with all the choices now she was at a loss, until of course, she had the thought of “all of it.”

Solitude: Proudspire Manor

Magnus eyes snapped open like an arrow leaving a bow, instantly. It was a side effect of being a werewolf; he was a very light sleeper. It came in very handy on the road though, as no one had snuck up on him to date after he accepted the beast-blood from Aela. As for the sound that had woken him, there was a knocking on the distant front door. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that it might be the Thalmor come to call, but for what possible purpose he couldn’t figure out. Certainly they had been rather brazen with their past attempts to kill him, but attempting to do so in a city full of witnesses, in which he was almost universally loved, would be tantamount to suicide not just for the assassin, but for the entire Embassy.

Either way he’d have to answer the summons to find out. He glanced down at his armor and adjusted it a little, having slept in the suit for the umpteenth time. For a moment, he considered being a dick for a while and taking the time to suit up in his dragon-bone armor set just for that extra awe effect, but he was curious, and that curiosity pushed immediate action. But as he approached the front door of his home he could not help but recall his last real encounter with the agents of the Aldmeri Dominion, wreaking the piss out of the Embassy. Not exactly the best line of thought to be thinking of when treating with Thalmor, but he couldn’t help himself.

He opened the door and took one look at the robes of a male Thalmor wizard and blithely spouted off. “So, what the fuck do you want, knife-ears?”

The high elf’s features contorted with unimaginable disgust, but rules of etiquette demanded that he be cordial, even when faced with a belligerent Nord. “The esteemed Ambassador---“

He interrupted, just to be even more deliberately rude. “That stuck up prude Elenwen, yeah, what does she want?”

The Thalmor messenger silently fumed for a moment, before taking a deep breath which only marginally mitigated his obvious rage. “Ambassador Elenwen would like to request your presence at the Embassy at the earliest possible convenience---“

Anything else that the high elf might have said was drowned out by his hysterical laughter, which lasted long enough for a handful of onlookers from the street to stop just to see what the commotion was about. He laughed till his lungs were sore, then looked the Thalmor agent dead in the eye and answered. “No, a thousand times no. Do you really think I’m stupid, that I’d just walk on in to your Embassy with open arms and a dumb smile on my face? No, Elenwen wants to talk, for whatever reason, she can haul her pert, scrawny ass here to do so in person. And you can tell her that, in those words, before I Shout you back to that building in little pieces.”

The Thalmor looked at him aghast. “You would not dare!”

He put a look of dead seriousness in his eyes and started to speak. “FUS…”

With a shriek of terror the elf started sprinting away at breakneck speed. He didn’t particularly care if Elenwen deigned to take him up on his only half-serious offer, but if she did he wasn’t going to exactly roll out the welcome mat. He hoped that he was conveying that strongly enough by sending the messenger off in such a state of fear. Only in his head did he consider how much worse it could have been had he turned into a werewolf, but that would have turned the guards on him, Dragonborn or not.

But of course, he did have to consider the possibility that the witch Elenwen would take his terms and drop by, which would logically give him about an hour of peace before a timely arrival. So, what to do till then? He could, of course, always be a jerk and run off before Elenwen arrived but, well, he’d sort of exhausted his daily allowance of dickery on the messenger. He had a sort of reputation to uphold after all as the good guy. A loud yawn from the guest room provided his diversion, and he made a beeline towards the sound to check in on Rikke.

He pushed through the door and spoke as he entered. “Hey there Legate…” He choked back a full-bodied laugh when he saw Rikke’s current state. “Having some clothing issues are we?”

This comment was brought on by just how accurate Jordis’s comment about “rising bread” was. Rikke’s former attire, namely the remains of her imperial armor, was stacked in the corner as it was quite clear it would no longer accommodate her expanding body. The only word he could think of now to describe her form was fluffy; and definitely not the hairy kind. The flesh not covered by the large white sheet was pale, soft looking, and seemed to ripple with a simple breath. Of course not moving at all for, what had it been, three weeks, would be seriously damaging to a person’s physique, and it showed. A large fold of fat dangled off of each of Rikke’s arms like deformed wings. Her hunched chin produced a very prominent double chin. The bloated stomach outlined by the sheet in particular was exactly like Jordis’s metaphor, bubbling over the rim of the Legate’s pants like an overflowing bread loaf.

