Water lulled against the pilings, and a breeze swept in from the mountains. For such a bright day, it was cold enough that even Riften's thieves were subdued. Winters in Skryim were nothing to laugh at, certainly not when one's cloak was worn thin, and more than one beggar had died in Riften's streets. Prim Bleaksnow's first experience in the city had been watching guards collect and haul away one of the unfortunates. For a moment, she'd even considered returning to Whiterun and the Companions, but that felt too akin to running, and she was sick to death of running. Kodlak had told her to take some time for herself, to travel and decide what she wanted in life now that the running was over.

But was this gray-scale city what she wanted?

She leaned against the pier overlooking Lake Honrich, and wondered what had possessed her to come here in the first place. It had seemed as good a direction as any, and it was the homeland of her mother's ancestors if nothing else. Still, it meant little to her. Nothing profound had struck her as she'd entered the city. There'd been no epiphany or even a good first impression, just the chill of a winter morning.

Like now, she thought.

She pulled her worn cloak closer. Her travels had been hard on it, but there was little gold left for buying a new one. She'd spent most of her money on new gear at Jorrvaskr, where Gray-mane had reinforced her leather armor with thin plates. He'd spent days making and then inserting the plates, leaving her armor quite ordinary in appearance, just as she'd requested. Unfortunately, it did nothing for the cold. Her lips were chapped and her cheeks colored by windburn, the auburn hair that spilled around her shoulders kept loose to insulate her neck.

The smell of fish caught her nose easily on the docks. Of everything in Riften, it was the constant barrage of smells that proved the most difficult to embrace: fish, rotted planks, the stagnant canal and the garbage it collected. On her first day, she'd nearly gone mad trying to clear her head from it all.

"Hey, you."

She glanced to her left and found a large Nord addressing her. She recognized him as the one who'd warned her about causing trouble, and standing next to him, she almost looked fragile. He was both tall and broad, his dark hair pulled back from a stern face and trimmed beard. What could he want now?

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I heard you asking around about the Bleaksnow family."

"What's it to you?"

His eyes lingered on the ebony sword at her waist before he joined her at the railing.

"I might know something, even though there hasn't been a Bleaksnow here for decades."

"Would you like to share a pint and tell me about it?" She even offered him a smile.

"Information in Riften is never free," he stated. "But if you're interested, I might know certain people who make it their business to keep track of who comes and goes in the city. An entire family doesn't just disappear for no reason."

He didn't know the half of it.

"I'll keep that in mind," she decided. "It's more of a...curiosity for me, not a necessity."

"So be it. I'll be around if you change your mind."

He left with a shrug, and wearing a humorless smile, Prim realized that his had been the third offer of information for a price that day. What was it with this place? And had word of a few offhand questions really circulated that quickly? Vilkas and Farkas had both warned her that this place could and would rob a traveler blind, but she hadn't taken them seriously. Perhaps she should.

Out of habit, she reached for the pouch that hooked onto her belt. The pendant inside helped her focus, reminding her of why she'd come to Skyrim in the first place, but the pouch's buckle was undone, its insides bare.

Prim's heart jolted, her fingers desperately inspecting the pouch. Gone. It was gone, and who knew when some slimy pickpocket had decided to help themselves. How long had it been missing?

The image of a handsome, red-haired man jumped to the forefront of her mind. He'd been friendly, even helpful as he'd pointed out the market-goers and commented on the weather. She should have known his assistance came too quickly, and Falmer blood? Really? Silver-tongued rogue. He'd been close enough to steal her goods, but she hadn't felt a damn thing.

Prim marched back to the market, dismayed to find the man's stall abandoned. What had his name been? Bryngale? Brimegruf? She made inquiries and was directed to a place called The Bee and Barb. The city's planked walkways creaked beneath her boots, the door to the establishment swinging open with more force than she'd intended. The room beyond was fairly empty at this hour, a few locals sharing a meal and chatting, and a bard strumming a lute. She spotted her target immediately, directly across the way, and his eyes were already fixed on her. So he'd spotted her first, and just as quickly, he wore a smile.

"Well, if it isn't the lass from the market," he greeted. "Looking for company?"

