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“Bein’ that my profession needs to attract crowds, I needed a real minstrel’s outfit. Like most people, though, there was no way I’d let myself wear tights, at first. When I rode with my first show, I never wore them outside of a gig. I even quit it all together when I left. Let my music do the entertainin’, you know?”

 “Folks in Daggerfall, though, they’re tough about outfits an’ appearances. If I went in a tavern wearin’ shit-shoveler clothes, tsk tsk tsk.” He shook his head. “Not a chance. They’d throw you out near th’ pig den, on th’ shit heap. So I had t’ wear those goofy clown clothes again, tights an’ poofy pants an’ all. Was rough at first.”

Hazred hesitated before he spoke, wary of the impact his words could have on those who’d hear it. Suddenly noticing his parched throat, he took a vigorous swig of water from a travel canteen, an unusual choice for the often-inebriated halfmer.

“Y’know,” he held in a small burp. “I have my gods. Aur’yel, Trin’mac, Zar-zees, Mara, Cirra-bane, an’ whatnot.” He continued, unaware of his mispronunciation. “An’ if you told me to pick between th’ Aedra an’ the Daedra, I’d pick th’ Aedra.”

A gruff sigh. “You wanna know somethin’? I’ve never met a damn Aedra in my fuckin’ life. Never talked to one, never seen one, an’ hell, they’ve never even answered a damn prayer o’ mine. The Daedra? They feel.. realer.”

He opened his eyes very slightly, enough to show the black spheres which took their place. “They’ve shown me their faces, an’ answered my prayers.. an’ I fell for their tricks. I’m not sayin’ I worship any of ‘em. At least, not anymore..” He paused.

“What I’m tryin’ t’ say here’s this: It’s just unfair that th’ worser choice between th’ two just so happens t’ be the only ones really doin’ anythin’ in this world, y’know? I don’t even remember what happens when you die after you spent yer whole life in a temple. What happens in Aetherius, anyway? At least I know what happens with a Daedra--”

The crew listened to the story with more than usual patience and even, in some cases, interest, the older sailors clutching their tankards without drinking from them while they followed Hazred’s words. There were suitably impressed hums at the mention of a king – always a good start to a tale, giving it some real weight – and murmurs of empathy surrounding his description of the banquet.

Not that they were without some unrest. It was best summed up by Drasonval, who, at the end of the story, nudged Vilayn in the ribs and muttered,

‘He don’t just play better than you, Mister Vi. He tells a story better, too.’

This was a challenge – from his own crew, no less – which couldn’t be ignored. Vilayn waved a hand, and then, for Hazred’s benefit, gave an unnecessarily theatrical sigh.

‘We can empathise, sera. Mister Drasonval, do you remember when Queen Barenziah commissioned us to transport our future King home to Mournhold?’

Drasonval, who had barely begun his schooling when Barenziah was on the throne, let alone learned enough to be entrusted with navigating a brig across Tamriel, swallowed his mouthful of ale hurriedly, in order to add his own story.

‘Oh, aye. It were almost as bad as that time we was asked by the Emperor to deliver a peace treaty.’

‘Or when we were expected to lead the celebratory flotilla into Vivec City.’ Vilayn sipped his drink. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say, sera, is that these mishaps mishappen. With a talent like yours, no doubt you’ll have countless other chances. And I’m told there’s some kind of war in Skyrim, because if the Nords aren’t fighting other people they’re fighting themselves. Good time for making fortunes, wars. Nords think eating like a pig and drinking ‘til your guts hurt is the height of etiquette, too, so you can’t go wrong.’

His brows raised and he’d nearly opened his eyelids, a quick eye being able to see the pitch-black darkness behind them.

These were incredible-sounding stories, and even if he hadn’t the slightest idea what a flotilla was, where a Vivec City may be, or who a ‘Barenziah’ was, they would make for great listening.

“Y’think so?” He grinned. “Really ‘ppreciate th’ understandin’. An’ from what I’ve experienced, Skyrim’s a grand place, apart from all th’ fightin’. Hopefully, if I ever perform in them longhouses of the Jarls, they’ll know how t’ have a real feast.” A chuckle. “None o’ that fancy shmancy, fork an’ knife nonsense. Jus’ grabbin’ an ox leg an’ havin’ yer fill.”

