The story so far:
Skavild, abandoned by the Thalmor and pursued by his enemies, has no choice but to continue working with Delphine, surviving agent of the Blades, under the false name of Ysgald. He has robbed the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller and stolen his horn, which Delphine says will somehow attract a dragonborn hero to save the world from a plague of dragons.
Ondolemar of the Thalmor has pursued a troublesome elderly man across the province and into Riften, lair of criminal underworld. As he has been hit with a plank, he is not in the slightest worried.
Maven Black-Briar pinched me on the bottom, Ambassador. I know that Headquarters have an arrangement with her, and that she owns the meadery, and that many people like mead very much, but it really hurt.
While I am on the subject, I really, really, really, really, really don't want to meet Maven Black-Briar again. I had been hoping to avoid her, and make use of other sources of information, but she had heard that I had been in her meadery and she demanded that I explain myself.
She did not believe that I was on holiday and somehow persuaded me to turn out my pockets. She did not care about how fiercely I was inconvenienced on my way from the Reach by the old man with the dusty books, but she looked very interested by my piece of paper that said 'Salvianus'.
She told me that an Imperial by this name had been lurking in the sewers, and that if I could find him and bring him to her, or else simply get rid of him, she would arrange for information to be gathered about the person I was pursuing.
I immediately agreed, because I was afraid that she would pinch me on the bottom again, and moreover, the old man had written the name 'Salvianus' on a piece of paper and left it behind folded in a book. Perhaps they knew each other.
She gave me a secret key to the sewers, which did not smell any worse than the rest of the city.
I found some strange people in the sewers, including the man who had propositioned me in the market.
I asked them if they had seen a dusty old man with a bag of books, and I was overjoyed to hear that one lived there, in the darkest part of the Riften sewers, and had returned from a long trip only that morning.
Then I asked them if they were certain, and they said they were, for they also lived there, Ambassador.
I mocked them for their awful dwelling, and made to leave. But they called me back.
A man pretending to be a tavern-keeper asked if Maven Black-Briar was still asking about Salvianus. I thought hard, and then I remembered that she had just asked me to capture or kill this person, so said Yes.
The pretend tavern-keeper begged me to leave this Salvianus be, for he was recently arrived, and only a madman, not a spy as many feared.
My orders are, of course, not to cross the Black-Briar family and make our operations in this hold even more difficult, so I made no such promise to the strange people.
I left the pretend tavern-keeper in his pretend tavern and ventured deeper into the tunnels.
It was a pleasure to go back out into the field to hunt somebody down, Ambassador, though it is lucky that I was writing my report at every step, because I kept forgetting why I had set off in the first place. Please tell Third Emissary Rulindil not to hit anybody else with a plank, because it does not work.
Early that evening, rather a long way from Riften, in the little village of Riverwood, the door of the Sleeping Giant inn opened as the clouds outside gathered for another wonderful thunderstorm, and a stranger arrived.
"Evenin'." said Skavild. "The innkeeper's at the apothecary with her back. I'm just helping out. If you're really hungry, I can heat this stew on the fire, or you can wait till the cook gets here."
The stranger became taller with every step closer he took. Although this is a perfectly rational phenomenon called perspective, once he was standing in the centre of the room, it became apparent that he was very tall indeed. And he said, "I'm not hungry." and lifted his horned helmet off his head.
Skavild gasped: "Talos preserve us." and then looked surprised by what he had just said.
"Everything all right, kinsman?" said the stranger, shaking out his long flaxen hair, which then clung damply to his pronounced cheekbones and jawline.
Skavild carefully put down the put of venison stew. He coughed, somewhat more gruffly than he intended. "I mean, hello. Yeah, are you thirsty, then? Sorry, just wasn't expecting you, er, expecting you to be, er, there. Er. Yes."
"My name is Raskur, of Aeldsten." said the stranger. "I'd like to rent the attic room."
It was Delphine's code! He'd found the note! Skavild almost slumped with relief. If this was, indeed, the person they had been awaiting, no wonder he was a radiant, perfect specimen of Nord manhood.
It was perfectly natural to be a bit dazzled, and no man calling themselves a true Nord could think any differently. In fact, it'd be suspect if he did.