Rikke scowled at him, clearly not amused by his blithe commentary. “No thanks to you. I’m starting to half-wish you left me to die.”

He sat down near the foot of the bed, well out of reach of any ill-advised punches the Legate might throw at him. “Overreacting much?”

The bed-bound woman’s scowl only worsened. “No, as you’ve obviously noticed I’m getting fat. It’s an embarrassment! So no, I don’t think I’m overreacting, unless you’ve figured out a great reason for dragging me out of Castle Dour.”

He smiled in the face of such hostility. “As a matter of fact, yes, I have figured out why I saved you.” Taking a moment to pause for effect, like he was trained to do as a bard, he leaned back in his seat. “I thought it out like this; you were hopelessly outnumbered, hopelessly outmatched against not one, but two wielders of the Thu’um, and serving an Emperor who was, as of a month or two before I picked a side in the war, dead. You were given every reason to walk away from the Empire, presented every opportunity, and you stuck around to honor your oath in spite of all that. I thought to myself, ‘how can I let a Nord like this lady die simply because she’s a great Nord?’ Had I not pulled you out of there, I have no doubt in my mind that you would have been welcomed to Sovengard with fanfare. Tsun, the guardian of the whalebone bridge, would have greeted you like a brother, after you proved your prowess of course.”

Rikke’s indignation faltered. “I, I forgot that you’ve actually been there.”

As a last addendum he tossed out another line. “And of course, when you offered up that prayer to Talos before you started slashing at my face that scored you major points in my book.”

The Legate scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “I suppose, but…” Rikke glanced down at her degrading level of fitness. “… How am I supposed to earn my way in like this, provided I stop gorging myself on the delicious things your wife tosses my way, as unlikely as that may be.”

He shrugged. “I think it’s more of the effort in your last moments that counts. Then again it could be a culmination of a life lived well and valiant. Speaking of which I’m really going to have to get over to the Bard’s College and correct that trash verse I dug out of Dead Man’s Respite. King Olaf One-Eye isn’t going to clear his own name from beyond the grave.”

Rikke’s expression morphed into confusion. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head sadly. “Olaf One-Eye? Nord hero and slayer of the dragon Numinex? The subject of that gaudy Fire Festival where they burn his effigy? Complete slander, all of it. If I saw that bard’s ghost again I’d punch him in his spectral teeth.”

The woman just looked at him, blinking slowly. “Right, sounds fascinating.”

He coughed once. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I think you’ve already got your invitation to Sovengard printed.”

Rikke nodded, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the left corner of her mouth. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence I guess.” Shockingly, the ex-Imperial soldier hesitated for a moment. “I don’t suppose, that maybe you could tell me more about it?”

He smiled. “Sure thing, I’ve got the time to spare. Now make yourself comfortable, this is quite the yarn I’ve got for you…”

Solitude: Proudspire Manor

Magnus silently closed the door to his guest room as Rikke snored away. She’s fallen asleep in the middle of his epic yarn about Sovengard, but he knew for a fact that it was due to the huge “breakfast” that Muiri had dropped off before heading out into Solitude for the day. Jordis hadn’t come up from the pantry yet either so, that unfortunately left him the sole occupant of the house for Elenwen’s impending arrival; assuming of course that she was showing up.

A knock on the door sounded out, and he shuddered. Even the sound was prim and proper, dainty like the porcelain he had taken particular delight in simply breaking inside the Thalmor Embassy. That said porcelain had been located in Elenwen’s private office had been utterly whimsical at the time, but now it was probably going to come around to bite him in the ass. He stepped towards the door, made one reflex adjustment to his chest plate and swiped at some imaginary dust, and tugged the portal open.

The bitch herself was standing there, looking down her nose at him, and promptly clicked her tongue against the inside of her teeth. “Dragonborn, a pleasure.”

He scowled freely. “It’s not, so you don’t have to lie about it.”

The Ambassador’s mouth twisted into a smile, but her eyes were anything but pleasant. “Not at all, I’m incredibly enthused to be here.”

He blinked twice, silently, before he could speak. “Ok, you want to play it that way.” He stepped back and slowly gestured for the elf to enter. “Upstairs, it’s only slightly more private.”

