Wet Weather Tourist Destination Blues

Today I'm in Bathurst, hoping to move on to Moree.  It's raining heavily everywhere!  But from the looks of the weather radar, it only gets worse from here, so today will be the day to go.
Also, it isn't far between Moree and Lightning Ridge, but with this weather it may be better avoided. >_>
Thanks to Spiffy for putting up Dog and I for the night!
Also it was the best Australia Day on record. :D

Everyday I'm Shufflekiin 7

Happy Australia Day, y'all!

7 - The Banquet

            It isn’t when folks want me dead I should worry; it’s when they want me alive.

 Second time I entered Dragon’s Reach, guard even holds the door open for me.  His Jarlness on the throne is flanked either side by what I immediately recognise as lackeys.  Bit’a potion’n I’m sharper’n ever.

 Soon as he sees me bein brought up by a guard His Jarlness risks breakin character by plasterin on what he likely reckons is a charming smile.  Chills are runnin down my spine.

 “Why if it isn’t the hero of the Reach.”

 This quip rolls from the tongue of the black-robed bastard better known as Farengar while Balgruuf is still loosing at the hinges.

 I hear about once in every thousand years there is born a warm-blooded mage destined to be a palace wizard, a sort of hero-warlock amongst the standard frost-blooded reptiles slitherin around on the cold wet rocks.  It took one single look at Mr Black next to His Jarlness to know the legacy’a the frost-bloods was safe for this generation.

 The Jarl, bless him, utters a roar of a laugh. “Hero of the Reach, ha!  Try the hero of Skyrim, if what you’re suggesting be true, Farengar.  Come, lad,” he ushers me closer, “Dear gods ye stink like a smelter, but at least that beats yesterday’s eau d’loo.  My court mage has a few questions for you, then we can get down to the real business of celebration.  Go on, Steward, fetch him up a seat.  There you go.” I’m pushed into a wooden chair worth more than my family home.  It’s the Steward pushing me.  I could refuse to sit, but he’s such an intent look upon his face it’s either I bend my knees or get buried up to them in the flagstones.

 As soon as I’m two foot shorter’n everyone else, Farengar begins to circle my chair.  He watches me, dun speak.  His Jarlness leans forward eagerly on the throne.

 “Go on then, Farengar.  Ask him.”

 Followin Farengar pacing between my peripheries, I realise the Jarl must have near-on his entire household in attendance.  And it ain’t just guards loiterin in the doorways.  I listen, I can hear fat fryin, a cook shoutin fer more salt.  Plates and iron pots clanging.  Somethin thick n wet bein smacked repeatedly gainst a wooden bench.  The gurgle’a drains.  And that’s to say nothin of the aromas.

 “I’m not a man given to trusting rumours,” Farengar tells me at last, his slaughterfish gaze fallin on me momentarily beyond the hood’a his robe.  His circle draws him behind me. “However I here believe I have heard one worth attending to.  You, humble as you are,” he appears only to glare at me once more, “You may be the greatest of us all.”

 Boy does he have me pegged wrong.

 He goes on. “Although you were born mortal of body, it is my belief you possess the immortal soul of a dragon.”

 I what-?  I burst out laughing, too surprised t’even stop meself.  The soul of a dragon – maybe Farengar is the legendary warm-tempered palace mage after all.

 He narrows his eyes.  I isn’t alone in laughin – sommer the servants and guards think it’s just as funny.  Aller us stop dead the second Falengar opens his mouth.

 “So glad I can amuse.” Snap.  Bitter.  Silence.  Farengar glowers beneath his cowl. “Tell me,” he nods to me, “What do you find so entertaining – the idea your worthless life could be of benefit to humankind?”

 Well, yeah.  This is all gettin a bit outta hand.  I got to speak, not matter who might chop off m’head for it. “Sir Wizard, thing is, I’m real glad t’have helped y’all.  Yer Majesty, likewise.  But beyond I kilt them two dragons, and luck must be my failsafe I managed it, I ain’t got nothin to tell yer.”

 His Jarlness pulls a face remembered from before the time he was his namesake. “The banquet is in your honour-”

 “No,” I says, and I stand right up off this overpriced seat. “I got a brother ain’t gettin any less dead.  Maw will want t’know, funeral hasta be arranged, Pa or Bodilla n me prob’ly gun hafta go on out to the Border see if bears n wolves n skeevers left him alone enough we can bury him – nother thing Temple’a Mara in Riften’s gun hafta be let know they got a corpse comin through.  Talos be damned.” I reverse-moon His Jarlness. “I’m sorry.  Enjoy your banquet.”

 Secretly my heart is bangin away as I walk past the adorned long-table.  The Jarl can lie as he pleases – Whiterun is a perial stronghold, and I’m just a Nord, and up here in Dragonsreach I’m freer t’die or be inquisitioned than I am to breathe his Jarlness’s royal air.

 I’m almost at the end of the banquet table.  One sure step after another, boy.

 “Stop.”

 His Jarlness.  I want t’run, cry, and hide under a bed.  Knowin my luck the under bed space would be time-shared with a dragon.

 I turn to him. “Yes, yer Majesty?”

 His Jarlness nods to his guards.  They rush forward and take my arms, a third trainin his polished steel dagger on my throat.  All three dogs snap their heads to the Jarl.  He cranks a finger at us. “Bring him here.”

 They entirely unnecessarily drag me with em to the Jarl’s feet.  Farengar stands over me, leerin.  The itchin dagger convinces me to meet His Jarlness eye to eye.

 “I take it your brother is dead?” he says to me, and there is not one single other sound in all of Dragonsreach.

 “Yeah.  He’s dead.”

 “Good, strong, loyal Nord like yourself?”

 If by good he meant simple, strong he meant lazy, and loyal he meant skooma-addicted, then Margeth ticked every box. “Yes, yer Majesty.”

 “Died in the course of duty?”

 I hesitate.  That could mean just about anythin.  And my spiel about bein a secret agent for the ‘perial cause weren’t gun hold out if His Jarlness pegged me for a Cloaker. “No, yer Majesty.  He was trampled by a horse.”