"Well, why don't you take a seat, and I'll go and get everything ready for you, Raskur? My name's Ysgald, by the way. Go on, have a rest, Shor's Beard, you've prob'ly earned it."
"I'm glad for so warm a greeting." said Raskur. "The last few days have tested me."
"Why do you have the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?" Raskur sat down. "What is it for?"
"Well, the lady who wanted to speak to you will be back soon, she's the one who knows what to do." said Skavild.
"What to do?" said Raskur. "I just need the horn."
"No, you really should stay and wait for her. If you want to know about dragons, that is."
"But, I don't understand." Raskur said. "Are you friends, or foes?"
"Ysgald, where did you leave that..." Orgnar began. "Wow!"
"All right, Orgnar, just embarrass the hero of legend who slew a dragon," Skavild said, "the one we've been waitin' around for all week, nobody minds."
"Sorry." said Orgnar.
"I am Raskur, and I think I would like a drink." said Raskur.
"Well, of course!" Orgnar said. "On the house. I mean, we give all strong warriors a drink on the house, don't we, Ysgald?"
"No. Just special ones." said Skavild. "Oh, gods, I mean, yes, all."
"So," Skavild sighed, once he had become used to the presence of something so evidently heroic. "What are you planning to use this horn for? Can you blast dragons out of the sky with it?"
"The Greybeards of High Hrothgar told me to prove myself." said Raskur. "When they summoned me."
"What are they like? The Greybeards of High Hrothgar?"
"Grey." said Raskur. "And bearded."
"Sorry if I seem nosy." Skavild leaned over the counter. "It's just such an old legend, I thought it'd be half-invented. Is it true they only shout at each other all day long in praise of Kyne?"
"No, they can talk too."
"Really?" said Skavild. "How many are there?"
"Oh, I'm not sure." said Raskur. "I didn't count them all. Must be about a hundred. Well, that ale was delicious. Can I have the horn now?"
"I don't know what's keeping my friend." Skavild fished about under the counter. "She really wanted to meet you."
Raskur appeared pleased by this. "Well, I'm sure I'd be happy to meet your friend in Aeldstan some time. She can drop by any time. I can always make time for a woman."
"After you get back from High Hrothgar, I suppose?" said Skavild.
"What?"
Skavild put the horn on the counter. "Well, you're taking this horn straight there, ain't you?"
"Yes. But when I get back, you be sure to send her round. Oh, that reminds me. You got some paper, quill and ink I can use?"
Prob'ly answering letters from hordes of grateful admirers. Skavild thought. Hurry up, Delphine, or you'll miss him. Can't offer guidance, training and wisdom to a young man who's on top of a mountain, can you?
Raskur was by the fire, deep in thought, and sometimes he smiled to himself before scribbling down a line.
Well, at least now we have a name and a face to put to a hero. Hurry up, Delphine. Thought Skavild.
That night, a fierce chorus of singing voices sprang into Skavild's dreams.
Over the last years, he had become used to unusual occurrences, such as unexplained singing, and being awoken in the middle of the night by otherworldly screaming women on fire.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"You think to tread the path of hope." the spirit said.
"Yet all hope escapes you."
"Oh, it's you." said Skavild. "The exploding spirit from the barrow on the hill." For indeed, Skavild had recently met such a person.
"He comes closer, and you sit like a fat toad in the swamp of denial."
Skavild sat up in bed. "Listen, there's no need for insults. P'rhaps if you didn't go speakin' in riddles, things might be moving a bit faster."
"Even my riddles draw his eyes to me." said the spirit.
"No time have I for sweetened fawning!"
"If the champions of hope will not heed me, her enemies will!"
"He has heard! Mortal, despair, and perish!"
Skavild wobbled upright. "Hey, don't wave that sword in my face, I thought you liked me."
"The end is upon us, if not in one way, then in another!"
The spirit wavered. "No, I must resist the sadness of his prophecy."
"Yes, you do that." Skavild said.
"Cast away this deceit."
"I'm going back to bed."
The spirit ordered: "Let hope not fail."
"As I once failed, as did those I stood among."
"Let her stand among us."
"You're not going to explode again, are you?" said Skavild.
- continues -