It was cold, far too cold for his liking. Then again, this was Skyrim, it was always cold. At least this far south it wasn't biting at the tip of his ears and nose. Not uncommon to see a mer in this country without the tips of his ears if they got careless one night. That thought brought a coy grin to the dunmer's lips as he slipped into the entrance of the old Nordic barrow. Rumor had it inside lay a shiny old sword that had a noble proclaiming it his birth right. It didn't matter to this particular dark elf, the pay out would keep him fed for a few weeks and at least buzzing for a few days longer. The man's description was vague, a silver long sword with runes etched on the flat of the blade with his family's name. That alone narrowed his search down to only a few hundred swords in the province and on the mantle of more than a quarter of all the Nord's living in Tamriel. As if it mattered, unless he ended up carrying six of seven swords from this dark hole in the mountainside so the man could pick the one he wanted. From crunching leaves to the quiet of ancient stone snapped his thoughts back as his personal spear tipped with Vvardnfell glass went from a useful walking tool to a weapon that even a Dremora would fear. Soon his shield as well was strapped to his gauntlet clad arm and his casual swagger became a somewhat crouched step. Narivar hadn't expected torches to be lit in a tomb left abandoned.