#avanchnzel

[mazurga]

Halls of Avanchnzel

[thespiffingrat]

Oh… sweet treasure ~ 21st Sun's Dawn, 4E 190 

Packing her supplies before dawn, she was gone long before the sun crested the wall. Hurriedly, she'd left word with Vekel on her way out — "Off doin' the rounds. Gatherin' flowers! Back in two-three days, k?" — slung her gear, took the south road. Nobody clocked it as unusual at first. She'd done solo runs before: a bear cave or two, a bandit hideout up by Stony Creek she snuck into and nearly got killed, the odd Nordic crypt where she'd ran for her life. And a night under open sky suited her better than a damp corner of the Ratway anyhow — given the choice, she took it most of the time. If she found something worth staying for, she stayed. So, Vekel passed the message along to whoever asked. Most didn't…  

A few days later ~ Ratway, Cistern

Idle chatter around the bar, late afternoon. N's absence hadn't gone unnoticed over the past few days. Brynjolf had asked Vekel where the lass had taken herself off to, and Vekel had passed the message along while continuing to tally crates for the next shipment. "Two o' three days, she said. Apparently." Well — it was the fourth, and though Brynjolf wasn't overly bothered, he put the question to the rest of the lot all the same. "Anyone heard from our Mouse yet?" — "Nah," grunted Thrynn, eyes on his card hand and a half-grin at Rune's expense. "She'll show. Always does." "Nay. She'll likely turn up tomorrow," offered Niruin without breaking pace, stirring a small phial of muted blue with the careful hand of a man already nine deep into the week's invisibility potions — Guild community chest didn't fill itself. "Bet she's found something interesting. You know how she is." — "Aye, that I do." The Redhead chewed the inside of his cheek, conceded the point with a small shrug, drained the half-pint he still held in his hand. "Reckon she's perched up somewhere with a view and clean lost track of what day it is." Unhurriedly, he turned away from the bar with the matter put to bed for now. Gallus had pulled him aside that morning with something that needed seeing to — a jeweller out of Whiterun, looking to "redistribute" a handful of his own pieces ahead of a poorly-timed audit. "Easy," he drawled. "The sort of job that falls to me by default, eh? A bit of smooth-talking, then back to Riften with the terms settled and a heavy deposit clinking in my satchel." 

A few more days later ~ 

Ninth day out. Bryn rode in on a tired horse just before dusk, satchel sat low on his hip with the weight of his cut from the Whiterun mark — a respectable haul, fence already lined up by Tonilia, the jeweller now satisfied enough to vouch for the Guild's discretion at the next supper-table he found himself at. He took the back way in: across the graveyard, down the false crypt, through the yard's secret door and into the Cistern. Gallus was at his desk, focused on the ledger, when Bryn dropped into the chair across from him and gave him the gist in short measures — "Mark's settled, lad's paid up, took half down, half on delivery. Tonilia's got the fence end. Maven gets her finder's. Clean." — and logged the take in the ledger with the careful pencilwork Gallus liked to see. Then he rolled his shoulders, stretched his back out, and went looking for the Mouse. She wasn't at the bar. Wasn't in her sleeping corner. Wasn't down at the training dummies, wasn't in the alchemy alcove. Moments later, Vex came up the stairs from the lower pathways with a stack of empty crates under one arm; he caught her on the second step. "Hoy. Where's our Mouse?" — "Don't know. Hasn't come back yet," casually she shrugged her shoulders, balanced the crates on her hip, and looked at him with a raised brow. "Didn't she say she'd only be out for two-three days?" — "Aye. That she did." — "Mhmm…" Vex chewed it over for a beat, arms crossing over the crate top, the accusing edge slipping into her face that he'd known since they were both about waist-high. "Brynjolf?" — "Yes?" — "Have you been at Haelga's again?" "Huh? What d'you mean?" drawled he as he raked a hand through his hair. "Why's that even relevant?" — "Oh. Nothin'," whistled the Blonde tunelessly, hoisted her crates back up, and sauntered off in the direction of the cellar door without looking back. Bewildered, he watched her go a moment longer than he meant to, then let the matter rest. He left the emptied satchel in his footlocker, scrubbed the road-dust off at the basin, and headed back out the way he'd come — through the graveyard, up into the city to ask around if someone'd have seen No One.

2nd Rain's Hand — Cistern, Gallus's table

Bryn knocked on the study door, waited for the come-in, and stepped through. Gallus was at the desk with one of his books open, a clay cup of tea steaming at his elbow, a wax candle going down slow in the holder. Quietly he shut the door behind him, asking, "Got a minute?" — "Always, Brynjolf. Take a seat."

Taking a breath, she sat down and eventually said the things he hadn't said out loud yet to anyone directly. "It's Mouse." — "Aye, I'd gathered. Go on" — "Her bein' gone a day or two — that's nothing. Off doin' her thing? Normal, eh? Gone longer than she said — fine. Nothing unheard of. We all know how she is. Find something shiny, lose track while watching the clouds." Slowly, Brynjolf scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing deeply, "But this long? Gallus, I —" He stopped. Started again, much plainer this time: "Call me daft. But somethin's wrong. I can feel it sitting wrong in me gut. Hasn't sat right for three days now."

