I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor stood amidst the bustling activity of Helgen, the sounds of hammering and sawing a constant backdrop to his day. He'd delegated the construction of the new barracks to Benor, whose booming voice and no-nonsense attitude kept the workers in line. Annekke and Kharjo were meticulously reviewing the latest trade agreements, their combined financial acumen proving invaluable. Even Golldir, when not tending his medicinal garden, could be found assisting Derkeethus in the newly reopened mines.

His own time was split between overseeing these efforts and maintaining his connection to the Thieves Guild. It was a delicate balancing act, one that required careful planning and swift action. One moment he'd be discussing resource allocation with Annekke, the next he'd be slipping into the shadows of Riften, answering the call of the Ragged Flagon.

Tonight, it was Delvin's summons that drew him to the dimly lit tavern. 

"Ibnor," Delvin greeted, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Got a special job for you. I want you to head out to Markarth and speak to Endon. He's a silversmith... has some kind of a shop there. His father was a good friend of the Guild back in the day, and we could really use his family's influence back on our side."

"Endon?" Ibnor raised an eyebrow. He knew of the influential Silver-Blood family and their connections throughout Skyrim. Most importantly, this job should be a major one, one that helps to secure a connection with an influential person of a major city.

"Alright. I'm going." Ibnor stood up and left. 

He traveled to Markarth, finding Endon at the Silver-Blood Inn, nursing a drink at the bar. The man looked relieved to see him. 

"Delvin Mallory sent me," Ibnor stated, his voice even.

"Oh thank goodness! I wasn't sure where else to turn..." Endon's shoulders visibly slumped with relief. 

"Just start from the beginning."

He paced a short distance, then turned back to Ibnor. 

"Several months ago I ordered a special silver mold from some artisans in Valenwood by way of a Khajiit Caravan. Well, it never arrived. Later I found out that it was robbed by a group of bandits led by someone named Rigel Strong-Arm."

"Why seek the Guild's aid in this? Surely the Jarl's guard…" Ibnor raised an eyebrow. 

Endon sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

"Look, I've gone to everyone. The Jarl, the Steward, even the Housecarl. They all say their hands are tied, resources stretched too thin with… well, with everything that's happening. Word on the street says that the Thieves Guild is coming back into its own in Markarth so I figured..." He trailed off, a hopeful look in his eyes.

"Send a thief to steal back what was stolen," Ibnor finished for him.

"Exactly," Endon confirmed. "Look, this mold is irreplaceable. I'll pay you well for its return and I can also prove to be quite a valuable ally to the Thieves Guild."

"Then there's no time to waste," Ibnor said, already turning to leave.

"Indeed," Endon agreed. "The only thing I can tell you is that the mold was taken to the bandit's hideout... a small cottage called Pinewatch. I'm not sure how many men they have inside, but I trust that won't be an issue for you. Good luck."

Leaving the inn, he made his way towards Pinewatch, a small, unassuming cottage nestled amongst the pines. Upon entering, he was met by a gruff-looking Nord named Rhorlak.

"You lost, friend?" Rhorlak challenged, his hand instinctively moving towards the axe at his hip.

Ibnor opted for diplomacy. "Just passing through. Heard there might be some trouble here." He subtly slipped a few coins into Rhorlak's hand. "Perhaps you could tell me more?"

Rhorlak's demeanor softened considerably. "Alright, alright," he grumbled, pocketing the coins. "There's more to this place than meets the eye. Basement. Bookcase. Button." He winked. "That's all I'm saying."

Ibnor thanked him and proceeded to the basement. Examining the bookcase, he found a small, almost hidden button. Pressing it, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a dark passage leading downwards.

The bandits of Pinewatch were more highwaymen than disciplined guards, their haphazard security a welcome opening for Ibnor. He moved through the initial chambers and corridors like a wraith, a shadow among shadows. The damp stone walls offered convenient concealment, and the uneven earthen floor muffled his footsteps to near silence. A loose plank here, a carelessly stacked pile of crates there—each provided a vantage point to observe the bandits' erratic patrols. One guard, slumped against a barrel, snored softly, utterly oblivious as Ibnor drifted past. Two others, absorbed in a game of knucklebones, presented an even simpler opportunity. Ibnor approached from behind, a hand clamped over one's mouth as his dagger slid home. The man slumped soundlessly to the ground, his companion unaware until Ibnor's blade pressed against his throat. A whispered threat, and the second bandit surrendered without a struggle.

