Really, race cars?
What's even stranger is I have no idea if it's any good or not... :S
So please, remove your mind from such enigmas and enjoy EIS instead. :D\
6
The Bannered Mare
“May I buy you a drink, hero?”
“Aw, n-” I’m about to finish declining when I think, man, two dragons died by this old hand today. I could do with liftin a pint rather’n a sword. “-ice. That’d be nice.”
As was Irileth, captain of the hot elves in Whiterun. She’d been makin eyes at me ever since turns out little ol me slayed that there badass dragon without practically any help at all, without so much as breakin a sweat, ayup. Okay, okay. So the whole affair was downright embarrassing (being called a hero – pff!), and there are folk who’ll dismiss a beautiful woman outright on the grounds’a her bein an elf, but I’s always been more the variety to take lovin home whenever and however I could get it. So shush yer pretty mouth. I’d just play down the whole Power Man Single-Handedly Kills Two or Four Dragons With Blunt Sword Whilst Naked.
Irileth smiles at me. Whoa. Practically has to peel her eyes off me in favour’a the barkeep. “Bartender, a pint of your finest Black-Briar mead for our man of the hour.”
“Man’s the hour?” chimes Fralia Gray-mane, who of a day runs the general goods stall in the marketplace. I nicked a leather helm off her once when I were ten years old and she’s never forgiven me it. “What’s a petty sneak-thief like ’im done t’be man’a the hour?”
“Didn’t you hear?” says Gus, wonner the guards what wasn’t eaten by the dragon. “Skole here defeated the dragon at the western watchtower.”
“Shi-it,” goes Fralia, “He never.”
“I did too. Why else you think y’ain’t on fire?” I says to her. She’s lucky I’s so lenient of other people’s faults when I’s been drinkin, else Idda let that dragon sit right on her stall.
Then Fralia sullies my sullen disposition t’wards her by sliding over to our party’a silvers n screechin at the barkeep. “Hulda! Wonner whatever piss y’can get in a glass for the hero a Whiterun!”
Soon’s we’d left the watchtower and its parade of corpses, Irileth sent the fastest of the boys to Dragonsreach to tell folks there the news. He caught us again near the city gate, so outta breath I thought he’d strangle, saying His Jarlness were clean in bed and did not care to be disturbed by sweaty stinkin city guards. Person’ly I reckon that sonova toad Farengar got to the guard first.
All the same that left a buncha wound-up guards n me to our own devices. Weren’t much for it bar to –
“Scull! Scull! Scull!”
The silvers are well n truly diluted by townsfolk now. Lotta em have bought me drinks. Some say it’s an insult to a man’s pride for folks to repay a matter’a duty, but I learnt young to swallow my insults.
I scull a pint n whack the glass on the counter to see Irileth watchin me, almost smilin. Someone else pushes a tankard in fronta me. I’s already dizzy n not speakin even less right than usual n I really should say yes but no thanks.
Then Irileth raises her glass, and I know I’m not going anywhere.
The bar cheers below a sea of glasses. “To the hero of Whiterun!”
Sun in my eyes.
Tiles on my back.
Huh?
With hands cupped on my brow, I manage to winch apart my eyelids. Takes me a moment to realise I’m lookin along the length’a me body, which disappears at the knees. My skull is tryin to trick me into thinkin a marching band is practicisin on the street outside – but I am outside – and I seem to be upside-down – and I’m naked cept for a pair’a knickers which would appear to be women’s.
The marching band raises a fuss as I look left n then right. I’m on a roof with my knees hooked over the ridge, then. All right.
With the care y’can only exercise with a hangover, I gently extract my feet from the other side of the ridge. This immediately tips me off the roof, but I only land on my head, which was hurtin so much anyway I barely notice.
Funny lookin house, this one.
Could almost mistake it fer the Kynareth Temple.
...
Oh.
So that is Danica Pure-Spring standin in the sun there with a broom, then.
“Well if it isn’t the hero of Whiterun.” Danica nods, or maybe she doesn’t; I’m havin a hard time lookin at her when she’s standin in that damn bright sunshine. “I was about to knock you from the eaves.”
We both look up at the steep roof. “Buggered if I know how I even got up there,” I say, and Danica agrees.
In fact, I’ll be buggered if I know much at all; at which point the party left the Bannered Mare, where my clothes are, if I’d scored with Irileth. ‘pared to that, not knowing how I’d gotten upside-down in a pair’a women’s underpants on the roof’a temple seemed entirely overstated.
Harder to believe was that this time yesterday, I’d been pickin flowers.
And then Margeth-
Gods be damned! I’d forgotten Margeth!