Composedly, Gallus set his cup down, folded his hands on the desk top, and looked at him for a longer moment. "You're not daft, lad. There's nothing daft about looking out for one of your own. It's what keeps the Guild upright when nothing else does — that we care for each other before we care for the take." Taking a breath and another sip of his cup of tea before it'd run cold, he went on,"And you care for her. You always have. That's no secret to anyone in this Guild, least of all me." Bryn held his gaze for a beat, then dropped it to his boots and said nothing. There was nothing to say to that. Gallus wasn't wrong. "The shill run can wait a few days. The Maven matter's not due back until next week — I'll handle the early word myself if she sends. What else have you got on the books?" — "Whiterun fence is settled. Nothing else 'til the new moon." — "Then when I'm not needed," Bryn said, lifting his head, "I'll go find her." With a short, respectful nod — same one he'd given Gallus since he was about thirteen and mostly elbows and bad ideas — he excused himself. Lost in his own thoughts, Gallus considered him a moment longer with a specific look he reserved for matters he'd settled in his heart long before he settled them in his head. It all reminded him of himself, when he was a young man and met the friend that later would become the love of his life: Karliah. Smiling to himself, he picked his cup back up, took a sip and went on with his work…

2nd–3rd Rain's Hand — North of Riften

Riften woke up wet. Rain hammered the canal boards, fog hung low over the lake, every wooden eave dripping into the alleys below. Bryn was in the saddle before most of the city had finished cursing the weather — hood up, cloak heavy on his shoulders, south gate behind him by sunrise. First day yielded nothing. He worked past Treva's Watch and out into the boglands beyond, drawing wide circles outwards from the road. Every farmhand, every charcoal-burner, every trapper riding double in oilskin got the same description: Sixteen years old. Rosé-coloured hair, blue eyes, plugs in her earlobes, a long red scarf from Hammerfell round her neck. Sweet sort. Looks younger than she is. Every time the same answer: a shaken head and a Sorry, friend. Footpaths cold. Leads non-existent. He slept rough at the verge of a hawthorn break, woke at first light with the rain slowly fading and swung the search wider.

The young thief worked in lazy circles outward from anywhere with a kitchen smoke. By afternoon of the second day he was a few paces north of the Orc-hold Largashbur — the painted skulls and lashed bones along the palisade visible through the trees — when the next thread of smoke pulled him off the road and down a deer trail. The cabin was set behind a screen of pine and birch: low roof, peat banked against the north wall, a row of fox and ermine traps drying along the side of the shed. An old huntress stepped out before he'd dismounted properly. Lean as a hunting hound. Lined face, sharp eyes. She heard him out, head cocked, while a kettle quietly boiled over her fire pit. "Aye," she said, after he'd reached the haircolour in his description. "Aye, I seen a young lady with rosé hair and a red scarf the length twice of an arm. Bought some smoked venison off me — paid in coin, said please an' thank you, more polite than the lot of 'em that pass through here in a season. Quiet thing." Vaguely she gestured with her chin, benevolent pointing Brynjolf into a direction. "Headed north-west when she left me. Towards the old Dwemer place. Told me as much when I asked her — most folk don't go that way, so I got curious. Two days back. Mebbe three?"

Relief hit him like a fist to the chest. Brynjolf thanked her and left some coin on her table. He let the bay mare pick up a hard trot the moment the cabin was out of sight, and the worry he'd been wrestling down for two days came back up his throat in a new shape. 'A Dwemer ruin, Mouse. A bloody Dwemer ruin? Alone? What in the Name of the Eight are you doing, eh?' — The thought ran circles in his head as he rode. Could've been a Falmer arrow in her back, fired from a dark she didn't see into. Could've been a Centurion blade through her ribs before she had time to draw her bow. Could've been a fall down an unmapped shaft in the dark, nobody to even mark the spot where she went. Could've been a hundred quiet ways for a small clever girl to go missing for good in a place like that. Fraught, he clenched his jaw, urged the mare faster up the rising ground. 'Whatever y' after, lass — it better be worth it.'

4th Rain's Hand, morning — Avanchnzel, outside

The horse picked the last mile by smell, threading between root and stone, as the clearing in front of the great Dwemer doors came into view round the bend, and Bryn pulled up short. A camp. Perched on an upper balcony. Neat as anything he'd ever set himself. Small canvas tent, stakes driven firm. Bedroll dry and rolled. Fire pit with the morning's embers still alive, a flat slab over the coals with two strips of honey-glazed peasant hissing on it. Half a dozen leather pouches lined up by the tent flap, organised by weight. And sitting on a rock with her back to him, scarf bright as a flag, was Mouse — entirely intact, picking gemstones out of a bag one at a time and sorting them into piles. Sapphires. Garnets. Rubies. An uncut emerald the size of a thumb. He didn't say a word for a full breath, because the relief hit so hard he had to grip the saddle horn before he dismounted.

