Author's note: Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls are owned by Bethesda.

This is the fourth story set in the Twist of Fate universe. Knowledge of the previous fics is helpful, but not required.

Dedications and thanks go out to Kytten and JawsOfOblivion, for being inspirational, motivational, and all around awesome.

Many thank yous to Raven Studios for jumping on board as my beta! She's a very kind mistress - she's ever so gentle as she whacks my prose into shape with repeated applications of her grammar stick.

There it was again, that loud thump from the roof. Agronak sighed heavily as he peered up from his book. The ceiling looked as it always did—small cracks in the far corner where the plaster had gotten moist, dark stain over the desk, left by the mold that had been scraped off, and the section that sagged near the doorway. He really should get it fixed.

But that was just another item on his voluminous list of repairs. There were so many things to think of nowadays; plans for the future, further improvements to the village, designs for the manor. His hours passed by in a whirl of activity.

Drawing the heavy wool blanket a little higher up his legs he settled back onto the sofa, warmed by the faint heat of the glowing coals in the fireplace. His study, library, office, and parlor were all contained in this one room. So many of the others were still bare or very sparsely furnished. He rested his head against the thickly padded arm and once more tried to focus on the volume in hand. It was hard enough keeping track of the septims that seemed to flow like water through his fingers. Even though the village was beginning to grow, prosperity pushing out the neglect and disarray, he still wasn't making a profit. Hopefully at the end of this year he'd finally see a bit of money coming in for a change, rather than always going out.

The thumps were joined by bumps, Agronak sighing again while resting the book on his chest. Staring up he wondered just what the squirrels had been feasting on, because they sounded like a herd of wild boar while they scrambled around above him.

A wry smile crept across his face as he mused on how his expectations had not quite matched his reality at first. All of those years spent trying to get his parentage officially recognized, and once he'd finally succeeded he'd been rewarded with a leaky roof, a rundown village, and obese vermin. While the roof kept out the rain now, and the village was starting to flourish, the squirrels remained the same.

The very loud thump caused him to leave the comfortable sofa behind and walk quietly towards the window, the slippers on his feet muffling his movement. As far as he knew no form of vermin, not even overweight fuzzy rats, were so fluent in Dunmeri curses.

Sliding up the window, he frowned when the cold night air hit him. It was hard enough keeping the manor warm without having to handle uninvited guests with a penchant for dramatic entrances. The noise increased, along with the curses, as a few shingles slid past the window. A mer tumbled down from the roof, plunging towards the ground head first. Agronak shot out his arm, grabbing hold of the s'wit's ankle. The Dark Elf smacked heavily into the side of the house.

"Oh, hello." One dusky hand waved up in the general direction of the window. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Tell me why I shouldn't let go," he growled, twisting the mer around so he was no longer facing the house. Too bad Mrs. Palenix had removed all of the milk thistles from the garden below. As it was, he was still rather tempted to suffer a sudden hand cramp.

"Ow!" Synderius protested, his head having banged against the wall with the movement. "Just haul me up, will you? And try not to be so rough."

He hesitated briefly before deciding to tug the Dunmer into the room. It was bad enough having him crawl around the roof; he couldn't imagine just what the mer would try and do next if he didn't let him into the house. Probably dig a hole into the cellar, or try and sneak in down a chimney. These stealth games of his were getting ridiculous.

"Nice outfit. Is this what all the fashionable lords are wearing these days?" Synderius asked, taking in the worn leather slippers, heavy felt pants, and thick sweater Agronak was dressed in.

"It's cold outside. What should I be wearing, silks and velvets?" He muttered back, gesturing for Synderius to grab a seat by the fire. He needn't have bothered—the mer had already wandered over towards the warmth.

"Analysis of Wheat Production in the Nibenay Basin?" The Dark Elf asked, horror tinging his voice as he read the cover of the heavy book on the sofa. "Tell me you were planning on burning that, not reading it."

"I'm already halfway into it. Some of us have responsibilities to consider. We can't all go wandering about the Empire on a whim," Agronak pointedly replied. "Where did you come from this time? Summerset Isles? S'tros M'kai? Akavir?"

"Nowhere near as exotic," Synderius pronounced while poking around in a nearby chest. Securing a bottle of mead for himself he wandered back to the fire before gracefully leaping over the back of the sofa to land stretched out along its length. With a contented sigh he opened the bottle while crossing one booted foot over the other. "It's a place I think even you've been to. The Imperial City. Tell me, do you remember it?"

"Get your dirty feet off the furniture," Agronak warned. The mer frowned before swiveling around. With over exaggerated movements he removed his footwear, gave Agronak a mild glare, then settled himself back into position.

