Dagnell and Roggi Knot-Beard headed north out of Kynesgrove early the next morning, after he said goodbye to Kjeld and passed along some pointers about the spots he’d been digging in most recently. It was a decent morning; cold as usual in this part of Skyrim, but sunny. Dag was still uncomfortable, though, and marveled to see Roggi hiking along in his thin clothing as if there wasn’t even a nip in the air. Nords. They still baffled her.
It was pleasant to have company. Roggi chattered about nothing in particular, identifying bird calls, pointing at outcroppings of minerals, and other unimportant things. It didn’t matter. She’d been walking alone and in silence for a long while, and the sound of a voice other than the sarcastic one living in the back of her head was welcome indeed.
Roggi also showed himself to be a fine marksman. Several wolves came out on the road to snarl at them along the way; he simply pulled his plain hunting bow and calmly picked them off before she even had a chance to draw, as though he hunted wolves every day. As they walked up to one of the carcasses and she prepared to skin it, she heard him mutter “stupid dog” and ended up with a fit of giggles. It was a much more pleasant approach to Windhelm than it had been the first time.
Oengul recognized Dag from her previous visit to his smithy, and was happy to buy the load of wolf pelts from her. “I need to get my friend outfitted, if you have anything reasonable available,” she told him, pointing to Roggi who was happily chatting with the apprentice. She was smiling coyly at him and had a flush to her cheeks that gave her away; she was flirting up a storm with him. Oengul smirked, but said “he looks like a boy who could use a good solid greatsword. What say you?”
“Um,” Dag thought, glancing over at Roggi herself, “I really don’t know. I thought he was more the sword and shield sort, but I could be wrong. I don’t do two-handed weapons myself. Do you have a good one?”
“Of course I do,” he said, pulling a beautifully-crafted steel piece out of his collection. “Come over here for a moment, son,” he called to Roggi.
Roggi glanced at them, confused. “Me?” Dag nodded, struggling to suppress a laugh. Roggi shook his head but walked over to Oengul, who handed him the sword. The apprentice sighed and went back to her metal.
“Try that out.”
Roggi examined the sword, sighting down its length, then took it in both hands, testing its weight. He swung hard, a swift, controlled, efficient vertical stroke that would easily take almost anything in its path apart at the seams, followed by a quick, diagonal upward slice and a cut back to the side. He nodded. “It’s a fine sword.”
Dag’s mouth was open. He was a natural. Of course, she thought. Pickaxe. That’s where that stroke came from. Still, she hadn’t expected him to look like someone who had been sword fighting every day for years. “Ok, Oengul,” she said, trying to collect her thoughts. “We’ll take that. You two figure out some armor.”
While Roggi talked armor with Oengul, Dag walked over to the apprentice, who was working on a handsome set of greaves. “Nice work,” she said. The girl glanced up at Dag and sighed, then went back to her work. “Is he your husband?” she asked, nodding at Roggi, looking a bit sour.
Dag spent a split second being astonished, then threw her head back and cackled. “Mine? Oh no, dear, I’m not married, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t either. We’re just friends.” The girl brightened up considerably, and she smiled. “Neither is Ulfric, you know,” she whispered slyly. “I’m hoping I’ll be allowed to work on some of his armor. It would be a great honor.”
Dag had to stifle a giggle. “It would indeed,” she agreed. Husband shopping was one thing, but the Jarl of Windhelm seemed a bit of a stretch for a smith’s apprentice.
Roggi was slipping into a nice set of ranger’s armor, boots, and gauntlets as she returned to him. It looked a bit sparse on coverage to her, especially now that the clouds had moved back in over Windhelm and the snow was threatening again, but she wasn’t about to argue with him about it. It had been hard enough to get him to agree with the purchase in the first place. “Helmet?” she asked.
“No, I’ll be fine without one. This is more than enough.”
Dag paid Oengul for Roggi’s things, ignoring the subtle sneers he was giving her. Yes, I’m paying for the man’s gear. Say one word about it to him and I’ll belt you in the nose; it bothers him enough as it is. She made sure her eyes were passing the message along. It felt really fine to be able to just buy the things and not worry too much about the cost, she realized, settling her coin purse back into her leathers. Brynjolf was better than she’d given him credit for; she did enjoy having money and he’d seen that about her. She was pretty good at reading people, but it was looking more and more to her as if he was better.
As they were getting ready to leave, Roggi chuckled. “Son. First time anyone’s called me that in years.” His smile faded. “Too many years,” he muttered, softly enough that she wasn’t even sure she’d heard it.
“You’re just a growing boy, Roggi,” she laughed. “I have to say I’m more than a little impressed with your sword form.”