Muffled, without making a sound, Brynjolf stopped about three feet behind her and took a deep breath. Today, he'd let the Salesman-mask drop into place the way he'd worn it a hundred times for jobs and marks. Casually, he cocked his head and said, drawl thick as honey: "Well, blimey— look at this. Sweet little holiday camp you've set up here, eh? Reckon there's a piece of that pheasant for an old friend, or am I to ride back to Riften on an empty stomach after I've been out here for days, looking for — You!" "SHOR'S — arse. Brynjolf!" Long before he'd finished the sentence, she was off the rock — two-handed launch, gemstones scattering off her lap, dagger half-drawn from her hip before her brain caught up with her ears. Cursing, the flat of her palm slammed to her chest, the dagger sliding back into its sheath unused: "Wakin' Skeever! Mate, ya' want me droppin' dead out here, or what?! Sneakin' up like —" Hand off her chest, she pressed it flat over the side of her neck like she was checking she still had a pulse. " — wait? Y' angry? What's the face for?"

The friendly mask was already gone. Brynjolf watched her get her breath back with his arms crossed and the muscle in his jaw working. He took a step closer. Then another. His eyes raked the clearing as he came on — the neat tent, the bedroll, the pouches, the roasting bird, the gemstones, gods, the gemstones on the ground at her feet —

"Twelve days," he started, not making much of a secret out of his frustration.  "Brynnnn— Come on. Ya' ain't really mad at me, are ya? Pleeaseeee ~ Let me explain ~" — "Been worried sick about you! Was sure a bear finally got its bloody revenge on you, or that you'd run into trouble—bandits, scum, the worst kind of people — " "Bryn. M'sorry. I —" — "Pictured you lying in a ditch somewhere, cold, starving, or worse! In pain, bleeding out, needing help and too stubborn to send a damn letter!" "Bryn… Please? Dun do that!! — Is not like that, really. It's —" "Twelve. Days. Not a word. Not a runner. Vekel telling me you said: off doin' the rounds. Mouse?" Stepping into her space, he shook his head, a dark laugh cutting through the quiet as he stared at her with sheer disbelief at the utter ruthlessness of it. His voice stayed level. That was the worst part. "And then I find you here. Tucked up like a proper outdoorsman and with a stash that'd choke a Skooma dealer's income. Alone. Outside a Dwemer ruin." Realising he wasn't actually angry but deeply hurt, all the fight drained out of her as her jaw set. Her shoulders dropped, her defensive stance crumbled into a small, heavy slump. She didn't look him in the eye—instead, her gaze slipped to the floor, her fingers tightening around the handle of her bucket until her knuckles turned white. "M' sixteen now? Ain't a kid no more— I had me runs on me own before. Like I said: Dun worry about me. I got 'tis!" — "Aye, you're sixteen. Reckon that makes a difference?" Once again, he took one step closer as his voice dropped lower instead of louder. "You could be forty, N. Could be a Nord twice me size with a beard down to me boots. Wouldn't change a damn thing. This —" he gestured at the ruin, at the camp, at her "— this is reckless. Could've asked. Could've taken me, taken Vex, taken any of us. Was a reckless lad myself once — I get it. But there's a line between reckless and bloody lifeless, and you walked right past it without looking." Staring down at her boots, she felt the full weight of her silence as any room for defense vanished. He wasn't wrong. Feeling rather small, she swallowed hard, the sudden dread of having disappointed her friend tightening in her chest while she looked for a way to make up for it. "Didn't mean to make ya' worried… Really. Got so excited when I cracked it open and fully lost track of everything. M' sorry. Really…" "Y'know? That's the bit that scares me, lass," his voice cut through the space between them, quiet and flat. "You didn't mean to. You just didn't think."

Letting the silence sit, he took a slow look around the clearing again, more deliberately this time — and the longer he looked, the harder it got to stay upset. The camp was clean. The loot was sorted by carry-weight and value. He spotted a row of small chalk marks on the rock near the tent flap, Guild shadowmarks for safe, cache, empty. She'd been running it all professionally, as if she were already decades in the business. Shor's beard, the lass had been running it like a Guild safehouse, he thought. The pride snuck up on him sideways and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it off his face, especially when he glanced at her puppy-eyes, still staring at the floor in hopes of him not being angry for too long. Unhurriedly but slightly baffled, the Redhead sat down on the rock beside her, helping himself to a piece of the freshly roasted honey-glazed pheasant. "Alright. Show me what ya' got, then. What's all this about?"

