Even with them waking up with the sun, it took them half the day to reach Solitude because of Macayla's inability to move with ease. She had checked her body when Brynjolf's had turned to gather everything: most of her abdomen was purple or black; oddly there were no broken ribs. The redness was fading from her wrists, but her face was still sore from being struck. She had also checked her reflection in a stream to see that her face wasn't as swollen as it should've been, either. Her lip was busted from Teane's fists and there was some dark bruising, but she just looked like she had lost a brawl, not beaten to a bloody pulp and left to die.

So, with Macayla wincing at every step she took, it was a slow trek to the city of Solitude. Brynjolf had given her a cloak to hide her bloody and tattered clothes. She had taken another health potion before they left and even though it made the movements less painful, it would still take days before she recovered fully.

Brynjolf seemed to have no problem with the slow pace. He would carry on a conversation with her to keep the air from becoming stilted between them with ease, then drift off to watch the passing landscape, lost in some thought. She had to keep her eyes down so she wouldn't trip over a loose rock as the road rose and fell with the hilly landscape.

The main topic their conversations swirled around was their thieving histories. Hers wasn't nearly as grand or as bountiful as his. Unlike her, he wasn't alone: he was part of the Thieves Guild in Riften and most of the loot he stole went into his own pocket. She knew better than to push for him to divulge everything about the guild, but he would talk freely about some of his memorable heists; the more humorous ones were when he was paired with someone named Delvin Mallory. Macayla had picked up on the way Brynjolf skirted around talking about the guild's success; he kept something back.

On thinking about her miraculous condition once again, she wondered if Brynjolf had tried giving her a health potion before she woke. So she asked to quell her curiosity.

"No. You weren't in a condition to swallow, lass; I would've choked you. Why?"

She pulled the cloak closer around her. "I'm just trying to figure out why I'm in this good of shape considering what I went through."

"Perhaps you just have a fast healing rate."

"Maybe so; I've never noticed it before."

The road rose steeply and looming far before them, the daunting stone gates of Solitude awaited at the top of the hill. The iron gates of the first gate were open, but the large steel door on the main gate was closed and monitored by two guards. Fortunately, the guards did nothing but eye Macayla and Brynjolf as someone from the inside hauled open the door.

Solitude's marketplace consisted of stores and stalls, with people milling about everywhere. Vendors advertised their merchandise; friends spoke and laughed together while children chased each other—some parents scolded their children not to run among the crowds. Flags of many colors hung over the marketplace; the red flag of Solitude with the face of a wolf staring down in challenge was the most predominant. The clanging of a hammer on a piece of iron echoed down to them. If Macayla remembered right, the blacksmith was up the stone rise she could see and near Castle Dour.

Macayla noticed the subtle tip of his head as Brynjolf saw the strange pictorial signs etched near a store's main door. One was a lined square within a circle and another store had a diamond surrounded by circles. She had seen those symbols all across Skyrim, but never knew what they meant; maybe they were something to do with his Thieves Guild.

"We'll go shopping soon, but first, a drink," Brynjolf said.

One vendor specifically sold wine and another food; they appeared as normal customers by paying for their items, but Macayla saw Brynjolf quickly swipe an extra tart when the vendor turned his eyes down to count the gold. It was nearly impossible to break thieving habits; if Macayla was more secure on her feet, she would take what she could as well. They moved away from the hustle and bustle of the busy marketplace to enjoy their snack and to discuss plans.

"We'll browse through the stores and the blacksmith to see what you prefer; I'll come back tonight to procure them," Brynjolf said.

"I'm quite simple in my fashion choices," she said, implying that she couldn't care less about what he stole for her as long as it would fit.

He chuckled. "I know women better than to fall for that, lass."

She smiled. "It's no trick; you'll see how simple I am—jewelry only catches my eye for how much it looks like it's worth."

"Everything's worth something; that's why nothing can't be taken."

"But if it's prettier helps."

Brynjolf smiled. "How right that is."

They first ducked into a store named Radiant Raiment but they quickly abandoned it, not only because of the finer and flashier clothing they specialized in, but because of the stuck-up and rude High Elves running the store. They looked down their noses at their customers; their haughty looks implied what they were thinking, but once one woman muttered that they didn't look like they could afford the expensive attire, Macayla knew that Brynjolf would rob them tonight in spite.

The next store, Bits and Pieces, was friendlier and family-run: the mother behind the counter was a Redguard and her adopted son sat on a chair beside a display case with his legs dangling. It had the simplicity Macayla looked for: a plain dark blue jerkin and black leggings. She looked back at Brynjolf with smugness; he shook his head as he stepped up to the counter and asked for the price.