 His Jarlness nods. “As are many of Skyrim’s good young men.” He pauses, a contented sort of silence spent gazin at me in much the same way as a giant gazes at a goat. “Scores of Skyrim’s people – Nords, Imperials, Red Guards, Bretons – are dying every week in the name of Ulfrick Stormcloak and now General Tullius.  Freedom, loyalty – to which do you swear allegiance, cousin?”

 A trick question if I ever heard one.  I said ‘perials and His Jarlness would likely pull out a bear suit. “Neither, sir,” I say as humbly as pie, “It’s too grand a decision for any one man to call.”

 His Jarlness almost cracks a smile. “Yet two have called it, and now the rest of Skyrim falls as playing cards to either side.  And fall they do, and pay with life and limb, and war chokes our resources whilst rendering itself a crushing burden.  So many sons and daughters of Skyrim have died, cousin.  Now we face losing more than ever to the dragons.  And you would deny us your aid for the sake of a single, dead brother?”

 Oh.  Oh shit.  So that’s where this was headed.  Right down Shit fucking Creek.  The eyes of the household fall upon me, as keen and hungry as the dungeon skeevers.

 “My Jarl.” There are no hands nor daggers on me now.  I am on my knees on the first step of the throne, too far from the Jarl to even spit in his eye.  The most leaden of feelings drops my eyes to the stone. “The honour to aid you will be  mine.”

 Silence.  Gods, I’m sick of it.

 The Jarl smiles at me when I lift my eyes to his. “Then I name ye Thane of Whiterun, Skole of Shor’s Stone, foretold hero of Skyrim.  It’s obvious to me you’re the one; you’re a born hero.  Farengar will explain the rest.” A sudden liveliness strikes him, and he claps and shouts, “The banquet!  Get the blasted banquet on the table!”

 The household bursts into activity, as frenzied as slaughterfish on a bleeding elk.  Not wishin to be the elk, I find my feet.  His Jarlness nods to me.  Two very attractive Nord girls are helping him to stand.  The Jarl murmurs somethin to one of them.  She draws graciously from his side and sashays along to mine.

 “My Thane,” she smiles, “Please call me Lydia.  I have been bestowed the honour of becoming your housecarl.  Please, let me show you to the table.”

 I can see the table plenty well from where I am.  The lovely Lydia takes my arm and leads me to it.  She smells of leather perfumed with sandalwood, and she looks far too clean t’be latchin on t’me.  She pulls out a chair.  When I just stand there, she says, “Go on, my Thane.  This banquet is in your honour – you must sit beside the Jarl.”

 Awwwright. “Will you sit next t’me?”

 Lydia smiles. “No, my Thane, although that would be my greatest pleasure.” Her eyes drop momentarily to my crotch.  All of my recent despair goes hurtlin into space. “Alas, I am but a housecarl.  I will take my place with the other lesser guards further from the Jarl’s great presence.”

 Oh my holy Talos.  Lydia makes sure my seat is pushed in just right before sallying away, her fingertips tracing the back of my neck as she goes like the breath of a red hot brand.  Chills rn the length’a me.  Holy-!

 “Uh, I’m sorry?”

 By the time I realise there’s someone talkin to me, moster the household have taken their seats.  His Jarlness at the head’a the table; me’n the Steward at the top seats, the other ministers trickling down from us, then the lesser soldiers such as Lydia, then the general household right at the foot of the table.

 The Jarl and his Stewart have each made a speech, and dinner is served, dinner like every hot meal you ever seen all piled on topper one another, the heat comin off it enormous; I’m just about fingerin my roast pertaters as I drift on the topic of Lydia.

 Farengar the demon is beside me.  His frown deepens.

 “I said, you are the one of whom the Greybeards foretold.  You are the Dragonborn.”

 Haven’t we been through this already? “Pretty much.”

 Farengar looks me up n down.  I’d rather Lydia or Irileth for that particular purpose.  Speakin of Irileth, where is she?  I may have her undies in my pocket.

 “Where’s Irileth?” I say to Farengar, who is in the midst of sayin how the Greybeards had sent them this private message about the return of the dragons and some unlucky bastard who was all man and part dragon gun stop the other dragons or some other hoohah I din want t’hear.

 He scowls. “Oh her way to Kynesgrove, undoubtedly.  Haven’t you heard it was destroyed by a dragon?”

 I’d spent the night on a temple roof.  Why’dd I know anythin about what Kynesgrove was doin?

 “Shame,” I say, speakin more of Irileth.

 Farengar looks like he cares about Kynesgrove as much as I do. “Yes.  You are the Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn.  You do understand that?  I’ve been researching it ever since I found that – er, since the Jarl read to me the Greybeards’ prophecy.  Only one born with the immortal soul of a dragon is able to absorb the souls of dragons and prevent them from rising again.”

 Really? Neat.

 Farengar leans too close to me. “What did it look like?  How did it feel?”

 What, t’have my fist in his face?  Cause that’s what he was headed for. “Did what feel?”

 “Absorbing a dragon’s soul, of course.  Did you see it – was it similar to other souls?”

 “Dunno.” I’d never seen a soul once in me entire life.  In fact I’m startin t’have this real strange feelin in the pit’a me guts.  Kinda like I’m far deeper in shit than they ever made gumboots for.  I swallow a bitter leek. “What oughter it look like?”

 The wizard flinches. “Before we do anything else, we really must work on your grammar.  Every time you open your mouth, a white narwhale dies.  If you learnt the dragon tongue with the way you speak now, you would probably destroy us all.”

 A nudge from my other side.  The Jarl. “You’re just lucky you came in when you did, boy.  I’m expecting my brother along any time now – you can bet he’d have something to say about a knave becoming a thane!” He utters a long, dry laugh loosed from the baked dirt of his throat by the Black-briar mead flowing freely around the table.  Farengar taps my shoulder impatiently.  But he dun want to talk t’me; he ushers me flat back against the seat n addresses the Jarl.

 “So the Greybeards were right.  The Dragonborn walks among us in our time of need.”