Handing over the map she'd drawn, her jaw was still set as he unfolded it. Without breaking his focus, he didn't speak for a long time, simply studying her work and everything she'd gathered about the ruins so far. It was good. By the Eight, it was good!!! Hand-drawn on waxed parchment, every hallway was measured by pacing, every pressure plate and tripwire pencilled in its exact spot, every enemy crossing marked with a chalked X. Shadowmarks dotted the edges — safe by a small alcove where she'd slept once, empty over rooms she'd already cleared, cache over rooms still holding something worth a return trip. A separate corner was reserved for sections she couldn't reach yet: gated passages, sealed doors, the mechanisms she'd pencilled around without solving. "Can't crack 'em yet. Think's something's missin'," she muttered, watching his face. "Dun have the knack for that one there. Goin' back when I figure it out." And then, biggest of all, ringed twice in red wax pencil: a huge chamber off a side passage, with a single note beside it in her cramped handwriting: DO NOT — followed by a bigger one — armoured — nearly killed me twice, need to outsmart that thing.

Blinking, he read that line three times, before setting the map aside, asking: "Mouse? Sweetheart?" — "Aye?" "There's a Centurion?" "Yah. Pretty rough, that one." "And it nearly killed you. Twice." — "Yah, but did ya' see the markings?" — "I did. Don't change topic on me. Have you lost your mind? You nearly got yourself killed!?! " — "I didn't though. So?" quipped she, shrugging it off. "Anyway. Goin' back in today. Gotta get somethin' out like as soon as possible. There's 'tis one thing: Got me eyes on a special kind o' gyro the big one's guardin'. Won't be lookin' so smug if I leave it sittin' there. And then… Well, have y' seen the gems?"

Weighing the options in his hands, he stared at her while. Well, Mouse had grown some guts. It made him proud but also slightly concerned. Afterall, he knew that smile on her face. The raw excitement, the reckless drive for adventure and a good time where one came home considerably wealthier or dead. Very much aware of the fact that she was going whether he agreed or not, he felt like he had little choice in the matter. And forcing her to wait for backup would only mean she’d slip out the next night without him. Choosing the only deal he could actually keep, he leaned forward. "Right. Here's how it goes. We go in. Together. We're a team, no? So, we get your gyro. We get out. And then you come home with me to Riften and you don't go wandering off solo into anything bigger'n a sheep pen for the next six months. Are we clear?" "Six is harsh. Besides, m'not a kid. Stop treatin' me like one." "Six. Or I'll have Delvin fart on your tent. Besideeees… I know you're no longer a kid. You still behave like one." Snorting despite herself, she stuck out a small hand. "M'not. N' yer just a stingy mudcrab. So, we goin'?" "Shor's — Y'know what? Sit down, have a bite of the peasant you roasted. Gather some supplies, and then we go. Deal?" Grumbling right on cue, her stomach loudly agreed with Brynjolf, who returned the noise with laughter and a pat down on the seat next to him. "See? You probably forgot to eat counting gems, eh?"

5th Rain's Hand — Inside Avanchnzel (I struggled with this part because of language skills; I'll revise and improve once my writing skills improved again)

Down the first lift she went ahead of him, hand-signal over her shoulder where she'd left a shadowmark in white chalk — safe — and Brynjolf followed without question. The ruin opened up around them in old gold and verdigris, dust hanging in the shafts of light from above. He'd been in two other Dwemer places in his life. Both times he'd come out lighter than he went in, mostly because they'd been mapped at his elbow by people older and meaner than him. This one was being mapped at his elbow by a sixteen-year-old in a red scarf, and within ten minutes he'd stopped second-guessing her once. That little brat moved through the place like she lived there. Pressure plates skirted without breaking stride, a soundless tap to the doorframe each time they entered a new chamber — cleared, I've been in. Tripwires she pointed out at thigh-height with two fingers and a flick of her chin. Where she stopped, he stopped. Where she went low, he went lower. Once, she put a flat hand back against his chest without looking — held them both still — and a beat later a small mechanical creak settled somewhere overhead and went quiet again. She nodded, dropped the hand, kept walking. Shor's beard, Mouse, he thought, falling in behind her shoulder, Delvin's gonna lose his bloody mind over this.

They moved fast where her mapping was good — long stretches of corridor where she'd already pulled the trip-mechanisms and stripped the rooms clean, and the only sounds were their boots on the metalwork and her quiet hum when she thought he couldn't hear. They moved slow where she hadn't been before. Twice they had to backtrack: once because the bridge she'd planned to cross had a fresh Falmer crossing-mark on it that hadn't been there a week ago, once because she'd lost a memorised turn in the dim and stood for a long thirty seconds with her eyes shut, retracing it in her head before she set off again, exactly correct. Brynjolf let her do it. Watched her do it. Filed it under things to tell Vex over a pint when we get out of here, and not before. Three hours in and he was making mental notes the way Gallus did — not to teach her, but to learn. And by the time they came to the side passage and the Falmer crawl-hole she'd chiselled wider on her previous visits, Bryn would've followed her into Oblivion itself if she'd told him the way through.

She wormed through the crawl-hole first, Bryn after her with a soft curse for his shoulders. They came up on the far side and into a hall the size of a Riften warehouse. Dwemer gold and verdigris, vaulted high, two galleries of catwalks running parallel above the main floor with rusted lifts at either end. Steam-lamps long dead — the only light from a vent shaft somewhere in the ceiling, falling in pale gold slats across the central platform. And there, on the platform: the Centurion. Asleep. Or whatever the Dwemer called it. One knee down, head bowed, arms folded across its chest like a praying knight. Vapour curled lazily from a seam at its spine. Every few seconds the great chest gave one slow, deep hiss — the sound of a furnace banked low, ready to roar. Bryn took a step back without thinking. N caught his sleeve before his heel could find the floor, pressed a single finger to her lips. No sound.

