Skyrim: reborn

The icy winds of Bleak Falls Barrow bit into Gilgamesh's bones as he and Edla emerged into the pale dawn light. His golden eyes flickered with exhaustion but still burned like smoldering embers, scanning the jagged peaks around them. Blood matted his brown hair, and his leather armor hung in tatters, but the weight of the newly acquired **Dragonfang Amulet** hummed against his chest—a relic torn from the Draugr Overlord's necrotic grip.

*[Quest Completed: Slay the Draugr Overlord.]*

*[Reward: 1,500 XP. Loot: Dragonfang Amulet (+10% Stamina Regeneration, -10% Shout Cooldown).]*

"Finally," Gilgamesh muttered, dismissing the system's prompt. He turned to Edla, who leaned against a frost-encrusted boulder, her steel breastplate dented and her flaming -red braids frayed. A jagged cut marred her cheek, but her ice-silver eyes still glinted with defiance. "You look like a skeever chewed you up and spat you out, princess. Need a piggyback ride to Riverwood?"

Edla snorted, tossing him a waterskin. "Save your theatrics. You're limping worse than a drunkard after Troll's Blood Ale." She paused, her stern facade cracking into a faint smirk. "But… decent work back there. For an *outlander*."

"Decent? I incinerated half that crypt. You're welcome." He grinned, taking a swig. The water was frigid, but it washed the taste of tomb dust from his throat. "Though watching you swing that greatsword like a lumberjack chopping firewood? Poetry."

She rolled her eyes but didn't hide her chuckle. "Keep talking, and I'll use *you* for firewood."

The descent to Riverwood was a gauntlet of loose shale and biting gusts. Gilgamesh's ribs throbbed where the Overlord's axe had grazed him, and Edla's limp betrayed the gash beneath her bandaged thigh. Yet their banter never faltered—a rhythm forged through weeks of shared bloodshed.

"If you collapse," Edla said, steadying him as his boot slid on ice, "I'm looting your corpse for that amulet."

"Romantic. But you'd miss my charming company."

"Like a toothache."

By midday, the scent of pine resin and woodsmoke signaled Riverwood's outskirts. The village sprawled beneath them, larger and livelier than Gilgamesh remembered from his hazy "game" memories. The Sleeping Giant Inn loomed two stories tall, its timber beams creaking under the weight of travelers. Farmers bartered at the mill, children chased chickens through muddy lanes, and a blacksmith's hammer rang like a war drum.

"Civilization," Gilgamesh groaned, stretching his arms. "Let's pawn the Overlord's junk and get drunk."

"Priorities," Edla deadpanned, though her gaze lingered on the inn's flickering hearth.

---

Inside the Sleeping Giant, the warmth of the fire seeped into Gilgamesh's bones. A bard plucked a lute in the corner, singing of dragons and doomed lovers, while a dozen patrons—merchants, hunters, a grizzled mercenary—crowded the tables. The innkeeper, a stout woman named Delphine, raised an eyebrow at their battered armor.

"Two rooms," Gilgamesh said, slapping a pouch of septims on the counter.

"Full up," Delphine replied, not glancing up from her ledger. "Caravan from Cyrodiil's taken every bed. You'll have to share the attic loft—one bed, but it's got a curtain for privacy."

Gilgamesh blinked. "Since when does this flea-bitten inn have an *attic*?"

Edla elbowed him. "We'll take it."

"Charming," he muttered. "Try not to snore."

"You'd know. You've slept through dragon attacks."

Before he could retort, a frantic man in a green tunic burst through the inn's door, his eyes wild. "You! The ones who cleared Bleak Falls Barrow!" he exclaimed, pointing at Gilgamesh and Edla. "You have it, don't you? The Golden Claw!"

Gilgamesh exchanged a glance with Edla. She gave a barely perceptible nod. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out the Golden Claw, its intricate carvings glinting in the firelight. Lucan lunged for it, but Gilgamesh yanked it back. "Ah-ah. Let's talk price first."

Lucan swallowed. "I've got septims. Potions. Even a rare soul gem—"

"Soul gem?" Edla cut in, her tone sharp. "What use is that to bandits? Sounds like you're hiding something."

"It's—it's not just a trinket!" Lucan stammered. "The Claw's a key to ancient Nordic ruins! My family's kept it safe for generations. Until…" He deflated. "Until I failed."

Gilgamesh twirled the Claw lazily. "So you let bandits steal it, and now you want *us* to fix your mistake. Cute."

"I'll give you fifty septims!"

"Fifty?" Gilgamesh barked a laugh. "This thing's solid gold. Melt it down, and it's worth triple."

Lucan paled. "You wouldn't dare!"

Edla crossed her arms. "He would. And he'll do it unless you make a better offer."

The man slumped. "What do you want?"

Gilgamesh's smirk softened. "Three healing elixirs. Two stamina tonics. And…" He nodded at the steel arrows strapped to Lucan's belt. "Those."

"Done!" Lucan blurted, dumping his wares onto the table.

Edla raised an eyebrow. "You're letting him off easy."

Gilgamesh tossed Lucan the Claw. "Consider it a lesson. Next time, hire better guards."

Lucan clutched the relic to his chest, tears in his eyes. "Thank you. My sister—she'll be relieved."

"Save the tears. Just don't lose it again."

Later, over bowls of venison stew, Edla studied him. "Why'd you really give him the Claw?"

Gilgamesh tore into a loaf of bread, avoiding her gaze. "Kid in Whiterun—Lysia—likes honeycakes. Trader's got a sweet tooth tax." He tossed a pouch of extra septims onto the table, earmarked for the Temple of Kynareth.

Edla's smirk softened. "Sentimental fool."

"Says the woman who spent ten minutes choosing a stuffed wolf for her bedroll."

Her boot kicked his shin under the table, but there was no malice in it.

---

As night fell, they climbed the inn's narrow stairs to the attic—a cramped space with a straw mattress, a moth-eaten curtain, and a single candle. Gilgamesh flopped onto the bed, groaning. "Cozy. If cozy means 'smells like wet dog.'"

Edla unbuckled her armor, her voice dry. "Complain again, and I'll toss you into the river." She hesitated, then tossed him a healing potion. "For the ribs. You wheeze like a broken bellows."

He caught it, studying her. "You're oddly tolerable tonight. Hitting your head in the crypt?"

She rolled her eyes, but a faint smile played on her lips. "Just preserving my investment. You're worth more alive."

He laughed, the sound warmer than the hearth below. For a moment, the weight of dragons and destiny felt distant.

Sleep came fitfully. Gilgamesh woke to Edla's elbow jabbing his side. "You're stealing the furs."

"You're hogging the bed."

"It's *my* turn on the less-lumpy side."

"Children," a voice growled from the floor below. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

They stifled laughter, the tension of the road momentarily forgotten. When dawn crept through the attic's cracks, Gilgamesh found Edla already armoring up, her movements precise.

"Ready to play hero?" she asked, tossing him an apple.

He caught it, grinning. "Hero? Please. I'm in it for the mead and the melodrama."

But as they shouldered their packs and stepped into the crisp morning air, the Dragonfang's hum against his chest felt like a promise—or a warning. Somewhere, a dragon's roar echoed across the Throat of the World.

Whiterun awaited.