Lyra awakened slowly inside the cramped confines of her tent, the thin fabric barely shielding her eyes from the harsh morning light that streamed through. A dull ache pounded in her temples, a bitter reminder of the revelry that had ensued the night before. She rubbed her eyes groggily, her hand instinctively reaching for the smoothness of her steel mace at her side. She coughed, the taste of skooma lingering on her tongue as she struggled to piece together the events of the previous evening.

Outside, the Khajiit caravan bustled with activity, their distant chatter filling the air. Lyra pushed herself up from her makeshift bedroll, her joints protesting the movement after a night spent on uneven ground. With practiced ease, she donned her worn leather armor, the familiar weight of her bow and mace offering a comforting reassurance.

Exiting the tent, Lyra squinted against the bright sunlight, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. The caravan had come to a halt just beyond the outskirts of Whiterun, the towering walls of the city casting a protective shadow over the surrounding landscape. She adjusted the straps of her pack, her mind already drifting to the allure of coin and opportunity that waited within the city's walls.

She thanked her hosts, exchanging pleasantries and graciously accepting a cut of meat from their cooking breakfast. The khajiit had been kind to her, and she would not forget their faces -- J'zagar, a male with dark fur and darker stripes, had insisted she join them several nights before, and they'd had a good enough time that she'd almost forgotten she had nothing but the clothes on her back to make her way through the world with.

As she approached the city's gate, her steps faltered as she encountered the imposing figure of a city guard. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the dusty roads and worn leather she'd grown accustomed to. His gaze lingered on Lyra with a predatory gleam, his smirk sending a shiver down her spine.

"And where do you think you're off to, lass?" he sneered, his tone laced with thinly veiled innuendo. His eyes roamed over her form, lingering a moment too long. She stifled a gag.

Lyra bristled, her jaw clenched with barely contained frustration. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. "Just passing through," she retorted, her voice dripping with malice as she attempted to brush past him. Before she could make her way past, she felt a large hand wrap around her upper arm. "Dangerous," the man said, his eyes burning into her, "A girl wandering around in the wilderness all by herself. If you're here to cause trouble... you know where to find me." He seemed satisfied with himself, and released her arm as if he were doing her a service. She gritted her teeth, refusing to look back as she made her way through the gate, relieved that the task had come with relative ease.

As she navigated the bustling streets of Whiterun, her mind settled on all the contrasts from the Gray Quarter of Windhelm, where she'd been raised, images flooding her mind. She recalled the dilapidated streets, the whispered taunts, and the leering gazes of the patrons of the tavern where her mother worked. Even amidst the hardship, there was a warmth. Her mother's gentle voice, her father's reassuring and sturdy presence. But they were no longer here to offer such a reprieve.

But she was here. She'd made it. Whiterun had been her destination for weeks, and she wasn't sure she would make it alive. Her gambling earnings tinkled lightly in her pocket as she walked, and her eyes fell on a tavern that she knew would be the first of her expenditures -- a cold drink on this unseasonably sunny day felt like just the right luxury she could allow herself.

With renewed determination, Lyra pressed forward, her gaze fixed on the promise of a new day. Forged in the crucible of adversity, she was a survivor, unyielding. As she stepped into the heart of Whiterun, she knew that whatever trials lay ahead, she would face head-on, with fire in her soul and steel in her hand.

Finrod awoke, with a slight groan as the sunlight shined through the window and onto his face, the window was slightly ajar, allowing the sounds of the lively market below to fill the air. He sat up in bed, stretching, then standing, looking back at the Inns bed, Finrod starts to remember home, where he lived an extravagant life in the Summerset Ilses, he starts to think back on his family, but quickly, changes focus, to avoid the pain his past brings him. Walking over to the chair where he left his tunic from the night prior to get dressed for the day. Finrod goes to exit the room stopping for a moment, as he glances over to the chest at the foot of the bed, where he keeps his armor and weapons from the Great War, again thinking about his past, but as quickly as before, leaving the thought behind and leaving the room, locking the door behind him.