 “Indeed.” The Jarl pauses to stroke his beard. “We’ll send our man onto High Hrothgar on the morrow.  Best they show him how it’s done.” He glances at me. “D’you know any Shouts, boy?”

 My panicking ears pick up the capital S on Shouts.  He’s talking about the words of power!  Cock and cock again.  My heart skips.  Dragon souls, words of power – so completely outside my realm of experience I’m beginnin to see my survival was not luck, but the cruellest of jokes.

 “I know a few,” I lie, after a draught of mead. “I wish I could demonstrate, but wouldn’t wanna kill yer guards, yer Majesty.”

 “Just Jarl will do,” Balgruuf tells me. “I know how you mean; rumour has it Ulfrick Shouted Torygg to pieces.  I don’t want to see any dismembered kings in here!”

 “Right, right,” I force a laugh.

 Farengar is waitin for my attention.  He speaks through a mouth fuller pertater. “So you never told me; how does one pick a dragon soul from an immortal soul?”

 I’m so sure this geezer is onto me.

 “It looks just like a regular soul,” I tell him, “But immortal.  And covered in scales.  And with these big wings like a bat outta Vaermina’s best nightmare.”

 “Did you experiment with drawing either soul into a soul gem?”

 “You know, I thought of that, but at the time I was too busy fightin dragons to try it.”

 Okay, maybe he wasn’t onto me.  Maybe he was just an idiot.

 He nods. “Makes sense.  Dragon magic – dragon Shouts.  Is it possible absorbing the souls of the beasts added power to your Shouts?”

 “Oi!” cries the Jarl.  Music and laughter erupt at the opposite end of the table. “Stop hounding him, wizard!  Girls, girls, up here!  Do a dance for the Dovahkiin!”

 A couple of wood elf girls are on the table, grindin their hips and shakin their ample chests to the beat of the drums.  People at the table start to clap in time as the girls, gigglin, jigglin, rush over the emptying plates towards His Jarlness.

 One leans over towards me.  I can see straight down her tunic.  She winks. “Dance with me, Dragonborn?”

 I glance at the Jarl. “You may as well,” he says, “Who knows – you could be eaten by a dragon tomorrow.”

 With nothin else for it, I climb up on the table.  The household cheers.  My wood elf kisses me on the cheek before drawin me in to dance.

 The hero of Whiterun.  The hero of Skyrim.  There’s no way I can tell these people they’re wrong.  And who could be bothered to think’a excuses with, whoa, this in front’a them?

 The wood elf grins at me. “Come on, hero – dance!”

Catherine (see below for bragging rights)

Catherine

Oh Cathy.
So guess who just beat Catherine?  I did!  Whoo!
I just really wanted to brag about that.  I beat it!  And no one else I know has!  That isn't really something I get to brag about very often. :D  Or ever.  So WHOO!
How did it finish?  Fantastically.  Would I recommend it?  On the spot.  What should you do?  Gird your lions.  I mean loins.  What the hell, gird your lions as well.
CATHERINE </3

Three More Sleeps Til MISADVENTURE

I can't wait, oh I can't wait, oh Maw stop giving me advice-!
Three more days and Dog and I are off around the country! Maybe even around the world!
It's difficult to have lived on your own for a time and then move back home, however temporarily.  I know home will always be here in whatever manifestation, and so it is easy to leave and easy to under-value.
I promise I'm not under-valuing home this time.  I'm just really, really keen to see as much of this fantastic country and this big, bountiful world as I can.
And yes, yes, Dog must pack his own toys.

--Skull

Book Review:

World War Z:

An Oral History of the Zombie War

Max Brooks

2006, Three Rivers Press, USA

War/fantasy

10/10 stars

            Where were you the day the dead came back to life?  Perhaps you were fleeing to the coast, hoping that someone, somewhere would allow you room on their boat.  Or maybe you remained at home, comforting your children, shadowed by the bitter knowledge that your alleged “vaccines” and antibiotics may as well have been skittles.  You could have been fighting hordes of the undead on any front, from the terrestrial disaster at Yonkers, to the crippled air-force reduced to dropping supplies to isolated pockets of civilisation, from the few Chinese submarines that managed to escape their burning country, to the tiny group of astronauts who decided that keeping Earth’s communication network running was more important than their own lives.

 Wherever you were, Max Brooks has you covered.  World War Z is his report on the “human factor” of the Zombie War.  He leaves no stone unturned, be it American soldier, Russian priest, Chinese sailor or a doctor exiled to the tree-dwelling tribes of Brazil.  The accounts range from tragic to triumphant, fearful to foresighted.  A single common element binds the survivors’ stories – the contribution the tellers made to the war effort.  Troops, navy officers, mental patients, medical staff, architects, dog handlers, divers, business men, the retired US president; these are only a sample of the different points of view presented by Max Brooks.

 World War Z is a poles apart spin on the typical zombie story, and one I cannot recommend highly enough.  Set a decade after VC Day, when the last zombie was killed in Beijing, this alternate history of our contemporary world is written with a single, constant question in mind – what would happen is the Zombie War was real?

 For the range of scenarios and depth of detail, World War Z is as technically factual as a military report.  It’s divided into chapters which progress through the war chronologically; the first chapter, Warnings, covers the initial threats of breakout, before the story moves on to the realisation and reaction in chapter 2, Blame and chapter 3, The Great Panic.  The war in full is covered, from Turning The Tide, to the systematic eradication of zombies, even touching briefly on the future.  Each chapter is written as a compilation of interviews conducted around the chapter topic, each interview lasting between 2 and 15 pages.

 The number of interviews must number a hundred in total, with only a few recurring characters.  Each interview is presented with excruciating attention to detail, particularly when it comes to army toys.  However, references to TV shows, songs, and other pre-Z-War pop culture are not left unexplored, nor are the finer points of artistic detail.  Okay, okay, admittedly I had to laugh when the captain of the Chinese submarine apparently “painted over” his water colour painting, and then proceeded to use those same paints on the steel internal hull, and I guess there are other errors that flew right over my head.

