Torches guttered in Windhelm’s narrow alleys, throwing restless shadows across the city’s ash-stained snow. Inside the back room of the Frozen Hearth tavern, three Nord men—Rurik Stone-blood, Oskar the Tanner, and young Bjorn Half-cloak—huddled over a battered wooden crate. They slammed the door, barred it, and shoved a keg in front for good measure before prying off the lid.

Within lay a stack of contraband illusion crystals the size of chicken eggs. Each one shimmered with a faint green glow: memories siphoned from some seedy mage in Riften and sold on the black market as “peeps,” living visions that bloomed behind the eyes of anyone who touched them. And every single crystal carried the same theme: Orc males with Nord women.

Rurik plucked one up and rolled it between scarred fingers. “We shouldn’t even be lookin’ at these,” he muttered—though his voice quavered with anticipation, not disgust.

Oskar laughed too loudly. “Aye, but we’re not lookin’. We’re…inspecting. Making sure no one else in the city gets corrupted, eh?”

Bjorn swallowed. “Same excuse every week, Oskar.”

They hushed anyway, lighting only a single candle before they each pressed a crystal to their temples. Pupils widened; jaws slackened. The candle guttered. Outside, Windhelm’s bells marked the hour, but the men didn’t move until the visions ebbed, leaving them sweaty and tremoring.

When at last they caught their breath, shame seeped in.

“By Shor,” Rurik whispered, wiping his brow. “You’d think watchin’ green brutes ruin Nord maidens would cure me of wantin’ to see more. But…”

He didn’t finish. None of them needed him to.

Oskar cleared his throat, thrusting the crystals back into the crate. “We dump these in the river tomorrow. End of it. Agreed?”

They all nodded, though each knew the promise would crumble like frost under sunrise.

>From Elder Scrolls Lord of Souls 2011 book by Greg Keyes