ch 11 We completed a quest

Part I: Coin, Cloth, and Consequences

The ride back from Falkreath was mercifully uneventful.

The cart creaked under the weight of supplies—and the large burlap sack holding the orc chief's head.

The courier at the Falkreath guard tower barely looked at them before handing over the coin pouch.

"One-hundred and fifty septims for the bandit that's been hitting the trade roads. Good work."

Ralof didn't even nod.

He just reached for the pouch, bones aching.

The healer on the edge of town winced when she saw him.

"Divines, boy. What'd you wrestle, a troll?"

"Close," he muttered, wincing as she wrapped his midsection.

The Dragonborn, by comparison, sat nearby on a barrel eating dried peaches, his only visible injury a bruised jaw and a cut across the cheek.

"This is what real missions look like," he said, mouth half full. "Blood. Glory. Strategy. Intimidation."

Ralof didn't respond.

Just groaned.

When they reached Riverwood, Gerdur was chopping kindling near the mill.

She turned—and froze when she saw them.

Specifically, when she saw Ralof, whose entire upper half was wrapped in linen bandages like a half-done mummy.

"What. In the name of Kyne. Happened to you?"

Before Ralof could speak, the Dragonborn tossed the coin pouch toward her dramatically.

She caught it.

"Dead bandit chief," he said. "Saved Skyrim. You're welcome."

Ralof opened his mouth—

"Cut her down myself. Fought barehanded. With style."

Ralof closed his eyes.

"She begged, I think. Might've been the wind, but I heard it."

Gerdur blinked slowly.

"You're joking."

Ralof said nothing.

Then turned raised his hand.

CRACK.

He slapped the Dragonborn across the back of the head.

Not hard.

Not soft.

Just right.

The Dragonborn stiffened.

Eyes crossed.

Then tipped forward and hit the dirt with a heavy thump.

Silence.

Gerdur stared.

Then looked at Ralof.

He just walked toward the house.

"Tell him when he wakes up—he owes me 

Part II: A Quiet Meal

The cottage creaked gently in the wind.

Inside, the hearth glowed low and orange, the coals crackling with soft life. The table was simple—wooden, slightly uneven—but the bowls were warm, filled with carrot stew and bits of boar jerky.

Ralof ate slowly.

The linen wrapped around his ribs itched.

He didn't complain.

Gerdur poured him a second helping, then sat across from him with her own bowl. Neither spoke for a while.

Outside, just faintly, the Dragonborn snored in the dirt. Loud, wet-sounding, undignified snores.

They ignored it.

Gerdur finally broke the silence.

"You going to keep dragging him around?"

Ralof didn't answer at first.

Then: "I don't know."

Gerdur sipped from her mug.

"You're not a babysitter."

"No."

"You're not a jailer."

Ralof stirred the stew.

"No."

She leaned back, folded her arms.

"But here you are."

Ralof let the silence settle.

He looked into the fire for a long moment.

"He's not evil."

"No," Gerdur said. "But he's… broken."

Ralof nodded.

"Worse. He thinks he's chosen."

Gerdur smirked. "Are you sure he's not?"

Ralof didn't smile.

"I don't care if he is. Power doesn't matter if you don't know when to shut up and think."

Gerdur chuckled quietly.

"Don't let the Jarl hear you say that."

Outside, the snoring stopped.

A thud followed.

Then a grunt.

And a voice, drowsy and slurred:

"Is anyone going to write a ballad about this?"

Ralof stood.

"Only if you die," he called back.

The Dragonborn moaned. "I want verses."

"Then stay down."

Gerdur reached over and poured Ralof a third helping.

"You going to take him with you?"

Ralof looked at the door.

Then back at the fire.

"…Yeah."

She nodded once.

Didn't argue.

Didn't approve.

Just understood.

Part III: The Lie That Lands

The door creaked open with the delicacy of a thrown boulder.

The Dragonborn stumbled in, shirt crooked, dried blood still caked on his shoulder, looking like he'd just escaped a pigsty.

His eyes were half-lidded. His snout was scuffed.

"Okay," he grunted, "why did I wake up face-first in dirt with pinecones up my tailbone?"

Ralof didn't miss a beat.

Without looking up from his stew, he said:

"You were attacked by a traveling chicken mage."

The Dragonborn blinked.

"A what?"

Ralof nodded, serious.