Deeper within the complex, the crude tunnels transitioned into more deliberate stonework, hinting at a more established, perhaps more sinister, presence. Here, the bandits were marginally more vigilant, though their patrols remained predictable and their conversations carelessly loud. Their voices echoed through the narrow passages, providing ample warning of their approach. Ibnor exploited the environment to his advantage, scaling ledges, dropping silently from darkened alcoves, and using the flickering torchlight to cast deceptive shadows. A tripwire, almost invisible to the untrained eye, was sidestepped with practiced ease. A pressure plate concealed beneath a scatter of rubble was disarmed with a swift, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist.

When stealth became impossible, Ibnor's efficiency was brutal and swift. A bandit rounding a corner found himself staring into the cold steel of Ibnor's blade before he could even draw breath to shout. The ensuing combat was a whirlwind of precise, economical movements, a blur of steel in the dim light. Each strike was calculated for maximum effect, each parry swift and decisive. A quick exchange, a precise counter-thrust, and the bandit crumpled to the floor, another silent testament to Ibnor's deadly skill. He continued his advance through the winding tunnels, navigating a gauntlet of simple but effective traps—a swinging blade triggered by a tripwire here, a volley of poisoned darts released by a pressure plate there—and dispatching the remaining guards with ruthless efficiency. Finally, he reached Rigel Strong-Arm's chambers. The air here was noticeably different: heavier, thick with the cloying sweetness of expensive perfume that clashed sharply with the damp, musty odor of the caves. He was close. 

Rigel, a formidable woman with a scarred face and a hardened gaze, was seated at a table, inspecting a map. Ibnor could see the silver mold resting on the table beside her. He could try to sneak past her, but the room was small and the risk of detection was high. He decided on a direct approach.

"Rigel Strong-Arm?" he called out, his voice calm and even.

"Who in Oblivion are you? And how'd you find your way in here?" She looked up, her eyes narrowing. 

"I'm here for the mold," Ibnor said, gesturing towards the silver object. Rigel let out a harsh laugh. 

"You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands." She stood, drawing a wicked-looking axe.

Ibnor sighed. He preferred to avoid unnecessary conflict, but he was on a tight schedule. He drew his own blade, the polished steel reflecting the light from the torches. 

"Let's make this quick then."

The ensuing fight was short but adrenaline pumping. Rigel was strong, but Ibnor was faster and more agile. He dodged her wild swings, countering with precise strikes that forced her back. Finally, with a swift move, he disarmed her and held his blade to her throat.

"The mold," he repeated.

Rigel, realizing she was defeated, nodded curtly. Ibnor retrieved the mold and left Rigel unharmed. He navigated back through the caves, leaving the now-dispirited bandits behind.

Back in Markarth, Ibnor presented the mold to a grateful Endon. He held it out. 

"I have your silver mold."

"You've more than proven that the Thieves Guild is back on its feet in our city and earned every bit of your reward. Tell Delvin that he can count on me to provide the influence around here with the right people when he needs it. If you're ever looking to sell any illegally obtained merchandise, I'd also provide my services as a fence. It's the least I can do."

Ibnor returned to the Ragged Flagon, the familiar smoky air and hushed conversations a welcome change from Solitude's chill wind. There, he found Delvin nursing a tankard at his usual table.

"I hear Endon's right pleased to have his merchandise back," Delvin said, a wide grin spreading across his face. "He's a powerful ally in Markarth. Should help the Guild regain a foothold in the west." He clapped Ibnor on the shoulder. "And it's not just Markarth. We're starting to grow, Ibnor. We've even got a new merchant setting up shop right outside the Flagon. It's good to shake the cobwebs off and get things rolling again. Keep this up, and I can see a proper bounty headed our way."

Ibnor started to turn away. 

"Alright then, if that's all…"

"Hold on," Delvin interrupted. "There's one more thing."

"Hmm? What is it?" Ibnor paused. 

"Words just come down from Solitude. Erikur's got a proposition – some kind of shill job. Needs a delicate touch."

"Really?" Ibnor sighed. "You couldn't have mentioned this before I came all the way back?"

"It just arrived," Delvin insisted. "And it specifically asks for our best. That means you."