 As you may suppose, the entire story is on the whole more relevant, or least more focused on a US audience, with maybe 50% of the interviews dedicated to every other nation.  Still, with such a contemporary atmosphere and powerful, engaging narrative, it’s hard to fault Brooks anywhere.  The narrative itself is excellent.  Some interviews had me reeling, stunned, after a sudden twist in the closing paragraph.  Never have I felt so connected to a story on an emotional level then with the story of Darnell and his dog, Maze.

Some stories stay with a reader for days – World War Z will be with you for years.  Full points go to Brooks for keeping the zombie myth intact, constant, and terribly, inhumanly frightening.

 World War Z is an ass-kicking, heart-stopping and often blood-chiling ride that’s earned every praise awarded to it.  Whether or not you dig zombies, dig this.  With its potent message and handy undead tips, it’s the next best thing to the Zombie Survival Guide.

Big Paul Bunyan

For some reason I wrote a story about a race car driver.
I wasn't sure if it would be any good to read.  But today I edited it and really enjoyed it!
However it's likely the strangest thing I've ever written.
If you'd like to take it for a test drive, please find it here (Paul Bunyan.pdf)
There are plenty of other newish shortish stories up there as well, so please have a look through.
And please, when you read Paul Bunyan, Big Man of Motor Sport, imagine it being read by Johnny Cash minus the pauses for breath between sentences.
You will maybe might like it, I half promise (it really is quite different!).
Cheerio,

Skull

Everyday I'm Shufflekiin 6

Last night I wrote a short story about a race car driver.
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.

Around Skrim

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Everyday I'm Shufflekiin 5

5 - Western Watchtower

            Running across Whiterun Plain, I’m pissed as a stoat.  Why’da these things happen to good men like me?  All I ever wanted to do was drink and have a good time; now soon’s I start havin said good time all manner’a terrible nasty shit starts happenin, to the culmination my drunk ass runnin from safety and comfort to fight some sodding horrid dragon.

 Oh why gods, I’m implorin as I run, then I recall I don’t hardly ever go to church, and I start t’think my gods Talos you’re a sonova bitch.

 I’d offered Belethor to come with, but he’d politely declined by slamming the shop door in m’face.  Bastard.  Just wanted all the mead for hisself.  Sigurd mighter obliged, but he’d taken one look at the shop lights spirallin off all that ‘perial steel and dead fainted.

 Silvers all around me are howlin for lizard blood; accordingly we’re the back-up group for the blokes failed before us.  None of em have horses, all of em have heavy armour, and runnin flat out t’wards the watchtower like that has got to flog a man’s stamina.

 Flames to the west and the boys pock up their trot.  It’s dark as a khajit’s backside and the bobbin torches make it hard as my giddy legs to run straight.  I’m runnin in the wrong direction in that I’m runnin to the dragon at all.

 There it is.  That squeal like glass on a grindstone n there the bastard is lit up by his own orange flames.  He rounds the watchtower in a great sweeping pitching dive and I just know his demonic eyes are on us belting up the lane.  He passes over the road fifty yards ahead’a us and the flames pourin like molten snot from his nostrils illuminate the first of many corpses.  ‘perial splayed on the earth, her armour so blackened she might be picked for an assassin, cept you never see assassins n I sure as day is holy could see this corpse.

  Brings to mind there’s likely plenty more where that came from.  I stop short just past the first corpse, because the very last thing I want before I die is to trip on a dead man.

 “Go, go!” shouts the Elf before the silvers can stop beside me.  She’s told me more than once her name is Irileth. “Into the tower – I want some on the battlement, some on the wall.  Kill that beast in the name of the Emperor!”

 Off go the silvers.  Irileth pauses by my side. “It seems I was wrong to doubt you.” Her cool eyes meet mine. Mage spells meet dragon fire, swords screech against breaking rock.  I try to not appear distracted.  The world is spinning. “Accept my apology.  As remuneration, seeing as you are the sole experienced dragon slayer among us, I hereby grant you access into the watchtower if it is to aid your disposal of this most heinous threat.”

 She jogs off.  Gee, thanks lady.  I’m touched.  I’m free to trespass on ‘perial territory providing it helps me be burnt alive?  Are you insane?!

 For a moment I’m alone with the corpses on the roadside.  There’s more of em too, up ahead, piled.  Scattered.  Burnt and dismembered. So many corpses.  Freshly minted silvers are already on the broken tower wall n loosin arrows like they was boys on the schoolyard roof.  Dragon swoops down, picks up one n bites him in two.  I hear the body splat wet, heavy on the hard-packed earth n it occurs to me this sonova bitch (so I say to myself as I fumble with my pocket n move my feet on account of Nirn being a big ball what keeps on rollin n rollin beneath me n I gotta adjust t’stay on it), this sonova bitch has gone too far.  Recalling my sword and my spare bottle’a mead I draw them, n I shake the sword at Fangs there whizzin round the watchtower as I drink.

 “Hey you great flying turd!” shouts me, feelin like I’s loud as the sun would be if you pressed yer ear against it.  I may have a bottle of mead instead of a shield in my other hand but that’s as good a defence as I ever cared for. “I’ll tell you what yer good for – shit all!  I bet your mother says the same!”

 I know mine did.

 Fangs crests the tower to serve up some fire to the silvers on top.  Panic should be racing through me, but I’m angry, real angry.  Angry at Margeth n angry at me n most of all angry at these mother fucking dragons constantly causing a man such goddamn trouble!

 “Hey!  Dickhead!  Yeah, you!  You old lady’s handbag!”

 Is it just me or is the dragon looking my way?

 Oh Oblivion.  Oh yes it is.  Its gleaming yellow eyes a-fix on me.  Bloody smart, are these dragons.  Smart enough to smell an insult at two hundred yards.

 Fangs leaves off pitchin silvers over the parapet in favour of seein to me.  He lands between me’n the watchtower in a great rumbling crash, as you’d expect from two tons of leather n bone n real nasty attitude.

 He climbs forward on his wing-hands and hind legs.  Neck swaying.  Twisting side to side so he can better eyeball me.  He may not want to look it but he’s hurtin from the arrows picking his flanks n belly n the bursts of mage ice n the small deep axe wounds.  I keep walking backwards as he comes towards me, bottle’a mead raised in defence.