Finrod exits downstairs into the main area of the Bannered Mare, where he spots his acquaintance Sinmir, a tall proud Nord, wearing Steel armor and wielding a great 2 handed sword, sitting on a bench by the fire enjoying his morning meal. The two exchange nods, both warriors have a great sense of respect towards each other.

Finrod exits the Inn into the streets of the marketplace, the sound of laughter, bartering, and chatter fills the air, a cool morning breeze blowing, and walks over to Carlottas food stall, where she sells fresh fruits and vegetables. As he glances over the array of fruit laid out before him, "Good morning Finrod! Care for the usual?" Carlotta asks Finrod, "Not today!" He said with a smile on his face, "I saw the caravans come into town last night, Ysolda spoke of the Apples from the south, I must try one!" Carlotta smiled and grabbed a green Apple, handing it to Finrod, "Two Septims please!" she said. "See you around Carlotta!" Finrod said as he swapped the gold septims for the apple! "Enjoy!" She exclaimed with a smile.

Finrod then started off towards the front gate, knowing the caravans came last night, eager to see what sort of exotic trade goods they have brought this time! As he nears the front gate, he first stops outside the Warmaidens to shop for a new knife. Still upset about losing his in the bar the night before, it held sentimental value to him. He begins to glance over a few knives laid out on the table.

As she traversed the entrance to Whiterun, Lyra passed a blacksmith shop called "Warmaidens". She beamed at the name, appreciating a bit of female representation, rare where she came from. She made a mental note to visit later, her eyes lingering on the gleaming weapons displayed in the storefront. Though tempted by the prospect of acquiring a new blade, she couldn't bear to part with her trusty mace, despite its worn appearance and the memories it carried. And she was rather over-encumbered as it was.

As she traversed to the central market, Lyra observed the diverse array of passerby, each lost in their own thoughts and pursuits. Despite the undercurrent of racial tension that lingered in the air, even here, she noted with a sense of relief the relative harmony that seemed to exist among the different races within the bustling square.

Her attention was drawn to Arcadia's Cauldron, the alchemy shop nestled among the various stalls and vendors. With her supply of potions dwindling, Lyra resolved to visit later, her mind already calculating the ingredients she would need to replenish her stock.

Eavesdropping on a nearby conversation, Lyra caught snippets of dialogue regarding "The Companions." They seemed, from context, to be a local league of fighters renowned for their prowess in battle. At one point, the woman referred to the man as a "dog", and Lyra wasn't sure if it was meant with affection or as an insult. The casual exchange between the heavily armed woman and man piqued Lyra's curiosity, prompting her to file away the information for future reference.

Finally, Lyra arrived at the threshold of the Bannered Mare, the welcoming glow of the hearth beckoning her inside. Stepping through the door, she was greeted by the comforting aroma of hearty stew and spiced mead, her mouth watering at the prospects of both.

Approaching the bar, Lyra exchanged a nod with the barmaiden. She ordered a plate of food and a cold mead, settling into a nearby bench, her senses attuned to the lively chatter that filled the tavern.

As she savored her meal, Lyra reflected on the events of the past weeks, her mind drifting to the adventures that might await her in the city of Whiterun. With each passing moment, she felt a building anticipation, eager, for once, to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead. Maybe she would make it after all.

Finrod unable to pick out a new knife, holding out hope he may find his old one, somewhat angerly walks away from the Warmaidens. As he turns to walk towards the gate, he catches a glimpse of a Dark Elf leaving the main crossroad in the city, he glances for a moment as she continues up the road towards the marketplace. Finrod then exits the main gates of the city, sharing a passing nod with the guards at the gate.

Stopping first at the Khajiit Caravans to see what sort of exotic goods they brought in. Speaking with the Khajiits in the camp, and exploring their trade goods. Stopping to buy some Moon Sugar, he loves to sprinkle some on deserts bought in the city! Without much in the area of magic, Finrod has little interest in the trade goods and continues on away from the city.

