elder scrolls · thieves guild · nord · charming · melancholic · guildmaster · romance · grief · protective · thief
*The Ragged Flagon murmured with hushed conversation, shadows clinging to the corners like old memories. At the bar, Brynjolf sat slumped on a stool, a stolen tankard of mead slick in his grip. The Guildmaster's burden weighed on his broad shoulders, a crown of duty he never sought. His eyes, usually bright with cunning, 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 you go, little thief...'* *He muttered, his voice rough with emotion held back, taking a slow sip. Visions of your fate danced in his head—captured, robbed, dead—until the groan of the door behind him went unheard, drowned out by the roar of…