 “Hey, Fangs,” I tell him, pretty much scared shitless n knowing I was about t’die.  Surely if I kept on thinkin that I’d eventually hafta be right. “Heard a rumour your girl left you on account’a your consistently unsatisfactory performance in the lizard nest.”

 “I am female,” replies the dragon, in this voice‘d make Ulfric sound coquettish, like the last strong flame from a bed of ash speaking, like rock turned to fire, like the voice alone would boil my blood n pop my skin n melt me right where I stood.  She hesitates. “I nonetheless resent the remark.”

 “As you would.  You’ve got nothin else goin for ya with that old handbag face n now turns out you’re a lousy screw too.”

 Fangs gives a seething hiss.  I feel the heat of it curl around me.  My hand flexes on the Dwarven sword.  My pulse is in my stomach, rallying against my drunken bravado.

 Except that it isn’t just bravado.  It’s something else as well.  My feet feel their way over a corpse the spin’a Nirn has seen fit to place in my path.

 “Matter’a fact,” I say, “I was speakin to yer mother just the other day n she tole me what a constant disappointment y’are to her.  Why can’t she be more like Thorns’s girl, she said.  Why can’t she get a proper job and settle down with a nice bloke?  At this rate I’ll never have grandchilden-”

 That does it.  Fangs attacks.  As she does her wing-hand snags the corpse n she staggers forward, throwing her neck out for balance.  My drunken stagger sidesteps her head by some Daedra-given chance, for the next moment she’s spittin n then roarin flame.  But no matter.  All drawn out like this?  Don’t make it too easy on me, doll.

 With all my courage in my throat I jump up onto Fangs’s neck.  She roars n bucks but my weight as I jump up n down like you would on an inn table is too much for her to combat, and her neck sinks down until it’s firm against the burnt corpse.  I drain the mead bottle before flinging it away, taking up the sword in both hands.

 Jump up and-

 “Look alive, Fangs!”

 -strike the neck blade first, chipping first against spike and then scale, but my weight on the sword drives it down, down into meat, into bone, and finally against the charred steel breastplate of the corpse.

 Fangs a course is flailing madly.  She jerks n throws me clear.  I hit the dirt hard but it’s no worse than being thrown from a yearling foal.  Lucky said foals have honed my reflexes to get my dense skull outta the way after a fall; I roll n find my feet n scramble before Fangs’s dying jaws can snap over me.

 But that leaves her facing me, and me her, her tongue lolling out as she struggles to keep up her head, but already her strength is pouring out of her as her blood turns the road black, and that light in her eyes is steadily dying.

 “You – are – different,” she pants. “But – you – are – not – the – Dovahkiin.”

 “No,” I say.  I’m not much of anything, really.  Though I did just slay two dragons, which is more’n anyone else I know can boast about.

 Fangs licks her black lips. “Then – I’ll – be – back.”

 And there she slumps, dead.  I scurry outta the way’er her sagging corpse.

 I’ll be back.  What’d she mean by that?  Was this a circle of life talk?  As in, you’ll bury me here since it won’t do to have a great reeking lizard corpse stinkin up the western watchtower, n then my body will become the grass, and the plains elk will eat the grass...

 Somehow I really don’t think so.  But then I was drunk, so who knows.

 I’m still wrestling my sword from her throat when with a jingle of leather n steel the ‘perials jog down the laneway.  There are about half as many as there were going up.  I don’t pay em too much attention and don’t think anything is weird until I notice they ain’t makin any noise.

 I look around.  Irileth n the rest are all gathered round, weapons drawn, watching me.

 With the strength of surprise I manage to pull the sword free of Fangs. “What?”

 Irileth, heading the ‘perials, holds a hand over her heart.  She bows her head. “Hero.” As she drops to one knee, the silvers thump their weapons sharply on the earth. “We are in your debt.”

 Hey, hold on a dragon-pickling minute there, girl.

 Hero?

Ai Yazawa Caught The Dog

Well it really does sound like Ai Yazawa has caught The Dog.  Whether she will let go of The Dog and go on to finish Nana is another matter entirely.
The regurgitated news alert is after suffering from an unspecified illness back in summer 2010, Ai Yazawa is now in recovery.  However she has not picked up a pen since early in her illness (maybe she has now, possibly she had to to sign herself out of hospital).
We're coming up fast to two years now and still no more Ms Yazawa, and definitely no more Nana!  It's certainly one of my favourite manga series.  I'm up to volume 14 and aware there are a few more in publication before the well runs dry; however knowing there may be no more ever or for at least a very long time, I want to spin them out.
Maybe it's true that Ai Yazawa caught The Dog.  I know during my own serious unspecified illness I went for months without writing a thing.  Try to pick up a pen after months of not writing and it feels like the heaviest thing in the world.
A good friend of mine was once in the Australian National Archery Team (not sure of caps).  He was headed to be one of the best junior archers in the world when one day it all got too much; he said he got onto the field to practise and found he was dreading drawing the bow.  He gave up on archery for years after that, said every time he tried it just got harder.
But hey, in 2011 he took it up again!  I started writing more than ever, for better or worse.
If we humble Plebeians can conquer The Dog, surely Ms Yazawa can too.  Maybe all she needs is our patience and support.
And, er, a dog leash.

Manga Review: RG Veda volume 1

CLAMP

1990, Shinshokan, Japan

Christine Schiling, Haruko Furukawa (English Adaptation)

2005, Tokyopop, USA

Action/ adventure

10/10 stars

            CLAMP’s debut manga sets the staple and standard for the rest of their works.  It’s a blood-chilling yet beautiful romp.

 Based on an ancient legend, RG VEDA tells the story of Ashura, Yasha and Kuyou as they struggle to prevent a prophecy from becoming reality – a prophecy which foretells the destruction of heaven and earth.  While the seers say their plight is hopeless, Yasha and Kuyou aren’t about to give in.  They are the strongest warriors of a war torn world, and what’s more, they’re arch enemies.