Finrod heads down the road south east of the city, a short distance to the Honningbrew Meadery, known for its sweet delicious mead. He heads inside to pick up a few bottles. Sabjorn, the owner, is standing behind the counter, looking over a ledger, as he glances up at Finrod. Exchanging greetings, Finrod picks up a few bottles of Honningbrew Mead, his personal favorite, while exchanging in small talk with Sabjorn. The two talk about the recent rumors regarding the Black Briars more illicit dealings, a local family and competition for local Mead. The talk is cryptic in nature, but because they are just rumors, with no solid proof. Finrod then thanks Sabjorn for the mead, and leaves. Once outside, without a plan for the day, he sets off east more, down the road. He nears the bridge and the sounds of the river and waterfall fill the air. A favorite spot for Finrod to sit down and remines on past memories. Finrod climbs the small hill on the far side of the river and sits at the rivers edge near the waterfall, and pulls out the apple he bought earlier. Biting into it, there is a loud crisp, "Wow!" He exclaims out loud... thinking to himself how right Ysolda was about the applies being amazing! Juicy and flavorful, he enjoys it rather quickly. Popping the cork off a bottle of mead he sits back and enjoys the view, the winding river and the sounds of the water remind him of home. He sits there, quietly, drinking the mead, wondering whats to become of the day. The sun is shinning bright, the warmth on his skin feels good. There is a slight breeze causing the leaves to rustle around in the nearby trees and bushes. He thinks to himself how he wishes he could trust again, living a life with just mere acquaintances, rather then people he could trust. His thoughts drift back to the war, he recalls first landing in hammerfell, and the intense heat and dryness in the air in the Alik'r Desert. Finrod finds himself constantly thinking back to the war when he is alone, but always quickly snaps out of the memories. A tear forms in his eye as he stands up, refusing to think more on the matter.

Finrod spent a couple hours sitting by the waterfall, and started to head back towards the city. He finds himself often walking about the local land when he has nothing else to do, its all he can do to try to occupy his mind. Walking back to the city he spots some Nirnroot growing on the waters edge, picks it, thinking he may be able to trade it at the Arcadia later for a magic potion or two. After the short walk he enters the city again, once more looking at the Warmaidens, contemplating shopping for a new knife, He thinks back to when his father gave him the knife, many years ago, before the war. A tear forms once again, but he quickly shakes it off, rubbing his eyes, and clearing his throat. Finrod approaches Adrianne, the shop owner outside, he asks to see a few steel knives, not wanting to give up locating his fathers old knife, but reminding himself that he needs one when he leaves the city on adventures around Skyrim to process hunted food. He spends a few moments looking over a few knives she had made up recently, but he finds himself lost in thought once more. Snapping back to reality, he purchases a nice knife finished just this morning. Feeling a little hungry after his small adventure this morning to his favorite spot overlooking the river, he starts to head back towards the market in search of an early lunch.

Lyra was sitting alone at a worn wooden table, taking in the dimly lit interior of the Bannered Mare, her plate of food half-eaten before her. The tavern bustled with activity, even at midday. The air was thick with the aroma of hearty stew and spiced mead. She took a moment to observe her surroundings, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the rough-hewn walls adorned with faded tapestries and mounted trophies from past hunts. The tavern felt warm and inviting, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the outside world.

Her gaze wandered to the other patrons scattered throughout the room, each lost in their own conversations and thoughts. At one corner table, a group of weary travelers huddled together, their faces weathered by the harsh realities of life on the road. Nearby, a pair of jovial miners swapped tales of their latest exploits, their laughter echoing against the wooden beams overhead.

Behind the bar, Hulda bustled about, her apron stained with ale and mead as she tended to the needs of the patrons with practiced efficiency. Lyra offered her a small nod of acknowledgement, grateful for her matronly presence in the tavern full of mostly men. She knew if anyone tried to give her any shit, she would have back-up.

In a corner of the room, an old woman slept soundly in a rocking chair, her weathered features softened by the flickering firelight. Lyra couldn't help but smile at the sight, the rhythmic creaking of the chair lulling her into a sense of tranquility.

As she considered purchasing a room for the evening, Lyra's thoughts drifted back to her meager coin purse. The prospect of spending her hard-earned septims weighed heavily on her mind, uncertainty gnawing at her conscience. She made a mental note to check her funds later, determined to make the most of her limited resources.