"I didn't think you did. I don't know what spell you're under, but you seem to have switched personalities with that of Ysabel. Not that she's much nicer, really, but at least she knows how to lighten up every now and again," Synderius continued as Agronak sat across from him. "Lilia sends her greetings, by the way. Oh, and your Saturnalia present."

As the mer fished through his pack Agronak couldn't help feeling a bit guilty. He'd not visited his friends in the Imperial City since last year, and now it was almost the end of Sun's Dawn. Perhaps he could go next week. Oh, but there was that shipment of livestock coming in, and he'd told Durus he'd be there to inspect the sheep. Perhaps the week after that...

"Now this is much better reading material. An advance copy—they only started selling them last week. Check out the inscription," Synderius urged, a familiar look in his eyes.

The Further Adventures of Sir Colto. Flipping it open to a random page Agronak skimmed it briefly before remembering who Sir Colto was. Crassius Curio's character had a highly unusual taste in domestic help. Turning to the dedication he paused, wondering just how many more days the writer had left to live.

Dedicated to the most distinguished Empress of Tamriel. May her future endeavors prove as fruitful and inspired as her past accomplishments.

"Wait, Lilia sent this to me as a gift?" Agronak asked, confused by the gesture. "She doesn't want me to go kill him for her, does she?"

"Kill him?" Synderius laughed at the question. "Now why would she have her favourite author killed for writing her a new book?"

"Her what?" Agronak questioned while setting the stately book, bound in fine leather with gilt edging, down on the floor beside him. By all appearances it was an esteemed tome of knowledge. Quite the deception.

"Favourite author. He's a nice enough fellow, if a bit...grabby," Synderius muttered the last word under his breath, but it couldn't escape notice.

"And how did you happen to meet him?" As he asked the question the answer became self-evident in the mer's smile. He knew that smile all too well. "Did you do this?"

"What, write it? Of course not," the Dunmer answered. "I merely acted as the agent for an interested third party who wanted to commission it."

"But you said he wrote it for Lilia..." The connections sparked in his mind, leaping to correct, if somewhat unsavory, conclusions.

"If Boethia can have a pillow book, why can't an Empress?" Synderius pondered with a suggestive wink. "At least she's got good taste in literature. Unlike some members of the nobility..." The mer trailed off while sneering at the green book at the end of the sofa, nudging it further away from himself with his foot.

"It's important," Agronak protested half-heartedly. While the analysis of the height of tufted wheat varieties might not be fascinating, it was educational. Incredibly dull, but educational. But as his villagers grew wheat with ease, producing some of the finest flour to be found in Cyrodiil, he felt it was his duty as their lord to try and understand the wheat industry.

Though inquiries to Durus, best farmer in the village, had yielded very simple advice.

You put it in the ground, pray for rain, and then harvest it. What else d'ya need to know?

"Interesting," Synderius repeated back bitterly, sitting up in one fluid movement and staring hard at his friend. "Don't tell me it's come to this. We're all worried about you, Irc."

"Orcperial," Agronak protested, but Synderius didn't acknowledge it.

"You never leave town, you missed the Post Saturnalia dinner at the palace, and now I find you reading stories about grain while wearing your best beggar costume."

Glancing down, he didn't think his outfit was that bad. A bit mismatched, somewhat faded in the knees, and there was a small snag near the elbow, but it was serviceable. Sturdy. Practical.

"Even Mrs. P. is worried. It ain't right, young Lord like that staying in all the time. Should be tearing up the town, he should," the mer had begun imitating the elderly Imperial, even going so far as to punctuate with the small sniff she used to mark the end of her sentences. "But then he did have that dancing chap coming round each week..."

"Mrs. Palenix said that?" While his housekeeper (gardener, cook, and occasional nag) often complained about the deplorable condition of Agronak's kitchen pantry, she'd never once voiced an opinion on his private life.

"Right after she called me a dear and pinched my cheek. Got a good grip too," Synderius answered. But instead of rubbing his face he merely shifted his weight as if his seat wasn't quite comfortable.

"Mrs. Palenix? Short, sturdy, white hair wound up in a bun that looks like it's always about to fall out?" He was having trouble believing that she'd said (and done) that. While he'd never call her prim, she was the type who looked as though romance was of no more use to her than a spoon with no handle.

"Get enough ale into her and you'd be surprised at what comes out of her mouth. Did you know she used to work at the F'oc'sle before she met Mr. Palenix?"

"What's the F'oc'sle?"

For some reason Synderius was decidedly displeased with the question. "What is the..." he spluttered. "B'Vehk, when was the last time you left Crowhaven and met someone?" Before Agronak got a chance to answer, the mer cut him off with an angry wave. "And no, farmers, livestock, and bandits don't count."

