Thereâs four of them, Balgruuf realizes. He can handle one Dragonborn, sure, but a family?
Okay, so maybe Anskirâs siblings werenât technically Dragonborn, but years of living with one had obviously had an... effect of sorts.
Beno, a dark-haired Legion veteran rapidly approaching middle age, was quietly criticizing every little detail about his guards; âThat oneâs sword is a bit flimsy, donât you think?â âDoes no one repair their own weapons here?â âTalosâs hairy bollucks, youâd think theyâd be able to swing an axe!â, so on and so forth.
Rori, whose name Anskir insisted was short for âRotisserieâ, was quite obviously a necromancer and a practioner of forbidden Telvanni magics. Skir had called him her little brother, which sent him into a stuttering rage that he was only born six minutes after her, thank you very much. He also insisted that Vivec, the Dark Elf god, was alive and living in the center of the earth with Sotha Silâs secret daughter. Irileth was... less than impressed.
There was Anskir herself, a barbarian of a woman who enjoyed using the sacred art of the Thuâum to impress children. For her part, she leaned casually against the wall next to Balgruufâs throne, pointing out which sibling was which.
Then there was Gerda. Balgruuf had nothing against Altmer, of course â he prided himself on having an open, welcoming city to all kinds. It was just, Gerda... seemed convinced she was a Nord. Speaking in an exaggerated accent, trying to down a mug of mead despite being no older than twelve, trying to wield a sword and slicing up one of his banners in the process â
Balgruuf sunk lower into his throne and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