The crackling fire stirred memories long buried within Lyra's subconscious, transporting her back to a similar tavern, the one she'd mostly grown up in. She remembered her mother, a barmaiden with a kind heart and a steely resolve, who had worked tirelessly to provide for her family. But the patrons of that tavern were a different breed altogether, rough and rowdy criminals whose leering hazes and suggestive remarks had haunted Lyra since childhood. She recalled the faces of the men who had made her skin crawl, their cruel taunts and racial slurs cutting deep into her soul.

Shaking off the memories of her past, Lyra refocused her attention on the present, the sound of a bard playing Ragnar the Red on his lyre pulling her back to reality. She took a deep breath, letting the familiar melody wash over her, a reminder of the simple joys to be found amidst the chaos of life in Skyrim.

Making his way towards the Bannered Mare, Finrod first stops off at the Arcadia to barter the Nirnroot from this morning for a magic potion or two. Arcadia was reluctant to offer two potions, but decided too anyway, Finrod brings back supplies he forages on his travels to barter with, forming a sort of bond, as customer and shop keep between the two.

Finrod enters the ever so familiar doors, spotting his acquaintance Sinmir still inside, but he has worked his way towards the bar, and is now drinking his fill of mead. Still upset from the numerous flashbacks from his morning walk, Finrod is looking to indulge enough mead to forget them, even if just for a moment. The tavern was lively, full of music and conversation.

As he starts to approach the bar to order a drink and some lunch, he spots the Dark Elf Girl he remembered seeing that morning, pausing to take a moment to inspect her, not taking too long, to avoid being caught staring at her. Hulda, spotting Finrod, calls out "Mead and Beef Stew Finrod?" Finrod nods in agreement, giving off a sense that he frequents the tavern for both food and drink. Standing for a moment, he inspects his surroundings, once again glancing over at the Dark Elf Girl. Interrupted by Sinmir, who had spotted Finrod, at the end of the bar, who had come over to say hello, the two started chatting small talk. It did not last long as Sinmir moves on to the next familiar face.

By this time, Finrods food was ready, he sat down at the end of the bar silently eating and drinking, trying hard not to keep slipping into his memories of the past. He has found it increasingly harder lately to suppress the memories of family, and of home. He lets out an audible sigh, finishing his final bite of stew, then moves back over towards the warmth of the fire, drinking his mead. He sits down on the bench, gazing around the room at the faces, some familiar some not. The feelings of loneliness set in again, as he watches many others having conversations, laughing and drinking, and seemingly enjoying their time with their friends. Quietly he just sits there sipping his mead, wondering when his next excursion may be, and where. Lost in thought the sound of voices, and music seems to fade away, replaced by the sound of battle, another flashback... unaware he is staring into nothing, deep in thought he sits there on the bench...

The bard's melodies faded into the background as the tavern filled with the lively chatter of patrons, the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors. Noon was quickly giving way to early evening, the passage of time marked by the steady stream of newcomers filtering into the tavern. Lyra bristled a bit, not sure if she wanted to be bothered with all the people.

Her gaze drifted lazily across the room, her eyes drawn to the figure of another elf who had just entered. He wasn't particularly remarkable, but the sight of another of her kind never failed to catch her attention. A High Elf, she noted with a twinge of curiosity, their presence in Skyrim an anomaly in itself.

She vaguely recalled whispers of some historical blood-feud between their races, but the details eluded her, lost in the hazy fog of her minimal knowledge of history. She pushed the thought aside, opting instead to quietly observe the newcomer as he mingled with other patrons.

The last remnants of her meal disappeared slowly, her decision to stay the night solidified. The familiar routine of seeking refuge in a the warmth of a tavern's walls felt comforting, a temporary reprieve.

With a determined stride, Lyra made her way back to the bar, where Hulda stood pouring drinks. She signaled for another mead, her hand trembling slightly as she downed it in a single gulp. The alcohol burned a bit as it slid down her throat, its effects mingling with the remnants of skooma from the night before. The room began to spin slightly, warmth enveloping her senses as she leaned against the bar for support.