He smiled. “Eh. It’s nothing. It’s just something I picked up when I was younger.”
“His apprentice seemed to appreciate the view, too,” she teased him.
“What?” Roggi looked at her in obvious confusion. “What are you saying?”
“You don’t know when a girl is flirting with you, my friend?” Dag laughed.
He blushed. Oh how hard it must be to be as pale as a Nord, she thought; there’s no way to hide a blush at all. Unless you wear a black hood, I guess, she grinned, remembering Brynjolf’s long-suffering sigh.
“I… I never even thought about it,” he stammered, giving Dag another confused look. “I wasn’t…”
Dagnell just laughed. “It’s ok, Roggi. Really. She was just flirting. It’s actually a bit surprising you’re even available to be flirted with.”
She had meant that to be a light-hearted nothing, but Roggi frowned as he adjusted his gear, his eyes going dark for a moment. He turned and stomped away from the marketplace, toward the main gates of Windhelm.
Dag stood motionless for a moment wondering what she had done, and what she might be able to do to repair it. Then she hurried to catch up to Roggi. Near the gates, Rolff and his friend were accosting a Dunmer woman again, a different one than Dag had met earlier. This woman was tiny, and quite clearly nervous.
“You grayskin trash,” Rolff was yelling. “Get out of our city. You’re not welcome here.”
The woman cringed backward a bit, and Rolff stepped forward menacingly. To Dag’s surprise, Roggi strode up to him.
“What did you say to her?”
Rolff scowled at Roggi. “I told her to get out. Filthy gray-skins.”
Roggi didn’t answer him. He merely balled his hand into a fist and sent Rolff flying backwards into a snow pile with a punch that made an audible crack. Rolff didn’t get up; he just moaned.
Dag stood there with her mouth open. By the Eight, she thought, where did that come from?
Roggi sneered at Rolff. “You call yourself a Nord? You’re just a dog. You’re not even fit to do Ulfric’s dirty work for him. Stay down there, dog.” Then he turned and walked over to Dag. “Let’s get going,” he said, settling his gear and moving toward the gates.
“Roggi,” Dag gasped, astonished, trotting to catch up. “What was that all about?”
He frowned. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh, even more so than it had been when he had gotten angry about having his bar tab forgiven. “You no doubt noticed that I work with a Dunmer. Dravynea. She lives next door to me. She’s one of my best friends. They’re just people, like anybody else, and their families have been in Skyrim for two hundred years or more. I’m a true Nord, but I don’t like the way they treat Dunmer here, sticking them all down in the slum and giving them no help. I don’t like the way they treat them in lots of places, but Windhelm’s the worst and nobody tells people like him any different, including the high and mighty Jarl of Windhelm. So I just did.”
Dag opened her mouth and then closed it again. She had no idea what to say. There was such … vitriol in his voice speaking of the Jarl. She realized that she didn’t know that much about Roggi, but even so she was taken aback at the difference between what she’d just seen and the jovial mead aficionado she’d had dinner with the previous night.
It wasn’t as though Dag didn’t understand the sentiment, though. “He’s going to be mighty sore,” she murmured. “I beat him up not too long ago. For the same reason. I hope someone will see to his nose. I think you broke it.” Roggi shot her a sideways glance, then smirked.
As they headed out the big iron doors and across Windhelm’s icy bridge, he relaxed by degrees. Dag trudged along beside him, not knowing what to say and frankly more than a little unsettled. Finally, he gave her a small smile.
“So it’s Whiterun, yes? We can go two ways from here. One is back to the south on the other side of the river, or we could go west into snow country and then south.”
Dag grimaced at him. “South. Definitely south. I hate being cold.”
He snickered. “It’s not cold. It’s just a little snow.”
Dag smacked him in the arm. “Nords. You people are impossible. You’d probably melt where I come from.” Then she laughed. “You know, about Rolff. I see you’ve been practicing your swing since the first time I saw you. That was pretty impressive.”
Roggi smiled. “You don’t miss much, do you? I had let myself get out of shape. It seemed like time to take care of that after a little Redguard girl took me down. I’m still not back to my best but a bit of training never hurts.”
“Hey, watch it. Little Redguard girl will take you on again,” she growled in a mock-angry tone but unable to keep the smirk off her face.
He settled into a pace that would cover ground while not exhausting either of them, the pace of an experienced traveler. Dag glanced at him, pondering. I can’t figure this out, she thought, no matter what he thinks of my observational skills. I wonder what it is that I can’t see.
Just before they turned south into the forest, Dag stopped to adjust her boot. When she looked up, Roggi was standing in the snow-packed roadway, looking west toward the mountains. He seemed a million miles away.
