Chapter One – Prologue

Alone by the fireside in the drunken huntsman, a dark haired Breton nurses a pint of mead. The potent brew burns its way down her throat, and the flames of the fire dance in her dark, guarded eyes. Ghosts of a past long forgotten swirl inside her mind as she drowns herself in the amber liquid. Around her, conversation booms. A bard strumms a lute off to one side, singing of the valor of the great dragonborn.

An occasional slap on the back is all that keeps the woman present as she sways ever so slightly in her seat. Celebration. Some Nordic holiday. She doesn't know what, nor does she particularly care. She rolls her head, loosening the taught muscles in her neck and making a conscious effort to unclench her jaw. Off to her left, she can feel the bench dip and groan as a heavily armored woman makes herself comfortable.

"You never came back last night." The implied question goes unanswered as the Breton shruggs uncaringly. She is beyond drunk, but the haze in her mind does nothing to settle her discomfort about the events of the previous night. She can feel the beast encroaching on her consciousness even now. It is disconcerting, but not entirely unwelcome, not that she would be telling Lydia that anytime soon.

"My Thane," the nord tries again, "how am I to be your shield if you do not take me with you?" The irritation in her voice is clear, and on any other occasion, the Breton may have found it amusing. Now it just grates on her worn nerves. She sighs deeply and throws back the last of her drink before standing with great effort and staggering to the door. The nord follows her closely.

As she deeply breathes in the crisp night air of Skyrim, she finds herself thinking fondly of her old home, the Highrocks. The melancholy is unbecoming of her, she thinks mildly. "Lydia, if you are going to insist on following me everywhere I go, I am going to disappear on occasion. Your constant doting can be…" Her speech slurrs in a way that makes her frown ever so slightly, and she stops herself before the insult can finish falling from her tongue. How much has she drank again?

"That makes absolutely no sense, my Thane." Lydia is speaking in her blunt, impersonal tone, but it betrays her concern, and possibly hurt, none the less. When the Breton stumbles, she is immediately at her side. "Perhaps… we should continue this discussion some other time. When you are… a bit less intoxicated."

The Breton snortes loudly earning her a few curious glances from others in the town. "I am completely in control of my mind and faculties, thank you." As if by a stroke of fate itself, as she finishes her retort, the warrior pitches forward and finds herself face down in the dirt. Not drunk indeed. There is no further conversation as the nord helpes her master to the small home they inhabit in whiterun. They pass through the doorway, out of the pale light of the moon and into darkness. The place is sparsely decorated and smells heavily of the herbs and ingredients that line the shelves above the alchemy station.

After moving about the small cabin to light a few candles, Lydia lowers the inebriated woman to her bed as gently as she can, deciding not to bother with her armor or boots. She is in no mood to stir the wrath that she knows simmers just below the usually calm exterior of her Thane. This is one of the few times she had ever seen past the cold and controlled façade her master always exudes, and that is enough to give even the most loyal of servants pause.

The nord moves away from the bedroom and settles herself in a chair just outside the door. The woman she serves is still much a mystery. There is an unwavering goodness within the warior, but there also exists something else. Whatever it is, it frightens the nord in a way she can not, or perhaps will not, explain. While she would never confess these thoughts aloud, she sometimes wonders at the beton's motives. Is she there to serve the keep? Does she truly care for the people who she offers protection? These are the things she thinks even as she drifts off to sleep.

Lydia wakes to the clattering of a pot lid being placed on the simmering stew above the fire pit. A heavy fur pelt has been draped over her, and her back aches fiercely from her awkward sleeping arrangement. The brenton is already moving about the small cabin preparing a meal, all ill effects of the alcohol erased from her poised frame. She is wearing a soft cotton shirt and her light leather greaves, all traces of her status as Thane abscent in the privacy of her own home. She glances over at the nord coolly when she becomes aware that her servent has awoken.

"You slept out here?" One elegant, black brow arcs in question and warning shines in her eyes. Lydia is not to speak of her Thanes indisposure from the previous night, that much is clear.

"I was merely standing guard. There were many strangers here for the festival. I decided you could use the extra protection." It is a good cover. Of course she simply hadn't trusted the brenton to stay put through the night. She typically sleeps in a bed upstairs in the loft. "Do you have any duties to attend to today?" Planning is always a safe ground with the Thane. Nothing too personal, nothing too opinionated. It is the only time Lydia ever feels confident when speaking to the intimidating figure before her. There is so much power in this person, she often finds herself thinking. It is unnerving to say the least, even if she knows she has nothing to fear from the woman before her.

The brenton looks at her with a pacified gaze and nods, returning to her cooking. Like her alchemical potions, the Thane loves to create new dishes. She enjoys trying different flavors and experimenting until she is satisfied with the result. The menial task comes naturally to her, much as the magic that flows in her blood. Her nord companion doesn't mind in the least, and the dishes rival those of the Jarl's head cook.

The aroma filling the house is savory with hints of rosemary spice. She does not elaborate on the subject at hand, but this is not surprising to Lydia. Her Thane rarely has much to say. She prefers action.

After they finish their meal, the brenton disapears into her room to don her armor. Lydia goes about gathering the typical traveling supplies and saddling the horses teathered outside the cabin. Though she doesn't know what task they have been assigned, she can tell by the demeanor of her master that it is likely to be a long jorney. When the Thane reappears in the main room of the house, she is wearing a startling fur and steel armor, the thick brown coat ruffling slightly as she walks. The breastplate takes the apearance of a wolf's head with glittering ruby eyes. Her arms are well protected by hard leather and her steel grieves and boots clink and clatter with every step. "I am ready. Let us leave at once."