Attentive, she tipped her chin towards the far wall. Two sealed doorways, both ringed with Dwemer signets, each with a pillar puzzle set into the wall beside it — ancient sigils on rotating drums, a slot above for a missing key. She'd traced the dust around them on a previous visit. Couldn't crack them. Wouldn't, not today. The chamber the special gyro she was after sat in was through neither of those doors anyway. It was up the right-hand catwalk and across a narrow walkway that ran directly over the sleeping Centurion's head. Bryn looked at that path. Looked at the Centurion. Looked at her. She gave him a flat, don't-look back. They started for the lift. Quiet.

They almost made it. The lift's grate was three feet ahead of N's boot when something at the other end of the hall — low, scuttling, fast — exploded out of a side passage with a wet, hateful shriek. Falmer. Small one. Lost from its patrol, blind eyes wide, ears flicking towards anything that wasn't stone. It hadn't seen them. It had heard something, and was screaming about it. And that was all it took.

The Centurion's eyes flared like coals catching air. Steam exploded from its joints in a single violent rush; the seam at its spine widened with a metallic crank-crank-CLUNK, and the praying knight rose with all the grace of a tower coming up from a foundation. It took it three seconds to find the Falmer. The Falmer never made it to the corridor it had come from. One sweep of the serrated blade and the small grey body folded in half, sailed across the platform, struck a pillar with a sound that wasn't worth describing. The Centurion took another half-second to confirm the kill. Then those red coal-eyes turned. Found them and locked them.

"Ah, balls," Bryn breathed. He had his daggers in his hands before he'd finished saying it. "Well. Shit!" N was already moving for the lift cable — one quick scramble, fingers and boots — and up onto the lower catwalk. Bryn drove forward instead, into the Centurion's line of sight, low and fast, dagger-points wide. Get its head down. Keep it down. Buy her the high ground. He went in shouting — "Hoy, you rusty tin can, eyes on me!" — slipped under the first wide blade-arc, came up on the inside, drove a parrying dagger between the great steel plates of the right calf and felt it bite. Blade pulled. The Centurion lurched. He danced back before the foot came down where his ribs had been a quarter-second earlier. Came back in. Out. In again. Worked the same joint twice more, sparks coming off the seam each time, the Centurion now pivoting in slow, furious quarter-turns to keep him in front of it.

Above, N had already loosed her first three shafts. He heard them as much as saw them — the dry tunk of arrowhead off plating, plating, plating. She was hunting the throat-gap. He had to keep its chin up for her, had to keep its weight on the bad knee, had to keep its attention. Steel. More steel. He went in a fourth time, drove the dagger so deep into the calf-seam the hilt bit his palm, and twisted. The leg gave. Not all the way but enough. The Centurion sagged a hand's-breadth on the wounded side, head tipping back as it fought for balance — the throat-gap opening at last, exposed against the gold light from above.

"NOW, MOUSE!" he roared as she leaped from the lower catwalk to the upper one and cleared a gap a grown Nord would have hesitated at. Another jump landed her left boot square on the Centurion's pauldron, where she used the moment of contact as her brace, and put the arrow through the eye at point-blank range. Instantly, the thing folded. And so did N. The Centurion's final spasm — a single, dying buck as the great steam-heart blew its last in the chest cavity — threw her clean off the shoulder and across the gap. Violently, she struck the stone wall on her left side with the full weight of a Dwemer construct's death-throw behind her, dropped, didn't roll. Did not get up straight away.

"N! YOU ALRIGHT?!" Bryn was already running, dagger-hand still oily from the calf-seam, throat raw from shouting. "MOUSE — answer me — N!"

Long before the dust had settled, he was with her. No bones broken. Nothing through the skin. But her left shoulder was sitting wrong — high and out of socket, the joint shifted forward under her collarbone. She was awake and she was swearing. Both good signs. "Fuck me! Shitballs! Bloody — ARGH!! Gods! This — HURTS!!!!!" "Don't move. Stay still, alright. You're making it worse… Hoy! Listen — I can fix this, lass. Done it on Vex three years back, done it on myself twice. Gonna be honest with you though — it's gonna suck" — "Right. Just bloody —" And he did it. No countdown. No warning. Just grabbing the arm the right way and one clean, controlled push-and-rotate motion while her mouth was still open shaping the word. The joint slid home with a wet, sick clunk and her swearing went up about three octaves, before it stopped abruptly. "Why d'ya — without — Shitballs! Why didn't you warn me, jerk! Argh, that BITCH!!" — "Better that way. Less time to brace, less to tear. Believe me. You want to get this over with fast. Sorry ~"

