64 Omake: Rapturous Scrolls

"My Thane, I am sworn to carry your burdens," Lydia started.

"Hm," the Dragonborn held their chin in their hands in thought.

The wooden doors loomed ominously in front of them.

"But this time, I must refuse," the housecarl continued.

"I agree with Lydia," Serana chimed in.

"It's not that bad."

"Slaying Alduin the Worldeater in Sovernguard wasn't 'that bad.'" Lydia said sarcastically. "Miraak, the first Dragonborn wasn't 'that bad.' Stopping the civil war wasn't 'that bad.' This is so much worse than all of those. Combined."

"You're exaggerating. What's the worst that could happen?"

"That's what you said before we went to a random cave and found the Wolf Queen being resurrected."

"Or when you decided to go vampire hunting and helped start the apocalypse," Serana sighed.

"I'm glad I did. And it all worked out in the end. So will this. Come on, it will be fun. Where's your sense of adventure, you two?"

"I remember you said something similar before having a drink with Sam Guevenne," Serana smirked, getting a glare from the Dragonborn.

"We agreed never to speak of that!"

"And yet, here we are, doing the same thing again," Lydia sighed, her head falling into her hands. "Only ten times worse."

"It will be quick. In and out," the Thane tried to persuade. "Think of the shouts I could learn."

"Think of the damage!" Lydia pointed skyward.

The Dragonborn very pointedly did not look up at the night sky, even if the new moons were gorgeous. White and Blue orbs of different sizes against the darkness of space.

That one of them was a body was of no consequence.

"Well, I am going in," they declared, getting glairs from the two women. The Dragonborn remained firm. They weren't the type to cower in fear.

And if their hands were shaking a bit when they opened the door, nobody said anything.

As soon as the door to Jorrvaskr opened, the trio was almost blasted back by the cacophonous sounds.

(There was a dose of irony there, one the Dragonborn did not notice till much later.)

Laughter filled the hall of the Companions, as did cheers, jeers, and raucous singing.

Now, the Dragonborn was familiar with the Companions. (They better be, they were the Harbinger.) So they recognized some familiar faces.

Ria was singing along to a war ballad played by an attractive Khajit/Argonian/Imperial woman.

Vikas and Farkas were in a drinking competition with a bodacious blonde in a green shirt and a dark-skinned woman.

Skjor was trying (and failing) to seduce a woman with one eye and auburn hair.

Vignar Gray-mane was deep into his cups and had joined three new recruits in an arm wrestling competition. Only they were all competing against the same blue woman simultaneously. And loosing.

Njada was holding her own competition with another new face. The tall, dark-haired woman in gold and red armour was holding her own as the pair competed in a thumb war, of all things.

Athis was part of a cheering crowd that surrounded a pit where Torvar was squaring off, fists raised against another bodacious blond, this one in blue.

Earlund Gray-mane was off to the side, talking with a Mer with long purple hair. Judging by the way they were gesticulating to each other, they were talking shop.

Not too far, also off to the side, Tilma the Haggard was resting her weary head in her hand. Occasionally she would reach for some more coffee, sharing a pitcher with the dark-haired woman who watched the party with a small smile.

It was a loud, rowdy mess. Any time someone finished their drink, a pitcher of ale or mead would float over and pour some more, ensuring nobody ever went without. Food appeared on plates, only for half of it to disappear in an instant as a chubby cat devoured it. Music filled the hall, echoing over the din. Some people danced, but they were a rarity.

If that had been all, the Dragonborn and their companions would not have hesitated to enter. But the problem wasn't the Companions or the party. Even if it was the third day straight that it had been going on.

The problem was that everyone who had entered since it began had not escaped.

A drunk Balgruph the Greater danced a jig wildly, arm slung over the shoulder of Sanguine, The Daedric Prince of Revelry.

The same dark-haired woman sipping coffee with Tilma was also chatting casually to the floating eyes of Hermaeus Mora.

Hircine was having a staring contest with the fat cat that kept eating all the food, even as said cat sat on the lap of Namira. The Deadric Prince of Hunger seemed enamoured with stroking its fur.

The shadows in the corner of the building twisted unnaturally as Nocturnal tried to flirt with a deadpan Dunmer.

Azura floated on her back above the crowd, belting out songs off-key and giggling to herself.

And it wasn't just the Daedra that were present.

"You made it!" Mikael stood from where he was laughing with Akatosh and Talos, his arms spread wide in greeting at the three (terrified) arrivals. "I thought the invitation got lost in the mail."

"No-"

"AH!!" Mikael screamed in pain, interrupting the Dragonborn. Blood splattered the floor at their feet as the trio jumped away, hands falling to their weapons.

Nobody else in the building blinked.

"Aela, you crazy bitch!" Mikael cursed as he bent down and yanked the arrow from the back of his leg. "What is with you Nords and knees!?"

"Fuck me!" The redhead archer yelled over the crowd, and another arrow knocked on her bow.

"No!" Mikael denied vehemently, ducking under the arrow. "Scathach? Can you grab the horny dog? I'll be done in a moment."

The new redhead, unfamiliar to the Dragonborn but with hair that reminded them of blood rather than fire, stood from where she had been arguing with Kynareth and Zenithar. Scathach lunged, tackling the horny werewolf into a tumble of limbs that caught Mara and Dibella in their wake.

It was not a coincidence both Aedra were so close to the huntress. Nor that they had been talking to an overwhelmed Eli1sif the Fair, trying to get her to join.

"Sorry about that," Mikael apologized, absently ducking as a chair flew over his head and smashed against the wall. "It's a bit rowdy for introductions, but I'll do the rounds later. First, you three need a drink. We have ale, mead, and Scathach's special brew."

"Special brew?" Lydia couldn't help but ask, morbidly curious.

"Not really intended for mortals, but you can have a sip," Mikael waived down a flying jug and poured a cup. "Any more than that, and you won't remember the next month, so share."

Lydia looked at the smiling man, the mess around her, the Dragonborn, and then the mess again.

She downed the entire cup.

"HA!" A voice shouted nearby. Sheogorath sauntered up to the group, yelling at the man he had flung over his shoulder. "Martin! You owe me six cheese wheels and a sweet roll!"

"Fine, urp," the man burped. "Now, put me down! Or you're going to be wearing that sweet roll instead."

"You always say the nicest things," the Lord of Madness said, whipping a fake tear from his eyes. "But I'm not hungry. I'm thirsty! Hastil! Where's my soup?"

"Here, sir," a long-suffering voice said as a butler, who hadn't been there a second ago, passed the Daedric Prince a gallon of the Special Brew.

Serana took a cup for herself and downed it as well.

"Looks like your friends are ready to party," Mikael grinned at the Dragonborn, pouring a third cup and holding it out to the Dragonborn. "You aren't going to leave them alone, will you?"

In the flickering light of the flames, the shadows of the revellers dancing on the wall, the cup held a demonic appeal to the hero of Skyrim. Mikael's smile, at once inviting as it was sinister, widened as the Dragonborn took the cup from his hands.

In the end, the Dragonborn put up a valiant but fruitless fight.

With no allies, no weapons, and wholly unfamiliar with their foes, they were defeated on the fourth day after a long-fought battle.

The Party would go on for a week.