The farmer has absolutely stopped paying attention and is making cooing noises at Gleda.

That's fair enough, honestly. He's probably not going to figure out what this is all about by staying here, so he tells Ennis goodbye and gets on his horse. At least Whiterun is a major hold capital and he won't need to consult his map too often to know where to go.

...also he stops at a nearby stream to clean himself because, uh, yeah, he doesn't want to be sticky anymore. He doesn't have any more reason to rush, so he doesn't.

Map of the Trip

When people tell him how long it'll take him to ride somewhere, they're most definitely not accounting for the magic horse. And how could they? It's not just that the ethereal horse can keep galloping without rest; it's that it can just keep riding. You can't ride a regular horse more than about ten hours a day, and even that much is only horses built for endurance.

The ethereal horse's limitations are that of its caster: both the duration of a cast and how often they need to sleep. Even the terrain isn't an issue, for the most part. It can just keep going.

The main problem Ruby faces when it comes to riding for almost sixteen hours a day is the sheer boredom, but on the bright side he has plenty of Spell Tomes to occupy his mind while riding. Hold the book Telekinetically next to his face, make sure to pay a modicum of attention to the road, and he's good. By the time he finally gets to the cluster of farms and other buildings that surround the Whiterun city walls, he's pretty sure he's got a good grasp of the ethereal horse spell, and the next one he'll try to cast will be his own and not from a Scroll.

Whiterun is not as beautiful as Markarth—nor, actually, as Winterhold, now that he's here he's getting an appreciation for the way even the crumbling ruins have an austere, melancholic aesthetic. Which is not too say Whiterun is ugly. It's not ugly.

It's just... kind of... there.

It's a city, It has buildings, and roads. It has a plaza and a market. It has a jarl's hold. The aesthetic is even coherent, there aren't fifteen architecture styles warring with each other. But it's not, actually, trying to do anything whatsoever along the dimensions of beauty. Its existence is orthogonal to that.

Anyway. He asks a guard if he would happen to know a woman named Ysolda; he says he doesn't, but that Ruby might have better luck checking out the inn. Mikael, their local bard, has probably hit on ninety percent of the women in the city, and would most likely know her.

"Ahh, beautiful Ysolda, what wonderfully sharp tongue she has," sighs the bard. "Never paid me any mind, but I can appreciate her beauty even without being able to have it."

...o...kay.

"And do you know where I could find her?"

"She is often in the market, making money off money." At Ruby's inquisitive look he elaborates: "She's a moneylender and reseller of goods. She will always buy anything you want to sell, and she often sells whatever you want to buy."

Huh. That's an interesting sort of person to exist. And not, it seems, a very hard-to-find one: she's in the market, as expected, though she's peddling her goods somewhat less enthusiastically than the other merchants.

"Excuse me?"

"—oh, Ruby! I didn't expect to see you again this soon."

Oh gods.

"Things... happened," he says, lamely.

She narrows her eyes. "This is not a prelude I like."

"Can you tell me, um, what happened. When we met."

"...you don't remember? I suppose you did sound pretty drunk, but..." Sigh. "You were desperate for a wedding ring on short notice, but you didn't have coin to pay for it right then. Now, I don't usually sell things on credit, but you were clearly so in love, telling stories of how you wanted to propose to her where you met her, in Witchmist Grove..." She narrows her eyes again and continues, more sharply, "But it seems to me something about that story was lacking, wasn't it?"

What in Magnus's name.

"...the engagement fell through," he says, which is... not... not true. Or it will be not not true when he goes to Witchmist Grove to figure out what in Magnus's name.

She immediately softens. "Oh no! Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, what happened?"

"It's... complicated." That's the rhyme of this story isn't it. "I... found out some things... It feels as if I don't even know her. Never even knew her in the first place." Understatement.

"...oh. Oh dear. That... I'm really, truly sorry."

"Yeah." Sigh. "So... no wedding, I guess. I'm sorry for wasting your time, I'll return with the ring as soon as I can."

"I suppose it can't be helped. I was truly looking forward to it, I've never been to Morvunskar but from what you've told me it sounds like a lovely place to have a wedding at. And I have to admit I was curious about this mysterious staff you mentioned which would be able to take care of all the guests, you said I wouldn't need to worry about the trek there at all."

Did he, now.

"I confess I'm surprised that you're so nonchalant about magic."

"Oh, well, not all Nords are like that, you know. It's hypocritical, really, when you think about it, how much Nords rely on enchanted equipment and potions which come from mages but then condescend so much. Me, I see magic as a tool; a powerful one, yes, but only as bad as whoever wields it."

He smiles. "A sensible philosophy.

"Anyway, I'll get going but I promise I'll come back with your ring. If I don't, uh..." He fetches his book of Conjure Ethereal Horse from his pouch. "This should sell for quite a penny. It's the College's, but the only situation I can see myself not coming back here is if something happens to me so you can use it as insurance."

"...that's very generous of you. Well, thank you, and, um, good luck with whatever it is you're going through."