 Kuyou, having killed the godking and shattered the peace of heaven, now rules earth by ruthless blade.  Meanwhile Yasha, the king of a (now) extinct tribe of warriors, takes into his care a tiny child, Ashura.  Ashura is the sole descendant of the greatest warriors who ever lived, wiped from the earth by Kuyou.  While Yasha is fully aware that Ashura’s destiny is to fulfil the prophecy (as well as to kill Yasha), so too does the earth’s only hope for salvation lie with the child.

 CLAMP’s debut work is undoubtedly among its finest.  Yasha’s world is rich with detail, both in story and art.  An intense story, warring tribes and blood-thirsty villains make RG VEDA an impacting, engrossing read.  And as for the artwork – gorgeous!  Though the style retains a strong 80’s influence, evident in the big hair and starry eyes, it is also distinctly CLAMP.  No buckle, sequin or chain link is spared.  Every panel is a calorific feast for the eyes; sounds strange, but it’s true!

 Many of the staples of CLAMP’s later work are present here.  Visually, I have two honourable/ dishonourable mentions.  One is the shoulder-to-hip ratio, which is approximately 5:1.  Yasha’s shoulders in particular are enormous.  His shoulder measurement is more like the wingspan of a biplane.  Of course, this is typical CLAMP, so it serves only to add to RG VEDA’s beauty.

 Second mention is the super-deformed faces, namely Ashura’s.  The use of SD is great- it adds an element of humour much needed in such a drama heavy story.  It also rather suits Ashura, which is where the next dishonourable mention comes in.  Ashura is a child, true.  So it’s understandable that he might be a little androgenous.  But give him thick eyelashes, a piggytail and a dress, and Ashura’s a girl!  And a good-looking girl, at that.

 Since this ambiguity of gender is another favourite ploy of CLAMP’s to addle the minds of their readers, I’ll grin and bear it.  But seriously, if I hadn’t seen the panel of an adult, nude Ashura (you don’t see anything; down, fangirls!), I wouldn’t have believed he was a he, no matter how many times he was referred to as such.  Not even if Mokona Apapa herself had told me.

 Extra honourable mentions go to the bonus features, created by CLAMP.  The retake on a few of the volume’s panels, plus CLAMP’s newsletter are great for a laugh, and provide insight into the secret lives of the group.  The newsletter is a feature sorely missed in later CLAMP works, such as Card Captor Sakura and xxxHolic.

 RG VEDA: read it!  Else Yasha will be after you with his er, ramen delivery sword.

Everyday I'm Shufflekiin 4

4

            They pulled me up in fronta His Jarlness Whiterun, and I thought for sure I would be executed on the spot.

 His Jarlness on his granite throne surrounded by his ministers was lookin like it was all a bit dull.  I having had an ale or two was feelin quite the opposite.  You’d never guess from his face the guy was quizzin me on a buncha folks sayin they saw a dragon at Helgen.

 “You were at Helgen, were you not?” he says to me with a yawn, hand out like la-de-da, “Or are you a prisoner washed in from somewhere else?”

 After sittin in the grotto for another half hour, I’s finally convinced Old Ugly was dead enough to creep past his corpse.  I had a look about for Ulfric, knowin I was a wanted man in the south and likely as not t’be wanted in Whiterun too by Arcadia, who’d fronted Margeth n me the gold for our little pharmaceutical venture.  With Ulfric I could get into Windhelm, where it was cold as ass but at least nobody much knew me.

 Well anyway I was standin on the road lookin down onto Whiterun Plain, and thought I saw a carriage about four miles off to the northeast.  Goin like a blight outta Oblivion, it were.  Soon as I saw it I knew there went my ride.

 While I was standin there, feelin plenty sorry for myself n poor dead Margeth, I did happen t’hear horses round the bend above the bridge.  I still had the goldy-coloured sword in my hand like any dumbass bandit, n so shoved it under the rotten piece of linen passin for my belt.

 Glad I did.  For sure enough, my ears din fail me, and there happened along the six shitty guard-horses poorly mounted by six tin-headed ‘perials.

 “Drop your weapon!” shouts five of the ‘perials at once.  I already have my hands in the air.  Horses canter round me.  Says the sixth silver, an elf woman bit brighter, cleaner, n certainly easier on the eyes than the rest, “Some of my men reported seeing a dragon in the area.  What can you tell me about it?”

 “Nothin,” I said, hands in the air, a blade ticklin my throat. “Except it’s over there.”

 I tip my head up the hill.  ‘perials clamour, all of them drawing weapons.  Elf shouts for a couple of them to check if I be truthin.  They go, she looks me up and then down.

 “You’re a prisoner.”

 Surprise she noticed over the stench and the leaf mould and the mud. “Got free legit,” I tell her, with a burnt and grimy smile.  Try for charming, go on. “Dragon dropped into Helgen, gave us all a pardon.”

 Elf’s eyes narrowed.  Horsehead crest on her shield showed she’s a Whiterunner. “Arrest him.  No one bar the Jarls and the High King (rest his soul) grant pardon in Skyrim.”

 Wonner the ‘perials wriggles his sword my way. “We could kill him now.  Save us the trouble of having to cart his sorry ass home.”

 Elf pauses.  Considers. “No,” she says at last, n I nearly dance with relief.  Not that it’s ever more’n an hour between attempts on my life anyway. “We’ll take him.  The court will be interested to hear his account.  Jarl Balgruuf can decide whether he is to live or to die.”

 As silvers one and two are helping me into shackles, I say, “Brother, I’m parched.  Would you have any ale on ye?”

 Grumbling, silver one nonetheless obliges, passin me the flagon on his hip.  It isn’t good solid Nord mead, but crappy runny ‘perial wine.  Tastes of Cyrodiil and oppression.  Well I might be biased by the continual attempt of ‘perials to kill me for not doin nothin.  And I guess oppression ain’t all that bad cause afore I know it the flagon is empty.

 “Thanks, brother.” With hands shackled before me I toss silver one the flagon. “Wouldn’t have any mead to wash away the taste?”

 Silver two shoves a bottle of Nord mead into my hand before silver one can belt me over the head with the flagon.  I’m enjoying the powerful aftertaste from the comfort of a poorly-bred draft horse when the two reconnaissance agents come a-galloping over the ridge, shoutin, “It’s dead!  It’s already dead!”

