Myrding

Dengeir of Stuhn

“I was Jarl once. But I was encouraged to step down when I took sides with the Stormcloaks. It was an imperial plot, I tell you!”

He had told me, several times. Thane Dengeir of Stuhn spat angrily into the hearth fire. Looking back, I realize I never did learn what connection he had, if any, to Stuhn, the Nordic god of ransom. The Thane did not seem particularly pious, pinching his young maid’s shapely behind as she passed.

“So you support Ulfric, then?” I was just making conversation. The civil war was on everyone’s lips these days, but I had little real interest in Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion against the Empire. Witchers do not involve themselves in politics.

“Mind what you say! The Empire has ears all over this town.” The Thane eyed his pinched maid suspiciously. The girl hastily curtseyed and slunk out of sight. Dengeir’s voice took on a conspiratorial note. “Some’ll tell you I stepped down on account of my old age,” he said quietly. His eyes were watery and his beard was grey; Thadgeir’s older brother did seem well past his prime. “Truth is, I found out about all the imperial spies crawling around Falkreath.” The Thane wrapped himself tighter in his bearskin and stared into the fire. Dengeir’s hall was chill and the flickering firelight couldn’t quite chase the shadows out of the furthest corners. There was an oppressive air to the echoing mansion, a sense of quiet where there should be sound. Stillness where there should be life.

“A few well-placed bribes, and they bought themselves some friends.” The Thane’s gravelly voice was mournful. “Suddenly the nobles are calling for a new Jarl, and all the while their pockets are jingling with the sound of imperial septims. They named me Thane, and they got my nephew Siddgeir in my place. A real friend to Cyrodiil, that one.” 

I sighed. I knew where this was going. I had heard the same circumspect preamble, seen the furtive looks over the shoulder, a thousand times before. Politics. Some nefarious, clandestine task needed doing for the good of whoever had thought of it, and who better than the wandering killer to carry it out? The despised witch-man wouldn’t even be missed should the evidence need to be disposed of. I rose to leave.

“Brother,” Thadgeir said quietly, looking over the rim of his ale-horn. He was leaning against a wooden column and the flickering light deepened the creases of his weathered skin. Berit, silent as ever, sat hunched over in a chair nearby, staring at the floor between his feet. I didn’t need my witcher’s senses to tell that they were all uncomfortable. Dengeir sighed and closed his eyes.

“I didn’t summon you here to discuss politics,” he said heavily. “I know your kind, witcher. I know you don’t care for such things.” He made it sound like an accusation, but I held my tongue. “But I also know the sort of things you do care about. And I know how effective you can be.” I waited while he took a long draft of his mead. These words were heavy in the saying. “I don’t expect you to understand, but family is everything to a Nord.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said wryly. I believe Thadgeir expected the shadows to hide his smirk. 

“Every family has secrets they’ve buried,” Dengeir went on. “Even the ancient ones might claw their way out of the grave if you’re not careful. So the new ones have to be dealt with decisively.”

I was growing impatient. “If you have witcher’s work for me, I think we would all be better served by you just saying so.”

Thane Dengeir shot me a sharp look, a glimpse of the Jarl he had been demanding respect. He did it better than his nephew.

“They say that you can break curses, witcher.” Dengeir’s eyes gained a glint I imagine they were unaccustomed to: pleading. This was a man who had exhausted his options. “They say you can drive away evil spirits and restore happiness to a dark house.”

Ah. Witcher’s work indeed, if it were true. The Thane and his bleak hall were haunted by more than imperial conspiracies, then – or at least he believed it to be so.

“This house wasn’t always so dim and quiet, master witcher,” Dengeir said brokenly. “I have a beautiful young daughter.”