His eyes were green and set in a face that had undoubtedly won him his fair share of ladies. She took sharper stock of him this time around, unmoved by his sweet words and the roll of his Nordic accent. His clothing was fashionable, but worn around the edges like secondhand goods. Or stolen goods, she realized. He was older than her as well—near thirty, if she had to guess. And above all else, he knew what he was doing.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

"Where is what?" And he could play innocent.

"My pendant."

He tilted his head, considering her with a hint of mirth. He motioned to the empty chair beside him, but she made no move to take it.

"I'm afraid I don't know what pendant you're talking about, lass, but you seem upset. Perhaps I could buy you lunch."

"Brimegruf," she spoke. "I know you have it."

"Brynjolf," he smiled. "But friends call me Bryn."

"I'll call you thief, and I'd like my property back." He eased against the back of his chair, a thoughtful tilt to his mouth. "It's personal," she emphasized.

"You seem so certain I've done you wrong, lass."

For a moment, she reconsidered her position. Perhaps she had the wrong man, in which case she owed him an apology, but he wasn't exactly denying her accusation either. He didn't even look affronted.

"You can always prove me wrong by emptying your pockets," she suggested.

"A little demanding, aren't you?" he teased. He cocked a smirk. "Come, lass. Take a seat and we'll discuss this properly. I don't take kindly to someone defaming me in public." He pulled out the chair for her, but she hesitated. "You know what I think?" he quietly continued. "I don't think it was yours to begin with."

She glanced about the room, hoping that no one was eavesdropping. This Brynjolf character seemed so confident in his assertion, and when her lips pursed in dismay, his face lit up.

She reluctantly slid into the chair beside him.

"The pendant's mine," she asserted.

"And whose before that?"

"A king's." He sat down and stared at her a moment before his grin widened. He took a swig of his mead, taking longer than she thought necessary.

"You don't really expect me to believe that now, do you?"

"I'm sure the guards in Daggerfall didn't quite believe it either." She leaned forward, willing to throw her cards on the table in defiance of his own unabashed admittance to theft. "I intend to have it back," she stated.

"I have a better idea," he countered. "A proposition, if you will. You seem like..."

"If you think I'm going to bed you for it, you've got another thing coming."

"Ah, lass," he chuckled. "That's not where I was going. I'm a professional of sorts, and I think you and I are going to get along just fine. Care to hear me out?"

His posture was open, his words enticing. She didn't dare trust him, but couldn't dislike him either. He even motioned for a bottle of mead and paid for it like a decent customer. It wasn't everyday that someone smiled in response to being caught stealing.

"You see, my organization's been having some trouble lately. There are those who would help, but it's not about numbers. It's about talent, and I haven't seen many with a natural gift for quite some time. You though," he smiled, leaning forward. "I think you'd do well, and it will put some gold in your pocket. You look like you could use it."

"Maybe. I'll think about," she lied with a smile. "If you give me back my pendant."

"That's not how it works," he teased, even daring to reach out and tuck hair behind her ear. "How about you do a small job for me first? Then we'll talk."

"And if I fail, you can cut your losses and keep the pendant anyway," she growled. "While I rot in prison, no doubt. No thanks. No pendant; no discussion."

"I wouldn't be throwing you to the wolves, lass. It would be something simple. I swear on my mother's grave. And if you pass, you have more to look forward to than a mere pendant. That cloak of yours looks a little thin."

"I've told you my conditions," she sternly replied.

He studied his bottle of mead for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he really think that he could rope her in as tool so easily? That she would pay to get back what was rightfully hers? He stood from the table with an almost apologetic roll of his shoulders.

"Suit yourself."

Her chair slammed into the wall as she surged to her feet, a growl nestled in her throat. The beast inside was ready for the offensive and latched onto Brynjolf's scent—a trace of canal and filth beneath lighter tones of honey and mead. He wasn't leaving here with her pendant, and a hand reflexively went to the dagger at her waist. His raised his own hands in mock surrender, eyes trailing toward an approaching Argonian. And who was that women by the far wall, watching them so intently? Prim suddenly wondered if Brynjolf had people to watch his back.

