A Dragonborn by any other name

Old friends, New beginnings

Gwen grinned as she walked off from the stand, heading over to the blacksmith's and entering a conversation, which turned to haggling over a set of light armour. She would bet this Ragged Flagon would not be easy to find, and the Ratway, full of scum. She casually asked where the entrance was, posing it as a question about a bounty, and received an answer. The door was near the marketplace, down the stairs, leading to a sewer by the sounds of it. How terrific. But she kept the cheerful smile up as she found a place to change, stripping down and putting her new armour on quickly and efficiently. Then, it was time. She descended the rickety stairs, treading carefully lest they collapse beneath her, and eyed the footbridge with distaste. It looked as if it would collapse at a moment's notice, but she her sharp blue eyes caught the door across from her. There was nothing for it but to try. Though it creaked dangerously, it held as she crossed, and she smiled darkly, pushing on the door.

The Ratway was dark and dingy, lit only by torchlight. She ducked into a side alcove as she heard voices up ahead. It seemed to be a pair of bandit-types, nothing too difficult to take care of. A few fireballs and all that was left was a pair of charred corpses and some still-smoking coins, which she pocketed. No use wasting them after all. Her journey continued in this way, getting lost few times, and almost being killed by traps, until she came to a well-lit room with a table in the middle, and another scumbag. She dispatched him easily, and walked to the door, pulling out her cloak from her pack and pulling the hood up, concealing her face in darkness. It was time.

Gwen pushed the door open cautiously, ears straining, picking up the sound of conversations, as she took in the room, with the dingy pool of water, and the planks covering it. She skirted the edges, looking at the sign to confirm this was the right place. The Ragged Flagon. Ragged it was. She inclined her head to the bouncer, and walked softly up to the group near the bar, recognising the Nord man's flaming hair.

"I took care of your Skeever infestation for you." Brynjolf seemed to start at her words, causing the man across from him to grin.

"Maybe ye're onto something Bryn. Not many who can sneak up on you." Gwen chuckled, keeping the hood up, and offereing her hand.

"I'm guessing not many can pick his pockets either. I'm Gwen." The man, Breton, by the looks of it, and highly amused, took her hand.

"Delvin. Delvin Mallory." He shook it, firmly, with a twinkle in his eye. "Ye' ever tire of Bryn here and I'll show you what a true master can do." Gwen flinched, almost unperceptively, and her eyes cooled.

"I think there's enough bastards in my bloodline. But thankyou for the offer." She deflected him, and turned to Bryn, who seemed amused, but also curious at the display. "What now?" He grinned.

"Now we put you to work." Gwen groaned slightly, and rubbed her eyes.

"Isn't there somewhere I can unload first?" The redhead snorted.

"Tonilia's the fence around here Lass. But she won't sell or buy anything to you if you're not a full member yet." Gwen grumbled under her breath.

"Fine. Let's get this over and done with then."

The first job was over and done with easily, she asked for the money, she wasn't given it. She threatened objects, and she was. She returned to the flagon, and finally unloaded, eyeing Delvin, until it finally clicked where she had seen him.

"Delvin?" Her voice carried across to where he was in conversation with Brynjolf, about introducing her to a Mercer. He grumbled, but came over.

"Yes Gwen?" His brow perked, and she reached up to her hood, pulling it back, and revealing that distinctive face, causing him to take an unsteady step back. "Guenivere. It has been a while. Almost didn't recognise ye." She laughed.

"It may have been a while for you. You grew up." And it was true. Gone was the teen she had once had following her around like a lovesick puppy, when she had visited Skyrim last. "Scratch that." She took another look at him. "You grew old."

"Old?" he said, in mock-hurt. "Not everyone lives for centuries girl. And I prefer to think of it as vintage." She simply snorted, and linked her arm through his, half-afraid he would ask about the brotherhood.

"Let me buy you a drink and tell me what I've gotten myself into. I can meet this Mercer later. " She directed the last to Brynjolf, who was looking on with a raised eyebrow. "Isn't he the one you were always getting into trouble, and fights with? Remember all those stories you used to tell." She grinned, and before long they had a table in a corner, and drinks in hands, catching up, like old friends.