Hey! I'm LoveRedbird, and this the first of what I hope will be a long series telling the story of Rontu and her search for her brothers. I hope you enjoy, and please give your reviews. This is also my first fanfiction, so I'm excited for any feedback!

"If you mean to enter Riften, you have to pay the visitor's tax," he said. "Ten septims. New Imperial regulation, you know."

"Visitor's tax . . ?"

Paia's skeptical glance floated between me and the city guard before settling on the gates of the river city, Riften, and then finally returning to the guard. His livery was violet, his shield bore the crossed swords of Riften and his full helm hid his face, leaving it unreadable. I scanned him head to foot and back, and then noticed the amulet of Talos peeking out from under his mail.

Talos meant Stormcloak. And if he's wearing it so boldly, this must be Stormcloak territory. My eyes narrowed. "Imperial regulation" wouldn't apply.

"Aye," he insisted. All who mean to come into the city must pay. It's the law."

"Bullshit," I retorted icily, "My friend here has the way of it. The law, my ass, you're no more than thieves."

I can see Paia smirk out of the corner of my eye, and it's taking all I can not to laugh, too.

Thieves, indeed.

"Alright, alright!" he hissed. "You dun wanna wake the whole city, do ye? I'll let you in, just lemme open the gates."

"Amateurs," Paia snorted as we passed through, old wooden doors creaking shut behind us.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Everybody's a thief nowadays. Even him."

"Not yet," she whispered. "Not yet."

We passed under the fort's parapet, and up a cobblestone street. Houses were stacked tall and ominous, both above and below the boardwalk of the stilted city. In the distance, a blade sang the same high note as a smithy's hammer it coached its shape. The smells of meat, fruit, mortar and deceit ran together liked some horrid mead, and I drank it all in.

The city was wreathed in the cold from the lake, and it chilled me right to my bones. A thin, grey mist permeated the streets, turning people to shadow, and their own, the shadows of shadows. The whole place was stone and wood, and it felt like each pebble and splinter had eyes that all trained on Paia and me. Fires burned in pits in the distance- at the Keep and in the market, I could see. On a bridge off to one side, sat a Redguard man who smelled of horse, with hay laced in his hair and his clothes. He was pleading with a Nordic woman, hands calloused from years of handling blades; he clearly owed her money.

"I don't like this place," Paia said quietly. "I don't like it, at all."

Just as the words left her tongue, a massive wall of a man with ink black hair, armor and mail stepped out before us, blocking our path.

"I don't know you," he accused darkly. "You in Riften lookin' for trouble?"

I reeled back, incredulous.

"And just who is asking?" I snapped. "What's it to you?"

"Careful," he said. "Don't say something you'll regret. Last thing the Black-Briars need is some loudmouth tryin' to meddle in their affairs." Oh, you have no idea, my friend. "So, you first, girl," he snarled, crossing his arms. "And don't lie. I'll know if you're lying."

Paia glanced warily at me, and I shrugged.

If he did open his mouth prematurely, we could always kill him.

"My name is Paia Al-Harif," she said, and added with a nod at me, "My companion here is Rontu O'Naharis."

We both paused, breath baited, but no mark of recognition crossed his features. Whoever he was, he had no knowledge of us, or of my family name.

Divines take your eyes, Jarsha. I should've known you wouldn't make this easy.

"And how, exactly, do two Redguard women go about coming to and traversing our Skyrim?"

"Oh, you're one of those," Paia murmured, and I knew just what she meant. One of the Nords obsessed with the notion that this land was theirs, and that because of some Elvish warmongers, all foreigners wanted a piece of what they had. We were only two months into Skyrim, and the racial tension was thick and choking. It only got worse as we grew closer and closer to the Stormcloak capitol, Windhelm, and the people became more annoying and agitated and. . . and I was tired of the racial tension.

"I believe the question was, 'How did you go about coming to Skyrim'?" he snapped.

I smirked, "Very carefully."

His jaw tensed.

"The Black-Briars have Riften in their pocket and the Thieves Guild watchin' their back, so keep your nose out of their business," he hissed. They should have kept their noses out of mine."You'd do better to keep a low profile, little chit." He rubbed his stubbled chin. "You're either very bold, or very stupid."

"And I'm thinking the same of you, for saying so aloud." I wet my lips, the taste of back warpaint coming to my mouth. "Yourself?"

"Me?" The massive shoulders rose and fell. "I'm Maul. Gather intel for the Black Briar family. I watch the streets for 'em. If you need dirt on anythin', I'm your guy. . . but it'll cost you." He crossed his arms. "Anyone of note enters Riften, and I'm the first one on it."

"And are we of note?" Paia asked him.

"Even without knowing what City you're from, or why you came to this godsforsaken land, it's a definite 'yes'. Foreigners always tend to be people of interest." He cocked his head at me, squinting. "Especially with those eyes of yours."

Now he's staring.

And I'm used to that; Zo'an eyes aren't common anywhere. They're completely white, from pupil to iris. And, though they bring unnecessary attention (which I'm strongly against) their pros outweigh their cons.

"They're eyes." I squeezed the hilt of Nhale at my hip, "Just like any. They help me see."

"Yeah? See what?"

Everything.

"See normally," I lie. "The color is a side effect. Of an operation." He nods, and strokes his chin; still suspicious, but not as much as before. It was time to change the subject. "So, master information broker. Where could two weary travelers find warm beds and mead?"