Untying his cloak from the throat-clasp, Bryn knelt at her good side and got to work. Folded the fabric into a long wedge, slid it under her arm, brought the ends up over her shoulder and across her chest, knotted them at her opposite collarbone — the sling Tonilia had taught him the years before, when they'd had a similar mess on the Cistern floor with Vex. He worked careful and quick. Talked her through it as he went, low and steady, the way one'd talk a spooked horse down off a fence. "That's it. Easy now, Mouse. Keep your breath slow for me — in through the nose, out the mouth, aye, like that. Good. There you go." Eyes a little glassy from the wall-strike, she didn't protest but tracked him, jaw set against the throb in her shoulder. Didn't make a sound. Bryn knew that silence — same one she'd worn at thirteen with a split lip and Grelod's footsteps still ringing in her ears. He didn't acknowledge it. Didn't need her to know he'd recognised it. When the sling was tight, he sat back on his heels for a beat and looked at the dust in her pale hair, at the smear of soot across one cheek, at the way her good hand was still curled round the bowstring of her shortbow like it had grown there. "Mouse," he said. "Mm?" "You did good in there. Bloody good. I been in two of these places, and I'd not have made it past the last corridor without you," he breathed, smiling encouragingly at her. "You read this ruin like Vex reads a lockface. I want you to know I clocked that. Every bit of it." Too shy for direct eye contact, her cheeks flushed bright red and her mouth  twitched at the corner, drawling, "Dun go soft on me, Bryn." — "Aye, fair. But mind — that bit doesn't undo the other bit. You're not goin' wanderin' off into a Dwemer pit alone again, are we clear? Not 'til ya've got me beside you or Vex, or one of the lot. I won't sit through another twelve days like this, Mouse. I'd not survive a second round." "Aye…. M' sorry… Please dun look at me like that," she said, queasy, quieter and considerably more flustered than three seconds ago. "K. I hear ya'."

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Emerging into the daylight hours later, they finally made it back to the surface with the gyro secured, one shoulder tightly strapped, both of them absolutely filthy. Surveying the clearing with fresh eyes, Brynjolf realised the hidden camp really was a small fortress. It was a rare haven where a thief could simply collapse and get a proper night's rest without the constant, exhausting need to sleep with one eye open.

Cooking leftover venison thoroughly, Brynjolf handed her the bigger portion, she didn't argue and both dug in as if they were starving. After dark, she crawled into the tent first. Ducking in after her a moment later, he found her already curled tight on her good side, the red scarf pulled all the way up over her nose. "One blanket ain't ever enough for ye, eh, lass?" "Shut it, m' a proper freeze-baby! Ain't got an ounce of that bleedin' Nord frost resistance, have I?" "It's Rain's Hand, lass. It's no' that—" "Swear to Shor's arse, if ya tell me it ain't chilly, imma lose it!" "It's no' that chilly." "Ah, really? Bryn? Really? Wonderin' why that may be the case for ya', no?" Playfully frustrated, she sighed, both grinning at the exchange. "Sleep well, Mouse," Brynjolf said, laying down. "Mhm. G'night," she grumbled, too tired to backlash at him for teasing her. Usually, she’d snap right back, demanding he drop the name, only to let out a frustrated, high-pitched squeak that made the teasing ten times worse. Tonight, though, the fight was entirely gone. Feeling her small, cool body pressing against his back seconds later, Brynjolf didn't even blink when she cuddled up closer. It was an old habit, a quiet routine they’d shared since they were children—as natural and unquestioned as sharing a meal. Feeling her immediately use him as a personal furnace, a brief smile flickered across his face in the dark before the sheer exhaustion of the day caught up to him. He fell asleep first for once, his steady, low snoring filling the small tent. It didn't bother her at all, just as it never bothered him that she was always freezing, already dead to the world as she leant into the warmth.

Waking early the next morning, N's shoulder still sat stiff in its socket, but the pain was bearable — a day or two of going easy, a better healing potion and it would be good as new. After a quick breakfast over the embers, they ran a thorough second sweep through the corridors she'd already cleared. Bryn had an eye for the things she'd skimmed past — older Dwemer scrap of the sort a Riften pawn-broker would pay sober coin for, a half-rotten ledger tucked into a guard post that he flipped through for any name worth knowing and pocketed for Gallus's reading pile, a loose run of copper piping no one would miss. She had an eye for the things he'd have walked clean past — a soot-blackened recess behind a brazier with three small gemstones nested in the ash, a loose floor panel near the lift she'd been meaning to come back for. What she didn't find was the one thing she'd actually been hoping for. She'd traced the corridors twice, checked every reading desk and metal cabinet the Falmer hadn't already smashed open, and the upgrade schematics stayed missing. She pulled out her map, marked two new chambers in red wax pencil — sealed sections she hadn't been able to reach yet, candidates for a return trip — and tucked it back into her satchel without comment. They left with more than she'd been able to carry back on her own. Two saddlebags' worth.  