"Chicken mage. Wields poultry-based arcane magic. You tried to duel him outside the inn. He summoned a giant egg golem. You blacked out from your the exposure."

Silence.

The Dragonborn scratched the back of his neck, wincing. "…I do remember something eggy."

Gerdur choked on her stew.

"See?" Ralof said, still deadpan.

"You tried to cast Flames, but you yelled 'Omelet Burst' and face-planted."

The Dragonborn sat down slowly at the table, eyes wide with awe.

"I gotta write that down. That's a cool line."

Ralof stared at him.

Then looked at Gerdur.

She stared back.

One eyebrow raised.

No words.

Just… despair.

Part IV: Coin and Cold Truths

Silence returned to the table.

The fire cracked once.

The Dragonborn chewed a dried peach like it was a rare treat, still muttering about "egg golems."

Gerdur leaned back.

Folded her arms.

And dropped the number like a blade:

"Two-hundred and eighty-four septims."

Ralof paused mid-spoon.

The Dragonborn looked up.

"…That's it?"

"That's all that's left," Gerdur said, cool and even. "Between the bounty and the Falkreath job."

"But the bounty was—"

"One-fifty," she cut in. "The supplies cost you twenty-five. The healer took thirty for stitches and salves. And you ate. Slept. Rented a cart."

Ralof rubbed his temples.

"So we're still in the hole."

"Deep in it."

The Dragonborn blinked. "But we killed a named bandit."

"And all you earned was a bruised face and a smaller number," she replied.

Ralof looked into the fire again.

"You got anything else?"

Gerdur didn't hesitate.

"I might."

Her eyes moved to the window.

Then back to them.

"But you're not gonna like it."

The Dragonborn perked up.

"That usually means it's good XP."

Gerdur stared at him for a long moment.

Then said:

"No. It usually means someone's gonna die."

Part V: Of Damage and Delusion

So," the Dragonborn said, mouth half-full of bread, "I have a lead."

Ralof and Gerdur both turned toward him.

He leaned back in his chair, grinning.

"Bleak Falls Barrow."

Gerdur blinked. "The ruin above the ridge?"

"Yeah."

Ralof frowned. "What about it?"

The Dragonborn licked his fingers and said it like he was sharing prophecy.

"There's treasure in there. Something important. Secret. And I know where it is."

Gerdur leaned forward, brow raised.

"Everyone in Skyrim's crawled through that place. It's a moldy tomb full of bones and cave rats."

The Dragonborn tapped his snout.

"Not all of it. There's… deeper levels. Places you can only reach if you know the sequence."

Ralof rubbed his eyes. "What sequence?"

"You know, snake-snake-whale? That kind of thing."

The siblings stared at him.

Gerdur: "What?"

Ralof: "That's not… what?"

But the Dragonborn kept talking.

"It's risky, but I've got the insight. Gut feeling. Insider knowledge. Meta-awareness."

Ralof stood, pushing his bowl aside.

"Nothing else left. And we need coin."

Gerdur sighed.

"You'll need a weapon, then."

She walked to the side wall and pulled down a woodcutter's axe.

Plain.

Solid.

Ralof nodded and took it.

The Dragonborn frowned.

"That's a woodcutting tool."

Gerdur raised a brow. "It's also sharp."

"It only does five damage."

Ralof and Gerdur exchanged a long, confused look.

"Five what?" she asked.

"Points," he clarified, gesturing dramatically. "Wood axes don't scale with strength bonuses."

"…Are you okay?"

They all turned in early that night.

The Dragonborn snored louder than the fire crackled.

Ralof stared at the ceiling, hands folded over the thin blanket, the aches in his side reminding him exactly how mortal he was.

Outside, wind moved through the trees.

And Gerdur sat near the door, whispering an old Nord prayer to the gods of war and harvest:

"Keep him whole. Or keep him fast."

The next morning, Ralof dressed in his heavy coat. His side was still bruised, but he didn't complain.

Gerdur handed him a satchel of supplies—dried fish, root wine, and a single potion of minor healing.

She held up a finger.

"All of this is coming out of the debt."

Ralof nodded.

The Dragonborn stepped outside, flexing in the snow.

"We ride," he said.

"We walk," Ralof corrected.

The Dragonborn pointed dramatically toward the mountain path.

"To the tomb. To glory. To fate!"

Ralof rolled his eyes and followed.

Gerdur watched them go.

Then turned back to the fire.

And muttered:

"Divines help him. He's traveling with a lunatic."