"You have a good day, lass. You know where to find me."

She could do nothing as he walked away.

How dare he stand there like nothing had happened.

Prim sat on the steps of the Temple of Mara, gathering what warmth she could from the afternoon sun. That Brynjolf character was at his stand across the way, hawking his wares to whoever would listen. He'd probably spotted her watching him from a distance, but she didn't dare step foot into the market just yet. She could report him to the guards perhaps, but would they actually do anything? She'd gathered her share of information since yesterday's encounter at The Bee and Barb, and Riften was a place where one settled their own scores, all of which brought her back to her current dilemma. What to do about her stolen pendant? More specifically, how was she going to get it back? People scoffed at the Thieves Guild from what she could tell, but that didn't mean she could be reckless. Unlike him, she had no allies here. He probably thought himself untouchable.

Not even close.

She stood and stretched. Whatever she did, it had to be today. There wasn't enough money to stay another night, not anywhere decent at least, and if she stepped on the wrong toes, she might as well head out of town anyway. Perhaps she could risk being a little reckless after all.

Taking her time, she meandered through the market and asked after possible work. No one was hiring, which was just as well since she wasn't actually looking. There was an outpouring of information though, and she gathered her share of stories. Riften was the oddest collection of vagrants and unintended residents, all milling about the tired buildings and public houses. Had it not been for the undercurrent of commerce and energy, she thought it might be the most depressing city she'd ever visited. Then again, perhaps the buildings were simply wearing their repairs and faded paint like battle scars.

She caught Brynjolf's eyes for a moment, and he had the nerve to smile and greet her. She scowled back, but held her tongue, letting him think her defeated. Oh, how wrong he was. She waited until he was blocked from view to address a beggar.

"Excuse me," she spoke.

The man was dressed in sullied clothing, and held out his hands to her. He was too old to be on the streets with his gray hair and beard. Someone, somewhere should have been ashamed to let the elder end up in such a state.

"Can you spare a coin, ma'am?"

"I have a few. You can have them, if you do me a favor."

"And what would that be?"

"Do you see that redhead over there?" He nodded. "I need you to break his potions. All of them. Perhaps you could stumble and knock them over?"

"...I suppose."

"Fifteen gold," she promised. "It's all I have left."

They struck their deal, and the beggar ambled off, taking a wide, winding path toward Brynjolf. She didn't have long to position herself before a very dramatic flailing of arms sent bottles flying across cobblestones. Glass shattered and people turned, the beggar holding his hands out and wailing an apology. It was too perfect, right down to the curse that slipped from Brynjolf's lips. The man stared at the broken bottles, and scrubbed a hand through his tousled mane while city guards closed in for questioning. It was a perfect opening for Prim.

She swept by Brynjolf, reached out, and held her breath. He must have felt her fingers graze him before they latched onto his purse. She'd touched with too much force, but a quick snip of twine and a single yank, and it was hers. The leather pouch filled her palm as she jerked away, barely fast enough to escape the hand that followed her. She sped through the gathered onlookers, and glancing over her shoulder, caught his gaze. A small, appreciative smile touched his lips.

She would dwell on that later. For now, she was merely counting her blessings that he hadn't given chase. She found an alley well away from the market and slipped down it, ears on the alert for pursuit as she loosening the purse. When only a few coins fell free, her heart sank. It wasn't here. Not only that, but she'd probably ruined her only chance of retrieving it.

Prim leaned against the wall and inhaled, cursing everything around her to Oblivion. She'd been so certain, but maybe he'd already pawned it off.

No, she told herself. She couldn't believe it. If it really was gone, lost to someone unknown...she wouldn't count on it. He'd wanted to make some sort of deal with her. Surely he hadn't disposed of it so quickly, but then where would he have it? In the Ratway, that mysterious den beneath Riften where the Thieves Guild dwelled? His scent, although not unpleasant, suggested that he might be familiar with the place.

She crept back toward the market and dared peek around a corner. Brynjolf was making conversation with that woman from The Bee and Barb—Sapphire, if she recalled correctly. The two were talking, and then Brynjolf was meandering away. Maybe she could see where he went without being spotted. She wasn't giving up yet.