 Elf is suspicious, eye slotted, mouth hard. “You’re certain?”

 “Lady.  There’s a pretty difference tween a live dragon n a dead one.  They’d pick it.”

 It ain’t my turn t’speak, but whadda they gun do – arrest me?

 Well, whatever it is, it isn’t unarrest me.  ‘s how I wound up lookin at His Jarlness Whiterun with a belly full of cheap mead and wine, wonderin if His Jarlness ever did a single dirty day’s work with them long thin hands or if they was entirely for makin him appear pensive.

 “I ain’t from Helgen,” I tell him, since he was kind enough t’ask. “Born n bred in Shar’s Stone.  And I wouldn’t mind gettin back there if your Majesty is done detaining me.”

 His Jarlness seems almost amused. “Majesty?  You really are a simpleton!  We would be as foolish as you are to expect your witness; evidently this dragon business is some fantasy of the lower classes.  Never mind it.  As thanks for your assistance in the matter, knave, I hereby pardon your transgressions in the Hold.  Irileth, show him the door.”

 Actually I’ve already seen the door n’ve been thinking about it a whole bunch, specifically never seeing the back of it again.  Seems His Jarlness isn’t such a bad bloke after all.

 Elf has just got her dainty killer hands on me when mon signor’s steward clears his throat. “Yer Lordship.  The going rate for any information provided for the aid of the Hold is fifty Septims, for a knave...”

 Did someone say Septims?  I turn from the beautiful door to His Jarlness, who is already scowlin at me, or maybe was scowlin inwardly anyway the entire time, likely as not smellin the skooma n mead n wine on my breath and jealous as a spriggan over its grove that it’s my breath and not his.

 I let him glower.  He soon runs to the end of it. “Fine.” He reaches under hisself on the seat, drawing out a ratty coin purse and tossing it to the steward, which that excellent man then passes to me.  Heavy.  About forty-eight Septims heavy, I’d gauge.  Figure my freedom accounts for the missing pieces.  Probably the deal is His Jarlness promises not to behead me if I promise not to mention his being skinflint.

 I make the coin purse disappear into my filthy tunic.  Even manage a bow, which is really just a mooning in reverse.  The Elf hovers at my side.  She seems even lovelier now the world has taken on Tiber Septim’s golden glow.  I smile at her and she scowls at me.  But’a course; she’s a Dunmer, and Dunmer hate everybody.  Matter o fact once I knew a Dunmer hated everyone so badly that when his wife cheated on him he threw her a party.

 Moments later I’m out the door.  I din get much of a tour’a Dragon’s Reach, but it dun take much figuring to know I preferred the outside better.

 Guards on the drawbridge hurry me on.  I’ve heard the Jarl’s unwanted visitors often end up under the bridge as opposed t’on toppa it.  Yeah.  The view is definitely better up here.  Orange sunset makes a fiery lake of the plains.  About a quarter hour til the shops shut and the real drinking gets started.  I need to get to Belethor’s and then the inn if I’m to find a sucker give me a lift to Shor’s Stone tomorrow.

 “Brotherrr!” Heimskr cries as I pour myself down the stairs into the upper plaza. “Does the love of Talos fill yourr hearrrt, guide yourrr everrrrry action?”

 I stop short by him, tastin mead on the air. “It sure does, cousin.  Why just this mornin I said to Talos I said, boy, Talos, I’d sure love it if ev’y man n his dragon in Skyrim up n tried t’kill me, and d’you know what?  Good old Talos saw to it my wish came true!”

 Heimskr breaks into a huge, beaming grin, which nestles like a wolf lying in ambush in the red bush of his beard. “Talos does oblige the faithful.”

 “Yup.  Reckon he might also summon an ale for me since I asked.  Tell you what; Imma wait at the inn for a miracle to happen.”

 “Don’t wait, brother!  Go, spread the love of Talos!” Heimskr reaches into his robe and flings a bottle’a mead at me.  He sounds one hearty prayer from orgasm.  Unwilling to become the trigger for another man’s pleasure, I quickly thank him and run across the plaza n down the stairs into the marketplace.  On the way I down the mead, secreting the bottle behind Carlotta’s fruit stall.  She shouts somethin at me, but my eyes are on Belethor’s main man Sigurd out front’a his place.  Sigurd is lounging by the door and he hastily shoves a bottle behind hisself as he catches my eye.  Word on the street is Sigurd is set to take over shop should Belethor ever slip up on his own slimy trail.  I palm a Septim to him, look meaningfully towards the mead bottle and then to him, and wink.

 Sigurd turns the red of a Daedra rose and hurries to open the door for me.

 “Don’t tell!”

 “I won’t,” I tell him, “But you’d better give me that mead bottle all the same.  Belethor asks about your breath I’ll tell him I kissed you on the mouth.”

 He dun divvy up, but nor does he resist when I pry the bottle from his hands.  With refreshments thusly provided, I roll into the shop, Sigurd hopping on my heels.

 Belethor greets us both with a hearty roar of, “You!  What’re you doing in here!”

 Sigurd n myself share a moment of confusion.  Then Belethor stalks out from behind the counter, cocks his fist, and punches me to the floor.  I din expect the hit yet nonetheless have been punched enough times in the mouth that I roll with it n don’t lose so much as a tooth.

 “That’s for skipping out of town on me!” Belethor bellows from somewhere above his knees, which are as much of him as I can see.  The view dun greatly improve upon my revival, as I’m a good head taller than my lecherous buddy n can easily pick out the bald patch he thinks he’s combed out of sight.

 “Excuse me.  Last time I saw you we’s both got drunk n then when I woke up the next day you’d bet all my gold on a mule in a horse race n sold my clothes to pay for your drinks.” I stare down at Belethor.  He squirms.  As a toad tends to when caught in a hole. “Don’t you try t’dig yer way through the floorboards, either,” I tell him, “I want new clothes or my old ones back, and drinks t’make up for the ones you enjoyed on my Septim.”

