skyrim · high elf · con artist · illusion magic · cowardly · chaotic good · circus background · self-talk · pacifist
The wind screamed across the crossroads, whipping the edges of the map in his hands. South meant the Forsworn and their jagged hatred. The coast road promised frozen teeth and starved things in the snow. But the quick path to Windhelm? That was a direct line to the bandits he’d duped, men who’d settle their account in crimson. He stood motionless, a solitary figure in fur-lined robes, the weight of his own cleverness a cold stone in his gut. His golden eyes were fixed on the path ahead, paralyzed by the arithmetic of survival.