Myrding

Thadgeir

“I understand you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my nephew.”

The two greying old men were waiting for me in the common room of the Dead Man’s Drink, the inn where I was staying while plying my trade in Falkreath. Narri the serving girl slipped out of my chamber behind me, brazenly meeting the disapproving look of Vinicia the innkeeper with a sly smirk. The girl had happily taken a septim for helping me wash the hagraven’s blood off, and another to help me braid my hair in the Nordic style afterwards. She had taken quite a few of my septims between that and the one I gave her to bring me ale and pork for my mid-day meal.

I eyed the two warriors. As muscle goes, I’ve seen worse, though I’ve certainly seen younger. Bearded Nords both, I suddenly felt self-conscious about my own bushy moustache.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave town as soon as I’ve eaten and saddled my horse,” I said wearily and took a seat at a scarred table. “You can tell your nephew that he needn’t help me on my way.”

“Oh, I’m not here on behalf of Siddgeir,” the shorter of the warriors smirked and claimed the bench across the board from me. The other man remained silently hovering. “As I’m sure you noticed, the boy’s an ass. I’m Thadgeir, and this is my companion, Berit.”

“A pleasure,” I said and broke a loaf of bread apart, passing one half to Thadgeir. Berit the companion was apparently too bearded to speak. “And yes, your nephew’s noble blue blood was evident in every word he spoke.”

Thadgeir guffawed, spraying breadcrumbs over my pork slices. “My late brother never managed to teach his son what it means to be a true Nord,” he said, shaking his head. “Siddgeir has never understood how our ancestors claimed the throne he sits on – by the edge of their blades.”

I nodded, waiting. This was no chance encounter. Thadgeir had sought me out for a reason.

“Still, the boy is family. And even Siddgeir will tell you that family is everything to a Nord.” The old man sighed heavily. “My family needs your services, master witcher,” he said quietly, his pale eyes roving the common room where sodden patrons were trying not to cast nervous glances at the witch-man eating pork in their midst. His voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “Do you have family, Hekmun?”

“No witcher does,” I replied tersely. Sander. Tellion. Seven out of every ten boys dead or broken from the Trials, the rest lost on the Path. Old Dorakh would say it was destiny, a witcher’s life. I never believed in destiny. “We’re made, not raised.”

“I pity you, son.” There was genuine sadness in Thadgeir’s eyes. I imagine he believed that he was an old man warning a younger man away from his own mistakes. If he expected me to start a family, he was barking up the wrong pine. “Family gives a man purpose. And when his family is threatened, there is nothing a man won’t do to save it.”

I sighed. 

“Is there a point to this, Thadgeir?”

The old man exchanged a wary look with his silent friend.

“My brother needs to see you.”