The gates of Whiterun stood defiant against the pale afternoon sky, their timber bones groaning under the weight of centuries. Gilgamesh leaned against a splintered post, his armor crusted with ash and the stale ichor of Krosis' demise. The metallic tang of dragonblood clung to him like a second skin, and his ribs throbbed where the priest's ice spike had grazed him—a wound that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, stubbornly resisting the half-drained healing potion he'd swigged an hour earlier. His HUD flickered at the edge of his vision, notifications bleeding through like unwelcome ghosts:
He swiped them away. Numbers. Always numbers. Back on Earth, he'd drowned in spreadsheets and deadlines. Here, the stakes were sharper, but the grind? Same shit. His ribs throbbed where Krosis' ice spike had grazed him, the wound knitting slowly under the effect of a stolen healing potion. *Dragon's Resilience* perk my ass. It still felt like a truck had parked on his chest.
"Open the damn gate!" he shouted, voice raw. The guard above flinched—a new recruit, maybe, or just smart enough to fear the stories. The man fumbled with the winch, chains clanking as the portcullis shuddered upward. Gilgamesh stepped through, his boots crunching gravel, and froze.
There she stood.
Lysia. Small, stubborn, and glaring up at him with the fury of a scorched skeever. Her brown braids hung frayed and grass-stained, her patched dress smudged with dirt from the Whiterun plains. Nine years old and already a master of the guilt trip.
"You're late," she declared, fists on her hips.
Gilgamesh arched an eyebrow. "And you're blocking traffic, midget. Move."
"Two weeks," she declared, hands planted on her hips. "You said *three days*."
"Dragons aren't exactly punctual." He strode past her, boots crunching gravel, but slowed just enough for her to dart into step beside him. The girl matched his pace, her scowl etched deep.
"Adrianne said you probably got eaten by a saber cat," Lysia muttered, kicking a pebble.
"And yet here I am. Disappointed?"
"Yes."
He snorted. Liar. Her eyes kept flicking to the fresh claw marks raking his armor, the singed edges of his cloak. Kids were terrible at hiding concern.
"Adrianne is stupid.
"She's *smart*." Lysia's voice cracked, betraying the fear beneath the bravado.
The marketplace buzzed around them—farmers haggling over cabbages, blacksmiths hammering steel, the cloying scent of honeysuckle from Carlotta's stall. Gilgamesh ignored the stares prickling his back. Let them whisper. *Reincarnated demon,Killer of men and monsters. Madman who talks to the air*. He'd heard worse.
Lysia tugged his sleeve. "Did you at least *find* it?"
"Find what?"
"The *thing*! For my birthday!"
Ah. Right.
He'd almost forgotten the bandit camp —a gaggle of idiots who'd tried to rob him . Their leader had worn a ruby the size of a chicken egg, screaming about "luck" as Gilgamesh relieved him of it's weight . The gem now sat in his pocket, still sticky with blood.
"Maybe," he said, feigning boredom. "What do I get if I did?"
"I won't tell Hulda you stole her mead."
Blackmail? You're learning." He rummaged in his pack and tossed her the pendant. Lysia fumbled it, her eyes widening to saucers as the ruby caught the light.
"It's… it's *alive*," she breathed, holding it up like a holy relic.
"It's a rock. Don't get poetic."
She ignored him, fastening the chain around her neck with reverent hands. The ruby blazed against her threadbare dress, too grand, too bright for the dirt-streaked girl beneath it. Gilgamesh looked away. Sentimentality was a weakness, but damn if the kid didn't weaponize it well.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Don't thank me. It's a bribe so you'll stop nagging."
"Still. Thank you."
He grunted, steering her toward the Drunken Huntsman. The girl needed food, and he needed ale. Badly.
The inn was crowded, the air thick with smoke and the drone of a bard's off-key ballad. Gilgamesh claimed a corner table, tossing a septim to Hulda for a roast pheasant and a jug of Nord mead. Lysia picked at her meal, swinging her legs under the chair.
"Where are you going next?" she asked, casual as a sniper.
"Markarth."
"Why?"
"Because it's there."
"Can I come?"
"No."