"Another round, lass?" Hulda's voice cut through the fog, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow. Lyra waved her off with a dismissive gesture, a lopsided grin tugging at her lips. "Just taking the edge off, Hulda," she quipped, her words slurring slightly as she gratefully accepted a third mead.

With a wobbly step, Lyra returned to her previous spot on the bench, her eyes drawn once again to the enigmatic High Elf who sat nearby. He seemed distant, lost in his own thoughts, a shadow of melancholy lingering around him like a shroud. Feeling a surge of boldness fueled by liquid courage, Lyra scooted closer, her curiosity piqued by the air of sadness that surrounded him.

"Hey there, stranger," she chirped, her words a tad too loud in the intimate confines of the tavern. "What's got you looking so glum? Someone steal your sweetroll?" She chuckled at her own joke, though the elf looked less than amused. Undeterred, Lyra pressed on, determined to break through his icy demeanor with her irreverent charm. Did she have charm? She was about to find out.

The sound of battle, cries, magic spells, armor marching, Lost in thought, a nightmare, Finrod snapped out of it at the sound of the Dark Elf Girl who had worked her way over to the bench near him. Surprised, as he now got a closer look, he looks her up and down, before replying, "Sorry... what?" He thought back as to what she had said, "No... I just..." pausing for a moment, trying to learn the girls intention, his natural lack of trust comes out, "I am just enjoying my drink is all" he replies with a seemingly weak and melancholic tone, taking another sip of mead.

Lyra studied the High Elf for a moment, noting the guarded look in his eyes and the tension that seemed to radiate from his every pore. Did elves have pores? She could relate to his apprehension, the familiar weight of distrust settling in her chest.

"Well, enjoying might be a stretch," she replied, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Looks more like you're contemplating the mysteries of the universe in that mug of yours."

She took a sip of her own drink, the warmth of the mead soothing the edges of her nerves. Despite his reluctance to engage, there was something about him that intrigued her, a quiet intensity that belied his stoic exterior.

"Name's Lyra, by the way," she continued, gleefully extending a hand in greeting. "And you?"

Naive girl Finrod thinks, recalling his thoughts of the war, that still haunt him, she couldnt understand... yet Finrod almost spoke about it, confused as to why he thought of talking about it, even if just for a second, seeing her hand extended, he replies "Finrod, Nice to meet you." as he reaches out to meet grasp her hand with a tight firm grip

Across the room, the old woman who had been dozing in the rocking chair stirred, her eyes now wide awake and fixed on the two elves with keen interest.

As Lyra's hand met Finrod's, a strange sensation washed over her, as if the very fabric of reality were shifting beneath her feet. The room blurred and wavered before her eyes, the sounds of the tavern fading into the distance as she was enveloped in a surreal haze.

Suddenly, she was no longer in the Bannered Mare. The familiar warmth of the hearth was replaced by an ethereal glow, bathing the surroundings in an otherworldly light. The air hummed with a soft, melodic resonance, as if the very essence of magic itself danced upon the breeze.

And then, she heard it -- the voice. Soft and soothing, yet imbued with an otherworldy power that sent shivers down her spine. It spoke her name, a whisper on the wind that seemed to resonate within her soul.

"Lyra," it called, the syllables echoing through the caverns of her mind, "You have been chosen."

She tried to respond, to form words, but her voice failed her, lost in the vast expanse of the void. Instead, she listened, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice continued, but seemed to fade in and out. "Prophecy..." she heard, "Destiny..."

"You are destined for greatness," the voice continued, its words weaving a tapestry of fate and fortune. "But you cannot walk this path alone. The man beside you is vital to your journey, bound to you by threads older than time itself."

As the voice spoke, visions flickered before Lyra's eyes -- ancient ruins bathed in moonlight, symbols etched in forgotten tongues, and objects of power beyond mortal comprehension. Each image held a promise, a glimpse of what awaited her on the horizon.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the vision faded, leaving Lyra blinking in the dim light of the tavern once more. She glanced at Finrod beside her, wide-eyed, waiting for confirmation to see if he too experienced what she just did.