“Look, sister, I’m real sorry I got my ass all over your temple. But my brother is dead – er – reckon you could lend a bloke some clothes? I have t’get back to Shor’s Stone and tell Maw. Aww. She’ll wanna have a proper Nord funeral, I’m sure. Oh, shit, I’ve gotta get a horse n get out of here!”
Question was, who in Whiterun would be stupid enough to lend me a horse?
My spiel about the dead brother has thrown Danica, and with a mutter of “Of course”, and no hitting me at all whatsoever with the broom, she hurries me into the temple.
Inside the door she touches my arm. “Wait here.”
Okay. It’s cool and might be peaceful inside the temple if it weren’t for the lousy sick n injured groanin. That’s the way it is with the laid-up; one starts groanin and they’re all liable to pick it up.
Guy laid-up on a bench eyeballs me.
“What? Never seen a bloke in tiny underwear before?”
He keeps starin.
Danica is soon back with an orange robe over her arm. She says to me, “I hope a monk’s robe is okay. It’s all we have to spare.”
“Sure. What better than a dress t’go with chick’s underwear, right?” I joke, and she loses her expression of beatific grace n mercy.
“I’m grateful for what you did for Whiterun. So just get out of here.”
Gingerly-like I pull on the monk’s robes. Reckon I feel any iller I’ll push Starey off his bench and become infirm myself.
“Don’t even think about it,” warns Danica, failin to pre-empt the thought. She whisks a phial from her robes. “Drink this. It should help with your hangover.”
How’d she know I was hungover?
Green liquid in the phial. A tab of paper reading ‘Stamina potion: mudcrab chitin, orange dartwing, powdered mammoth tusk’ is stuck to the side. I pop the cork, gulp down the salty stuff, refrain from belching in front of Kynareth, and hand Danica the phial.
“Thanks. Take care.”
With a hop n a skip I’m out the door. I can’t recall if I’d seen Belethor last night or not, but his shop sounds like the best place to start lookin for clues.
He’s got Sigurd out whitewashing the walls. So transformed am I by the orange robes that Sigurd stares at me without even a hullo. That’s either a very good or a very bad sign.
“Kynareth be with you,” I tell him.
He mutters, “Thank you, brother,” and gets back to whitewashing.
Belethor dun fare much better. I’m nearly to the counter and he’s gushin about how nice it is to have a new priest in town when some air of the Daedra about me gives up the pig and he blurts, “You! You creep!” Then he roars a laugh, better’n I’ve ever heard from him when he hasn’t been steppin on somethin small n defenceless. “I suppose I shouldn’t say that to the hero of the city. Come for your clothes, have you? You’re lucky I had to foresight to get these for you.”
He ducks under the counter and produces a hessian sack.
“My underwear isn’t in there, is it?” I wonder.
“I hope not.” Anyway Belethor opens the sack and has a look. “Nope. I can sell you a new pair.”
“Great. I’ll trade you for the ones I’ve got on.”
“Er,” goes Belethor. He moves reluctantly to the cupboard and selects a crisp new loincloth. “Here. On the house. As thanks for slaying that dragon.”
I get changed in the backroom. “To think people say you’re a shrewd, unhappy little man without a soul,” I call to Belethor as I stuff the women’s underwear into my tunic pocket. Hey, it’s no glass slipper, but it might come in handy.
Belethor declines to comment on the virtuousness of his soul. “I take it you’re going back to Shor’s.”
I come into the front room doin up buttons on my tunic front. “Soon as I can get a horse.”
“Hulda might help you there. You did him a great service. Man!” Belethor laughs, “I reckon they even woke the kids for that party! You’re a real celebrity.”
“Ayup. Okay.” I toss the monk’s robes at Belethor. “See Danica gets these. She dun want to see me right now. I trust you won’t sell em off, lest you want the Divines on yo ass. Catch you in a couple’a months, hey?”
I’m across the floor n half out the door. Belethor calls out, “Hey-hey-hey! You’re going? Did you forget you have a meeting with the Jarl, bonehead?”
“A what with the who?” Come on, come on. Margeth wasn’t gettin any less dead for my dawdlin.
“Don’t act all innocent with me – last night you couldn’t stop bragging about it!” Belethor puts on his best Nordic accent, which is about as good as my midget elf impersonation. “His Jarlness wants to see me. Prob’ly for tea and nibbles. Did I e’er tell yer bout the time Ulfric sacrificed me to a dragon?”
Yep, that sure sounded like somethin I’d say. ‘specially if I was tryin to impress a good-looking elf. Damn. Well, I’m fine with skippin out on His Jarlness, but how about the knickers in my pocket? Were they Irileth’s? I dun know if I can stand going on with my life without knowing.
“Er, right,” I tell Belethor, “Thanks.”
Forgive me, Margeth. I’m just going to check this one tiny thing. I’ll be on my way home before lunch.
Promise.
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