Hmm. That made the answer a bit more difficult, and narrowed down just what the mer meant by 'met.' The count of days turned into weeks and then months before he abandoned the attempt.

"I did have a visitor," he protested. "People can come see me. And no, I'm not counting you. You turn up whether I want you here or not."

"Imsin mentioned you'd had a lady out here day after Saturnalia. Went on a bit about her too. Said she had soft, tawny brown, straight hair, beautiful chocolate eyes, and the finest, creamiest complexion she'd ever seen. Along with the worst attitude. Didn't like the cooking at Crow's Haven, didn't like the decor, didn't like the smell of the wine. She almost sounded like..."

"You met Imsin?" Agronak asked, desperate to change the topic. The Nord had only become a barmaid at the local tavern a fortnight before Saturnalia. But he was too slow, and for a brief moment he thought that Synderius' eyes actually began to glow red. Right before he started shouting.

"ILONA! You swore you'd never see her again!"

"I know you two never got along, but she's not that bad."

"Not that bad? Like withering pox isn't so bad, once you get used to your bits falling off? I can't believe you let her in here. If you were that desperate I could have introduced you to someone. But Ilona..." he moaned out the name.

"I still think you misjudged her. She has many fine qualities..."

"Massive cleavage isn't a quality, it's a distraction."

"...that you just don't see. She's very sweet, and kind, and gentle..."

"As a troll."

"...and I'd like you to back off. My business is none of your concern," Agronak stated firmly.

Synderius laughed loudly at the statement while shaking his head, his black hair skimming the top of his shoulders. "You'd not let me drown in a river claiming that my business was none of your concern, and I'm not about to let you waste any more time with that worthless whore."

"Whore? Just because she never slept with you..."

"Whoa. Hold on—I only flirted with her once. And that was before she opened her mouth," Synderius cut him off. "She's a gold loving, scheming, devious, back stabbing trollop with a heart of stone. I almost feel sorry for Gelthor, but at least he's pulling your sorry hide out of the fire."

"What does Gelthor have to do with anything?"

The question made the Dark Elf freeze before sighing heavily. When he began absently rubbing the side of his neck Agronak started to worry. That wasn't a sign of irritation—that was a sign of bad news. "You didn't know? Damn her, I knew you wouldn't have let her in if you'd heard. She's engaged."

"She can't be." The mer's answer hurt him more than he cared to admit. While they'd never become too serious, he and Ilona had been in a rocky relationship for years. With the acquisition of Crowhaven and being recognized as a lord he'd secretly hoped that would help woo her back. She always talked about being treated like a lady, though she was as common as an Imperial could get.

"Since Sun's Dusk. To Gelthor. Turns out he's made thousands over the years gambling on the matches. Explains why he never needed to go to work. Once she found out the poor mer didn't have a chance."

"Gelthor?" Agronak was dimly aware of the sound of the sea, though Crowhaven was too far away to hear it. As the blood rushed through his veins he sought to control the rising flood of anger inside. That irritating little Wood Elf and Ilona...

"Agronak, don't," Synderius urged. "She's not worth thinking about."

Ilona, the beautiful Ilona with the perfect skin, the cruel Ilona who'd pretended and flattered and shared his home, his food, his bed, all the while engaged to another...

"Did you hear me? Stop it. Just calm down," Synderius commanded, his voice soothing and soft.

Ilona, who'd accepted his locket (paid for with septims he couldn't afford to spend), who'd laughed and spoken of the future and worn her red dress, his favourite...

"Agronak, she's marrying Gelthor. Remember, Gelthor? The Bosmer with the squeaky voice who kept offering to give you back rubs? The mer who once followed you through three districts and into the sewers while exalting Azura? The mer who won't stop bothering someone until they snap? Really, if anything you could almost feel sorry for the stupid strumpet."

The anger receded as Agronak thought of Ilona, the woman with a figure who could melt steel, stuck with the little Wood Elf with remarkably thick eyebrows trailing behind her while offering to wash her hair...

A slow rumble came from his chest, building until first one laugh escaped, then another. Very soon he was laughing so hard his eyes began to water, encouraged by Synderius' humorous (yet slightly disturbing) ideas as to how the wedding night would go.

He accepted the bottle offered by the Dunmer, and didn't protest when extra coal found its way onto the fire. Squeezing septims could wait until tomorrow. "What brings you by this time? Hiding from Ysabel again?" Agronak asked while stretching his legs out towards the warmth. All things considered it wasn't a bad method of heating a room. Heating a manor was an entirely different story...

