ms-katonic

As for the escaping Jarls, their path to freedom had been rather smoother. They’d fled down the coast, to an inlet haunted by smugglers, and down there had been a rowing boat crewed by one hooded, taciturn Nord in his twenties with piercing green eyes but not a lot to say for himself until they hit open water. Then they’d found out his name was Tyr. “He’s an old colleague of mine from Cyrodiil,” Delphine explained. “And… he did plan this entire thing out and forge all the documents involved. He was going to be infiltrating the guards but things didn’t work out that way.” “You’re welcome,” Tyr said, nodding his head, and the accent marked him immediately as Cyrodiilic – mostly. “Do I detect a little Eastmarch in that accent?” Hoag asked, listening intently and Tyr did have to admit he might have grown up in Kynesgrove. “Left years ago though,” Tyr said, focusing a little too much on his rowing. “Joined the Legion to get away from my father. Ended up in the Blades. And after my

All in all, the journey west had been quicker than Brynjolf expected, even if the Reachmen had been surly throughout and grinned only when making him sit on the cart with the beehive on it. "I thought you lot liked Nords now?" Brynjolf had asked one of them. "You're not one of our Nords, thief," had been the response, and he'd kept quiet after that. Through the Rift, past Ivarstead, over the Helgen Pass… and then a detour off the road past Greywater Grotto, the cart being left at a camp at Orphan Rock, and from Helgen came the sound of fighting. "War's under way," was the only response Brynjolf got, and then came an explosion from the keep, increased roaring, mage armour being cast and then agonised screaming. "Don't worry, we promised not to harm the townsfolk," the Reachwoman guiding him explained, grinning. And then things got rather clearer as another party comprised of Nords and Reachmen both, all in Falkreath colours for some reason, passed them on the road. "Fort

Solitude loomed over them, Imperial pennants fluttering in the breeze, gulls wheeling overhead as the sounds of the shipyard could be heard in the distance. Once this had made Balgruuf feel proud to be a Nord and a citizen of the Empire both. Not today. “So, we’re set on doing this then,” Balgruuf sighed. “You know he’s not going to react well. He’s got Igmund in his own court, and from what I’ve heard, it’s only the fact he’s got a son of his own now that stopped him adopting the lad.” “Aye,” Hoag sighed. “But we need to tell him this in person. He’s still our King. He specifically instructed me to return to Solitude with a report after I’d talked some sense into my son. I can hardly deliver the response in writing and still call myself his vassal, can I.” Neither Jarl might be calling themselves Istlod’s vassal for much longer, but for now the ruse had to be kept up. There was always a chance Istlod might be reasonable. “And if he has you both arrested on the spot for