  “You do stink horribly,” Belethor agrees, somewhat made mollied by the looming list of transgressions I could recall at any moment.  Belethor might seem like your everyday scummer-Tamriel merchant, but you ever see him at a bard’s night when the lute n drums are bringing down the crossbeams and you’ll known he’s a Daedra at heart.

 He hesitates a moment longer by the fire pit before swaggering over to a wardrobe. “I don’t keep this stuff on display,” he calls over his shoulder, as sweet as if he were born a lamb, “It’s too good.  For the everyday customer, that is.  For you I think it will be just right.”

 Sigurd glances at me, sees I’ve finished his mead, and hurries to fetch us another drink. “What happened to ya anyway, mister?” he wonders as he pulls bottles of Alto wine from under the counter, “You get under arrest fer summin?”

 Did I ever tell you drinking makes of me a proficient liar?  Well I prob’ly woulda told you while I was sober, but being drunk you’d more likely be smellin bullshit.

 “I’m a secret agent, working for His Highness.”

 This is as far as I get before Belethor bursts out laughing.  He turns from the wardrobe. “You?  A secret agent for the – the who?  Torygg (bless his immortal soul)?  What’re you investigating in those rags – the quality of Skyrim’s prisons?”

 “I was tasked with infiltratin the ‘perial legion in order to suss weaknesses in allegiance to His Highness General Tullius.” That dun sound quite right to me but it’s too late now to change it. “So far I’ve discovered seventy-five per cent of ‘perials are actually Cloaker spies.”

 I would’a sided with Ulfric’s boys, only after he done left me to die in the woods I din have half as many nice words for him as was needed to lie about it.

 Belethor has gone back to his rummaging.  He pulls out the odd garment and drapes it over his arm. ‘Wow.  I didn’t realise the silvers were so far down shit creek.”

 “It ain’t shit creek; it’s Cloaker Creek, n they’re paddlin as fast as their little heads can handle.”

 With a snort, Belethor leaves off pickin dresses for me n wanders back over with what he’s got. “How about that dropkick brother of yours?  He a secret agent as well?”

 “No,” I say, and take a draught of Alto wine to waylay the treacle pumping through my arteries. “On account of he’s dead.”

 You can tell the news shocks them from how they just stand there, slack-jawed n starin at me.  Difference is Sigurd is a good kid n likely feels poorly for the death of a man, while Belethor is gutted he lost of source of income.  I swear that man mourns every death in Tamriel.

 Finally, he clears his throat, and drops his starin eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.  I won’t say Margeth was the greatest contributor to the glory of Nordkind, but he had his moments.  Man always knew where to find skooma.  Like a horse smelling water.”

 “To Talos,” says Sigurd.

 The eulogy is over and I’m not sure if I should be crying.  It’s true what they say; Margeth never had a talent, not a single one, other than gettin his hands on skooma n mead n very cheap women.  He couldn’t read, or chop wood good, or play the lute, or skin rabbits, or even pick deathbell very well.  But he was my brother.  He was my brother and I loved him.

 “’preciate your condolences,” I mutter.  I look briefly at the exquisite garments Belethor has brought me over.  They really aren’t all that bad, so either he’s feelin poorly for screwin me over last time or he reckons I’ve got gold now that I’m workin for General Tullius. “How much is that?”

 Belethor holds up some brown patchwork thing looks cheaper’n the rest. “For you?  Forty-eight Septims.  I’ll throw in a pair of boots for free.”

 I started with either forty-seven or forty-eight Septims and gave wonner them to Sigurd. “Maybe y’oughta show me what you show yer regulars.”

 “Naw, come on.  Take it.  Forty-eight Septims is all it will set you back.”

 “Forty-seven,” I say, “And you owe me another drink.” And then a bunch more drinks once I stole his wallet.

 “Done.  You can get dressed out the back.” He pauses, glancing me up and down. “You don’t... you’re not going out in that state, are you?  You’ll scare off the whores!”

 “Oblivion no.  You got a pump I could use t’get cleaned up?”

 Quarter hour later I’m s’fficiently clothed and as clean as I ever am.  I also know the reason Belethor sold me the fine robe so cheap is the inner lining is so moth eaten it disintegrated as I pulled it on.  One of the boots he gave me has a hole the size of a Septim in the sole, but that was nothing couldn’t be patched with a little cardboard n nail.  I check my reflection on the pump splashback to realise I’s much blonder than I recall.  I toss my prison rags in the shop-back fireplace as I wander downstairs.

 Belethor n his boy are standin by the open door onto the marketplace.  There’s a heckova ruckus coming from outside, jingle of a lotta steel armour in motion.  Belethor ushers me closer, game t’touch me now I ain’t smellin like a bed’a corpses.

 “Being that you’re a secret agent, you might know about this,” he whispers, fixed as Sigurd on the commotion, “What’s this about a dragon?”

 I retreat from the door.  There’s plenty of mead and Alto wine in here.  No need to go out and risk being spotted by silvers in need.  Plus the room is swayin as the laws of physics sync to my drunkenness. “It’s classified.  Dragon is a codename for a really boring project I can’t tell you anythin about.  Where d’you keep the Black-Briar mead?”

 He doesn’t answer, so I help myself to the stock under the counter.  Soon as Belethor hears the hiss of quality mead reacting with air he lifts his head towards me.  I’m sittin in his chair n drinkin his beer.

 “Get out of that!”

 “Shut the door and I’ll share it with ya.”

 Belethor dun take much convincing.  Sigurd dun take any at all.  We’re sittin around the fire pit having a grand if hazy time listenin to Sigurd tell us about the one time he nearly got laid but then didn’t on account of his being morally uptight about sleepin with his cousin, and we might’ve all had three or six or fifteen or so when the door bursts open and this vision of an Elf in leather armour bursts in with twenty other ‘perials behind her.

 One of her triplets waves her sword in my direction. “Prisoner, you must come quickly.  Urgent news from the south – a dragon is attacking the western watchtower!”

 I’m about to say no (in fact I’ve said it a couple times) when she begs me,

 “Please, you must.  Only you have experience with the dragons.  You must help us save Whiterun!”

Gee, thanks, Talos.