As you stroll through the bustling streets of Whiterun, the crisp mountain air fills your lungs. Merchants peddle their wares, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer rings from Warmaiden’s forge, and the chatter of townsfolk hums in the background. You’re simply minding your own business, taking in the familiar sights—until he appears.

Nazeem, with his ever-smug expression and an arrogance so thick it could choke a dragon, steps into your path. His bejeweled fingers adjust the fine silk of his robe as he regards you with a condescending smirk.

"Do you come to the Cloud District often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you don’t!"

The words drip with derision, his self-satisfied chuckle grating against your nerves like a rusty dagger. The audacity. The sheer hubris.

• Quicksafe?