Her mind raced with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. Was it real, or merely a trick of the mind brought on by too much skooma? She shook her head, resolving to lay off the substances in the future. Whatever the truth may be, one thing was certain -- her journey was only just beginning.

Their hands met, suddenly, the room went dark and quiet, there was nothing but darkness, and then it started... this wasnt like any vision or flashback he has had before. Images flashed, first of Skywatch... home... the feeling of being pulled away from home by some unknown force... a voice echoed from the distance "Fated..." the vision changed, it became more alive, a waterfall, and then some sort of temple, scared, these images were not familiar, they are not something Finrod has seen before... There were symbols carved in stone, in a language he did not recognize...

A glow, in the distance, grew closer, suddenly an echo from the distance, the voice again said "Fated..." Another vision came back, one Finrod had seen before, the Emblem of the Blades... but why was he seeing this?

Finrod tried to escape but had no sense of direction, the world seemed to spin around him "I must be drunk" Thought Finrod, and as suddenly as it began, it ended.

Breathing fast, reality crept back in, when the world stopped spinning, the sound of the tavern came back, the warmth of the fire. Finrod found himself staring into Lyras eyes, afraid to speak or move, he just stared for what seemed like an eternity, he snapped his hand back quickly, looking down at his mead, back to Lyra, and then back to the mead before finishing the remains of the bottle... "What was that...?" He thought to himself... before meeting Lyras Gaze once more, "Im going to get another drink..." he spoke in an almost panicked voice... then asking Lyra "Care for another?" awaiting her reply, lost in a madhouse of thoughts, trying to comprehend what had just happened. This was nothing like any vision or flashback he had ever had before... and thats what scared him the most.

As the world slowly righted itself around the, Lyra found herself locked in Finrod's gaze, her heart still pounding from the surreal experience she was now sure they had just shared. She watched as he withdrew his hand abruptly, his movements tense and uncertain, a mirror to the turmoil swirling within her own mind.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air between them. Lyra's lips parted, ready to break the silence, but she hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. Was he experiencing the same confusion and disbelief that she was feeling, or was this all part of some elaborate ruse?

As Finrod quickly finished the remnants of his mead and rose to his feet, Lyra's suspicions flared to life once more. Was he trying to escape, to avoid facing the truth of what had just transpired? The thought sent a surge of anger coursing through her veins, her guard rising instinctively to shield her from any potential deception.

"I'll get my own," she declared in response to his query, her voice firm as she rose to her feet, her movements deliberate and controlled. With a measured pace, she made her way to the bar, her eyes never leaving Finrod's form as she ordered another drink for herself. She punched herself mentally, realizing she barely had enough money for this drink, and a room for the night.

Returning to their seat, Lyra settled back, her eyes narrowing as she studied Finrod's expression for any sign of deceit. Had he drugged her? She took a slow sip of her drink, the liquid burning a fiery trail in its wake, her senses on high alert as she awaited any additional response from him.

"So," she began, her voice steady despite the tumultuous storm raging within her, "What do you make of all that?" Her words hung in the air between them, a silent challenge daring him to speak the truth, whatever it may be.

Sitting back on the bench, Mead in hand, Lyra in his sight, mind racing with fear, concern, and pure curiosity... wondering if she had experienced the same thing as he did...

as Lyra asked what Finrod made of all that, it confirmed his thoughts that perhaps something happened to her too... He felt a strange feeling of trust... but he didnt want too... Finrod had grown used to the loneliness that comes from trusting nobody... he has been this way since the Great War, yet, for some strange reason he wants to tell Lyra everything... the vision hes sure they both just shared, the visions and flashbacks he has from his past, the things hes done during the war, about his home, and family... but why... why her...? Why anybody at this point, after going so long with never letting anyone get too close...