"Fine." Ibnor ran a hand through his hair. "Erikur, you say? That snobby, self-important merchant Thane?" He knew the name well – a prominent Nord merchant with influence that stretched throughout Haafingar.

"Aye," Delvin confirmed. "He's not known for his warm welcomes, so keep your wits about you. Do this right, and we'll have a valuable friend in Solitude. Could help the Guild get a foothold there again."

Ibnor nodded. "I understand." 

He traveled to Solitude, finding Erikur in the Blue Palace, amidst the polished floors and hushed conversations of the court. He approached the merchant. 

"Delvin Mallory said you have work for me."

"It's about time you got here. I'm not accustomed to dealing with unreliable people. That's why I asked Delvin to send me his best." Erikur's lips thinned in a display of barely contained impatience.

"Let's just get to work," Ibnor replied, cutting to the chase.

"That's more like it," Erikur conceded. He gestured for Ibnor to follow him to a more secluded corner of the palace. 

"Nothing raises my ire more than a broken agreement. It's bad for business and it wastes time. Captain Volf of the Dainty Sload has decided to test my patience by neglecting to honor a trade agreement we had established."

"I assume this is where I enter the picture," Ibnor said.

"Precisely. I need you to help me show him the error of his ways by sneaking aboard the Sload and planting some contraband."

"What sort of contraband?" Ibnor inquired.

"You'll need to get your hands on some Balmora Blue from Sabine Nyette down by the docks. She's the first mate on another ship, the Red Wave. Once you get your hands on it, I want you to plant it in Captain Volf's footlocker. I'll take care of the rest."

"Consider it done," Ibnor affirmed.

"Captain Volf is ashore right now, and I want the authorities waiting for him when he gets back," Erikur added. "Now get going… I don't want to see your face until the job's done."

Before heading to the docks, Ibnor pressed Erikur for more information. "You have any information on the Red Wave?"

"There's pirates, and then there's the crew of the Red Wave," Erikur replied. "They're in a class by themselves. They usually make runs along the coast, shipping all sorts of contraband to and from Morrowind. Rumor has it they can get you anything for the right price."

"What exactly is Balmora Blue?" Ibnor asked.

"Not sure of the specifics," Erikur admitted. "I know it starts with Moon Sugar, but all sorts of other ingredients are added to increase its potency. Used to be a lucrative underworld commodity when Balmora was still standing. Now the stuff is beyond valuable. It's also very illegal. Anyone caught with Balmora Blue looks forward to rotting in jail for a very long time."

Ibnor left the Blue Palace and headed to the docks, where the Red Wave was moored near the East Empire Company Warehouse. Sabine Nyette stood on deck, looking out over the harbor.

"I'm looking for some Balmora Blue," Ibnor said as he approached.

"Well then, you're talking to the right person," Sabine replied. "I'm the only one left in Tamriel that can get my hands on it. It's damn near impossible to find anymore. You want to buy it off of me? It's 1,500 gold."

"That price is outrageous!" Ibnor exclaimed, feigning surprise at her exorbitant asking price.

"I'm sorry you feel my illegal contraband is overpriced, perhaps you should bring it up at the next merchant guild meeting. " Sabine retorted with a sarcastic edge. "Look, you want it, I got it. You know the price, so talk to me when you want to cough up the gold."

"Any other way to earn it?" Ibnor pressed.

"I'm afraid not," Sabine said. "How else can a poor, overworked sailor like myself expect to earn a living?"

Ibnor considered his options. He could pay the exorbitant sum, but he preferred a more… economical approach. It's not like he doesn't know where she kept the Balmora Blue. He decided to try his luck with a bit of light-fingered work. While Sabine's attention was momentarily diverted, he deftly picked her pocket, retrieving the key to the chest. He then slipped over the side of the dock and swam beneath the Red Wave. Locating the locked chest, he used the key to open it and retrieved the Balmora Blue.

Balmora Blue in hand, Ibnor went to the Dainty Sload. Its dark shape stood out against the Solitude lighthouse. Two corsairs watched the ship: one looked at the rough sea, the other walked back and forth on the deck. Ibnor watched them. He waited for the right time—when the walking guard turned away and the other looked at a far-off ship. Then, he moved quickly and quietly across the walkway onto the ship, disappearing into the shadows of the ropes.