“Of course, we have more than enough room. Besides, with a little music on the road perhaps I’d lose less men in the winter.” That was a bit dramatic, but the spirit of it was true enough. The men who worked for her hated the cold as much as she did, and while the coin was good, being so far from home took a toll.

“We’ll be travelling to Falkreath, through to Riften. It’s a bit close to the border, but we should be safe enough. If there’s anything you need, you can speak to Cesare, he manages most of our travel concerns.” Jocasta stood, gathering her embroidery. “Mind you, there are always risks. Bandits, mostly.” 

She hesitated a moment, not sure what she should say. “It’s been a problem before. We are well guarded, of course, but… you’d best keep a clear head.” 

He leaned back, sinking more into the bed and noticing the wet spot that the melted frost on his body had made. It was uncomfortable, and caused him to change his position a few times, but he ultimately decided to just lay down and ignore the damp sensation.

“Sure thing. All you have t’ do is tell me when, an’ I’ll be ready fer travel. Maybe after t’night, though.” He stretched his arms and legs, and curled his toes. “Only ‘cause by t’morrow, I’ll feel a lot better.”

However, before he’d begin to sleep, he looked back at Jocasta one more time.

“I don’t know if they have, and things there are… tense.” Jocasta admitted. There was a hint of concern in her voice, through she tried to hide it. “But I will certainly tell them what I’ve heard. Mind you, the Naevius name isn’t much. My word alone may not be enough to earn you an invitation, but perhaps it will get you some time in a Jarl’s hall.” 

His time playing for courts in Cyrodiil would probably be enough to get him a job in Falkreath - the brat who sat on the Jarl’s throne there was perhaps a bit overfond of Imperial culture. She had seen it a hundred times, provincial lords who wanted to emulate greater houses. “If you would like to travel with my caravan, I’m sure we could make some room for you, at least until we reach another hold.”

The offer was out before she had actually given any thought to it. Still, it wasn’t a terrible risk, was it? How much trouble could he really be? 

Hazred’s lips pursed at her response. 

It would take a while to figure out the nature of Skyrim’s politics, as they seemed both familiar and outlandish. He was used to the political nature of places like Hammerfell, High Rock, Cyrodiil and Elsweyr (the latter of which relatively alien on its own, but nevertheless was accustomed to by Hazred). However, the first thing he heard about Skyrim’s inner turmoil was that it all started over a shouting match. Or, something like that. 

His brows raised at her offer, and he craned over to her direction, beaming. “You’d.. you’d do that fer me? I’d be glad to come!” A wheezy laugh. “Got nowhere to go, anyways.”

“It was a few years after th’ Great War, in a lil’ village called Pell’s Gate. I was young, back then, an’ I didn’t really believe th’ dangers of the Daedra an’ their trickery.”

Hazred rubbed the scarred portion of his face. “Was with a friend o’ mine--” he suddenly shook his head, “no, a former friend o’ mine. If could find ‘im now, I’d-- anyway..” He wafted at the air. 

“He wanted me to meet some people he knew at the village tavern there. We waited for a few hours into th’ night-- must’ve been th’ next day by then --an’ suddenly these two women come in with a dog. One’s an Imperial, the other’s a Bosmer. Th’ dog they had with ‘em was real strange. It wasn’t until we all reached a bridge outside of town when the damn dog spoke.”

“Said his name was Barbas, and he was Clav’cus Vile’s servant. I was a lil’ scared, t’ be honest, but when th’ dog shape-shifted I nearly ran fer my life.” He chuckled. “Damn dog made its head look like mine. Scared th’ wits out of me!”

He scratched his jaw.

“Worked on a moon sugar plantation back in th’ day. Th’ cats there call it ‘je’m’ath’, and used t’ use th’ stuff like you would with chaw. It helped with th’ monotony of work by curbin’ appetite, as well as givin’ you a lil’ boost. Plus, you don’t get that tired feelin’ ‘til you spit it all out. Workers gave me a box o’ the stuff, ‘cause I told them I could handle it.”