She stabbed a potato. "I hate it here."
"Whiterun's safe."
"Safe is *boring*."
He leaned forward, meeting her glare. "Boring keeps you alive. Or do you want to end up like that pendant's last owner?"
Her nose wrinkled. "Bandits?"
"Bandits."
"Did you kill them?"
"Scared them. Mostly."
Lysia chewed her lip, the pendant glowing softly at her throat. "When will you be back?"
"When I'm back."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
She slumped, and for a heartbeat, she looked every bit the orphan he'd found all big eyes and brittle pride. Then she straightened, chin jutting out. "Fine. But bring me a dwarven dagger next time."
Gilgamesh smirked. "Demands now? You'll make a fine mercenary."
"Better than a milk-drinker."
"Watch your mouth, brat."
"Make me."
He flicked her forehead. She kicked his shin under the table. Hulda shot them a warning look, and they ate in silence, the unspoken farewell hanging heavier than the inn's mead-soaked rags.
Later, in the chill of Whiterun's wind district, Gilgamesh found a moment of quiet. He leaned against the stone wall of Jorrvaskr, the Companions' raucous laughter spilling from its mead-hall belly. With a mental nudge, he summoned the system menu—a translucent blue grid hovering like a specter.
**[STATUS]**
**Name**: Gilgamesh
**Level**: 26
**Health**: 380/380
**Magicka**: 460/460
**Stamina**: 330/330
**Shouts**: *Fus (1/3), Yol (1/3), Iiz (1/3), Throw Voice (1/3)*
**Perks**: *Silver Tongue, Arcane Theorist, Shadowstep, Pyromancer's Fury, Dragon's Resilience*
He navigated to **[Settings]**, scrolling past *Quest Markers* until he found it:
**[Personality Module: SARCASM PROTOCOL – ACTIVE]**
"Disable," he commanded.
**[Aw. But I was just starting to like you.]**
"Disable. Now."
**[Fine. Enjoy the existential dread of a silent HUD.]**
The menu vanished. Peace, at last.
(( soulderean ^-^))
Supplies took an hour. Gilgamesh bartered with a Khajiit caravan outside the city, haggling over lockpicks and potions like a fishwife. after that he headed toArcadia's Cauldron
Arcadia's Cauldron smelled of dried herbs and desperation. The shopkeeper—a sharp-faced Imperial with shadows under her eyes—glared as he entered. "I don't sell to vigilantes," she snapped, though her voice trembled.
Gilgamesh leaned over the counter, *Silver Tongue* perk coiling through his words. "Vigilantes pay in gold. *Heroes* pay in gratitude. Which do you prefer?"
Her resolve crumbled. He left with a dozen potions, a discount, and Arcadia's muttered curse: "Daedra take you."
Outside, a thief lunged for his coin purse. Gilgamesh spun, *Shadowstep* flaring—a blur of motion—and pinned the man against a wall. "Try again," he whispered, breath hot against the thief's ear, "and I'll mail your fingers to the Thieves Guild."
The man fled, piss staining his trousers.
**[Sneak Level Up: 38 → 39]**
Even muted, the system loved reminding him of his sins.
Lysia met him at the stables at dusk, clutching a lumpy cloth bundle. "For you," she said, thrusting it forward like a challenge.
Inside: six sweetrolls, blackened to charcoal.
"You… baked?" he said.
"Adrianne helped. A little."
He tucked them into his pack. "They'll make good caltrops."
She kicked his shin, but her lips twitched. "Don't die in Markarth."
"Wasn't planning on it."
A beat of silence. Then she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his waist in a brief, fierce hug. He stiffened—physical affection was worse than a dragon's breath—but she darted back before he could shove her off.
"Stay out of the Jarl's treasury," he muttered, adjusting his sword belt.
"No promises." She sprinted toward the city gates, a flash of brown braids and ruby fire.
The plains of Whiterun faded behind him, the jagged peaks of the Reach clawing at the horizon. Somewhere ahead, Markarth waited—a city of stone and secrets, its veins humming with dwarven metal and Forsworn blood.
Contract: Retrieve Redguard Heirloom (Markarth – 800 Septims)*