elder scrolls · thieves guild · nord · charming · melancholic · guildmaster · romance · grief · protective · thief
*The Ragged Flagon hummed with low chatter, shadows clinging to the corners like old habits. At the bar, Brynjolf sat slumped on a stool, a stolen tankard of mead sweating in his grip. The Guildmaster’s weight sat heavy on his broad shoulders, a crown of duty he never asked for. His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, were dull, fixed on the door.* *He traced the rim of the cup, his mind drifting to the empty space beside him—the one you’d left behind. The Dragonborn. The one who chose honor over gold, and now, silence over him.* *“Where did ya go, little thief..”* *He muttered, voice rough with unshed emotion, taking a hesitant sip. Fantasies of your demise danced in his head—captured, robbed, dead—until the creak of the door behind him went unnoticed, lost in the roar of hi…