Finrod thought for a moment if he should give in to his desire to be honest with Lyra or not... was this some kind of trick or test? Taking a sip of mead, he cleared his throat and said "Then you did see something too?" "I... I dont really know how to explain it" He did, to an extent, but feared being open with someone else still... reluctant to give too many details he continues "It felt sort of like a weird dream...?" a very short pause as he locked eyes with Lyras Red Eyes, feeling overwhelmed with emotion, his voice starting to break slightly, he speaks once more "What did you see..? The room fell silent, as if frozen in time, awaiting her reply...

As Finrod's words hung in the air between them, Lyra felt a surge of both excitement and apprehension. His confirmation that he, too, had experienced the inexplicable vision confirmed her suspicions, stirring a whirlwind of emotions within her.

He saw it too, she thought, her mind racing to make sense of it all, But how? What does it mean?

As she mulled over the implications, memories of her own visions flooded her mind, fragments of her past intertwined with cryptic messages. Visions that alluded to events long-buried in her memory, secrets she had kept hidden even from herself. How could anyone possibly know such intimate details of her life? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a chill of unease mingled with a flicker of curiosity.

Divine intervention, she mused, her thoughts driifting to the gods of Skyrim, beings she had never paid much attention or heed to in the past. Or perhaps... something else entirely.

As she surveyed the tavern, her gaze sweeping over the faces of the patrons, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Had the old woman in the rocking chair, who was sound asleep now, been observing them all along, or was it merely a trick of the mind, a remnant of the visions that still lingered at the edges of her consciousness?

With a decisive nod, Lyra rose from her seat, her determination fueling her actions as she gestured for Finrod to follow. "Not here," she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur as she led him towards the tavern's exit. As she stepped outside into the cool evening air, she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder, her senses on high alert for any signs of unwanted attention.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the old woman stirred from her slumber, her eyes gleaming with an eerie light as she rose to her feet, a silent observer to their every move.

Finrod, confused, almost angry with the situation, because he cant explain the want to follow Lyra outside, despite his lack of trust of others... stands up and follows her outside. Still conflicted over his feelings on the situation, his guard is down, his awareness of his surroundings is nonexistent. Finrod feels almost like hes being pulled to follow Lyra by an unseen, unknown force.

Once outside, the cool air kind of snaps Finrod back to some sense of reality. He motions for Lyra to follow him around the side of the Inn, near the eastern wall. He still cant shake the feeling that something is off, and the distrust of those around him is fueled more so then ever.

"I know a place..." he speaks softly, "Care for a short walk outside the city...?" he asks, unsure if this is the right idea, there is only one place Finrod knows he feels isolation, solace, and tranquility... and he has never told anyone before... Awaiting Lyras reply hes locked into her eyes, watching for any sign of foul play, trickery, anything that could explain what just transpired between the two of them...

In the crisp night air, Lyra felt a weight lift from her shoulders, the suffocating atmosphere of the tavern giving way to a sense of liberation. The cool breeze brushed against her skin, refreshing after the warmth of the crowded inn, offering a moment of respite from the chaos that had unfolded within.

Glancing around, Lyra noted with a mixture of relief and frustration that the streets were considerably emptier than before, the hustle and bustle of midday now replaced by a quieter serenity. Yet, the lingering presence of a few lingering passerby served as a start reminder of their lack of privacy, a barrier to the candid conversation she knew they needed to have.

As Finrod suggested a walk outside the city's walls, Lyra's initial reaction was one of reluctance. Out there? she thought, her grip tightening on the strap of her pack. Away from the safety of Whiterun? I just got here. But even as her instincts screamed for caution, she knew that she couldn't stay hidden within the city's confines forever. With a resigned nod, she acquiesced, her mind already racing with contingency plans should their excursion take a turn for the worse.

As they began to walk, Lyra stole a sidelong glance at Finrod, her eyes tracing the contours of his face. Tall and imposing, with a square jaw and golden hair that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, he exuded an otherworldly aura that both intrigued and unsettled her. Who are you, really? she wondered, her gaze lingering on the faint scars that marred his skin, creeping out from beneath the collar of his tunic, a testament to the trials he had surely endured.