"No. She sends her love, of course," the mer answered with a chuckle. "You tell that daft Orc he can rot in the Nine Hells, leaving me with a bunch of useless sheep to deal with. Do I look like a shepherd?"

"And Owyn?"

Synderius' smile faded at the question. "He's...well. But he had that grin—you know, the one that makes Porkchop hide under the raiment cupboard. I think he and Ysabel are at it again."

"Say no more," Agronak commanded, trying to suppress a shudder. There was one very large drawback in living at the Arena, and the blood, rats, and smell hadn't been it.

"I'm not staying long, actually. Headed off to High Rock to do a little training and a favour for our beloved Empress. Not that she deserves it."

"Oh?"

"Pregnancy is no excuse for being rude. She wouldn't stop shocking me when I met with her in Ebonheart!"

It was a bit difficult to restrain his mirth, as he was sure the mer with the wounded posture surely deserved it. Finally arranging his expression into what he considered his calm political face Agronak inquired as to the reason behind her actions.

"I didn't teach Makela the word—I was just correcting her pronunciation. A future Empress shouldn't sound like a n'wah," Synderius protested under Agronak's bemused look. "Lilia didn't appreciate me teaching her the subtle difference between 'feh' and 'fuh' sounds."

"Can't imagine why not," Agronak replied.

"And she's so ill-humoured too. Couldn't even take a compliment in good grace."

"What compliment was this?"

"Well, we were doing a little training, and I mentioned how well she moved."

Agronak waited until he'd swallowed his mouthful of sweet mead before pressing the issue. "Moved, compared to what?"

"An ogress," Synderius answered before chuckling. "Fine, that one I might have deserved. But she's already got a belly on her. By the time the twina are ready to show up she'll look just like one."

"What's this favour she's got you doing? Something political?"

"You know she doesn't worry about that. No, she wants a staff. A plain, boring, unenchanted, sturdy yet not too heavy staff. Preferably with a good balance. Silver would be nice. Not too long either. Simple, really." The mer's voice was laced with sarcasm. "But I've already arranged our reward in advance, so I'll have to find something to fit the bill."

"Our reward?" Glancing around the room, sure that there wasn't anyone else hiding under the battered wooden chair, the lopsided desk propped up with shims, the thin rug, or behind the solid bookcases, his stomach sank.

"Right. Mrs. Palenix will take care of your packing in the morning. We should leave before noon if you want a chance to grab dinner before the ship departs."

Staring at the Dunmer, checking for any new warhammer shaped dents to his skull, Agronak felt as though he'd missed a vital piece of the conversation. "I'm not going anywhere. The planting has to be done, there's a new flock of sheep coming in..."

"You're a farmer now?" The mer cut him off.

"Well, no, but..."

"A shepherd?"

"Of course not. But I can't just run off and leave the village."

"Why not?"

He couldn't believe the question. As if he spent his days idly lounging around drinking mead and watching the grass grow. "Because I don't have time for everything as it is, let alone time to go wandering about on a lark. The people need me."

Synderius merely smirked and sank back into the sofa. "For what? Agronak, they're farmers, not children. I'm sure they know their business better than you do. Do you really think the village will collapse if you leave it for a week?"

"A week?" That wasn't very long at all. Tempting as it was, Agronak couldn't help shaking his head. "It's not that I don't want to go, I can't afford it. The voyage alone..."

"It's all taken care of. Meals, lodging, everything. All you need to bring is yourself, your clothes—better ones than those, I hope—and pocket change," Synderius elaborated. Noting Agronak's continuing hesitation he pressed the attack. "It'll be an adventure."

Adventure. At that word visions of exotic locales, beautiful women, triumphant battles, and glory all danced across his mind. For years he'd wanted to go off and see new places, to tread in ruins that hadn't seen the light of a torch in decades, to discover. But that hadn't been an option, not as long as he'd been in the Arena, training and learning, fighting and winning. And since his retirement he'd been busy adjusting to the new role of lord to a village that both desperately needed one, but didn't quite seem to know what to do with one either.

The only attempt at adventuring had been last winter, a trip to the nearby caverns. Armed with his sword and a torch, Agronak had quickly learned that there was more to the job than hitting things with sharpened metal. Not that there had been anything to hit—the caves had been empty, without even so much as a rabid rat to battle. But they had been deep and winding, and he'd managed to get himself quite lost in them. Then the torch had gone out, he'd forgotten to bring another one (or a rope, or any food or water), so he'd resorted to weak fireballs to light the way. At least the scorch marks they left had prevented him from wandering in circles, and by the time he'd finally managed to stumble back out into the countryside his lust for adventure had been tempered.

But a trip to a city, ruled over by a famed Queen, in an exotic province, accompanied by a good friend...

"What time does the boat leave?"