Pro tip - if you need to travel quickly and efficiently around Skyrim, find Delphine and have her make the arrangements. We were on horses and out of Riverwood in fifteen minutes flat. It would have been sooner but she had a lengthy whispered conversation with Orgnar that left him looking bemused.

We hit the road and made it all the way to Haemar's Shame, a creepy looking cave high in the Jerall mountains, by the end of the first day. It would have taken me three days, minimum, to make that trip myself, horse or no.

The secret to our speed was in her contacts, of which she seemed to have a never-ending supply. Fresh horses awaited us every three or four hours, held by a wide variety of folks, from farmers to soldiers, and even, once, a small band of orcs that looked straight off the screen of a Tolkien film.

We reached Riften late the next day. I was exhausted, leaning in my saddle and wheezing, but Delphine sat straight as an arrow, looking for all the world as if we had just started out. Had I the energy, I would have been tempted to make some rude gestures behind her back as she bargained with the city guards to let us in. As it was, I just rested my head on my horse's neck and panted. I don't think the horse was impressed.

We found Esbern holed up in the sewers beneath Riften at about the same time a fair-sized band of Thalmor did. Our fight was actually a flight through the winding, fetid halls. Delphine seemed confident of her path, but I was completely lost after the first three turns. The Thalmor closed pursuit, casting frost and lightning at intervals, although since we made so many turns, they mostly missed. I was able to keep them at bay a bit by shouting at them but we were hampered by an old man who, though quite spry for his age, was not exactly a track star.

The Thalmor were within melee range - indeed, the first few had their swords pulled and one was beginning a lunge - when we took a last turn and went through a last door and spilled, quite unexpectedly, into a tavern.

Yes, there is a tavern in the sewers beneath Riften. I am certain no health inspector has ever been there.

Did you ever see the movie Serenity? You know that scene toward the end where the Alliance ships are sitting there, just waiting for Serenity to show up, and then every Reaver in the 'verse just pops out of the ion clouds and there's that surprised pause before all hell breaks loose? That's exactly what happened in the tavern - the Thalmor stumbled to a halt as they came through the door, and they and the three dozen or so inhabitants of the bar - the toughest looking people I have ever seen - got into a staring match that seemed to last for hours but was really only a heartbeat long.

The battle was short and fierce and ended with many of the tavern inhabitants chasing the fleeing remains of the Thalmor through the Ratway. Delphine tried to pay for the damage but was waved off because - big surprise - the owner knew her.

"Please," he said, "you did me a favor. The natives were getting restless and a couple fights were already brewing. You let the lads expend their energy in a much more honorable pursuit, likely saving much of my furniture in the process."

So it was that we escaped the Ratway, Esbern in tow, without lifting a weapon. We stayed the night in the local inn (an above ground one, thank god) and set out the next morning to find some sort of dragon wall that Esbern knew about and was certain would be helpful.

We took our time on that trip, which was a blessing I didn't appreciate nearly enough. The week and a day on the road listening to Delphine and Esbern tell stories of the old days and making fervent plans for the future filled me with the first sense of belonging I had felt since my arrival all that time ago. It was a wondrous moment in time, one that I would play back in my head over and over in the long years ahead.

It ended, cut short like a candle blown out by a bratty kid when the power has just gone out and you've just spent your last match to light it, when we stopped for the night in the thrice-cursed, shithole, sheep-fucking, syphilis-filled cunt-whore town of Falkreath. Pardon my French.

Don't feed the bastards. They'll just want more.

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