They came in through the south gate around mid-morning the following day. First thing Bryn did was find Niruin and Tonilia and quietly ask them to look at the shoulder when they had a moment. Second thing he did was haul N straight to Balimund's forge. She laid out what she'd brought — Dwemer ingots from the rubble, a battered length of ebony she'd been guarding, the fragmented schematic with its careful pencil-marks. Balimund whistled low through his teeth. "This is a piece of work, kid. You realise that, aye? That's some sort of Dwemer-ebony composite — never tried that, never heard that. Could be I ruin the lot trying." — "Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. Got enough material there for ya' to ruin it three times an' still come out with a bow," she said excitedly. "So, ya'll do it? Take the commission?" Smiling to himself, Bryn leant on the forge post and let them work it between them. Balimund chewed his lip, looked at the schematic again, and gave a short nod. "Two months. Closer to seven weeks if I'm lucky. And mind — base bow only. The upgrades on this drawing? I don't have the hand for that and you need the schematics for it. You'll need a Dwemer man. Markarth, most like." — "Aye. Step one, mate. Step one's plenty." "I've never seen a bow like this. Where did you find the prints anyway?" "Mhmmm… they magically appeared on me desk?" "Y'know what? Better I don't ask." "Right, 'cause yer not gettin paid for askin' questions. Just… update me when ya' work on it, aye?" — "Aye. Can do." 

7th Rain's Hand — Riften, Marketplace 

The whole story came out in pieces over the next day or two — Bryn coaxing the rest of it out of her in the quiet stretches between work. Up on the warm tiles of Balimund's rooftop, late afternoon, a bottle of mead going slowly between them, N finally swore him to Guild silence and gave him the rest. Avanchnzel had been No One's private vault for over a year. She'd been quietly storing high-value finds there since autumn of 4E 189 — far enough from Riften that no rival fence would catch wind of it, close enough to reach in a day on foot. Anything she couldn't immediately move went into the stash, and she drew on it when she needed coin: for herself, for the Honorhall kids when Grelod kept them short, for the older orphans who'd aged out of the place and were sleeping rough behind the canal walls. Flower-selling and pickpocketing paid the day-to-day and a few extras. Avanchnzel paid the rest.

"Been tryna save coin, y'know? Like — a lot of it. The property ain't pricey, mate. It's makin' it liveable that swallows the gold." She passed him the bottle, drew her knees up. Then came the bigger picture. Delvin had already had the talk with her: there was a corner of the Ratway he'd had his eye on for years and never quite been bothered to do anything with, and if she ever scraped together the coin for the lease, he'd cut her the deal himself. She wanted beds for the orphan kids that weren't Grelod's. She wanted a place that was hers — a kitchen of her own, so she could feed the lot of them when they wandered in. And then — here she went vague, a touch evasive — "A few other ideas, aye. Some good ones." "Ah, c'mon, Mouse. I've known you since you wore nappies. Out with it." Huffing, she squinted sideways at him over the bottle. "Ain't tellin' ya'. There's a surprise for the lot o' ya' down the line. Wouldn't be a surprise if I spilled it now, would it?" — "Fair enough," he murmured, taking the bottle back. "But you realise you don't have to cook for us, aye?" — "Aye, know that? Been over this a couple o' times, haven't we? Dun worry 'bout me! Ain't doin' it 'cause I have to. Doin' it 'cause I love ya' idiots. Gods." "Aww. We all love you too, Mouse!" Brynjolf grinned at her ear to ear, full salesman charm. "Now there's a confession." — "Dun! Dun make that face again! I'll take it back. Y'all an annoying bunch of whimsies and the reason for me headache!" "That's what family is for, eh?" "That's why Avanchnzel pays for me mental health, Bryn." "Ahhh, we aren't that bad. You've already said you love us!" "And… I did take it back, so?" "No, you didn't. Just admit it." "Any witnesses to support ya' statement? No? Thought so," she grinned, and Brynjolf clicked his tongue, passing the bottle back at her.

Up went the market stall about two weeks later. Small painted board, a three-legged stool, a wicker basket of fresh-cut blooms from the area, and a handwritten sign in N's careful blockletters: FLOWERS — 3 SEPTIMS A POSY, 4 FOR A WILDROSE, 10 FOR THE BOUQUET — WILL ACCEPT TRADE. Half her buyers walked off a few coins lighter than they should. The Guild started using the underside of the basket as a dead-drop within the week — a chalk-mark on the stall leg meant something inside, collect by sundown. Every few days, she opened the stall, mood and weather depending, and worked the streets the rest of the time: a single sprig in each hand, threading through the market crowds with the wide-eyed please-sir-please-missus routine that had marks reaching for their belts before they'd worked out where their belts had gone. Within a fortnight the regulars knew the stall as well as Madesi's, and the Guild knew it twice as well as that.

