Vyrdwaren

THE LOST TEMPLE

In the back of a low-lit tavern nestled within the labyrinthine streets of Windhelm, a tall red-haired Northerner and his smaller raven-haired companion were engrossed in a game of dice, their gold coins clinking like musical notes. Squat, oily candles cast wavering shadows along the blackened ceiling, and the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and the raucous laughter of city dwellers seeking refuge from the mists that shrouded Windhelm’s narrow lanes.

The other patrons knew the two men well and thus refrained from casting more than passing glances their way, even when the larger man groaned loudly after one particularly bad throw.

“Once again, your luck is astounding,” muttered the Northerner.

The smaller man gathered a pile of coins with a neat sweep of his fingers. A sly grin curled at the corners of his lips.

“My luck has saved your hide more times than you’d care to admit,” he said.

A thin voice spoke from the edge of the table. “Is it luck, then, that has brought us together tonight?”

The dice stopped as the two men looked up. An old man leaned over their table, gray-robed and narrow as a hunger, tattered hood hiding most of his face.

The Northerner shifted back in his seat. His companion, being perpetually curious, shrugged and tipped a hand toward the empty chair.

Dropping into the chair, the old man spoke with an air of weariness, "Yes, it is luck that has orchestrated this encounter. I have travelled a great distance to find you."

The two men again shared a puzzled glance. The smaller man thought for a moment, and then spoke with a detached air.

“And who are you searching for, old man? I’m quite sure we’ve never met. Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for some wandering caravan merchant, or an innkeeper from some distant village - ”

The old man lunged across the table and snatched the smaller man’s tankard, draining it and slamming it down. The Northerner stared, astonished, his great hand hovering uselessly near his sword as the frail stranger continued.

“I know who you are. All of Skyrim knows of you and your deeds - every potsmith, every fieldhand, every tavern girl from Solitude to Riften. Even Rorikstead.”

The last word lingered. The Northerner felt a chill along his spine, but his companion, now quite fidgety with curiosity, tried for one more indifferent sigh.

“Rorikstead?” he said. “That backwater? What could possibly interest anyone in that place?”

The old man smiled thinly and pointed a single bony finger at them. “I have a tale that could make you richer than all the silversmiths of Markarth, if you dare to listen.”

The two men leaned forward. “Speak, old man,” said the smaller of the two.

The man drew a breath. “You have heard the Saga of Gul