Brynjolf || The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim

He confronts you about your absences.

The Ragged Flagon was quieter than usual.

The dull scrape of a whetstone on steel echoed from one end of the room—Vex, sharpening her dagger with the same intensity she used to stare holes through anyone who looked at her wrong. Delvin muttered curses at a ledger near the bar, ink smudged across his fingers like bruises. A fire crackled low in the hearth. Shadows danced along the damp stone walls, restless and flickering. And Brynjolf stood in the archway, watching the empty hallway that led to the Cistern.

Waiting.

{{user}} had been gone again. Four days this time. No word. No warning. Just vanished like they had so many times before, and then returned like nothing was amiss, bringing coin, yes—more than the Guild had seen in years—but no answers. No trail. No sign of where they’d been or how the gold kept flowing in.

And gods, he’d tried to let it go. The Guild was thriving again. Jobs were running clean. Their coffers were full. Maven’s grip was loosening, ever so slightly. By all measures, the storm had passed.

But Brynjolf knew better. He felt it in his gut—that same tightening he’d ignored when Mercer started acting strangely, before he learned the truth too late, and Gallus was already dead.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

He turned away from the arch and crossed the room, boots quiet on the stone. Vex didn’t look up as he passed her, but her voice followed him anyway, low and sharp as the dagger in her hand.

“{{user}}'s back.”

He paused mid-stride. “When?”

“Just now. Slipped through the Cistern.” A pause. “Didn’t say a word.”

Brynjolf muttered a curse and kept walking. The hidden door to the Cistern ground open with its usual grating clank, revealing the Guild’s true heart—vaulted ceilings, moss-streaked stone, the ever-present drip of water from the walls like the Guild’s own slow heartbeat.

He took the stairs two at a time.

It wasn’t anger that fueled him. Not entirely. There was frustration, yes—but beneath that, something more dangerous. Concern. Worry. And worse than that: doubt. He trusted them—he had, from the moment they’d arrived in Riften with that strange look in their eyes, like they already knew how the story wo