"The Bee and Barb, that's what you'll need," he replied, after a little further scrutiny. "Right along the main boardwalk; the middle fork. Can't miss it."

"My thanks."

"Until next time."

He watched us walk away.

"Black-Briar, he said-"

"Yeah, I heard." My heart was in my throat. I couldn't believe I was really here, and this was all really happening. "I heard."

As soon as we entered the pub, my Zo'an eyes began to take inventory.

In the center of the room, there was a man in robes, a high priest, it seemed, for the Temple of Mara. Along one wall, I noticed two men and a woman in freshly upgraded steel, armed to the teeth. Mercenaries, those. I noticed a man at the foot of the stairs, absently watching the entertainment of a few young bards (from Solitude, no doubt) while every so often checking upstairs. An honor guard, that one, probably protecting some Black-Briar. Beside him, serving up drinks was the barmaid.

Both Argonian, matching wedding bands, each engraved with three flawless amethysts . . . she was obviously betrothed to the bar owner. Most likely building revenue for something better. At the bar stood a drunkard, pleading for a mead. It wasn't always like this for him, though. Deep, telling grooves calloused his hands, indicative of a past with swords.

I did not see Jarsha.

I did not see my brother.

I allowed my eyes to peruse the room more, and they found another pair, watching me watching everyone else. In my mind, I ran through all the options: He might recognize my face - my brothers and I all look alike. He might be scrutinizing my eyes. Or, he might just have a fetish for Redguard women.

I held his gaze a little longer before turning back to Paia. "On your guard," I whispered.

"How may we assist you?" The Argonian owner asked, approaching us. "Would you like a room? Mead? A signature drink? All three?"

"The room and a full meal. Water. Roast pheasant, if you got."

"As you like. My fiancee', Keerava, will show you to your rooms."

Before following the Argonian woman up the stairs, I turned back to where the stranger had been sitting.

He was no longer there, leaving a gap in the map of the room my mind had created and me to wonder where he'd gone.

We topped the stairs and rounded the corner, coming into a hallway lined with doors, a pair of which obviously led to the inn's best rooms. They opened as we neared them, and a man exited rather quickly before being held back by a woman who then joined him in the hall. As expected, the rooms were in use by a member of the Black-Briars; I immediately recognized the woman as Maven. What I hadn't expected was her companion to be the man from downstairs.

"Don't fail me now, Brynjolf," she sneered, eyes narrowed, her hand gripping his upper arm. "You can tell Mercer Frey much of the sa-" She quickly cut herself off, noticing that they were no longer alone in the corridor. I never made eye-contact with Maven, or paid her any attention, though I probably should have.

I was too busy watching him.

Brynjolf.

His face, comprised of cool blue eyes, a strong nose and lightly bronzed skin, was framed by long, russet hair. Though mischievous, his eyes were above all, kind. He was tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. His shoulders tapered down to his V-shaped torso, which led to long legs and sure feet.

My first thought was his beauty.

My second was his armor.

No doubt it was the armor of the Thieves; I knew it well enough. It was the same style Jarsha proudly wore the last time that we . . .

Unconsciously, my lips curved into a grim smile, at which his brows raised high.

You can take me to him, I thought, silently challenging him. Can't you?

Our little moment in eternity was over, and speed returned to the world. I broke eye-contact with Brynjolf, and entered our rooms as he jerked himself free of Maven's grasp. As I went to shut the door, we made eye-contact once more. He turned to fully face me, curiosity apparent in those laughing, laughing eyes, and, almost as if he had no power over it, he began walking towards me.

Taken aback, I shut the door deftly, throwing the bolt as well. I was not prepared to deal with anyone of the infamous Thieves Guild just yet.

Sheer luck had gotten me this far; now tricky would get me in.

I turned to face Paia, who sat unwinding the long tresses of her goddess braids.

"Well," I sighed, peeling off my leather gloves. "Let's eat."

Hours later, I was still awake, unable to fall asleep. Instead, I sat at a table in the adjoining room, sharpening my -our- steel greatsword.

Father's Will.

It had been in the O'Naharis family for generations.

My oldest brother, Adjin, sent it back to the Family once he became Dark Brother. Jarsha returned it after signing on as a fledgling of the Thieves Guild.

Now, it was mine.

I finished with the whetstone and let my fingers run over the letters of our name.

O'Naharis.

There was an uproar, when my father bestowed it to me.

"Her? A woman? Ridiculous!"

My uncle Aisir's ears were practically steaming.

"Not just ridiculous, it's blasphemy!" thundered my uncle Sira'at. "This was father's sword, Raigatz. Baba's, and his father's before him."

"And, his father before him," my father responded, amused. "They'd all be just as proud with it in Rontu's hands than with any of your sons'. I am the eldest. This sword is my birthright. Which of you dares to deny my will, for Father's Will?"

Needless to say, none of them did.

"Rontu..?" I jerked out of my thoughts to see Paia standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "What're you doing up?"

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry." I picked up my cloth and began to finish cleaning the blade. "Don't mind me, just go back to sleep."

She assented groggily, before returning to the bedroom.

When I was sure she was gone, I placed both the cloth and greatsword down, setting my head in my hands.

"Brynjolf," I said, and wondered.