Inside, the Dainty Sload was a tight maze of small hallways and dark rooms. It smelled of salt, fish, and old beer. More corsairs walked below, their loud voices and heavy steps echoing through the ship. Ibnor moved carefully, using every dark spot and hidden corner. He quietly stopped those he had to with the classic way, a quick hand over their mouth and a fast stab with his knife while making sure it was quick and quiet. When he could, he just walked past unaware crew or waited in dark places until they left.

He went down into the ship, walking through the confusing hallways until he got to the captain's room. The door was open a little, a line of light showing in the hallway. He listened closely but heard nothing inside. He slowly opened the door, showing a small, plain room. Captain Volf's footlocker, a strong chest with iron bands, was at the end of his bed. Ibnor quickly put the Balmora Blue inside, pushing the small bag deep into some rough clothes. He made sure it was hidden well, then quietly left the room and walked back the way he came, leaving the Dainty Sload as quietly as he entered.

Returning to the Blue Palace, Ibnor found Erikur waiting for him. 

"I've planted the contraband on the Dainty Sload," he reported.

"Yes, I know," Erikur replied, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. 

"In fact, by now, Captain Volf should be on his way to the prisons. Our contract is complete. Here's a token of my gratitude for your efforts." Erikur handed Ibnor a few spell tomes. "Oh, convey my compliments to Delvin for me. Tell him I'll be happy to reopen whatever doors he needs in Solitude."

Back in the Ragged Flagon, Ibnor relayed the events to Delvin. 

"Erikur assures me that Captain Volf will spend pretty much the rest of his life clapped in irons," Delvin said, grinning. "Best of all, he's also pledged to open doors for us in Solitude and to get things rollin' again. We're still growin' by leaps and bounds thanks to you. Another merchant's just moved into the space outside the Flagon. You're a natural. Never seen anythin' like it. We've got a long way to go, but don't let that bother you… it's a lot farther than we've been in years."

"Alright, I need to get back to Helgen now."

"Right, it isn't right for the Thane to disappear for too long." Delvin chuckled.

They heard a commotion from Dirge. 

"That's interesting. Why should I care? You here for a drink, or just a few broken bones?" Dirge's voice hardened, a clear warning to the cloaked figure before him.

"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?"

"Yeah. That's what it'll take," Dirge scoffed.

"So be it."

The cloaked figure lunged, throwing a powerful punch at Dirge. But before it could connect, Ibnor stepped between them, intercepting the blow with his open palm, stopping it dead in its tracks. 

"Easy there, firecracker," Ibnor said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he regarded the cloaked figure. "You really need to work on that temper, Harin."

"Ibnor! How… Why… Damn! I missed you!" Harin launched herself into his arms, wrapping her limbs around him like a koala.

"Don't mean to interrupt," Delvin drawled, "but what's all this, then?"

"Ah, yes… sorry about that, Dirge," Ibnor said, disentangling himself slightly. "This is Harin, a… close associate. I can vouch for her. Would you mind sharing the information she's after?"

"A friend, is she?" Dirge grunted, eyeing Harin with suspicion. 

"Well… suppose it's alright." He relented. "Don't know the fellow's name, but there's one fitting that description holed up down here. Paid good coin for discretion. She ain't the first to come sniffing around, neither. Tell her to tread carefully."

"Who else has been asking about him?" Ibnor's tone sharpened.

"Shady sorts I've never laid eyes on before," Dirge replied. "I'd watch my back if I were her."

Ibnor glanced at Harin. 

"You hear that?" He turned back to her, a wry amusement in his eyes. "Now, as much as I appreciate the welcome, how much longer are you planning to use me as a climbing post?"

Harin finally released him, but then reached up, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw. Her brow furrowed. 

"Your beard's grown." A note of disapproval crept into her voice. "I don't like it. Shave it. Now."

"Wha…? Of all the…" Ibnor sputtered, incredulous.

"Shave it, or I'll refuse to speak to you!" she declared, cutting him off with a sharp gesture.

"Dammit, woman. Fine!" Ibnor grumbled, throwing his hands up in exasperation and heading off to find a razor. When he returned, his face clean-shaven, her reaction was far from what he'd anticipated.

"Now you just look… immature," she said, tilting her head and studying him with a thoughtful expression. "I changed my mind. Grow it back."

Delvin's jaw dropped.

Dirge simply shook his head, holding his laugh.

Ibnor stood there, utterly dumbfounded.