Strolling past on the way to the Bee and Barb a few days in, Bryn made a great show of stopping at her basket. Picked over the wildroses with the considered care of a man choosing a wedding gift. Selected one additional sprig of Mountain Flower. Paid four septims for a three-septim posy without a word, dropped a wink her way, and walked off whistling. By the time he reached the inn door he was one flawless garnet richer, courtesy of the merchant whose elbow he'd brushed on the way past. He left two more gems under her stall basket on the way back…

[aardvark-123]

Skyrim By Democracy: So Near, Yet So Avanchnzel

Something about From-Deepest-Fathoms's sad story had touched Wrathberry's heart. "Yo, Lydia, we should totally take this lexicon thingy to Game Boy Advancenzel or wherever the tusk it was, so that lady can relax instead of bringing like the whole mood down on the docks!" was how she explained it.

"Well, why not?" said Lydia, and off they went.

They took the southern road from Riften, past long-neglected Largashbur and the unwanted Shadow Stone.

A dragon happened. In fact, and it was quite hard to get them both in the picture, two dragons happened!

There turned out not to be enough Wrathberry to fight two dragons.

Wrathberry ran for her life, disappearing into the undergrowth half a mile away from the dragons. By now, she was sneaky enough to stand right behind a fox without being noticed. She eventually managed to sneak past the dragons to the old Dwemer road up to Avanchnzel.

There were ghosts in Avanchnzel.

"Hey... Look! It's From-Deepest-Fathoms!" gasped Wrathberry. "There, with the, like, snout and pointy tail! But she isn't dead. Maybe these ghosts are like...?"

She paused, looking around for an answer, but Lydia was not there.

Wrathberry bit her lip. "She'll rock up in a bit, right? Her armour, like, those dragons would've broken a tooth or something!"

Wrathberry crept (well, stomped, while humming some of her favourite anime theme songs) through the cave, in the footsteps of Fathoms and her party. The path opened up into a vast cavern, and the abandoned Dwemer city build into its rock.

Mechanical spiders and rolly-legged soldiers came out to menace her. Wrathberry punched her way through them, healing herself as and when needed.

The visions carried on visioning as our heroine helped herself to vintage Dwemer engine oil. The explorers from before had met plenty of automata, but the robots had let them pass.

"Oh, colour me not particularly surprised!" huffed Wrathberry. "Climbing over each other to beat up one chick on her own, but four people? Please, sirs and mademoiselles, come on in! Enjoy our fine pottery! Smell the stonework! Give the carpets a lick!"

Lydia caught up in the second half of the dungeon. After Wrathberry caught her up, she had to agree that the Dwemer pottery was lovely, and the carpets tasted very bland.

Lydia and Wrathberry soon found themselves in a workshop, full of materials and half-finished automata.

"I've heard that some pieces of Dwemer scrap can be melted down into the bronze alloy they used for metalwork," Lydia remarked. "And then cast into pristine weapons and armour."

"Cool!" said Wrathberry, stuffing three Dwemer urns down her trousers.

An alchemy set-up gave her the chance to experiment with Dwemer oil.

If the ghosts, or memories were to be believed, the lexicon had some effect on Avanchnzel's robots. Fathoms's party had dwindled after a trip over some well-nibbled carpet and a tangle with some spinning blades, until it was just her and Breya pushing doggedly forwards.

Only with some very, very quick footwork did Wrathberry avoid losing her own shins to the blades. Lydia, well, the game engine wouldn't let her die unless Wrathberry accidentally set her on fire.

Up ahead was the lexicon's podium, guarded by two Dwemer centurions. Well, one centurion now. Breya had defeated the other, at the cost of her own life, letting From-Deepest-Fathoms make her escape.

With one woman punching and the other holding up a shield, a centurion wasn't that bad.

As Wrathberry slotted the lexicon back into its podium, a feeling of serenity washed over Avanchnzel. "Yo, I bet if there were any robots still alive right now, they'd totally calm down and let us walk out!" Wrathberry declared. "Pity we can't test that theory, like on account of killing them all."

Some of the ancient knowledge of the Dwemer now lived in Wrathberry's head. She'd be twenty-five percent more protected in a suit of Dwemer armour! which was heavy armour, which she didn't wear!

More usefully, she could learn smithing 15% faster.

Uncovering the secrets of Avanchnzel had been a grand adventure, and From-Deepest-Fathoms was sure to be glad her nightmare was over. Right now, though, Wrathberry had reached level 21, so she needed a new perk in something.

We still can't take a Hand-to-Hand perk until she gets that skill to level 40.

What skill should Wrathberry take a perk in?

Light Armour (2 perks taken)

Destruction (2 perks taken)

Conjuration (3 perks taken)

Sneak (2 perks taken)

Alchemy (2 perks taken)

Restoration (1 perk taken)

Lockpicking / Pickpocket (1 perk taken)

Speechcraft (2 perks taken)

Smithing (1 perk taken)

Voting ended onMar 6

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[isamajor]

Unfathomable Depths : Exploration of Avanchnzel with the Custom Voiced Followers (10/10)

◄ Prec. 

Bonus : you can spot Elise, my Breton Alchemist !

[theprotheanbacon]

[blackhorse-apocalypse]

[dailyskyrim]

Wandering through Avanchnzel...

[mazurga]

Ghosts and gears in Avanchnzel