(—вlαck stαr)

Nearly a week had passed since Vincialem’s decision to — for lack of a morally reassuring word — stalk this strange elf, and it had been a bigger challenge than expected. Every day nearly led to sudden death and all because of the Altmer’s obliviousness to his own fortune; not only did it come in pouches but in the generous amount of rich fabric draped around every inch of his body.

But the last thing Vincialem was prepared for was to see said elf turn and walk in his direction. He tensed up and glanced at whoever was closest to him, silently hoping that he hadn’t been discovered. It turned out that what his elf eyes saw was correct after all and in a matter of seconds Vikrolomen stood before him, asking:

“Excuse me, can you point me to the nearest inn?”

“That direction.” Despite his surprise, he didn’t even hesitate and pointed to his left. It was a direction chosen at random but not entirely false. “There’s an inn just over the hill.”

It was more or less over three hills away.

With no choice left but to trust the word of the stranger Vikrolomen gave him a pair of brief words of gratitude and then swaddled his form in said rich cloth. Protected from the whistling hum of snow decorating his robes he set a course over the hill, leaving the relative safety of the marketplace — though arguably the citizens of Skyrim held no warmth in their hearts for the safety of an Altmer regardless.

As the night set in and the snow thickened under his boots after the second hill Vikrolomen’s suspicions were aroused. He had clearly been lead astray, and chastised himself to be in such an imminent risk of freezing not to mention the howls of wolves and whispers of the wisps shimmering between the sparse trees. The path was hardly discernible from the rest of the wilderness and the elf began to wonder if he was even following the stranger’s advice anymore. 

With the clatter of a few septims left on the merchant’s stand he turned on his heels and lowered his dark hood against the onslaught of cold wind. His purchase—a drawstring bag of tawny feathers—slid into the pouch at his hip.

The next few moments as the sun set on the snowy marketplace were filled with more questions. Each answer grew less informative until they reduced to shrugs, and by then most of the merchants had packed up and began their walks home. With little option left Vikrolomen approached a form he thought looked enough like a person despite the shrouding shadows to warrant an attempt.

Send me “Librarian!” + a number and I’ll grab the closest book, flip to that page number, and make us a starter using a random line of text from said page