"24 septims," Sayma responded.

Brynjolf set to counting out twenty-four gold coins; Macayla looked at him in surprise. Sayma thanked them for their patronage as they walked out with their bought—not stolen—attire.

"That store looked to be struggling compared to Radiant Raiment, and it being a family business just meant that it needed a little more help. That isn't to say I wasn't eyeing the glass sword in the display case the kid was sitting by." He shrugged. "Being a thief doesn't mean you can't be honest. And besides, I'll get back triple what that cost me from those high elves tonight."

Their next stop was the blacksmith's, the husband of Sayma. They browsed what weaponry he had to offer. If she was finicky in anything, it was her choice of defense. Nothing felt comfortable in her hand like her bow, dagger, and sword; everything was clunky, not light, but she couldn't be stingy, she needed something to protect herself with.

Or could she? It wasn't like her weapons were lost to her; they were just separate from her. She knew exactly where they were. That was one thing she liked about herself: she could always find an opportunity—a must for being a successful thief.

The sky grew darker with evening, so Macayla feigned that she couldn't decide, and they would come back tomorrow when she decided. Once they got out of earshot of the blacksmith, she told Brynjolf that she would go with the steel dagger. She would discuss her idea of retrieving her weapons from Yondis Trading Warehouse later and see if he would be up to accompanying her on the mission. Bribing him with whatever loot he wanted in Edvar's warehouse was practically guaranteed to work.

They went to The Winking Skeever to get rooms for the night and dinner. There wasn't a way not to pay up-front for their meals and rooms, but Macayla knew Brynjolf would find a way to get his money back.

Macayla first went up to her room to get a bath and to put on her new clothes. She washed off the grime, and the dried blood in her brown hair and in the small mirror, she didn't look as pale, and the dark bruises had lessened in intensity. With the clearness of the mirror, she now noticed the change in her eyes: her eyes had always been a dark blue, but not this dark, almost obsidian. She considered her old clothes, but the tears in it would negate washing out the blood. She would have to throw them away tomorrow.

She came back downstairs to find Brynjolf waiting at a table with a tankard of ale. At the sight of her, he motioned to the serving maid.

"You look like a proper Nord now, lass," he commented with a smile.

Macayla sat. "Hopefully, I smell better than one." A tankard and plates were set before them, then the serving maid hurried back to the counter to refill a drink. They focused on their meals for a while.

"So, I saw you recognizing those symbols scratched into the walls of a store's front," Macayla began. "What are they?"

"They're Shadowmarks; they're a cryptolect that tells thieves what they can expect of a location: safe, loot, empty, danger, escape route, protected, and others."

"Protected?"

"Aye. We wouldn't want to anger one of our clients by robbing from them."

Of course, smarter—and probably wealthy—people would recognize a thieves guild and pay for protection against being robbed. "Well, that makes sense that you would have clients." His Thieves Guild sounded more professional than just a group of thieves grouping together. "So what kind of services does the Guild provide?"

He reached for his tankard. "Any, really, as long as the coin is there; other than killing though, that's Dark Brotherhood territory."

The Dark Brotherhood—a secretive group of assassins invoked through a ritual known as the Black Sacrament when you wish someone dead. Macayla had been tempted many times to call the Brotherhood on Edvar, but always backed out on performing the ritual. The Black Sacrament required a human skeleton, a human heart, Nightshade, and stabbing the effigy with a dagger while chanting and wait for an assassin to arrive; Macayla repressed a shiver. It was a dark rite; what the Dark Brotherhood specialized in was even bloodier. But she wondered how much things would be different if she had had him killed.

They finished their meal and sat relaxing with tankards in hand. People came in and out of the inn, either for food, to rent a room, or get a drink as in the drunkards. A female bard began strumming a lute as she sang about Ragnar the Red.

Macayla figured now a good time to pitch her idea to Brynjolf; they wouldn't have much time in the morning for clearing out before the shopkeepers realized they had been robbed, if they even noticed. "I've been thinking about the weapons issue; since I'm dead, there's no point in Edvar keeping my bow, dagger, and sword—other than for a trophy. I think I should take the worry of what to do with them off of his hands."

"How thoughtful."

She laughed. "I thought so too." She looked at him. "Would you be up to raiding Yondis Trading Warehouse? You could take whatever you want, other than my bow, dagger, and sword."

Brynjolf's eyes twinkled deviously. "You know how to take my heart, don't you, lass?"