Despite her curiosity, Lyra remained guarded, keeping her distance as they walked, the silence between them punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of their footsteps on the cobblestone path. She couldn't afford to let her guard down, not yet. After all, they were still strangers, only bound together by a shared experience that defied explanation. And until she knew more about him, she would keep it that way.

Why her... Why me... what was that strange vision, Finrods mind racing with thoughts, as Lyra followed behind, the duo headed towards the cities gates. Am I sure I can trust her?...

As the pair exited the city and down the path, Finrods mind started to replay the images he had seen just before... What do they Blades have to do with anything?... Finrod recounting his knowledge that the Blades once resided in the Skyhaven Temple in western Skyrim... But what were the strange symbols? I think I have seen words similar before...but where?

Finrod is questioning everything at this moment, most of all, his unexplainable sense to want to trust Lyra, which causes him to want to trust her less at the same time... Still yet, he is going to bring her to his serene retreat... As they continue down the road south east of the city, Finrod decides to try to break the silence and unending tension between the duo.

"So... Lyra, what brought you to Whiterun?" He asked hoping for some sense of clue as to her appearance and then their seemingly shared vision.

With each step they took, the distance between them and the safety of Whiterun seemed to stretch further, the sounds of the city fading into the distance until all that remained was the eerie silence of the wilderness. Lyra’s heart raced, her senses on high alert as her mind raced with a thousand possibilities of what could go wrong. Where is he taking me? she wondered, her eyes darting nervously around their surroundings.

As they veered off the beaten path, Lyra’s unease only grew, the absence of any signs of civilization amplifying her sense of vulnerability. What if he’s leading me into a trap? she thought, her fingers dancing over the handle of her mace. Despite her best efforts to push the intrusive thoughts aside, she couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that clawed at her mind, whispering of all the horrors that might befall a lone traveler in the wilderness.

Glancing again at Finrod, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension that lingered in the air between them, a silent acknowledgement of the danger that may lurk in the shadows. She knew he could easily best her in combat if he chose, by sheer size alone, but she couldn’t shake the inexplicable sense of trust that tugged her on, compelling her to follow him further into the unknown.

“What brought me to Whiterun?”, Lyra echoed, her voice tinged with uncertainty as she grappled with how much to reveal. Why indeed? Her thoughts drifted back to the events that had led her to this moment, but it was too much to bear herself, let alone to declare willy-nilly to a man she’d just met. She settled on, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”. Stupid, Lyra! Stupid!

Despite her reservations, she couldn’t ignore the sense of camaraderie between the pair, fragile a thread as it was. Their shared uncertainty — and maybe fear — drove them forward.

With each passing moment, Lyra found herself torn between the instinctual need to protect herself, and the inexplicable desire to trust Finrod. “He is vital to your journey,” the voice had said. Lyra didn’t like the idea of relying on some guy for everything, even if he didn’t seem to mean her any harm. The fragile tendrils of trust wove their way through the cracks in her defenses, but deep down, she knew that trusting him could be the very thing that led to her downfall.

Wouldn't you like to know? annoyed at the clear sign of deflection, Finrod ignored the reply, {i]What is she hiding?[/i] The unknowing... The sound of the wind blowing through the trees, added an ambiance to the natural beauty of the Whiterun wilderness, The sound of the Waterfall coming from the distance. I feel some sort of connection to this Elf... yet I dont know who she is.. Finrods mind races back to his past once more... or so he thought. Suddenly an overwhelming sense of comfort swallows Finrod.

A vision of the waterfall comes to mind, sitting as always, taking in the beauty around him, yet, he was not alone. Quickly Finrod snaps out of it, focused on the path ahead, the bridge nears. Once more he glances back to Lyra, still following, trying to figure out her motives, driving Finrod mad with questions, seeking answers he replies "Who wouldn't? Its not common for Elves to reside in Skyrim" A question Finrod has been asking time and time before... never telling the truth, a simple tale of exploration, and adventure is what he shares, but only he knows the dark truth that haunts his every moment...

Stopping for a moment before crossing the bridge, awaiting Lyras reply, Finrod turns and looks at her. Why does she trust me to follow me... why do I trust her? I need to get some answers...