He led the way up, the hair on the nape of his neck sticking up like he was being shocked the whole time. It’s not like he was an idiot, he knew from observation that Elenwen was a powerful mage. The kind of powerful that made Nords as a whole distrust magic altogether. He was therefore justifiably nervous having that kind of mage behind him, one that had plenty of reason to hate him. However, Elenwen seemed able to resist the urge to shoot him in the back with a fireball and he arrived at the top floor of his home with nothing singed off.

He gestured towards the seat at the far side of the table in the middle of the landing. “Have a seat. I’m not so poor a host that I’d make you stand.”

The Altmer sat with a sniff, finally letting some of her contempt show. “And already you exceed my expectations.”

A sneer twisted his face. “Ha ha ha, very funny Elenwen. It’s that kind of attitude which means you have to buy your friends.” He sat down opposite the elf, mood worsening by the second. “Ok, let’s skip the pleasantries and skip right to the heart of it. I know you hate me, so it follows that you’d only want to meet me if someone else ordered you to, right? Don’t answer that, you’d just lie. That said, the only logical conclusion to make is that someone over your head is forcing you to attempt to buy me off. How am I doing so far?”

Elenwen didn’t answer, but the barely contained fury in her eyes told him all he needed to know.

He leaned back a little, crossing his arms behind his head. “Well, I imagine that you told them, whomever the order came from, that such a deed was blatantly impossible, and you would be right. So this is what I propose, you stay for however long you feel you need to too make it seem like you made an earnest effort, we part ways, and we never have to see each other again.”

The elf cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll admit, that’s a surprisingly astute proposal.”

He held his arms out to his sides in mock humility. “What can I say, we Nords aren’t nearly as stupid as most of Tamriel thinks. I swear, popular opinion almost ranks us with Orcs, whom are far from stupid themselves, reality-wise anyway.”

Silence fell, a long while where he and the Altmer simply stared back at each other over the table. One of them started tapping a finger idly on the wooden surface, he wasn’t sure which. In fact it was so quiet that he could hear the minute shifting of stone in the house.

He tried to break the awkward quiet. “So, the Summerset Isle---“

Elenwen cut him off before he got any further. “I can’t tell you anything, so don’t bother asking.”

Indignation stoked his temper. “Hey, easy, it’s not like I was going to ask about troop placement and critical attack routes. I’ve just never been there. I’m curious about the place.”

The gold-skinned elf shook her head and slowly cast her similarly golden eyes around the room, settling on something high and behind his head. “Is that, why do you have a side of meat in a glass case?”

He checked briefly to confirm what Elenwen was referring to, and he got defensive again, only for different reasons. “Hey, respect the trophy. That’s not just any piece of meat, that’s an ox leg from Sovengard itself, the Hall of Valor, Shor’s honored feasting hall.”

Elenwen laughed, which was actually more disturbing than anything. “Please, you expect me to believe you took that from a silly Nord idea of an afterlife?”

He scowled, angry at the insinuation that the afterlife he was striving for was in any way “silly.” “Ok, you don’t believe me. I’ll prove it to you.” He stood and put one hand on the latch of the case in question. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

With a dramatic pause, he opened the trophy case. Instantly the room was filled with the glorious smell of roasting meat, but not just the smell. He could almost hear a roaring fire, almost feel the warmth. It sang of joviality, of life’s simple pleasures enjoyed while they were available, and his heart soared with elation and pride as the memories of Sovengard flooded through his mind. He closed his eyes, picturing the glittering green vale with the Hall of Valor shining like the most perfect diamond over all of it. He remembered noble Tsun, shield-thane to Shor himself, and the most satisfying battle he had ever had the pleasure of participating in. He remembered entering the Hall itself, standing, surrounded by every hero he had ever had as a child: mighty Ysgramor, his ultimate forebear as Harbinger of the Companions, King Olaf One-Eye, Jurgen Windcaller, Feldir the Old… Why, the list went on indefinitely. His reverie was rather rudely interrupted by Elenwen, or, more specifically, her stomach. A growl so loud his mind half considered that a bear had broken into the building.

His eyes opened reluctantly, zeroing in on the amusingly abashed Thalmor Ambassador. “Yeah, people usually react like that.” He shut the case, somewhat regretfully, and stood with his fists on his hips. “You know, you’re probably going to be here for a while. I’m going to whip up a quick lunch, interested?”

In retrospect that question was probably one of the more redundant things he had ever said.